Chapter 492: Huron: I Am the Greatest Scion of Guilliman!
Ultimately, Commander Huron could only lift his data-slate higher, casting a shadow across his face to hide his expression.
He had failed to maintain his composure.
Why does Lord Ramesses insist on broadcasting this?
He understood that the "Voice of the Empyrean"—the orbital vox-network established by the Formless Lord following the seizure of the Blackstone Fortresses—was currently the Imperium's most effective tool for monitoring Chaos movements. But did it have to play on an infinite loop?
Huron tried to recall the most tragic moment of his life to kill the urge to laugh. But truthfully, since his rise to power, he hadn't suffered much. The hardships he endured before becoming a Chapter Master were trivial compared to the sagas of his battle-brothers.
Huron felt a twinge of pain in his face. The Guardian of the Maelstrom had taken several minor wounds in the recent skirmishes. His helmet was removed, revealing patches of scabbed-over bruising and lacerations on his cheeks, the red marks of deep-tissue trauma visible beneath the surface.
This was the greatest "suffering" he had known in years.
"It matters not," Guilliman said, waving a hand dismissively. He held a stack of reports, his mind deconstructing the current tactical layout of Badab.
The Warp-tides hanging over the planet had yet to fully recede. While Arthur could have dispersed the Chaos storm with a single thought, the presence of so many Primarchs and assembled armies made this a unique opportunity for Mankind to study the Empyrean in a controlled environment.
Under the guidance of Ramesses' specialists, the psychic cohorts were expanding their understanding of the beyond. The Grey Knights and various Librarians, acting on direct orders from the Formless Lord, were standardizing prayer-protocols to create a stable reality-anchor for the Imperial forces.
Even the regular infantry units were adapting. The proven routines, combat doctrines, and emergency measures developed here would soon spread across the galaxy as these veterans returned to their various sectors.
In such a grand context, Huron's minor lapse in discipline was perfectly acceptable.
"On another note," the voice from the vox-broadcast—the "Lord Who Wishes to Remain Anonymous" (Ramesses)—intoned, "the Black Legion is already preparing for the Fourteenth 'Eternal' War. How inspiring!"
"Oh, thank the Throne! A Legion that couldn't even build its own foundation... can you truly guarantee they'll win the next crusade? Or the one after that? When it actually matters?"
"Let's be pragmatic. I advise you to figure out your own tactics first. Does anyone even know what an 'Eternal War' is supposed to be? Is it a war you want to fight? Are you dying for the Dark Gods, or are you dying for yourselves? Sort out your basic logic, please!"
Hearing the Voice of the Empyrean, Guilliman allowed himself a knowing smile.
The Dawnbreakers had not only shattered the core ideology that Abaddon used to unify the Chaos warbands, but they had also stolen the very "right of interpretation" for the Long War. Now, without direct intervention from the Dark Gods, the various factions of the Eye would find it impossible to reach a consensus.
The Four were too busy with their own eternal squabbles and petty rivalries. They were immortal; they had no sense of urgency. Their internal wars were far more significant to them than the "minor" setbacks of their mortal puppets.
If it weren't for the unique nature of the Dawnbreakers—and the Gods' desperate need to win a "moral victory" against them—certain people (like Abaddon) wouldn't have merited Their direct attention at all.
My brothers are truly talented, Guilliman mused.
Seeing that Guilliman was still focused on his data-slates, occasionally whispering with Romulus, Huron finally mastered his features. He resumed his report with careful precision.
Since being sanctioned by the Dawnstar Lords, Huron had been a demon of industry.
Using a combination of military pressure and political maneuvering, he had secured stable trade agreements with the Leagues of Votann in the Galactic Core, importing advanced logic-engines for the Dawnstar Sector.
He had overseen the expansion of thirteen Astartes Chapters. He had established a centralized training doctrine for mortal mechanized units directly attached to the Astartes, mirroring the structural reforms of the Dawnstar. He had suppressed the Maelstrom and secured the Webway-wormholes leading to the Ghoul Stars.
