The Primarchs' debate came to a temporary pause, but the humiliation and astonishment stemming from Sarmass spread like ripples to the Astartes ranks below, stirring even more direct and pure waves of emotion.
In the Dark Angels' sector, the air was so heavy it felt as if it might drip like water.
The warriors stood with their spines straight, the joints of their power armor letting out faint groans under the tension of their muscles. They were the First Legion, the Emperor's firstborn, a perfect fusion of chivalry and destructive power.
However, the three-year quagmire of war, and the fact that the "unshakeable object" had been tripped up by a bunch of "weeds," pricked their proud hearts like red-hot iron needles.
Corswain gripped the Black Sword tightly, his knuckles turning white under his power-armored gauntlets from the force.
He could feel the suppressed breathing of his brothers behind him, a collective emotion mixed with shame, anger, and confusion. Three years. This number circled in his mind like a curse.
"Shameful." A veteran wearing the Deathwing insignia squeezed the word through his teeth, his voice raspy as if every word carried blood-rust. "We were actually dragged down for three years by the scum of Nostramo. Three whole years!"
"It is not shame; it is a lesson." Corswain did not look back, but his voice reached every brother's ears clearly, as cold as a winter night on Caliban.
"A lesson that a knight's sword should not be used to cut through a swamp. That only leaves the blade stained with filth, while the swamp remains a swamp."
He paused, his tone becoming even colder and harder: "Next time, we will use fire. We will burn the entire swamp, along with the vermin inside, into scorched earth. There will be no more 'Midnight Treaty,' nor... any more delays."
His words were resolute, filled with the determination to burn everything to ashes. The surrounding Dark Angels nodded silently, their suppressed fury recongealing into cold murderous intent in their eyes.
"Yo, have the noble knights finished their reflection meeting?" A raspy, heavily mocking voice came from not far away, breaking the solemnity of the First Legion's sector.
Sevatar, watched over by the Custodes, still had a smirk on his face even though his power armor was locked down and his hands were bound by magnetic shackles. He leaned lazily against the Custodian's force field barrier, as if he were not a prisoner but watching a play in his own backyard.
"Three years, my noble knights. Using Mutantss, junk from black workshops, and a bunch of lunatics who have almost forgotten their own names, we turned the galaxy's strongest Legion into the swamp Guardians of Sarmass." His voice was not loud, but it clearly spread throughout the Astartes ranks.
"This bargain... even now, I find it incredibly worthwhile."
He made an elegant bow toward Corswain from a distance, the gesture exaggerated and rude, drawing various looks from the warriors of other Legions nearby.
"Thank you for your cooperation in making this play so wonderful. I wonder if the First Legion would be interested in dancing another tune with us 'weeds' next time?"
"Shut up, traitor." A cold voice cut off Sevatar's performance.
Sigismund had stood not far from the Dark Angels' ranks at some point. He didn't look at Sevatar; his gaze fell on Corswain. As the First Captain of the Imperial Fists, his stance was like a mobile fortress, steady and unshakeable.
"Strategic failures should not be borne by a warrior's honor," the Champion of the Imperial Fists said deeply. "Primarch Lion was dragged into a game he should not have participated in. His strength lies in destroying fortified cities, not hunting rats in the shadows."
He turned to Sevatar, who was suppressed by the Custodes, his eyes holding no anger, only pure tactical assessment, like an engineer examining a defective building material:
"Your victory stems from your lack of a bottom line. But such a victory is fragile before a wall of absolute Order. If the Imperial Fists were to handle Sarmass, we would construct defense lines and compress space until you had nowhere to run, then deliver a fatal blow. War is mathematics, not a street fight."
"Well said, son of the Stone-head." A voice filled with bloodthirsty delight came from the other side.
Khârn strode over, the Butcher's Nails interfaces on his exposed scalp shimmering. He stood beside Sigismund and unceremoniously slapped the other's solid pauldron, producing a dull "thud."
"Siggy, my friend, you are always so boring."
Khârn grinned, revealing pearly white teeth, the smile carrying a gladiator-like wildness. "At least Sevatar let his scum subordinates fight a beautiful battle. He knows how to use the enemy's 'honor' to strangle them. And you? You only know how to use more stones to pile up higher walls."
Sigismund looked at him expressionlessly: "War is not for being 'beautiful,' Khârn. It is for victory."
"Victory? Hahaha!" Khârn laughed loudly, drawing a low chorus of agreement from the surrounding World Eaters.
"Ask the First Legion, did they win? They won every battle but lost three years of time! Sevatar used a bunch of trash to trade for three years of Lion's youth—that's what you call a damn victory!"
He glanced toward the First Legion and licked his lips: "I'm starting to like the Eighth Legion a bit. When they fight, at least it's 'real' enough. No hypocritical chivalry, only claws and teeth. That's how a warrior should be."
