1 The Emperor and His Sons (I)

Van Cleef understood one thing long ago—it's always a hundred times harder to kill someone with your own hands than to pull the trigger.

The latter requires no mental preparation or preparation; all it takes is abruptly or forcefully pulling the trigger. Even a child can use a firearm to commit ruthless killing.

Killing someone with your own hands is a completely different matter.

Whether you choose to strangle your victim with your bare hands or plunge a blade into their vital organs, you will inevitably feel the struggle of the dying person, sense their every tremor, and hear their every plea hidden in their gasps.

However, this only applies to the first kill. Once you embark on this path, the feelings of the dead become increasingly meaningless. No pity is needed, no words are needed, nothing else is required, only killing is necessary.

This is our duty. Van Cleef leaned against the cold wall of the training field, contemplating this.

We are the blade of slaughter, the final punishment for sinners, the Shadow they see before their death; we are—

"--I, Xianni from Terra, will fight you!"

"."

Van Cleef clutched his forehead in exasperation and sighed silently. Xianni's voice echoed across the Eighth Legion's training grounds; he was staring defiantly at Richter Nair of the Eighth Company.

"I only spar with those who use swords," Richter replied casually. "And you obviously don't use a sword, Xianni; your favorite tactic is to pounce on enemies and tear them to shreds with your power claw."

"A good move is one that can kill the enemy."

"But if you fight like a wild beast, even the best moves are meaningless."

"In the face of life and death, do you still care about manners?"

"No, but that's just how my swordsmanship is. I enjoy studying the angle, power, and even speed of my swings. I need to ensure that every strike I make is lethal to the enemy. Therefore, from now on, I will only spar with my instructor."

Xianni sneered, "As if you could beat him once."

Richter glanced at him, then suddenly smiled, "Actually, I did win once."

". What?"

"I beat the instructor once," Richter said, but his expression didn't betray any pride. Van Cleef glanced at him, and in that single glance, he vaguely realized the truth. The company commander nodded to himself.

That's something their instructors would do.

"How is this possible?!" Xianni exclaimed in disbelief. "I thought I was the first person to receive this honor!"

"I'm sorry you're back so late," Richter smiled slightly. "But I have many witnesses who can attest to this."

". never mind."

Xianni from Terra sighed, a look of disappointment flashing across his face, but it didn't last long. He quickly smiled and patted Richter on the shoulder, just like everyone else.

"Well done, Richter Nair," Xianni said sincerely. "We're finally a little closer to the instructor, although it's likely that he himself took that step to close the gap, but it's still progress."

"Yes," Richter nodded softly in agreement.

Van Cleef saw all of this and sensed a subtle change emerging within the Legion that was transforming them all.

In the past, the Emperor's Judgment were ruthless and taciturn, not even the Xianni were so full of energy. The Nightfall was forever silent and forever dark, with dilapidated corridors and pipes everywhere, covered in dust, making the ship almost like a graveyard.

All of this changed dramatically after the Primarch returned.

The dust was swept away, the broken pipes were rebuilt, and an atmosphere different from before began to spread in the dissipating mist. Everyone in the Eighth Legion could sense this change. Not everyone could adapt, but Van Cleef was certain of one thing.

Everyone welcomed its arrival.

He gave a rare smile, turned around, and left the training ground through the newly added second exit.

He returned to his post, changed into his only decent set of clothes, and then went straight to the legion instructor's office.

Located on the lower deck, its doors were completely black, indicating that it had previously been an old warehouse. It was converted into his office and room at Karyl's request, and although the Eighth Legion had many objections, they were powerless to change his decision.

He arrived at the door, but instead of knocking, he walked straight in—he had become accustomed to some of his instructors' habits, such as not needing to knock.

The office was not actually sparsely decorated; eight flags hung on the iron-gray walls, flags that Karyl had specifically requested. Apart from them, his office contained only three chairs of different sizes and an iron table.

The chairs, ranging in size from mortal to Primarch, were placed in an inconspicuous corner. They were black armchairs that looked comfortable, with their edges gleaming with gold. The table, however, looked far more eerie.

It was a heavy iron table, completely welded to the ground, its surface shimmering with lightning-like patterns. These patterns seemed to glow and fade as if breathing, quietly swirling beneath the iron-blue surface. Documents lay open on it, and a pale giant sat behind it, quietly reviewing them.

"Instructor."

The door closed, Van Cleef greeted them quietly.

"Ah, Van Cleef. What's up?" Karyl looked up and asked. "Did you come to see me at the training ground? I'm sorry, I'll probably have to miss today."

"Not only that, you will be absent today?"

Karyl chuckled silently. "Yes, if you want to know the reason, I can reveal it in advance. How about it, do you want to know?"

Van Cleef frowned. His serious nature made him instinctively reluctant to speculate, but he did want to know why.

"I'd like to know." The company commander nodded seriously. "After all, this is the first time we've had you absent from training."

Karyl turned his head and looked at the porthole in his office—the lower deck porthole was made of heavy six-pane glass, which didn't allow the viewer to see the stars clearly. But, in fact, he didn't need to see the stars.

That golden Radiance was simply too dazzling.

After a moment, he shook his head regretfully. "It seems I don't need to say anything more about Van Cleef?"

The company commander stared blankly out the window, not answering his question.

"Hmm, Van Cleef?"

"--Ah! Yes. I'm here!"

"It seems you know what that is." Karyl smiled. "Well then, get ready, Van Cleef."

