Angron's command fell like a catalyst into molten steel, instantly igniting the entire encampment's will to act.
Yet before the echoes of his order had faded, the Legion's war machine was already running with ruthless efficiency.
There was no need for the Primarch to personally direct the Legion. Its discipline, ingrained in its very bones, and the efficiency of its officer corps were on full display.
Led by Khârn and the other senior officers, the Company Captains and veteran sergeants meshed instantly like precision gears.
Their loud, clipped orders rang out across the camp, carrying neither hesitation nor questions, only execution and relay:
"First Company! Assemble!"
"Second Company! Form up on the left flank!"
"Terminators! Align with the main formation!"
Orders were delivered with precision, and the warriors responded like thunderbolts.
The warriors who had been cheering and roaring around the Gladiatorial Arena switched instantly from feverish adoration to absolute focus.
As though they had rehearsed it thousands of times, they raced beneath the banners of their respective units.
Heavy armoured boots struck the ground with a deep, synchronized thunder, without the slightest disorder.
The clash of armour, the hum of servos, and the officers' commands wove together into a symphony of steel, filled with strength and order.
The entire muster was breathtakingly smooth.
In an astonishingly short time, this vast Legion transformed from a scattered, celebrating crowd into disciplined battle formations.
Crimson and brass armour reflected a cold sheen beneath the setting sun. Like silent statues of steel, the warriors formed several enormous, perfectly ordered squares.
Battle standards fluttered in the breeze. A murderous solemnity replaced the earlier clamour, leaving only a latent, heart-stopping pressure in the air.
Anglia, Captain of the First Company, stood at the very front of the Legion's formation, a veteran renowned for cold efficiency