Nimrod's psychic projection crossed the void and descended into Terra's Golden Palace.
The moment he took his seat, he immediately noticed that this was different from the many war councils of the past.
After The Old Man in Yellow began spending more and more time on Terra, his Sigillite usually accompanied him, appearing at the last moment.
But today, Malcador had taken his seat early. His weathered face, worn down by the affairs of the Imperium, carried a smile.
"Lorgar, your father is very pleased with your performance."
Nimrod followed the eyes beneath the hood and looked toward where Lorgar sat.
Lorgar Aurelian, who in the past had sat alone in the very last row, had already shot up to sixth place opposite him.
That meant his achievements among the primarchs had risen to ninth.
Beside him was Sanguinius with his white wings, and above him was Ferrus Manus, who had once served as commander-in-chief in the early days of the Great Crusade.
Roboute Guilliman, whose Legion size and record of conquest were drawing ever closer to his and Horus's, looked at Lorgar with approval and a nearly imperceptible trace of guilt.
Nimrod noticed that not everyone reacted positively to Lorgar's transformation. Aside from the expressionless Lion El'Jonson and Rogal Dorn, whose face was like stone, Perturabo's ice-blue eyes were gloomy.
Clearly, Perturabo, who had spent the past century guarding the border at the western galactic rim and far from the center of the Great Crusade, was unwilling to accept his record slipping to thirteenth place.
Nimrod withdrew his gaze. Beside him were Lion, Dorn, and the detestable wolf, Russ.
Now, only eight primarchs had achievements higher than Lorgar's.
Sure enough, the one Malcador truly admires is still Lorgar!
He knew that although Malcador taught primarchs such as Russ, among