Round Table Viewing
A note at the beginning: This side story is not closely related to the main story and will not have a significant impact on it. The characters may be slightly out of character (OOC), please understand that this is because the Primarch are all very young. I tried to keep the style humorous, so it may seem a bit unconventional.
Also, please do not ask about the whereabouts of the two vanished Primarch. They never existed in this timeline (please ask the Emperor for details), and please ignore questions like why the Third Legion is directly following the First Legion.
Don't ask, or the Adeptus Custodes will come knocking. Also, the content mentioned in the film comes from this book; readers who are unaware of the facts should not take it as official HH history.
Happy reading!
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"We shouldn't have done this," Horus Lupercal rambled on. "Brother, we really shouldn't have done this; Father wouldn't have liked to see it—"
"--If he didn't want us to see this videotape, he wouldn't have deliberately placed it where we could all see it. He mentioned the videotape five times during the conversation, intentionally or unintentionally. Brother, he clearly wanted us to see it."
Sanguinius, with wings on his back, shrugged and walked out of the gates of the Sanctum Imperialis with his brother. Mechanical gears slowly turned behind them, causing the two enormous doors to close.
As the temperature from the thermostat gradually dissipated, the biting winds of the Himalaya Mountains began to blow mercilessly, assaulting their bodies. So, Sanguinius raised a wing to kindly shield his hairless brother.
Of course, people should accept one thing—good deeds don't always guarantee good results.
Moreover, Sanguinius was not entirely acting out of kindness.
Horus's face darkened.
"Bald." He solemnly held up a finger, pointing to the top of his head. "It's a perfectly reasonable hairstyle, perfectly befitting a soldier. Do you really want to endure the stuffiness, heat, and sweaty hair sticking to your forehead while wearing a helmet?"
He then pointedly moved his finger towards Sanguinius's long golden hair, who smiled and shook his head, giving a reply that made Horus grimace.
"You know, brother," he said casually, "I don't usually wear a helmet."
It was high noon, and above the clouds of Holy Terra, intense sunlight was impartially sharing its warmth with all Terra inhabitants during the winter, including the two Primarch.
They stood side by side and looked at each other.
"Are we going to find Russ?" they suddenly asked each other in unison.
Three hours later, they found one of their brothers in the training grounds inside the Imperial Palace.
From Fenris, the untamed Primarch Leman Russ Russ. Tall and handsome, with long, sharp canines, his lips always protrude, even when he's not smiling, as if he's always threatening anyone.
But the smile on his face was so pure that Horus and Sanguinius accepted his embrace, and he walked between them, putting his arm around their shoulders and laughing.
"A videotape?" He raised an eyebrow, a strangely complex expression flashing across his face. "Father went to all that trouble to talk to you just to share this videotape with you? That's quite interesting."
"Yes," Sanguinius nodded reservedly. "If Horus is not mistaken, and I believe that based on his understanding of his father, our conclusion should be correct. What do you think, Horus?"
The Cthonia looked at him hesitantly, remaining silent for a moment. Russ laughed loudly, reached out and hooked his arm around Horus's neck, then pulled him to the ground and began wrestling with him.
Sanguinius took a step back without making a sound, put his hands behind his back, and gently rubbed the videotape in his hands. Horus, slightly annoyed, swung his right fist and hit Russ in the abdomen, which was covered by training armor, knocking him back, and then quickly got up.
Ignoring the dust covering him, he leaped at Russ, grabbing his collar and simultaneously tripping him with his left leg. The Fenrisian dodged the attack with a snarl, grabbing Horus's wrist with one hand, while Horus seized his other hand in return.
They thus became embroiled in a strange power struggle.
"Sanguinius! Help me!" Horus cried. "That wolf is up to his old tricks again!"
"No, Sanguinius, come help me!" Russ laughed excitedly. "Don't ask why, just help me!"
Baal's angel looked at the two of them, and a very gentle, yet very kind smile suddenly appeared on his young face. Under their expectant gazes, he very slowly shook his head.
"I don't want to help anyone," the angel said slowly. "But I do think you should stop."
"A reason?" Russ shouted. "You have to give me a reason!"
I don't really want to say.
"Brother!" Horus called out helplessly. "Stop keeping me in suspense at a time like this!"
The archangel chuckled, reached out his right hand from behind his back, and waved the videotape.
"I think we've all overlooked one thing: this videotape is clearly one of the technological legacies left behind by Ancient Terra. Father gave it to us and mentioned its name, but didn't tell us how to use it. Perhaps we should go find Ferrus."
