Fulgrim buried his hands deep in his hair.
He looked at Tarvitz, who had died gloriously resisting his future self.
"He is a true Emperor's Child."
Fulgrim's voice was no longer the elegant, poetic tone, but a broken rasp."
"He had no ornate swordsmanship, no Honor Guard that was originally mine. But he did what even I failed to do—he protected his soul when facing absolute darkness."
Fulgrim raised his head and looked at the real Tarvitz, his eyes filled with a father's love and a Primarch's shame.
"My son... you won. You not only won the war, you won against the corrupted me."
On the other side, Rogal Dorn's gaze was fixed firmly on the star map.
As the Imperial Praetorian and Defender of Terra, his mind was racing, calculating the strategic value gained by three months of resistance.
"Unbelievable."
Dorn said in a deep voice.
"From a tactical perspective, Horus's plan was a perfect Blitzkrieg."
"Had he resolved Istvaan III within two days, his fleet would have maintained full strength and extremely high morale, allowing them to jump directly to Terra."
"At that time, we would have been completely unprepared."
"However, Tarvitz and Loken, using the lives of tens of thousands of men, forcefully dragged Horus's main force for three months."
"His Legions developed psychological fissures due to the slaughter of their brothers. More importantly, this bought Terra time to react."
"These three months were the lifeline of the Imperium."
However, this praise was quickly replaced by a colder atmosphere.
This was because the screen displayed the Imperium's response to the rebellion—the Retribution Fleet.
The Iron Hands, led by Ferrus Manus, served as the vanguard, followed closely by Vulkan's Salamanders and Corax's Raven Guard.
This appeared to be an unstoppable force.
Three loyal Legions, enough to crush any rebellion.
But.
Corax suddenly stepped out of the shadows, his completely black eyes fixed on the "Second Wave of Support Troops" marked on the star map.
"Something is wrong."
The The Master of the Ravens's voice was like ice scraping against steel. "Ferrus, Vulkan, and I. Our three Legions are indeed powerful, but none of us specialize in prolonged offensives on large-scale frontal battlefields. The Salamanders are good at close-quarters fighting, the Ravens at rapid assault, and the Iron Hands at mechanized advance."
"If Horus has already fortified a stronghold on Istvaan V, this will be a hard fight."
"We only have three Legions."
Vulkan also frowned, looking at the "friendly forces" markers rushing in from all directions on the star map. "It's not enough. Facing Horus's four Legions, we don't have an absolute advantage in troop strength."
"Therefore, Dorn ordered the assembly of more Legions."
Lion interrupted coldly, his sharp, leonine eyes scanning the markers. "Iron Warriors, Night Lords, Word Bearers."
The air in the hall instantly solidified.
These four names felt like four cold daggers plunged into everyone's hearts.
If it were before, this would have been incredibly reassuring support.
This was the strength of seven full Legions, half the might of the Imperium, enough to crush Horus into dust.
But after watching the "future" for so many days, everyone present knew the true nature of these three Legions.
Although Alpha's loyalty hasn't been revealed yet, no one knows what he's thinking, and it's impossible to truly trust him.
"This is a slaughter."
Ferrus watched his future self, who was preparing to charge headlong into the encirclement on the screen, clenching his Iron Hands tightly, producing a grating metallic screech.
"The future me... is too impulsive."
Ferrus gritted his teeth.
"Driven by the rage of Fulgrim's betrayal, I lost my reason. I just wanted to rush down and cut off his head. I failed completely to verify the loyalty of the 'reinforcements' behind me."
"What if..."
Ferrus turned his head and looked at Perturabo and Lorgar, who were sitting nearby in the present.
"What if they aren't here to support us?"
"What if they have been colluding with Horus all along?"
Horus slumped back in his chair and let out a chilling, low laugh.
"This is tactics."
Horus's voice was deep. "Ferrus, my brother. You are the finest spear. But a spear can only strike forward."
"If I were the Commander... I would let you charge in, making you believe you had a solid shield (Iron Warriors) and powerful backup (Word Bearers) at your back."
"Then, when you are locked in battle with my main force and exhausted..."
"I would turn those shields into hammers to smash your spine."
These words sent a chill down the spines of all the loyalist Primarchs.
This was a massive, carefully woven Pocket Formation.
"They will die."
Sanguinius's voice trembled, his eyes, which could foresee the future, filled with sorrow. "Ferrus, Vulkan, Corax... and the tens of thousands of warriors under their command."
"They will be caught in the middle."
"In front, Horus's main force; behind, the treacherous 'reinforcements'."
"This will not be a battle."
Sanguinius closed his eyes. "This is a great slaughter known as the Drop Site Massacre."
Inside the hall, an air of despair spread.
They looked at the fleets gathering on the screen, at the loyal warriors about to rush to their deaths, and their hearts were filled with powerlessness.
Were the three months Tarvitz and Loken fought desperately to gain only meant to make more loyalists jump into a bigger pit of fire?
"No."
Ferrus suddenly stood up.
"At least now we know."
His eyes burned with fury—fury against the traitors, and a declaration of war against fate.
"If that day truly comes... if I must die on Istvaan V."
