Vulkan froze for a moment after saying it, and when he realized what he had said, his old face flushed.
This settlement was practically the perfect utopia of his dreams.
He had been immersed in his identity as a blacksmith for so long that he had nearly forgotten the Imperium existed.
"Let's go. We'll meet the Imperial bureaucrats." Vulkan rose as if nothing had happened and headed toward the settlement.
His heart was filled with regret.
If he could, this Lord of the Salamanders wished he could go on living in the settlement, smithing and forging every day, tending his fields, then brewing wine and drinking to his heart's content.
No war, no slaughter, and none of those schemes or cruel sacrifices.
Unfortunately, that was impossible—at least for now.
As a Primarch, he had to shoulder the responsibilities that belonged to him. He had to endure those heavy sacrifices.
Especially in such a dark hour, he had to reunite with his Primarch brothers as soon as possible and face that fallen Emperor together—their father.
Vulkan moved quickly, soon arriving at the settlement, where he could even see the Imperial skimmers.
Those vehicles descended from the sky without the slightest restraint, kicking up clouds of sand and dust that made the gathered crowd cover their mouths and noses.
"They've finally arrived?"
Vulkan walked forward while looking at the descending skimmers, especially the cold Imperial Aquila upon them.
He did not like Imperial bureaucrats. They were greedy, hidebound, and saw lives as stepping stones for their own advancement.
Those bureaucrats could sacrifice hundreds of millions of lives, even entire planets, for political gain.
And they dressed it up in fine words: life was The Emperor's currency, and sacrifice was the foundation of the Imperium.
In truth, most of the time, they did