The proposal to hold duels to determine the strongest warrior beneath the Primarchs swept through the eighteen Space Marine Legions in an astonishingly short time, like a silent command.
This was no compulsory order from the Emperor, but a proposal passed from brother to brother that swiftly set every warrior's blood aflame.
Who would not want the title of the strongest beneath the Primarchs?
Soon, each Legion nominated its acknowledged champion, its most renowned or most formidable warrior.
They might be the deadliest swordsmen, the most fearless gladiatorial champions, the most cunning tacticians, or embodiments of sheer strength.
Honour, pride, and a primal hunger for the title of "strongest" drove these warriors, who had long since proven themselves among the stars, to gather in an ancient, vast arena deep within the Imperial Palace.
This place had witnessed the glory of humanity's lost ages. Now, it would witness a contest between the finest individual warriors among the Emperor's sons.
High in the stands, in seats never intended for mortals, Malcador hunched over, a dark silhouette clinging to his staff.
His withered fingers stroked the smooth head of his staff. Rather than watching the arena below, where the final preparations were underway, his gaze turned slightly toward the presence beside him, radiating invisible light and heat.
His voice was low, like dry leaves scraping together, carrying an almost imperceptible trace of a Perpetual's weariness and scrutiny.
"My lord, are you... simply going to let them do as they please?" He paused, seemingly weighing his words. "A contest of this kind may stir their fighting spirit, but it could also foster needless competitiveness and division. Especially now."
Seated upon the highest throne, the Emperor did not answer immediately.
His eyes, as though cast from molten gold, stared unblinkingly at the arena below, built