Horus withdrew his gaze and exchanged a glance with his brother, who was still stubbornly wrestling. The latter's determined look made him sigh helplessly, so he let go and let Russ pull him down to the ground.
The Fenrisian gently put him down, then immediately pulled him up again. In less than a second, they were back to their usual arm-in-arm posture.
They left the training ground and began heading towards another location. The Imperial Palace was still under renovation, and craftsmen and workers could be seen coming and going everywhere. Adeptus Custodes in golden armor were hidden in the shadows, monitoring everything.
Amidst this busy activity, three Primarch were riding together in what could be described as a giant pickup truck, swaying and bumping as they drove over the potholed road.
The car was moving very slowly, and the driver had a bright smile on his face, clearly in a good mood. A bald, towering giant sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, smiling and greeting passersby.
Unfortunately, most people focused their attention on the angel Baal in the back seat. His fluttering wings were too eye-catching and directly revealed his identity.
In the early days of the Imperium, people were not yet familiar with the name and appearance of the Primarch, but most had heard of the existence of an angel. Horus soon noticed this, but his first reaction was quite amusing.
He turned around, looked at his brother with concern, and asked, "Are you alright, Sanguinius? Perhaps we should have Russ drive faster?"
"Didn't you say the road conditions were bad and told me to drive slowly?!" Russ yelled. "Oh! Don't be ridiculous, Horus! Sanguinius doesn't need your concern!"
The archangel helplessly raised his hand, rubbed his stiff cheek, and smiled with a hint of resignation.
"Thanks, brother, but I'm fine—I'm used to this kind of look. People saw me like this back in Baal. I just didn't expect there to be so many civilians on Terra."
Russ chuckled strangely again.
An hour and a half later, they arrived at a secluded workshop and successfully found one of their brothers, Ferrus Manus, who possessed a pair of silver hands. At the same time, they also unsurprisingly saw another person.
"Oh, good afternoon, brothers."
The man slowly raised his wine glass to them, swirled the wine inside, elegantly raised his long, white neck, and drank the wine in one gulp.
He wore a deep purple robe and a layer of white gauze. His long hair, whether white or silver, flowed smoothly over the comfortable and large sofa cushions, revealing a handsome appearance that seemed to exist only in an oil painting, far beyond the imagination of ordinary people.
"Good afternoon, Fulgrim," said Sanguinius. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Horus glanced at him subtly.
What are you drinking?
Russ walked over excitedly, pulled apart Fulgrim's legs which were draped on the sofa, and leaned back, sinking deeply into the sofa's embrace.
The sofa should have been very comfortable, but after sitting down, he made a strange, grimacing expression, as if he didn't like the comfort at all. However, for the sake of the wine, he remained seated, waiting for Fulgrim's answer.
"Wine from Roboute Guilliman's hometown. You probably haven't met him, Russ?"
Fulgrim glanced at him, then gracefully adjusted his posture, crossing his legs. As he asked softly, he put down his wine glass, took a new stemmed glass from the round coffee table beside him, poured in a third of the wine, and presented it to Russ.
The Fenrisian sniffed and immediately shook his head. "If someone brought me this wine as a gift, I would probably remember him for a very, very long time."
"Your taste in alcohol is as terrible as ever, but he certainly made an impression; he spoke with a lot of pride," Fulgrim said with a laugh, unconsciously winking. "But he was also very interesting; there was something about him... well, how should I put it?"
He frowned, and after a few seconds gave a description that he still found unsatisfactory.
"In short, he has a down-to-earth quality, as if he's always ready to pull out a pen and write something. To be honest, my first impression of him was quite good."
Horus silently noted this down, then turned to the other person in the room who had remained silent the entire time. He walked to the person's workbench, but did not speak immediately. Instead, he focused on observing what the person was doing.
Several minutes later, after the busy person had put down their hands, he spoke, "Good afternoon, Ferrus. I'm sorry to bother you at this time."
"Someone has been bothering me all morning," Ferrus Manus replied calmly. "He's been drinking by himself all morning; my workshop, which used to smell only of lubricating oil and machine parts, is now filled with the stench of alcohol."
"Are you blaming me?!" someone asked loudly from the other end of the room, sitting on the sofa.
Ferrus Manus did not answer, but simply nodded to Horus, then turned his gaze to Sanguinius was slowly approaching. To be precise, his eyes were fixed on a videotape in the archangel's right hand.