By the time the fires of war were officially ignited in 816.M41, the Maelstrom Wardens numbered 80,000 Astartes with an equal number in reserve. The "Maelstrom Aegis" mechanized auxiliary corps under his direct command had reached 8 million active personnel with 32 million in the secondary pool. He had achieved a logistical ratio of one tank per eight men, one IFV per sixteen, and one support vehicle per thirty-two. His Aeronautica wings were granted the same logistical priority as the Astartes. This force had been the hammer that broke the back of the Chaos offensive during the Siege of Badab.
He had pushed industrial development, establishing thirteen major fortified hubs centered on Badab to facilitate the Navy, the Guard, the Mechanicus, and the Rogue Trader fleets. At the Dawnstar's request, he had cultivated excellent relationships with every Imperial military branch.
He had reopened and secured trade routes linking the Ultima, Obscurus, Tempestus, and Solar Segmentums. The sector's Gross Planetary Product and trade volume had seen exponential growth between 700 and 800.M41. As one of the Five Great Special Zones, the Maelstrom alone shouldered the tithe burden for the entire Solar Segmentum.
When he learned that Guilliman was to be resurrected, Huron had thrown himself entirely into the defense of Badab. He wanted to present the Dawnbreakers and his Gene-father with a realm that rivaled the prosperity of Macragge—a jewel that the Primarchs could use to begin scrubbing the ten-thousand-year rot from the Imperium.
After receiving word from Romulus, Huron had fantasized about meeting Guilliman a thousand times.
But now that the moment was here, he felt a deep sense of trepidation. He remembered his early years, before the Dawnbreakers had arrived. He had begun his illegal expansion, withheld the Tithe, and arrogantly dubbed himself the "Tyrant of Badab" long before there was a Primarch to guide him.
What if Lord Guilliman thinks I have violated the Codex? What if he sees my ambition as a lack of loyalty?
Finishing his overview of the Maelstrom's status, Huron spoke with a lowered head:
"Father, I must confess my transgressions."
Romulus looked at Guilliman, who remained stoic.
Though the Regent appeared unbothered, Romulus could tell he was internally reeling. It was one thing to be unchained by the Dawnbreakers; it was quite another to achieve this level of growth in a century.
The Blood Angels, for all their Ecclesiarchy-funded perks and tax-exempt status on Baal, had never achieved a leap of this magnitude.
Dante was a man stretched too thin. He had spent the last century merely trying to kick his eccentric successor Chapters back into line, while simultaneously managing the Angelic Creed and fending off the Tyranids and Khorne-daemons that spawned constantly within the "Red Scar."
With the arrival of the Dawnstar-educated recruits, the Blood Angels were improving, but Dante was only receiving more duties and more burdens in return. The Old Man was far from his much-desired rest.
"Speak, my son," Guilliman said.
His voice was like a warm breeze.
A Primarch was a Primarch, and one as politically astute as Guilliman would never let his internal shock show on his face.
Regardless of the past, Huron was now a Sector Lord who had just secured a magnificent victory for the Imperium. Guilliman, having consulted with Calgar and the others, knew exactly how his sons viewed him. They were ecstatic at his return, yet terrified of failing his expectations.
As a master of leadership, Guilliman knew he had to validate the achievement.
"Tell me of your journey, Lugft," he said gently.
And so, Huron spoke.
He detailed everything: from his selection into the Astral Claws to his discovery of the Chapter's hidden history. He spoke of the campaigns in the Maelstrom and the secret withholding of the Tithe for local development. He described the moment his secret was exposed during the Dawnstar Crusade, and how, under their support, he had mastered the sector.
Huron was brutally honest. He did not hide his past "High-Astartes" chauvinism or his dark thoughts. Now that he held real power, he had even made peace with the High Lords he had once viewed as insects.
Under the right guidance, the "Tyrant of Badab"—who had once been a man of bitter resentment—had become a legend. On the surface of Badab, the inner walls of the Baroque-style cathedrals were covered in the honors won by the Astral Claws.
This man is a tiger, Guilliman realized.
Huron had been recorded in the Ultramarines' archives, but data could not capture a psyche.
A man like Huron—full of ideas, grand ambitions, and intense agency—could be a source of infinite vitality under a strong leadership. If contained and guided, he could stabilize a sector and unlock its potential. If left to rot, he was a terminal disaster waiting to happen.