The pale giant slowly stood up and straightened his collar. Only then did Van Cleef realize that their instructor was dressed very formally today.

"After all, this is the Emperor himself," he said softly.

--

Konrad Curze Curze felt a sudden tightness inexplicably—he shouldn't be, after all, this wasn't the first time he'd met his father.

But he just couldn't suppress these feelings.

It started at his fingertips and spread down his spine, leaving him with a persistent sense of unease. However, his brothers seemed more nervous than he was. At least, Konrad Curze Curze managed to maintain a semblance of calm.

Roboute Guilliman, however, was different.

His ceremonial armor was ornate and elaborate, displaying numerous insignia on his breastplate and shoulder armor, showcasing all the honors the Ultramarines had achieved in the past, making it shine brightly. He wore no helmet; the laurel wreath stood out between his short, golden hair and his resolute, full forehead, giving him a distinctly divine air.

But those eyes, which were once as blue as an azure lake, now held none of the wisdom of a statesman, only a tension that was extremely rare for the Lord of Macragge.

As for Angron...

The Nuceria, like the commander of the Eighth Legion, did not possess armor as ornate as Roboute Guilliman's, but they wore the most dignified clothing they had.

This contrast made Guilliman look very awkward, and his unease made Curze smile quietly. Angron caught the smile, nudged Curze with his elbow silently, looked at him, and the two smiled at each other, understanding everything without words.

"Ahem." Half a minute later, Roboute Guilliman began their conversation with this awkward cough. "I'm sorry, guys."

"Why apologize?" Konrad Curze Curze asked quietly, maintaining his composure and not letting his emotions show. "Why would the gleaming Lord of Macragge apologize to us?"

Roboute Guilliman's face flushed red. Angron gave Curze a disapproving look, but couldn't help laughing. His laughter was so obvious that Guilliman's expression became somewhat incredulous. However, Angron quickly stopped laughing.

"Hmm," he turned his head, his hesitation masking the fact that he had just laughed. "Konrad Curze, was what you just said sarcastic?"

"I don't think so," Curze said casually. "I'm just stating a fact."

"You guys... alright!"

Roboute Guilliman finally realized what tricks they were playing. The Lord of Macragge wasn't angry; instead, he laughed, a laugh that contained helplessness and a rare, genuine smile.

The tense atmosphere was thus eased.

Roboute Guilliman spread his hands and shook his head. "But to be honest, this armor isn't comfortable at all. It doesn't have a power system. I have to move it myself and maintain my posture."

"It's already so gorgeous, what more could you ask for?" Curze asked.

"I demanded it be like a real suit of armor," Roboute Guilliman sighed. "It's a 'surprise' from the skilled craftsmen of Macragge and my Chapter Master. To be honest, I wasn't really happy when I received it. But I couldn't refuse it, because that would have hurt their feelings."

"Don't you think it's bad?" Angron asked.

"No, it's fine, just not to my liking," Roboute Guilliman said. "I think I'll make some of my own changes to it later, like adding a server system."

"You know about this?" Curze raised an eyebrow.

"There are many books in Macragge, of all kinds, and I read them whenever I have free time. Books are memories that never die, and reading the memories of others is always beneficial to us."

"You sound like someone with some terrible fetish when you say that," Angron commented bluntly. "But reading does help me relax."

Roboute Guilliman nodded, his eyes quickly scanning the nails on his forehead—he was determined to bring something up with their father during this meeting.

Roboute Guilliman believed his request was absolutely justified and reasonable; how could a father possibly want to see his son suffer?

But

"This meeting was far too abrupt," Roboute Guilliman remarked. "The Astropath on the Macragge's Honour received no orders before his arrival, and upon arrival, he merely informed us via ship communications that a parade was unnecessary."

"Is that strange?" Konrad Curze Curze asked.

Roboute Guilliman nodded, his thoughts still lingering. "It's strange, he used to ask for these things. I heard from Lion and Horus that he would inspect every unit of their legion with satisfaction."

"Perhaps it's because they like it," Angron said calmly, the Nuceria's expression at that moment quite intriguing. "And he was simply playing to their tastes."

"That's a direction I hadn't considered," Roboute Guilliman nodded, slightly bewildered. "But it seems reasonable. Konrad Curze, what about you? What do you think?"

I?

The commander of the Eighth Legion chuckled silently, "I don't have any particular opinion of him. He's the Emperor, my father, and the ruler of the Imperium. But I don't really know what kind of person he is."

"But haven't you seen him before?" Roboute Guilliman asked in surprise.

"I have met him, but that doesn't mean I know him better than you do," Konrad Curze Curze replied quietly. "Hopefully, this time will be different."

He shook his head and said nothing more. The three Primarch stood quietly on the boarding deck of the Macragge's Honour, waiting. The Emperor seemed unwilling to hold this meeting on his ship, making the Macragge's Honour the only option.

The banquet hall on the Firm Resolve is still dilapidated, and the Nightfall is even worse; only the banquet hall on the Macragge's Honour can handle this important task.

However, although the Emperor did not request a military parade, the Eighth Legion and the War Hounds each sent a thousand-strong team to board the Ultramarines' flagship, hoping to showcase themselves to the Emperor when he felt like it.

These warriors were undoubtedly proud, yet they waited with anticipation and tension, just like their Primarch.

If we were to make a strict calculation, perhaps only one person wouldn't be nervous.

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