"What is this?" he asked.
Sanguinius and Horus exchanged another knowing glance, both seeing obvious surprise on each other's faces.
"You don't know?" Horus asked.
"I want to know," Ferrus replied, but then suddenly frowned.
"Please wait a moment."
He stood up, walked to another workbench, and bent down to pull out a heavy wooden crate from beneath it. It looked quite old, with some very powerful markings engraved on it, though the color had faded.
Ferrus rummaged through the books and pulled one out. He returned to the two of them, opened the book, and began to quickly flip through it. In just a few seconds, he found a page.
On the yellowed pages, protected by a liner, Sanguinius and Horus saw an illustration very similar to the videotape. However, they did not know how to read the text.
"A specially modified storytelling Narrator Machine from Beyond-the-Universe White Tower Unlimited Liability Company?"
Ferrus Manus frowned as he read the small print. He looked up at the videotape in Sanguinius's hand, and the archangel reached out and handed it to him. Ferrus carefully took it, held it up with two fingers, and looked up to examine it.
"We received it from our father," Horus said. "I think our father probably meant for us to see it together."
Sanguinius glanced at him discreetly and smiled slightly. Russ's voice came from behind them, devoid of its previous playfulness, replaced by a serious calm. "So we should gather everyone? I mean, all the brothers?"
"I think so," Horus said. "And I just remembered something—today seems to be a remarkable day."
"What day is it?" Fulgrim walked in gracefully, his long robe trailing on the ground, his white chest gleaming behind the wide collar. He asked curiously, and raised his cup again to drink a little wine, his face not flushed at all.
"Today is the first time we've all gathered in Terra." Horus turned and made a serious gesture to him. "Everyone, brothers—and Father just happened to take out this videotape today, no, this... Narrator Machine. What stories will it hold?"
"I'm more interested in this book." Russ squeezed past him, leaned over the workbench, his tone returning to its usual carefree manner, but his handling of the book was very careful, even professional. "Where did you get this book, Ferrus? And where did that box come from?"
The Primarch, known as Iron Hands, silently lowered his hand and replied, "The box comes from my homeland. As for the book, I obtained it during my Warp journey."
"What?" Fulgrim pressed immediately. "You didn't tell me about this!"
"Let's take care of business first," Ferrus Manus said expressionlessly. "Who will go and call someone?"
"I'll go," Sanguinius volunteered. "I can fly; traffic on Terra isn't exactly great these days—but, Ferrus, what exactly is this book?"
Iron Hands lowered his head, examining the videotape in his hand again, and said, "Based on my personal speculation, it should be some kind of shopping manual from a lost era. A vast corporation spanning the stars created it to promote its products."
"It really does seem so," Russ exclaimed in amazement. "Look at this thing, Beyond the Universe—unintelligible Fenris language—damn, why is this company's name so long? Anyway, they seem to have also made a home-use automatic cleaning robot."
Horus turned around and looked down at the page he had mentioned, and was shocked to see a huge black square that filled the entire page. Its surface was completely black and did not appear to have any mystical features.
However, it is worth mentioning that the script from Ferrus Manus's hometown, which they could not understand before, has now been transformed into High Gothic in the glowing blue light.
Horus's expression immediately turned serious.
"What kind of technology is this?" he whispered. "It can automatically recognize our language. Did High Gothic already exist when this book was created? Ferrus, could you explain this to us?"
"I haven't really flipped through this book before," Iron Hands replied, head bowed. "But this kind of thing probably wouldn't have been anything to boast about before Old Night."
"Wait, what's this robot's description?" Russ suddenly sat up. "The description says this thing can clean an entire planet of dirt in twelve hours? My goodness, Fenris, what is this thing?"
"Let's not look," Horus sighed. "It might just be another STC buried on a lost planet. Think about it, such power was once in the hands of humankind."
He suddenly became agitated.
"That's exactly why!" Horus shouted, raising his arms. "We should join this glorious Great Crusade, just as Father said! Countless commoners will have a new life because of us! They will no longer have to worry about making a living; the Imperium will ensure they never have to worry about food again!"
Sanguinius clapped his hands, smiled politely, and amidst Russ's laughter and Fulgrim's approving remarks, he turned and left Ferrus Manus's workshop. Iron Hands silently put away the so-called shopping manual and returned it to the box.
At the very bottom of the box, it gleamed silently.
