The scene on the screen advanced to a key battle of the Great Crusade—the Laer Campaign.
The Laer, a serpentine xenos race possessing highly advanced biotechnology.
They had four arms, were incredibly agile, possessed advanced technology, and similarly pursued a morbid sense of "physical perfection."
Terra's Administratum had once estimated that conquering this xenos civilization would take ten years according to standard tactical simulations.
But Fulgrim rejected this timetable.
"Ten years? That is a timetable prepared for the mediocre."
Fulgrim, standing on the bridge in the screen, had a contemptuous and elegant smile curling at the corner of his mouth—a smile that was utterly charming, carrying a calm and unhurried confidence.
"We will take it in one month."
"We must prove it to our Father, and to our brothers. The Emperor's Children never accept'standards.' We only accept—'perfection'."
This bold declaration ignited the atmosphere of the hall in reality.
"Ha! That's the Primarch I know!"
Lucius waved his fist excitedly, "One month! Who else could do it? Even Horus would have to think twice! But we did it!"
The following footage showed a textbook "perfect campaign."
No redundant bombardment, no pointless sacrifice. Every tactical maneuver was precise to the second. The coordination of every squad was as seamless as the limbs of a single person.
Led by Fulgrim, the Phoenix Guard cut into the enemy's heart like a red-hot scalpel—elegant, precise, and lethal.
The Planet had been conquered.
The banners of the Emperor's Children were planted atop every xenos spire, the purple war-flags snapping in the alien wind, proclaiming another great victory for the Imperium.
Fulgrim, the perfect Primarch who had just fulfilled his promise of "conquest in one month," was now leading his Phoenix Guard and high-ranking officers into the final stronghold of the Laer—the massive temple located at the center of the Planet.
However, as the footage entered the interior of the temple, that suffocating sense of brilliance began to turn foul.
This was no ordinary xenos architecture.
It was a riot of the senses, a maddening assault on normal sanity.
Profane murals were painted on the walls, dizzying and nauseating, yet strangely possessing a certain aesthetic beauty.
The colors were so vibrant they almost seemed to drip, and the lines were twisted and entangled, forming countless limbs entwined in both agony and ecstasy.
The air was thick with the scent of heavy spices, blood, and an indescribable, dizzying sweetness.
There were corpses everywhere.
But these were not just corpses resulting from war.
Many were the results of self-sacrifice by the Laer for some frenzied ritual, or sudden deaths following debauchery.
"This place... isn't right."
In reality, Dorn frowned; his rigorous senses instinctively rejected this chaos.
"This architectural structure is illogical. And these decorations... they are a meaningless accumulation of sensory input; this is chaos."
"It is quite disgusting."
Russ spat, a look of disdain on his face, "A rotten perfume scent that only a sissy would like, worse than the smell of Banshee guts fermented for three years on Fenris."
But on the screen, the Emperor's Children of that time did not show the rejection they should have.
On the contrary, they seemed... fascinated by this bizarre sight.
Although they were still speaking of "purging the xenos" and "for the Emperor," their eyes involuntarily lingered on those profane artworks. Their gaze was not one of scrutinizing an enemy, but of appreciating some avant-garde art.
"This is... a unique aesthetic."
On the screen, Eidolon was evaluating a sculpture made of bone and viscera, his voice carrying a hint of bewildered admiration.
"Though barbaric, one must admit that the use of symmetry and color... is bold. This is a kind of... extreme that we have never seen before."
Finally, Fulgrim arrived at the innermost depths of the temple.
There, upon a circular altar, hovered a sword.
It was not a biological weapon of the Laer.
It looked too exquisite, too... "human," perhaps even more perfect than any human creation.
It was a silver longsword.
The blade was slender and elegant, shimmering with a cold light like moonlight.
A large, deep purple gemstone was embedded in the hilt; inside the gem, liquid seemed to flow, and it was as if an eye was blinking, emitting an alluring glow.
It was breathtakingly beautiful.
It hung there alone, surrounded by piles of corpses and filth, which only served to highlight its purity and nobility.
Like a peerless flower growing out of the sludge.
"Oh..."
In the Throne Room of reality, many warriors of the Emperor's Children let out a heartfelt gasp of admiration.
As people who pursued beauty, they were instinctively drawn to this "work of art."
"That is a fine sword."
As a sword-obsessive, Lucius's eyes went straight immediately.
He stared fixedly at the edge of the sword on the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"That sense of balance... I can feel it even through the screen. That is a work of art born for slaughter."
"That is the best sword in the World! Better than my own sword!"
Ferrus also nodded; as a blacksmith, he gave a high evaluation from a craftsmanship perspective.
"I don't know what material it is, but the forging process is impeccable."
"Fulgrim deserves such a weapon. Only someone like him, who pursues perfection, is worthy of using this sword."
