Chapter 197: Reorganization of the Legiones Astartes

"Lord Regent, you are reorganizing the Legiones Astartes again. Do you still not trust our loyalty?"

The question, posed by a Chapter Master of a successor chapter, echoed through the vaulted chamber. Immediately, the other representatives of the Adeptus Astartes seated around the strategium stirred, their armored forms straightening. The tension in the air was palpable.

It was a question they had all been yearning to ask.

The centralization of authority within the Departmento Munitorum threatened the cherished autonomy of the Astartes chapters. Most successor chapters numbered only a thousand strong—as dictated by the Codex Astartes—and thus had little leverage against the bureaucratic juggernaut of Terra. Further restrictions could render them tools of policy rather than champions of Mankind.

But Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines and Lord Regent of the Imperium, showed no irritation. He understood their concerns intimately. The Astartes, for all their martial prowess and transhuman arrogance, had never lusted for power. They sought only to fulfill their purpose—defending the Imperium—and to do so without being shackled by politics.

For ten millennia, bound by Guilliman's own Codex, the Space Marines had been deliberately fragmented—unable to unite, vulnerable to mortal manipulation. Though they bore the blood of demigods, they were forced to live in the shadow of distrust and treachery.

And so Guilliman stood, his countenance calm, and addressed the question with deliberate care.

"On the contrary, this is not a matter of questioning your loyalty—it is a recognition of it," he said. "This decree is not merely about restructuring—it is about safeguarding our Astartes brethren."

"In the days following the Horus Heresy, the Codex Astartes was a necessary measure—born not of strategy, but of desperation. The Imperium was bleeding. Fractured. The Codex was a tourniquet, not a cure."

"But today, we stand at the precipice of the Second Great Crusade. We are no longer bound by the limitations of that era. We possess new means of communication, faster coordination, and broader infrastructure. I propose the formation of unified Legions once more—formations of ten thousand Astartes or more, capable of executing large-scale strategic operations."

"The concentration of command is not a seizure of your power—it is the creation of something greater than the sum of its parts."

His words rang clear through the chamber, backed not by force of volume, but by the weight of history and necessity.

The Codex Astartes had been created to prevent another Horus from rising. But time had moved on. Guilliman had never imagined that what was meant to be a temporary balm would be treated as eternal scripture. Now, reforms were not only necessary—they were inevitable.

And the implications were clear to every Chapter Master present.

A single chapter of a thousand could be cowed, misled, or isolated by Imperial bureaucrats. But a legion—ten thousand warriors, united in purpose and might—was far harder to manipulate.

After all, why had the Space Wolves dared to defy the Inquisition and toss an Inquisitor into a swine pen?

Because they stood as one.

"My Lord Regent," the Chapter Master finally said, his voice steady, "thank you—for your clarity and for your trust."

Dukel observed the exchange silently. He, more than any other, understood the stakes. He had, in truth, been the first to suggest restoring the ten-thousand-strong Legions.

The coming crusade would demand more than fragmented skirmish forces. It would require unity, coordination, and overwhelming strength. The galaxy was not growing safer—it was collapsing into deeper madness.

More importantly, the Imperium no longer had to fear an Astartes rebellion.

Dukel did not discount the might of the Adeptus Astartes. He did not believe himself invincible.

But once the Imperium's systems of virtual command and navigational control were fully realized, even the most zealous rebel force could be rendered impotent. A single keystroke could sever their communications, blind their navigators, and reduce them to stranded warriors lost in the void.

And if, by chance, the Emperor were to stir the Immaterium into a Warp storm, their rebellion would end not with a bang, but with silence.

Deaf. Blind. Crippled.

No chapter, no matter how strong, could resist the Imperium once stripped of its celestial bearings.

The Chapter Master's concerns had been addressed. But more questions now surged forth like a tidal wave.

The council descended into a drawn-out session of inquiries and clarifications. Guilliman answered each one with composed patience, never wavering in his tone. But it was clear—not everyone shared his stamina.

Hours passed.

Eventually, it was Sanguinius—the reborn one, sometimes called Little Sanguinius—who disrupted the tedium. He straightened on his ornate throne and loosed an exaggerated yawn.

The Blood Angels around him took the hint. Chapter Master Dante stood and, with all the decorum he could muster, escorted their Primarch out of the chamber, muttering something about illness while Sanguinius "protested" weakly.