"First of all, it should be stated that," Roboute Guilliman cleared his throat, "that we do not yet know the father's true intentions, nor can we be certain whether this so-called, uh, Narrator Machine is real, therefore I propose—"
"--Stop suggesting it!" Russ jeered. "How could this be fake? It was given to us by the Allfather!"
Roboute Guilliman, with short blond hair and wearing a blue and gold top, looked over calmly.
He seemed a little helpless, but his tone remained calm. "Alright, Brother Russ, although you clearly come from a barbaric world, I believe you still know basic manners. Could you please be patient and let me finish my statement?"
Leman Russ Russ tilted his head back, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the man with a slightly puzzled expression. After a moment, he slowly said, "Don't you understand me?"
Roboute Guilliman frowned. "I understand what you mean, but is it wrong for me to simply finish my statement? Please let me finish, okay? In my hometown of Macragge, there's an old saying that everyone should have the right to speak."
"No one wants to take this power away from you. Russ was just joking; he likes to joke around. Please don't mind him, Roboute," Horus said. "Besides, I am Horus Lupercal. This should be our first meeting. I am your brother."
"I know, nice to meet you, Horus." Roboute Guilliman nodded, glancing around at the many people with varying expressions around the large round table. On some intuition, he slowly sat down and remained silent.
"So, is there anyone else who would like to speak?" Horus asked again. "If not, shall we begin formally?"
No one answered; only Horus's voice echoed around the large round table. He looked around, trying to make eye contact with everyone. To his relief, no one stepped forward to speak at this moment.
Lion Aldousson didn't have it, Perturabo didn't have it, Rogal Dorn didn't have it, and even Konrad Curze Curze, who had always seemed so mysterious, didn't have it. So, the Emperor's firstborn son smiled slightly and placed the videotape in his hand on the round table.
A beam of light burst forth, and within the pale blue glow, a screen slowly rose, displaying fragmented and rapidly flashing images. Then, a line of text slowly appeared.
[In the 40th millennium, a time of brokenness, darkness, and morality being used to feed Grox, there is a story... Oh, no, sorry, wrong story.]
The light screen flickered, Primarch looked at each other, many of them already frowning.
[In the thirtieth millennium, before the world shattered, only slightly tainted, and with morality still largely intact, the nascent Imperium of Man took its first step into the vast sea of stars. Although it was only towards the Sol System, it was still a cause for celebration.]
[The military force known as the Legiones Astartes, along with countless Imperialis Militia with strange laughter, fought together, gradually recovering the entire Sol System under the Emperor's leadership—or rather, conquering the entire Sol System.]
[These inhabited planets have been completely taken over by extraterrestrial forces. Those who disobeyed have all perished, while those who obeyed remain unaware of the price they will pay for this decision.]
[However, the protagonists of this story are not them, but the Legiones Astartes and their Primarch, who has yet to be found, and their common WARBOSS, cough, no, I mean, their common monarch, the Master of Mankind, the Emperor!]
[Anyone want to clap? I repeat, audience, you'd better clap, but not for him, but for my hard work!]
"This, this thing..." Roboute Guilliman took a deep breath. "It has self-awareness!"
No, I didn't pinch it.
"Tear it down!" Lorgar Aurelian, his skin glowing with golden light, roared. "Its words show no respect whatsoever for our Father!"
[Sigh, typical religious fanatic. Come on, buddy, can't you calm down?]
"Heretics!" Lorgar roared.
The light screen surged, and a line of text reappeared.
[No. It was your dad who threw me in your faces. Did you even think about this before you started yelling and screaming? If you have any questions, go directly to your supreme, omnipotent, golden super-dad and talk to him.]
[He'd probably point to his temples with both fingers and tell you, "Think! Lorgar! Think! Read more books!"]
"It knows your name," Sanguinius began. "But, brother, though this thing doesn't speak pleasantly, it seems to be right."
[Oh dear, you're quite the talker, my dear winged mutant angel. I'm not a thing, I'm just a storytelling machine.]
The angel frowned as if hurt, and Horus patted him comfortingly, sighed, and didn't know what to do for a moment.
"It's really funny." Leman Russ Russ grinned. "I have to admit, it has a rather peculiar sense of humor."
[Thank you for the compliment, you stinky little wolf cub, but you'd better be quiet for a while. Stop grinning like a drunkard who's always smiling.]
Russ's smile faded, and she tilted her head, staring at it without saying another word.
[And you, you big oaf staring at me with that furrowed brow, your gaze is so blatant, are you sexually harassing me? Stop looking around, I'm talking to you, you Perturabo!]
