Chapter 93: The Emperor commanded you to conquer the xenos. Is this your method of conquest?

"That's fine, Your Highness."

After securing Carlos' desiccated remains, several Battle Sisters of the Psychic Guard frowned slightly.

Not for any particular reason—just out of sheer aesthetic revulsion.

Though each Sister of Battle was an elite warrior of unshakable faith, that did not mean their lives were devoid of personal tastes. In fact, after their rigorous training and prayers, many Sisters indulged in hobbies and interests like any other Imperial citizen.

And as women, their sense of aesthetics differed vastly from the brutish warriors of the Imperium.

Most Imperial warriors took pride in displaying the skulls of their enemies upon their armor—a symbol of honor, a grim decoration. Similarly, their warships were often adorned with gothic designs and sigils, for loyalty and faith demanded no less. But let's be honest—it also looked intimidatingly cool.

Even Dukel had briefly entertained the idea of forging the purified, inert essence of the defeated daemon into a gilded Aquila and mounting it aboard the Pyre of Souls.

Yet, to the Sisters, the sight of the grotesquely shriveled, bird-like heads was simply too much to stomach.

The Pyre of Souls, stretching 28 kilometers in length, was more than just the flagship of the Crusade—it was home to countless warriors of the Imperium. They lived, fought, ate, slept, built families, and eventually died aboard this grand vessel. To them, it was not merely a warship but a sanctuary.

And who wouldn't want their home to be pleasing to the eye?

Still, who could question His Highness' decree? Though they found it ugly, the Sisters obeyed without hesitation, carrying Carlos' remains away.

"Dukel, I didn't think you'd actually succeed!" Magnus exclaimed in disbelief, staring at the newly reforged Armor of Destiny.

"Yes, this armor not only grants accelerated healing but also incorporates Carlos' resistance to warp sorcery, compensating for Guilliman's lack of psychic prowess."

"When will he awaken?"

"Not certain." Dukel pondered for a moment. "It depends on our brother's willpower. At most, a week."

The moment those words left his lips—

"FULGRIM!!!"

Guilliman bolted upright from the med-pod, bellowing his brother's name.

Dukel hadn't even spoken before Magnus, still floating at his waist, interjected.

"Guilliman, I didn't realize you missed Fulgrim so much."

"Dukel?" Guilliman blinked, finally taking in his surroundings. His gaze landed on the unmistakable figure of his brother. "Magnus? And… what in the Emperor's name happened to you?! So this is the fate of a traitor!"

"Correct. I am a traitor. And I earned it," Magnus replied with mocking sarcasm.

Guilliman snorted. "You are indeed not as capable as the great Regent, Son of Perfection. Look at what you've done. The Emperor commanded you to conquer the xenos, and this is your method of conquest?!"

"Nonsense! Magnus, Evelyn, and I are merely allies!" Guilliman roared in frustration.

"Oh, of course, Regent. But did I ever suggest otherwise? Hmm?"

"You—!"

Guilliman, already prone to anger, found his wounds flaring up from the outburst. His lips trembled in pain.

Magnus cackled triumphantly, reveling in another verbal victory over his brother.

His glee lasted precisely until Dukel smacked the back of his bald head.

"Enough. Guilliman just woke up—he's still recovering. Don't provoke him."

Magnus glanced at Dukel's massive hand, larger than his entire face, and wisely decided to keep quiet.

Dukel, satisfied, turned back to Guilliman, waiting for his irritation to subside. He then briefed him on the battle's outcome and offered his sincerest gratitude.

Guilliman had earned it.

While the Lord Regent had spent most of the war unconscious in the med-pod after tanking the concentrated fire of three Greater Daemons, his contributions had been made long before the battle began.

The forces under his command outnumbered the Crusade's troops by a factor of three. The Astartes under his banner alone equaled the total members of Dukel's entire Legion network.

And unlike Dukel, Guilliman lacked the computational advantage of a psychic network. He managed this colossal war machine through sheer skill and discipline alone—a level of strategic acumen that even Dukel found astonishing.

Guilliman, a demigod of the Imperium, had once knelt before a Space Wolves Chapter Master, not out of weakness, but for the sake of unifying the Empire.

Had Dukel been in his place, the Wolf Lord would've been carved into eight pieces and fed to Leman Russ the moment he bared his teeth.

That was the difference between them.

Even though they were both Primarchs, he could not replace Guilliman.

When Dukel informed him of Fulgrim's capture, he had expected Guilliman to erupt in righteous fury, thirsting for vengeance.

Yet, after only a brief moment, Guilliman suppressed his anger and sorrow.

"The fall of a brother, even one as lost as Fulgrim, is not cause for celebration," he said solemnly. "His fate should be decided by our father, not by me."

"Agreed." Dukel nodded indifferently before adding, "On another note, brother—can I borrow Archmagos Cawl for a while?"

"What?" Guilliman's somber expression vanished instantly. "What do you need Cawl for?"

"I intend to take him to an academic symposium. A rather exclusive one. Care to join us?"

Dukel asked out of politeness, fully expecting the ever-busy Regent to decline.

Surprisingly, Guilliman showed great interest.

Dukel raised an eyebrow and kindly reminded him, "Brother, I must warn you—this symposium is quite high-level. Those who are illiterate or semi-literate need not attend."

"Illiterate? Are you referring to me?"

Guilliman was momentarily dumbfounded.

As a Primarch, he had never once been accused of illiteracy. In fact, he had read every book available on Macragge before the Emperor even found him.

However—

Dukel and Magnus exchanged glances before turning their gazes toward him in unison.

Before him stood Dukel, who spent every free moment immersed in scientific research. Hanging in front of him was Magnus, an insatiable seeker of knowledge.

In comparison…

"Ah." Guilliman sighed wryly. "I see. So I'm illiterate."

Then, as if recalling something, he added, "Dukel, I intend to use this victory to hold a grand Imperial celebration. The Imperium has not had such a triumphant moment in a long time. Our people need hope."

His gaze was firm.

"And you, brother, will be the centerpiece of this celebration. I hope you will attend."

Dukel considered this for a moment.

"If I have time, I will attend," he replied.

His mind, however, was already elsewhere.

If all went according to plan—

With Cawl's technological genius, Magnus' psychic mastery, and his own advancements in psychic-engineering, combined with the support of his deputy Gris—the probability of realizing his vision of the Second Legion stood at 22.2%.

A promising number.

And with that, he turned and left to find Cawl.

As he departed, the Ultramarines standing outside, anxious for their father's health, surged into the room.

Neither Dukel, Guilliman, nor Magnus noticed it at first.

But the moment they stepped beyond the med-pod's threshold and entered the gaze of mortals, their expressions subtly changed—less natural, more rigid.

No matter how close a Primarch seemed to mortals, they would never truly reveal their hearts to them.

For no matter what, only a Primarch could understand a Primarch.

...

Author's Note ✍️:

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...

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