Son of the Emperor—a title of unparalleled glory, yet one unbearably heavy.
Ever since returning to the Legion, Fulgrim had been swept along by that glory, because the Primarch believed he had to make the Third Legion live up to its name and never tarnish it.
As the starting point of any Legion, its initial recruitment grounds were always Holy Terra. The Son of the Emperor was no exception.
During the seven hundred years when all manner of monsters ran rampant across Terra during the Unification Wars, the Europa region was gradually brought under the Emperor's rule. To demonstrate their submission, the nobles offered their eldest sons to that Golden Giant, and those people became the beginning of the Third Legion.
A Noble Scion became a warrior, and everyone would naturally pay attention. Fulgrim knew why. After all, the people of Chemos were the same way: people always enjoyed watching things that stood high above them fall back into the mortal world.
But Fulgrim did not care. He believed he had the ability to ensure that his sons never made a mistake. After all, he was a Primarch, a son of the Master of Mankind.
"The Phoenix of Chemos is perfect, and my Legion will be the same!"
Fulgrim reminded himself of this constantly, strengthening his resolve each time. Reality, however, delivered the Primarch a heavy blow.
The Wasting—a flesh-warping disease caused by the Gene-Cult on Luna poisoning people—had driven what should have been a powerful Legion toward extinction.
When Fulgrim returned to the Legion, it had only fifteen hundred members left and was already little more than a name. Even after he struggled desperately to replenish its numbers, he had barely managed to bring it back to seven hundred.
As for why the numbers had fallen even after all that effort, that was thanks to those bastards from the Second Legion.
"Why did nobody tell me that two-thirds of my Legion were sons of someone else? Which bastard came up with the idea of putting them in my Legion...? (Chemos profanity)"
The moment he realized that the Third Legion, numbering only 701 people including himself, could not even look after its own ships, Fulgrim hated that he could not beat the deserters to a pulp.
Seeing his Primarch repeatedly punching the wall in frustration, Julius Casalon, the First Company Captain of the Imperial Sons, felt a wave of shame.
"Father, please stop! Don't do this! Your image, you need to watch your image! We aren't those savages from the Space Wolves."
"How am I supposed to watch my image?"
Once he saw that no one was around, Fulgrim finally broke down and grabbed his captain of the guard, launching into a tirade.
"Casolorn, you've been in the Legion for over thirty years. Didn't you notice that they were different from you? Don't tell me you didn't know."
The First Company Captain's expression shifted several times as he was questioned. He did not dare meet the Primarch's eyes, but in the end, he admitted:
"Father, I did know. But they integrated too well. Aside from being a little bigger, everyone who saw them would think they were Sons of the Emperor. After being used to them for so long, I forgot."
"You forgot? You actually said you forgot! Do you know what consequences your mistake caused?"
Fortunately, Primarchs did not suffer from high blood pressure. Otherwise, Fulgrim might have been angered to death by those words, becoming the first Golden Giant to die of a cerebral hemorrhage.
But Casolorn had something to say as well. Who could have known that those cousins would suddenly leave without a word? This was clearly Rilano's responsibility. He was the one who had handled the handover.
Whenever he thought of Rilano, Casolorn was left with nothing but bitterness. Who knew where that elder had gone? He could not possibly have defected, could he?
But since the Primarch had asked, as one of his sons, he had to answer.
"Reporting, Father. Because the people from the Second Legion left without a word, the organization of the Sons of the Emperor was completely thrown into chaos. We are missing three company captains, half our sergeants, a combat instructor, every cook in the Legion, our storehouse manager, and one Dreadnought.
"Because of the personnel shortage, we were even assessed by the Council of Terra as being incapable of conducting expeditionary warfare. Lord Horus therefore had a huge argument with the council."
Hearing the name Horus, the Phoenix felt an even sharper stab of pain. Those bastards were the reason he could not hold his head up in front of his brothers, and in the end, they had left him with no choice but to accept Father's suggestion that he handle logistics on Serenity.
He would never forget the Emperor's regretful yet cold gaze. He could not disappoint anyone again.
Huff...
He was, after all, the Phoenix of Chemos. Even though he had been enraged half to death, Fulgrim quickly adjusted his mindset.
"Well, work is work no matter where you do it. Logistics are of the utmost importance. Without logistical support, the Great Crusade cannot advance. Even if I can't fight on the front lines, I'll still do my absolute best."
Having grasped the spirit of Ah Q without anyone teaching him, the Phoenix instead comforted the First Company Captain.
"What's with that expression? What are those tears? You're the captain of my Phoenix Guard!"
"But the Phoenix Guard had two hundred people, and now I'm the only one left. They all left—and you personally chose them."
What was even more devastating was Casolorn's next question.
"Father, didn't you realize they weren't your sons? I don't believe it!"
At that moment, it was just like that moment.
Fulgrim was speechless. Who could have known that none of those tall, muscular people were his sons? He had thought that the unusually distinctive-looking group was some new breed.
Now it was the Primarch's turn to avoid looking his son in the eyes. The large and small figures quietly squatted before the porthole, gazing at the emerald-green planet below called Serenity.
While the two of them contemplated life, Atlas, the one responsible for all this, began a frantic cover-up operation.
The crowd ran about in chaos. Anything that looked even slightly suspicious was sprayed with a layer of paint to conceal the fact that they had obtained it through Free Looting.
"Honestly, I can't with you people. I told you long ago not to be so conspicuous, but you wouldn't listen. You dragged out painting over them until now, so get moving!"
On the landing platform, Mordred held a spray can and repainted the Imperial Son Dreadnought from top to bottom. Every so often, he glanced at a photograph to make sure he had not altered the wrong parts.
"Which bastard painted that dog-head emblem on it? And what's with this Paint Scheme? Are you idiots? Don't steal a Dreadnought next time."
The Canned Ones being harshly reprimanded did not dare make a sound. They were so busy they could barely keep track of everything, and even the auxilia had been mobilized in full. Who knew which idiot had painted this Dreadnought in their own Paint Scheme?
When he saw the silhouette of a landing craft appear in the distance, Mordred immediately dropped the tools in his hands, ordered everyone to stop working, and told them to hurry over and line up to welcome it.
When the hatch opened from the inside and the airtight valves began spewing clouds of white vapor, Mordred immediately awakened the Dreadnought behind him and advanced into the sunlight.
Without giving anyone time to react, Mordred charged into the mist, locked onto his target, and gave him a huge hug.
"Brother, welcome to Coconut City!
"Let me see what the Empire's Snow White really looks like. I've been wanting to—huh? Why are you so short?"
"..."
"Second Brother, I'm over here! That's my First Company Captain."
Before you continue