With a loud bang, a giant with a gloomy face stood up from his seat, his right hand already resting on the ceremonial sword at his waist.
"What did you say?" he demanded sharply. "You'd better show me some respect. I don't care what kind of ancient relic you are. I can easily dismantle you and perfectly replicate a brand new machine that's even more polite than you!"
[I'm sorry, I don't think you can do this. Making it requires many precious materials, none of which you can obtain. Anyway—be quiet.]
The light screen trembled, blue light surged, and amidst a sudden gust of wind, a new line of text slowly emerged.
[Let's rewind the clock to 922. M30. Sigh, your calendar is really something... Anyway, in the 922nd year of the 30th millennium, the last Primarch, Kolus Corax, was found on his home Deliverance! And so, all the Primarch returned to the Imperium!]
"Wait." The protagonist of the text, the first Primarch to be mentioned, pale-faced and jet-black-haired Kolaus Corax, spoke slowly. "Isn't it only 803. M30 this year?"
"Yes, that's true, brother," Horus quickly replied. "I returned to the Imperium two years ago, and you were all in the same boat. Even you, Corax, who only returned this year, are only a little over a year late."
"There's something wrong with this thing," said a man with an Asian face, squinting as he stroked his long beard, his expression perfectly calm. "Leaving aside its unusual level of intelligence, it seems to know each of us very well, and it's also very familiar with the Emperor."
"This thing is, after all, just a Narrator Machine. What if the stories it tells are all fabricated by people?"
Sitting at the other end of the long table, a giant with crimson skin and gleaming eyes also spoke, seemingly very interested.
"However, the light screens it uses to project text and images seem to be more than just simple technological power."
"It is utterly disrespectful to the Emperor," said a man with short, gray hair and a face as steady as Stone. "Moreover, it doesn't seem to be insulting at all."
The screen ignored their discussion and simply displayed the next line of text.
The return of the Last Son is a cause for celebration for the Imperium, but at this moment, we need not focus on that point. Let us rewind decades and look to the easternmost part of the Ultima Segmentum, to the very edge of the Imperium. There, lies a Star of Eternal Night called Nostramo.
In a silent moment, everyone at the round table turned their gaze to the same person.
This man's face was deathly pale, unlike Kolaus Corax, whose paleness still possessed a human warmth; his deathly pallor was almost like that of a Ghost.
Although his black hair had been washed, it was still disheveled from years of mess, completely obscuring most of his face, making him look like Ghost. The exposed black eyes were cut into tiny fragments by his hair.
He was squatting on the stone bench in a very contorted position, as if he had never received any education, his back hunched, his hands resting on his knees, swaying listlessly.
Seemingly noticing their gaze, he raised his hand, brushed aside the hair in front of him, revealing a handsome face that retained little humanity. A radiant, fake smile bloomed on this monstrous face, more human than monstrous.
"What is it?" he asked with a forced smile, his voice soft and hissing, but his eyes were sharp, as if he held a dagger. "Hmm? My dear brothers? What do you want?"
No one answered; the continued flashing of the screen drew their attention. The text continued, but the image suddenly went completely black.
[This planet suffered a tragic fate, and so did the people who lived on it. Dense clusters of Hive City filled every part of Nostramo except the wilderness, clearly dividing the land into distinct hierarchical levels from top to bottom.]
The nobles naturally enjoy everything, able to commit crimes with impunity. The lower classes, however, live under constant threat of death, even breathing the stale air expelled from above.
[Here, sins abound, and cannibalism is merely the least serious of them all. Here, the poor have no future, for their fate is sealed from the start: join a gang and become the dogs of the elite, or die in a factory or on the roadside.]
The flickering of the light curtain finally subsided, the text vanished, and a tragic scene of hell was revealed before all the Primarch.
Shops with legs or arms hanging from the ceiling; impoverished people shivering in the cold wind at street corners; orphaned children, manipulated by gangs, plunging syringes into their necks.
There was no light above them, only the endless, frantic flashing of neon lights in the night, weaving a mesmerizing and desperate net that trapped everyone within, with absolutely no possibility of escape.
The spire of the Hive City looked incredibly sinister under the cover of night. Gargoyle coldly surveyed all this suffering in the acid rain. Then, a cloaked, hooded Shadow swept across them, followed closely by another, even larger figure.
The video stops there.
Silence, utter silence. Apart from the cracking of Konrad Curze Curze's knuckles as he fidgeted with his fingers, there was no other sound. The Primarch seemed to have all chosen the same expression to face the scene they had just witnessed.