Recalling the "mess" Huron had been brewing before the Primarchs' return, Guilliman shuddered to think what would have happened if they had arrived a few centuries later.
He would have burned half the galaxy.
If the man had died in the conflict, it would have been a waste. If he had turned to Chaos or become a pirate king, he would have been a dagger in the heart of the Imperium.
"Is that not enough?" Guilliman asked, his face warming with a look of genuine approval as Huron finished his tale.
"Your goal has always been to fight for the Imperium of Man and to contribute more than was asked. You corrected your path when shown the way, and you have bled for Humanity until this day. Does that not prove your loyalty beyond all doubt?"
"Lugft Huron. My greatest son. My greatest pride."
To scold a commander who had just achieved a miracle would change nothing; it would only breed resentment.
Guilliman's 'Greatest Sons' were many. Currently, the list included Agathone, Andros, Drakus, Calgar, Thiel, and now Servius.
Compared to the "low-EQ" bluntness he showed his brothers—perhaps because he truly viewed them as equals—Guilliman provided near-infinite emotional validation for his sons. His opening move was always: The Greatest. The Most Reliable. My Pride.
The "Old Guard" (Thiel and Drakus) knew this was "Primarch PUA"—the Old Man would still roast you if you messed up. But the modern Astartes had never known such warmth.
Huron was completely spellbound.
"Father!"
Huron's voice cracked. A man nearly three meters tall, a warlord of a sector, looked ready to weep with joy.
And Huron did deserve the title.
In the original timeline, the Badab War began in 912.M41. Back then, he had fought fourteen Chapters to a standstill with only three, and had only broken when the Navy, the Inquisition, and the Mechanicus all dogpiled him.
After falling to Chaos, he had escaped with only two hundred men and achieved in a century what Abaddon hadn't in ten thousand. He had unified the Maelstrom warbands, hosted the "Galactic Combat Tournament," and led a permanent host of over 100,000 Astartes. He was a Legion-tier warlord.
And unlike the "bottom-tier" warbands of Chaos, Huron's logistical acumen meant his Legion had clean water, could build their own ships, and never lacked standard wargear. Abaddon had been so desperate to court him that he gifted him a Blackstone Fortress. Huron had even worked with Kairos Fateweaver to capture Guilliman, only to "loyally" return the Honor of Macragge to his father through a convoluted series of events.
"Lugft Huron!"
Guilliman clapped the man on the shoulder with a father's weight.
He exchanged a look with Romulus, who produced a pre-drafted warrant.
"I appoint you The Paragon of the Maelstrom. You shall oversee all joint operations between the Maelstrom and the Macragge command structures. You have done well. I expect you to do even better. I am honored by your service!"
Huron stood tall, his chest swelling.
How could he not be proud? A century of toil had led to this singular moment.
Validation from two Gene-fathers. Could any other Chapter Master boast of such a thing?
"YES, MY LORD!" he bellowed.
"It seems the investment is bearing fruit," Ramesses chuckled softly.
A Space Marine who should have fallen to Chaos had become a hero of the Imperium.
They hadn't judged him by the risks of a potential future. They had guided his thoughts and pulled a straying Chapter Master back to the path.
The Imperium was vast. Countless souls had survived because of the Dawnstar's influence.
They had been given a hot meal when they were starving. They had been given reinforcements from the heavens when they were at their last stand. They had been given the political backing to achieve their dreams.
They had been given a future.
That was the greatest change the Dawnbreakers had brought.
"Indeed," Arthur said, watching the pride radiating from Huron. The silent Lord of Knights let out a soft sigh.
Hope for a better tomorrow. The pride of recognition.
It reminded him of being a child, swearing an oath to a red flag. Back then, he must have been just as proud as Huron was now.
"So, do you think the time is right?" Ramesses asked his partner.
"Hm?" Arthur turned.
"The clock is still ticking, but I think it's time to start pushing the 'Idea' you proposed long ago."
Ramesses looked up at the Rift tearing the sky.
"That one—"
He raised his hand in a grasping motion, as if he intended to close the wound spanning the center of the galaxy.
"—the Idea that ends it all."
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