Across the hall, Lion El'Jonson narrowed his eyes at the display. His brow furrowed, his expression unreadable.

Just then, a Dark Angels officer approached and handed him a sealed datasheet. The Lion opened it, scanning its contents.

His expression shifted.

Narrowed eyes turned to wide fury.

He stood from his throne in silence and stormed from the chamber, not uttering a word. No one dared to stop him.

Dukel watched the departure with calm detachment.

He turned to Guilliman, offering neither excuse nor farewell, and strode boldly from the room.

"Lord Regent," came another voice from behind, "will Hive Worlds that supply regiments, and Death Worlds with limited strategic value, also be subject to reform?"

"Lord Regent," another called, "our new Astra Militarum conscripts—will their training suffice for modern war?"

"Will we continue taxing Imperial citizens to support primitive worlds of little use?"

"My Lord Regent," one voice asked sharply, "is it true that you have ties to Evelyne of the Death Korps? And is it also true that there are half-Aeldari among the Ultramarines?"

The Regent stood motionless for a heartbeat, the weight of politics pressing down again.

And so the storm continued.

"Lord Regent."

Guilliman sat alone, surrounded by the echo of cascading questions—each more pointed than the last.

After Dukel left the grand chamber, he made his way through a series of fortified corridors, arriving at a secluded chamber buried deep within the administrative district of the Imperial Palace.

A guest awaited him there—one whose cooperation would be pivotal to solidifying the foundations of the upcoming Great Crusade.

She had been waiting for some time.

Zhuoni Kariman sat in quiet anticipation, absently combing her fingers through the flame-red curls that spilled across her shoulders. The deep scarlet hue of her hair, coupled with its wild waves, had become a mark of distinction among the fringe worlds she ruled.

Despite her usual confidence, she felt uncertain now—unsure of how a being such as he would regard such a flamboyant appearance.

Her fingertips traced the line of her jaw and the curve of her crimson lips. In her eyes gleamed the boldness and pride characteristic of those raised at the edge of the Imperium. Zhuoni had forged a vast merchant dynasty from chaos and void, but now, sitting here, she felt the giddy trepidation of a girl about to meet a living legend.

She adjusted her attire—a balance of elegance and allure designed to project control, strength, and grace. To most men, she was a flame—captivating and untouchable.

But this was no ordinary man.

If Rogue Traders are the last vestige of humanity's pioneering will, she thought, then he is that will incarnate.

Even for someone who had made her name known along the dark fringe of the Segmentum Obscurus, Zhuoni could not help but feel reverence for the towering figure she was about to meet. His tales were the kind sung in void-canticles and whispered by battle-worn navigators.

She longed to know him—truly know him.

Her lips parted unconsciously. Her thoughts drifted to the legends surrounding his original form, and she flushed without fully knowing why.

Then came the sound.

Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.

Each footstep was heavy, measured, and deliberate—like the tolling of a planetary bell.

Even before the door opened, the air itself thickened, charged with presence and purpose.

It was as if the fire of courage had entered the room before its source had.

The door opened.

Dukel entered—his presence consuming all else. He was not clad in the thunderous ceramite of his warplate, but in a black robe of simple cut, though its fabric could not hide the titan beneath. His physique, even in repose, radiated predatory strength.

Every motion was purposeful, every breath a storm barely restrained.

Zhuoni instinctively lowered her gaze, her bold façade melting away.

"Greetings, Supreme Warmaster of Mankind. It is the highest honor to be granted a private audience with you," she said, bowing in an ancient merchant salute.

Though her head was bowed, her eyes betrayed her—a subtle, involuntary glance at the massive form before her, at the chiseled musculature beneath the robe.

If he wished to subdue me here and now, she thought, I would not resist.

But Dukel's gaze was clinical, detached, focused on a far broader horizon.

"You are the current matriarch of the Kariman Merchant Dynasty?" he asked.

"Yes, Lord," Zhuoni replied, keeping her voice even.

"Do you know why I summoned you?"

"I would not presume to guess, my Lord. I ask only for your guidance."

Dukel nodded once.

"I have need of you. The fractured merchant dynasties scattered throughout the void must be brought to heel. Under my will, a new merchant charter shall be established—one bound not by greed but by Imperial purpose. Trade and expansion must go hand in hand."

