[If The Fourth Legion is the Empire's bricklayer, building walls in the mud;]
[Then the Third Legion is the Empire's honor guard, playing songs of victory above the clouds.]
[They are—the Emperor's Children.]
[The scene does not cut directly to the battlefield; instead, it shows a grey, gloomy World shrouded in despair—Chemos.]
[There is no sky here, only thick industrial smog; there is no ocean, only dried-up mines.]
[People struggle to survive like ants in the ruins of massive factories, working to death for every drop of water and every mouthful of synthetic food.]
[However, a glowing figure changed everything.]
[It was the young Fulgrim.]
[He was not enslaved like Angron, nor was he adopted by a tyrant like Mortarion.]
[He was raised by ordinary workers and started from the very bottom.]
[On the screen, Fulgrim is bare-chested, sweating profusely by a furnace.]
[But he was not just working; he was "creating." He improved the water recycling system and repaired ancient life-support devices.]
[More importantly, he brought "U.S." to this dying World.]
[He taught the workers that survival was not just about staying alive, but about pursuing excellence.]
[As time passed, Chemos changed. Grey factories were decorated with artistic carvings, and exhaust pipes were transformed into massive organs, playing movements in the wind.]
[When the Emperor's fleet arrived, what they saw was no longer a wasteland World, but an orderly, vibrant, and artistic model of civilization.]
[The scene freezes at the moment the father and son meet.]
[Fulgrim did not draw his sword, nor did he test him.]
[He recognized his father at a single glance.]
[He knelt on the ground without the slightest hesitation and offered his absolute loyalty.]
["That was... our most glorious starting point."]
Warhammer World
Inside the Throne Room in reality, among the ranks of the Emperor's Children—who had previously maintained a subtle silence and even felt some discomfort due to the atrocities of their "brother Legions"—an uncontrollable commotion broke out.
Tarvitz, the loyal and resolute Captain of the Tenth Company, looked at the perfect military formation on the screen, his eyes shimmering with crystalline light. It was a complex emotion mixed with pride, nostalgia, and deep excitement.
"Look, that was our most glorious moment."
Tarvitz whispered to Loken beside him, his voice trembling.
"We fought for honor, for perfection. There were no flaws, only pure ideals."
For Tarvitz, this was the most beautiful time in his Memory.
But the scene he missed the most appeared immediately after.
[On the screen, the Emperor and Fulgrim were inspecting his Third Legion.]
[However, at that time, the Third Legion had suffered a catastrophic contamination of its Gene-seed.]
[Standing before the Emperor and Fulgrim was not a vast army of thousands, but a sparse group of no more than two hundred men.]
[These two hundred men were the last sparks of the Legion.]
[Though few in number, they stood tall, holding high that tattered war banner, their eyes burning with unyielding fire.]
[Fulgrim looked at these survivors.]
[He did not despise their weakness, nor did he feel it was a disgrace like Perturabo did.]
[The Phoenician Primarch on the screen made a move that no one expected.]
[He dropped to one knee.]
[He knelt before these mere two hundred warriors.]
["You are the Emperor's chosen, his messengers, his warriors."]
[Fulgrim's voice, full of charisma and power, echoed across the parade ground.]
["You are my children. From this day forth, we shall be reborn together."]
["We shall become the Emperor's pride. We shall be crowned with the great name of 'Emperor's Children'!"]
[This scene, no matter how many times it is watched, is enough to bring tears to the eyes of any warrior of the Third Legion.]
["For The Phoenician! For the Emperor!"]
In the hall in reality,
Ancient Rylanor—the respected Dreadnought—let out a heavy roar.
His electronic eyes flickered with blue light, as if he had returned to the moment when he was still of flesh and blood, standing in that formation of two hundred.
"That was the Primarch's promise to us."
Rylanor's low electronic voice sounded, filled with endless nostalgia.
"He pulled us back from the brink of extinction. He gave us the glory of the Aquila. That was... pure."
Beside him, Lucius—the Captain of the 13th Company with peerless swordsmanship—was staring obsessively at the screen.
His handsome face was filled with narcissism and fanaticism.
"Ha! Who is that? That's the young me!"
Lucius turned to brag to those around him, even casting a provocative glance at Sigismund.
"See that stance? That is the standard of perfection! Even then, we were already the most perfect Legion in the entire Empire!"
"Even with only two hundred men, we were far nobler than some bumpkin Legions with tens of thousands!"
Sigismund glanced at him coldly without saying a word, merely tightening his grip on the black sword.
He had always been disinclined to pay attention to such peacocks.
Even Lord Commander Eidolon, who was always arrogant and looked down his nose at people, straightened his back and adjusted his impeccable cravat and silver hair.
"This is the Third Legion."
Eidolon said loudly, intentionally letting people from other Legions hear.
"Even on the most intense battlefields, we still maintain elegance and Order."
"This is how an Astartes should be!"
"War is not just killing; war is an art, a performance of perfection."
"And we are the masters of this art."
[The screen images shifted, showing the heroic bearing of the rebuilt Emperor's Children during the Great Crusade.]
[They wore purple and gold power armor, proudly displaying the Palatine Aquila on their chests—an emblem only they were permitted to use.]
[This was the highest honor bestowed by the Emperor.]
[Not even the Sons of Horus received such treatment.]
"That was Father's recognition of us."
Fulgrim in reality looked at his high-spirited self on the screen, his heart filled with mixed emotions.
He brushed aside his White hair, which was as brilliant as the galaxy, a hint of pride showing in his purple eyes.
"Efficiency and U.S. aesthetics coexist; this is the perfect war."
Ferrus Manus looked at his radiant brother on the screen, and a rare smile actually appeared on that face, which was always as cold and hard as iron.
"You always love to show off, Fulgrim."
Ferrus tapped his knee lightly with his metallic fingers, his tone not one of reproach but rather filled with the banter and appreciation of an old friend.
"Look at those fancy feathers and capes. If you were on Medusa, such decorations would only get you caught in the gears."
"That is because you do not know how to appreciate them, my brother."
Fulgrim countered with a smile, "Your hands may be powerful, but the things you forge always... lack a bit of soul."
The two smiled at each other.
It was a unique understanding between a craftsman and an artist.
However, while the Emperor's Children were immersed in the glory of self-admiration, other keen Primarchs sensed something was amiss.
Jaghatai Khan narrowed his eyes, staring at the warriors of the Emperor's Children on the screen.
"They... pursue perfection too much."
The Khan whispered to Yesügei beside him.
"Look at their movements; even when executing an enemy, they must strike a perfect pose. This obsession with form exceeds the pursuit of practicality."
"What is too rigid is easily broken; what is too pure is often shunned by the World."
Yesügei shook his head.
"They treat war as a performance. But there is no such thing as a perfect performance in this World; there will always be a time for the final curtain."
Sanguinius also frowned.
As the Angel with the power of foresight, he looked at Fulgrim on the screen—revered by thousands and looking like the Sun God Apollo—and a sudden, inexplicable, and immense sadness surged in his heart.
"Is this also perfection, brother?"
Sanguinius whispered in his heart, "When perfection becomes an obsession, and when that obsession needs to be satisfied through ever-escalating stimulation... it is only one step away from the abyss."
But at this moment, the atmosphere in the hall was still enthusiastic.
For the vast majority of Astartes, this was a glorious victory.
One of the countless highlight moments in humanity's Great Crusade.
They cheered for The Phoenician Primarch, who stood atop a pile of Xenos corpses, holding his war sword high, as perfect as a deity.
What they did not know was that this was not the pinnacle of perfection.
This was the doorbell of hell, about to be rung.