"Look! Father is picking it up!"
A Captain pointed at the screen excitedly, his face beaming with pride, "That is the conqueror's reward! That is the symbol of perfection!"
In the footage, Fulgrim slowly walked onto the altar.
The silver light of the sword was reflected in his eyes; that gaze... was not just appreciation, but a kind of intoxication as if seeing a soulmate, a greedy desire for possession.
He reached out his hand.
The hand, clad in a purple-and-gold master-crafted gauntlet, gripped the hilt.
"Vwoom—"
A clear, ringing hum of the sword came through the screen. The sound was extremely pleasant, like a beautiful soprano aria, instantly penetrating everyone's eardrums and leaving them feeling a wave of tingling numbness.
In that instant, Fulgrim brandished the longsword.
The silver light sliced through the air, leaving behind a purple afterimage.
Too perfect.
Man and sword seemed to merge into one at this moment.
"This is true power!"
The Fulgrim on the screen laughed loudly, his laughter filled with the heroic spirit of a conqueror and an indescribable ecstasy.
"This sword shall sever the heads of all enemies who dare to stand against the Imperial Truth! This is a perfect victory!"
"For Fulgrim! For the Emperor's Children!"
The Astartes around him cheered in unison, raising their weapons high, feeling heartfelt joy and pride for their Primarch obtaining a divine weapon.
To them, this sword was the best reward for their perfect campaign, the physical manifestation of the Legion's glory.
In the hall of reality, this emotion was also infectious.
"That was indeed a glorious moment."
Although Tarvitz felt uncomfortable with the temple's environment, seeing the Primarch so high-spirited brought a warm current to his heart.
"We conquered an unconquerable enemy; we stood at the summit. The sword in the Primarch's hand symbolizes our invincible strength."
"A sword worthy of a Phoenix."
Even Guilliman commented objectively.
"While I do not care for that xenos-style decoration, as a weapon, it is indeed impeccable. It suits Fulgrim's fighting style well."
However.
Amidst the cheers and nostalgia filling the room, one person was cold all over.
That was the real Fulgrim himself in reality.
He sat in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly that his nails almost sank into the metal.
His face was as pale as paper, and his purple eyes were filled with an unprecedented fear and remorse.
Because only he knew.
Only he had heard it.
At the very moment his screen-self gripped the hilt, that voice... that sweet and malicious voice that had ruined his life, rang out in his mind.
Not in the screen, but in his memory, in the echo of that moment.
["Finally... I have been waiting for you, my perfect... host."]
That was no trophy.
Those were shackles.
That was the contract for the sale of his soul.
Fulgrim looked at his smug self on the screen, who thought he had conquered everything, and felt an urge to vomit well up in his heart.
"That's... that's a trap!!"
Fulgrim screamed frantically in his heart, wanting to rush in and knock the sword out of that fool's hand, "Don't touch it! That's a demon! That's the excrement of Slaanesh! That's..."
But he could do nothing.
He could only watch helplessly as his screen-self fondled the sword with adoration and hung it at his waist—he even unbuckled the "fireblade" that his brother Ferrus had personally forged for him to make room for it.
This detail was like a sharp knife, piercing the eyes of the real Ferrus.
Ferrus's originally smiling face froze.
He looked at the neglected "fireblade" at Fulgrim's waist; it was the witness of their brotherhood, the crystallization of their sweat shed beside the forge.
"You... replaced my sword?"
Ferrus's voice was somewhat dry; although he tried to act as if he didn't care, the trace of loss in his tone could not be hidden.
"For... a xenos trophy? A fancy-looking... toothpick?"
"No... Ferrus, let me explain..."
Fulgrim wanted to speak in a panic, his eyes full of pleading.
But Ferrus swayed his hand, forcefully suppressing the displeasure in his heart.
"It's fine. That sword is indeed sharper and more beautiful."
Ferrus was a pragmatist and a magnanimous brother; he tried to be understanding, "If it helps you kill enemies better, then use it. As long as it brings you victory."
But these words of tolerance only made Fulgrim more miserable.
The Astartes in the hall were still marveling at the sword's exquisiteness, still feeling glory for that perfect victory.
Only a few perceptive individuals, like Magnus and the Khan, stared at the purple gemstone on the hilt, feeling a strong sense of unease.
"That is not a gemstone."
Magnus's single eye flickered with psychic light as he whispered to himself, his tone grave.
"Something... is locked inside. It is... alive. It is breathing."
The screen image froze at the moment Fulgrim held the silver sword high, accepting the cheers of ten thousand people.
That was the ultimate glory.
And the ultimate tragedy.
Just as the ancient proverb says:
When the proudest man thinks he has grasped the key to the altar, he has actually only grasped the handle to the gates of hell.
And he, with his own hands, turned it.