Zhuoni's bashful expression began to fade, replaced by the commanding presence of a true Void Matriarch. "I live to serve the Imperium's future. But the warp storms rage unchecked across the Segmentae. Our fleets are crippled, lost, or worse. Expansion under current conditions is... unstable."

It was not a complaint. It was a statement of fact—a reality that needed acknowledgement if she was to execute his vision.

Dukel's tone did not change.

"Leave the warp to me. You need only remain loyal."

He stepped closer, his towering shadow falling across her like that of a mountain.

"There are tens of thousands of merchant dynasties in the galaxy, Kariman. Do you know why I chose yours?"

Zhuoni blinked, genuinely puzzled. Though her dynasty was wealthy and influential, it was by no means the greatest. Her thoughts drifted—Had her beauty caught his eye?

But then Dukel spoke, shattering her assumptions.

"Because of your name—Kariman."

Zhuoni's brow furrowed. The name meant little to her beyond lineage and inheritance. What secret did it hold?

Seeing her confusion, Dukel's expression turned somber.

Ten thousand years.

A span so vast that even empires forget their roots, truths crumble into myth, and once-glorious names are lost beneath the dust of forgotten stars.

It was no surprise, then, that the name Kariman had vanished from the tongues of men.

Dukel's voice, deep and certain, broke the silence.

"Kariman. That was the name of my homeworld. Though long gone, remnants of its name still echo in your family line. The suffixes in your surname—archaic, yes, but recognizable—point to that origin. I suspect your ancestors may have been among the survivors of its final days."

Zhuoni's eyes widened. Her breath caught.

The name, familiar yet foreign, now carried a weight it never had before.

Dukel offered a small, rare smile.

"Kariman... though that ancient jewel was lost to cataclysm, it can still serve as a reason for my choice. Perhaps it's selfish—perhaps sentiment clouds reason—but knowing that we may share a star-born kinship... it stirs a long-dormant part of me."

He took a step closer, his presence once more enveloping her.

"I trust you, Zhuoni Kariman—not just because of your record, not merely because of what you command, but because something in your blood remembers. Tell me... am I wrong to place such faith in you?"

Zhuoni swallowed hard. His gaze burned—not cruel, but fierce with expectation and hope.

To disappoint him would be a crime against history.

She bowed deeply, her voice trembling with solemnity and pride.

"As you will it, my lord. The House of Kariman shall remain ever loyal to the Imperium—and to you."

Dukel nodded, expression firm with quiet satisfaction.

"In recognition of this bond, you shall receive reinforcements. The Magos of the Cult Mechanicus and the Void Priests of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica will refit your fleet. You will be given restricted access to the schema for Imperial Beacons—tools essential for stabilizing navigation on the edges of the Great Rift."

Though the Imperium's primary focus remained the heart of the galaxy, Dukel was already laying the foundations for a long-term strategy. The fringes must be lit, the void tamed, and the path paved for humanity's return to glory.

In return for this technological sanctification, the Kariman Dynasty would owe more than loyalty—they would owe obedience.

When the future came calling, they would answer without hesitation.

Having spoken his piece, Dukel stood. The meeting was done. The gears of war and commerce would now be entrusted to Aiferal, who would act as liaison to the dynasties.

He turned to go.

"My Lord—wait."

Zhuoni's voice halted him mid-step. Her eyes, usually sharp with calculation, now held something softer. A memory not hers, a longing inherited.

"I thank you... for the truth of our origins," she said slowly, carefully. "Such knowledge is a treasure beyond any stellar chart or vault. My people have long wandered, unmoored from any true beginning. Knowing we once hailed from the same soil... it means more than I can say."

She hesitated.

"I have... an unworthy request."

Dukel said nothing, allowing her to continue.

"May I—may I call you Ancestor?"

The words were spoken with a mix of reverence and subtle strategy.

It was sincere—yes—but also calculated. Zhuoni was no fool. Any bond with a Primarch, even one rooted in sentiment, was worth more than gold-pressed plasteel.

Dukel regarded her for a long moment. Then, with a chuckle that rumbled like distant thunder, he replied:

"Ancestor, is it? That title makes me feel far older than I am, little one."

With that, he turned and departed, robes trailing like shadow behind flame.

Zhuoni remained seated, staring at the now-empty doorway. Her heart beat steady, but her thoughts drifted—already charting new paths, new legacies, and a dynasty reborn from forgotten ashes.