This extreme silence lasted for several minutes, and it probably would have continued even longer had a dark-skinned giant not cautiously spoken.
"Hello, Konrad Curze." He kept his voice as gentle as possible. "My name is Vulkan, I'm one of your brothers. How are you?"
Konrad Curze Curze turned to look at him, then suddenly smiled broadly, tilting his head nervously. A thick vein on his neck twisted and throbbed slowly.
"I'm fine," he said with a soft laugh. "Why are you all silent? This thing always deliberately leaves pauses for you to talk to each other; isn't this a perfect opportunity?"
"Was this the kind of world you grew up in?" the giant named Vulkan continued to ask.
He was slowly frowning, as if he couldn't accept it at all. Under the round table, his hands, resting on his knees, were already tightly clasped together.
"Pretty much," Konrad Curze Curze shrugged, hissing dismissively as he answered his question, followed by the unanimous glances of others. "Nostramo is just that kind of place—no hope, no future—and of course, no man."
He nimbly leaped up and landed on the round table. He straightened his hunched back, pierced the light barrier with his sharp fingernails, and touched the cloaked Shadow.
"Hmm," he murmured. "I've never seen this person before."
"But in the video, you're following behind him," someone said, his voice hoarse, like two sharp stones rubbing against each other, pausing frequently as if deep in thought. "And you seem to trust him a lot."
The Nostramo man, dressed in black, quietly jumped off the long table and returned to his seat. He hugged his knees, hissing like a wild beast, and uttered words they couldn't understand at all.
The person who had spoken suddenly began to take a deep breath, and the white, gelatinous tubes that had spread from his forehead and the back of his head were trembling.
"Are you alright, Angron?" Fulgrim asked with concern. "Father said the surgery was successful, is that really true? You still seem to be in a lot of pain."
"It's alright," the giant named Angron uttered in a terrifying voice from his throat. "I'm fine."
Lorgar Aurelian looked at him with concern and began to pray for him. At the other end of the round table, a shorter giant watched all this silently, his eyes filled with amusement.
"So."
Then another person spoke. He had a full head of blond hair, no mustache, and his emerald green eyes were devoid of joy or sorrow, as if the hellish scene he had just witnessed was utterly insignificant. His expression was very calm, and his words went straight to the point.
Should we continue?
"You seem a little impatient," replied the person sitting opposite him, a thin face beneath a white hood. He wore a strange respirator, and a herbal scent wafted out as he spoke.
"No," the blond man calmly denied. "I'm not in a hurry, Mortarion from Barbarus."
"I don't think so, Lion Aljonsen from Caliban."
Horus rubbed his throbbing temples and sighed with a hint of helplessness. He turned to look at Sanguinius beside him, his most trusted brother and the brother with whom he was closest.
He looked at him, hoping to gain some support. However, the angel did not look at him at the moment, but was lost in thought. So Horus coughed and cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention back to himself.
"We should indeed continue, but it seems it's getting late."
He looked at the group of people, each with their own thoughts, and slowly uttered his next sentence, intending to test their true intentions.
"How about we end it here? We can continue tomorrow, brothers. What do you think?"
Then, Ferrus Manus, who had remained silent until then, was the first to voice his objection.
"Whether this screening ends or not is not up to us," he said in a deep voice, arms crossed, his arms gleaming silver. "I'm afraid it depends on its opinion."
Who?
Horus looked up at the screen of light, only to find that the image had begun to flicker. The original scenery vanished without a trace, quietly dimming, and a line of text appeared in its place.
[It seems you are very interested, but this is not a story for any one of you. Think carefully, you demigods of the Imperium, the Primarch destined to become leaders, generals, or heroes. Please read my opinion carefully.]
[What follows should have been none of your business. This is a story that takes place in another world, a world unrelated to you, and any betrayals, deaths, or sacrifices within it are none of your concern.]
[You can choose to watch it or not. The former is unnecessary and will likely only lead to more questions. The latter seems wise, a prudent move, but wouldn't you regret turning back now?]
The power of choice is now in your hands. Please choose. Do you want to continue reading?
Ten thousand.
Also, if you enjoyed this side story and are interested in continuing it, please leave a comment and I will try to continue writing it later.
P. S., I've fallen into my old habit again; I accidentally wrote something a bit too serious, and I even planted a lot of foreshadowing. OrZ
Please forgive me if the viewing experience does not meet your expectations.