Ferrus looked at Fulgrim, then at Perturabo.
"I will ensure that my death breaks your teeth."
The gaze dropped from the elevated Primarch Thrones to the Astartes Phalanxes standing solemnly on both sides of the hall.
The atmosphere here was more oppressive and fractured than among the Primarchs.
With the revelation of the truth about Istvaan III, the Legionary warriors who had once fought side-by-side like brothers were now separated by an invisible wall.
This sense of division was particularly evident in the ranks of the Death Guard and the World Eaters.
Most of those standing in the front row were **Terran-born** veterans.
Most of them were warriors who had followed the Emperor since the Unification Wars; their armor was covered in scars from the old era, and their loyalty pointed directly to the Imperial Palace on Terra.
At this moment, they looked at their brothers being melted by Poison Gas on the screen, their eyes filled with grief and indignation.
Those standing in the back row were *Barbarus-born or Nuceria-born recruits.
They did not have such deep feelings for the Emperor; they only recognized their own Primarch.
"Is this the future we must face?"
A Terran-born Death Guard veteran quietly questioned his Barbarus-born brother beside him. "For the resentment of My Lord Mortarion, will you turn your guns on those who once saved us?"
The Barbarus-born warrior fell silent, avoiding the veteran's gaze, his fingers nervously rubbing his Bolter.
Among the World Eaters, the atmosphere was even more explosive.
Several Terran-born "War Hounds" veterans were now staring intensely at the Nuceria-born warriors who had received the Butcher's Nails implants.
"Look at the screen! Look at Captain Ehrlen!"
A veteran roared, "That is who we are! That is the War Hounds! And you... you lunatics who ripped out your brains to please the Primarch, what have you turned the Legion into?"
"We just wanted to be stronger..." a warrior with the Nails implant attempted to retort, but lacked conviction.
"Stronger? Stronger like Beasts?"
The veteran spat. "And then be purged like trash? Is that the glory you seek?"
However, the most attention was still focused on the Emperor's Children's formation.
As the absolute core of this event, and the Legion with the highest number of loyalist Commanders, they were currently the focus of the entire hall.
Tarvitz stood at the very front.
At this time, he was not yet the hero commanding thousands of troops in the ruins, but merely an ordinary Captain.
But the air around him seemed to have changed.
The other Emperor's Children—the Captains who usually pursued perfection, artistry, and even somewhat looked down upon Tarvitz's "simple" demeanor—now bowed their noble heads.
Lucius, the Legion's Swordsman, had a spectacular expression on his face at this moment.
Jealousy?
Of course there was.
He couldn't stand that Tarvitz, this usually unremarkable fellow, had become the hero who saved the situation.
But more than that, there was a deep, bone-chilling shame.
He watched Tarvitz on the screen, who, for the sake of brotherhood and loyalty, piloted a thunderhawk alone toward the surface.
And he himself was not shown there; he must have been one of the traitors.
Compared to Tarvitz, his flashy swordsmanship and self-important glory seemed ridiculous, like a Joker's trick.
Just then, a Captain from the Blood Angels walked over.
That was Raldoron.
This warrior of the First Legion, also renowned for nobility and perfection, solemnly performed the Aquila Sign towards Tarvitz.
"Captain Tarvitz."
Raldoron's voice echoed through the hall. "Before, I might have thought you Emperor's Children cared too much about outward splendor. But today, I retract my prejudice."
"You, and Loken, and those brothers who fought to the end on Istvaan III... you demonstrated the most fundamental 'perfection' of an Astartes."
"That is neither the gold trim on the armor nor the elegance of swordsmanship."
"That is the purity of the soul."
Following him, Sigismund also approached.
This most aggressive and zealous warrior in the entire galaxy now had a trace of respect in his eyes.
"You held the line."
Sigismund's words were still brief. "Facing four Legions, facing betrayal, facing hopelessness. You held the position. You are more like an Imperial Fist than anyone else."
Facing the praise from the most elite warriors of various Legions, and the gazes of admiration or shame cast upon him.
Tarvitz showed neither ecstasy nor pride.
He simply stood there calmly, posture straight, just as he had stood in the ruins of Istvaan III.
He turned his head and looked at his Emperor's Children brothers behind him, whose expressions were complex—some still loyal, some who might waver in the future.
Finally, he looked up at Primarch Fulgrim on the high platform.
"I didn't do anything special."
Tarvitz's voice was steady and neither subservient nor arrogant, reaching every corner of the hall.
"I merely did what an Astartes ought to do."
He slowly raised the Bolter in his hand and placed it against his chest, over his heart.
"Many people say that the Emperor's Children pursue perfection because we are vain."
"But in that moment, in the fires of Istvaan, we proved—"
Tarvitz's gaze became incredibly resolute, as if piercing through time and meeting the eyes of his dying future self.
"When all the ornamentation is stripped away, when all the praise fades, when even our Father abandons us..."
"We still remember the meaning of this name."
"The Emperor's Children."
Tarvitz heavily struck his breastplate, producing a dull, loud thud.
"We are worthy of this name."
"We are the Emperor's Children. Even if we die, we will die charging forward, not kneeling at the traitors' feet."