The cold light sources of the armored corridor cast an even glow, projecting a sterile metallic texture onto the heavy walls.
Outside the window, the sulfur-yellow and rust-red cloud bands of the gas giant Rostov IV eternally surged and billowed, forming a dangerous yet magnificent cosmic tableau.
Alex and Hathor walked side by side, their steps steady, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
"Speaking of which," Alex said, his gaze fixed on the deep corridor ahead, his tone exploratory, "I've always been curious: purely in terms of combat skill, what kind of insurmountable chasm separates a Primarch from an ordinary Astartes?"
Hathor maintained the same pace as him, her amber-gold eyes reflecting the shifting light and shadow of the gas clouds outside the window, a gentle curve gracing her lips.
"That's a question worth delving into! Tracing back to the Great Crusade, there indeed existed a few warriors who honed their martial arts to absolute perfection. On the training ground, under rules strictly limited to sparring and 'touch-and-go,' they could even exchange blows with me or my brothers, appearing to be evenly matched." She paused slightly on "martial arts" and "exchange blows" for emphasis.
"However," she nodded slightly, her tone becoming incredibly resolute, "that was ultimately confined within the framework of 'touch-and-go.' Once you step onto a battlefield where there are no holds barred, where lives are on the line, the situation is entirely different.
The scattered historical records of Space Marines injuring Primarchs were all products of specific circumstances—meticulously planned ambushes, overwhelming sieges, or Primarchs distracted and hampered by other matters. If it were a straightforward, pure duel, with both sides fully prepared…"
Hathor raised one hand, palm down, making a steady, powerful gesture as if pressing down on an invisible weight: "…Even if the entire elite Honor Guard of one of my brothers were to attack, the most they could achieve would be to delay for a moment.
And the length of that time would depend entirely on the urgency of the battle situation and the intensity of that Primarch's resolve."
Alex's face showed a knowing smile, and he naturally interjected, "Like Guilliman's Honor Guard, who always need to exert their utmost to safely bring him back when his Gene-Seed Primarch selflessly charges into the most dangerous vortex?"
"Robert?" Hathor's smile deepened, carrying the familiarity of a profound understanding of her brother, "Purely in terms of combat skill's exquisite finesse and comprehensive tactical acumen, he indeed ranks among the foremost of us brothers.
It's just that the foes he encounters… are often too powerful, or the situations too complex to be resolved by mere brute force.
His selfless charges are also a matter of duty—who among the Ultramarines, besides him, could directly confront threats of such a terrifying level, capable of overturning an entire battle line?"
Alex nodded in deep agreement.
He turned his gaze to Hathor, with a deeper curiosity about the essence of power: "Then, from your personal experience, what level can a Gene-Seed Primarch reach if he unleashes his full power without reservation?"
Hathor pondered for a moment, a thoughtful glint in her molten-gold eyes, as if measuring the scale of that power.
"It can be understood this way," she organized her words, her voice steady yet containing undeniable power, "For us, on the scale of a conventional battlefield, the mere accumulation of numbers loses its meaning.
Taking myself as an example, if it were a head-on confrontation, I am confident I could completely crush an entire Astartes Chapter.
And this is far from the limit of what I can achieve."
"As for destructive might," her gaze turned to the turbulent, energy-rich gas inferno outside the window, "one need only recall Sanguinius's full-power outburst during the Siege of Terra under the omen of the end, or Angron's fury as he destroyed the God-Machines.
An Emperor-class Titan is not an unbreakable eternal bulwark, and an entire legion cannot stop a Primarch who is giving his all.
If there is no existence of a similar level on the battlefield to counterbalance him, a Gene-Seed Primarch, unrestrained, is himself a mobile, walking natural disaster."
She paused, her tone carrying an inevitable gravity: "Therefore, it is an unavoidable destiny for Guilliman to personally confront those powerful enemies capable of threatening an entire battle line."
"I understand," Alex nodded knowingly, his tone carrying a hint of sigh and also revealing concern for his subordinates, "It seems my lads are in for a truly 'memorable experience' during the 'assessment' shortly.
Ms. Hathor, I hope you will be merciful and not let their confidence be too severely shaken."
He specifically used the word "assessment," clarifying the nature of the upcoming test.
Hathor's lips curved slightly, with the composure and control characteristic of an instructor: "Governor, rest assured, I know my limits. We shall see today what kind of sharpness the sweat of this period has forged."
At this moment, they had reached the end of the corridor. Beyond the massive airtight blast door ahead, the clang of training weapons, the heavy thud of footsteps, and low shouts could be clearly heard, like the beating of war drums.
The heavy blast door slid open silently, revealing the training hall.
The Dome soared, with massive alloy ribbed arches etched with the Imperial Aquila and the Chapter's ancient maxims, casting deep shadows under the cool lights from above.
The air was mixed with the faint lingering scent of incense, the pungent odor characteristic of promehtium lubricant, the steaming sweat of young bodies after intense exertion, and the metallic burnt smell left by repeated impacts of training weapons.
On the heavy dark alloy wainscoting, stained-glass windows depicting the Emperor's holy deeds and the Legion's epic campaigns were embedded, now illuminated by the shifting sulfur-yellow and rust-red light from the gas giant outside, creating a bizarre, kaleidoscopic effect, as if one were in a burning cosmic painting.
Hundreds of Ash Knights stood in solemn formation, clad only in dark gray training jumpsuits that outlined their genetically enhanced physiques, their muscles bulging, full of explosive power.
Their gazes, filled with awe for power and a hint of anticipation for the test, were uniformly focused on Hathor Lupeca in the center of the hall—the instructor who, by the Governor's command, had been guiding them in combat techniques for some time.
She was dressed in a sharply tailored dark gray administrative uniform, her posture as straight as a pine, casually holding an unsharpened standard training power sword in her hand, her demeanor relaxed and composed, as if what was about to take place was not a fierce combat but a calm demonstration to assess results.
"The rules remain the same," Hathor's voice rang out steadily, clearly penetrating the training ground and reaching everyone's ears, carrying the composure and undeniable authority of an assessor, "Touch-and-go, but give it your all. Let me see what kind of sharpness the sweat poured out during this time has forged. Who wants to be the first to be tested?"
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