Sigismund shook his head slightly: "That is not reality; it is savagery. And savagery will eventually be crushed by Order."
"Order?" Khârn's smile vanished, a hint of battle intent igniting in his eyes. "Then wait until next time in the gladiator pits; let me use my 'savagery' to test how sturdy your 'Order' is. We haven't fought in a long time, Sigismund."
"Anytime." Sigismund's reply was brief and powerful.
The atmosphere between the two was tense, but the surrounding Imperial Fists and World Eaters were used to it. This was the friendship between their two champions—a strange respect built amidst endless disputes and promises of duels.
"Father's teachings were correct," Abaddon said with his arms crossed in the Luna Wolves' ranks, a hint of arrogant sneer on his face.
"The Warmaster always teaches us to strike the enemy in the way they least expect. He knows Lion El'Jonson's pride well and understands Konrad Curze's madness. He used the bluntest, dirtiest knife to successfully trip up the proudest knight. This wasn't the knife's victory, but the victory of the one wielding it."
"The cost was too high," Torgaddon countered softly from the side. "Several Worlds were exterminated... behind this victory are the wails of billions of innocents."
"Cost?" Abaddon glanced at him, his gaze cold. "When has war ever been without cost? Torgaddon, your sentimentality will become your weakness. The Warmaster's goal is the unification of the galaxy; for that, any sacrifice is worth it."
In the Space Wolves' ranks, a bearded Wolf Lord with a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders drained his horn cup in one gulp, letting out a satisfied smack of his lips.
"Ha! A bunch of pups bickering here like Fenrisian ice wolves in heat." His voice was booming and filled with disdain. "Lion El'Jonson wanted to use the rules of a duel to fight a bunch of sewer rats, and ended up getting bitten on the foot by a rat. What's so strange about that?"
Bjorn wiped the wine stains from the corner of his mouth, his gaze sweeping toward the Dark Angels with undisguised mockery. "Knightly honor? Can that stuff block a bolter on the battlefield? Lion El'Jonson and his pups just care too much about those useless formalities. Thinking of fighting a 'decent' war against a bunch of lunatics and criminals? Stupid to the core."
He then looked at Sevatar, a hint of contempt flashing in his eyes. "As for you guys hiding in the shadows, don't get cocky. Victories won through ambushes and trickery aren't even worth a bard's song. Real warriors dare to show their claws and teeth in the sunlight."
"Then in your opinion, Wolf Lord, what should have been done?" a Captain of the Ultramarines couldn't help but ask.
Bjorn grinned, revealing wolf-like teeth. "What? It's simple! The Wolf King taught us long ago that to deal with rabbits hiding in a hole, you don't poke them with a sword; you just set the whole mountain on fire! Since you know they're a bunch of scoundrels, use a way that's even more unreasonable than theirs! Gather the strongest pack, launch a 'Wolf Time,' find their alpha wolf, and tear him to pieces in front of everyone! Once the alpha is dead, the rest will naturally scatter. Why waste three years!"
"Hahaha! Well said! Well said!" A burst of hearty laughter came from the White Scars Legion.
Yesugei punched the pauldron of the brother beside him, laughing so hard he doubled over.
"They're like a bunch of fools trying to catch the wind with a fishing net! No matter how strong the Lion is, if he jumps into a swamp, he can only compete with crocodiles to see who's better at rolling! The Khan said long ago that when facing such enemies, one should use the fastest blade to cut off his head before he can react! Not stupidly charge into his territory and play in the mud with him!"
His words drew a burst of laughter from the surrounding White Scars warriors. Their eyes toward the Dark Angels were filled with undisguised contempt, as if looking at a group of inflexible fools.
On the other side, in the Iron Warriors' ranks, a Centurion looked at the battle report and snorted coldly. "A waste of time. Three years is enough for us to construct a chain of fortresses covering the entire sector."
"Once the defense line is complete, the Night Lords are just a bunch of rats trapped in a cage. We could slowly grind them to death with minimal casualties. Lion's tactics were too emotional, lacking calculation and patience."
His words represented the viewpoint of the entire Iron Warriors Legion—war is engineering, not a heroic epic. The Dark Angels' "chivalry" was, in their eyes, a synonym for inefficiency.
The whispers of the Astartes merged into a complex symphony. The judgment of the Sarmass war was like a prism, reflecting each Legion's core philosophy of war and values.
Pride, disdain, sympathy, indifference, schadenfreude... these emotions surged among the sons.
The crack created by the prophecy of the Horus Heresy was, at this moment, invisibly widened and deepened by these arguments stemming from different ideologies.
The rift between brothers was no longer just suspicion; it now had an added layer of ideological irreconcilability. A bloody future of fratricide, far more cruel than the Sarmass Expedition, seemed to have quietly begun its prelude in these whispers.