"Once Saturnian technology is more mature, I want to gift the related technology to all brother Legions."
Vulkan supported the back of his head, his proud tone full of generosity as he shared his plan with Blazkowicz: "Saturn is powerful. It can strengthen the Legion's armaments and reduce casualties in the Great Crusade."
"I lack Ferrus's brilliant talent, Guilliman's political acumen, or your immense power."
His deep voice was calm and peaceful. While praising his brothers, he remained extremely humble about himself.
"I am only interested in technology and forging. Using my strengths to benefit my brothers and the Legion is the only contribution I can make."
A smile always lingered on Vulkan's face, his gaze never leaving the Saturnian technology overview. His words were filled with pride and openness.
"Such generosity and high-mindedness," Blazkowicz placed a hand on his breastplate and bowed slightly to Vulkan, "I am not your equal."
Regarding the sharing of technology, Blazkowicz had always been extremely conservative, with an attitude so cautious it bordered on stubbornness.
It wasn't that he was being overly protective of his family's secrets; rather, scientific technology in contemporary human society was showing a tendency toward religious dogmatism.
The Mechanicum of Mars was the largest religious cult leader of all.
With the Four Powers entrenched in the Warp, the religiousization of science and technology posed massive hidden dangers that would inevitably erupt one day.
To prevent further perils from the Warp, the Emperor had issued a strict private decree: Numen technology must be preserved and could not be shared lightly.
If the Webway Project succeeded without issue, the Mechanicum entrenched on Mars would be the next target for the Imperium of Man to purge!
Sharing Numen technology on a large scale at this stage was equivalent to aiding the enemy.
Therefore, Numen maintained unreasonably harsh scrutiny over technological circulation; while reclaiming technologies, it strictly prohibited them from spreading outward.
If one day humanity freed itself from the Warp and returned to rationality and enlightenment, technological exchange would naturally reopen again.
At this stage, the time was not right. The flames of war were raging not only in the Great Crusade, but internal struggles also existed within the Imperium.
"You and I are different." Vulkan hurriedly stepped forward to steady Blazkowicz, his tone somewhat stiff.
He had just realized that the brother standing beside him was the greatest holder of Old Night technology.
Under the binding of the Pleiades Accords, Mars unilaterally provided technology to the Numen Pleiades, almost hollowing out its own foundation.
The Imperium had also provided much forbidden technology; the Numen Pleiades backed up the vast majority of the human race's technical data.
Vulkan leaned over close to Blazkowicz's ear, pointing secretly and quietly toward the tech-priests in the distance: "I know. The Olympus Accords are an expedient measure, and Father will reckon with Mars sooner or later."
Hearing this whispered remark, a strange look flashed in Blazkowicz's eyes, and he nodded in silence.
He hadn't expected that the usually peaceful Vulkan would hold such insights regarding the Imperium and the Mechanicum.
"I am your blood brother." Vulkan smiled and shook his head. "My temperament lacks the sharpness of you others, but I also possess the wisdom of a Primarch."
His giant palm patted Blazkowicz's back, and he redirected his gaze back to the battlefield.
Blazkowicz nodded in deep agreement, ending the conversation there. The tacit understanding between brothers left everything unsaid.
The kindness and mercy of the Lord of Drakes had never been tainted by ignorance.
On matters of great right and wrong, Vulkan always drew a clear line. Deep in his heart, there was a scale weighing everything he saw and heard.
For instance, regarding the silicon-based life forms of the Eighth Planet: once the war ended, the Lord of Drakes's mercy would take the form of a descending cyclone torpedo.
His mercy and kindness belonged exclusively to humanity.
"My Lords."
As the two of them leaned over to observe the battlefield and waited for an opening to strike, a Legion warrior brought a report: "The Blood Tears has appeared at the edge of the system!"
The Blood Tears, a Gloriana-class battleship of the Blood Angels Legion, was Sanguinius's flagship.
Blazkowicz and Vulkan exchanged a glance, both of their eyes filled with joy.
"Nassir Cyrene!"
They spoke the name in unison.
The lost brother had been found by Sanguinius. Aboard the Blood Tears, he had arrived at J-11 at the earliest opportunity to rendezvous with his many brothers currently at war.
"Another son of the Emperor returns from the void!"
Human vox-channels echoed with a bard's impassioned praise, unable to mask the sound of weeping as they chanted the return of the Primarch: "He returns from the void, appearing like the morning star in the dark night, dispelling the final darkness before the dawn."
The war was finally coming to an end!
Countless people felt this thought well up in their hearts, shedding tears of joy for the impending victory.
The Space Wolves had smashed the Randan logistics system; the Blood Angels and the 19th Legion had severed the supply lines; the Ultramarines and Imperial Fists were holding the line.
On the frontal battlefield, three alien leaders had been slain by the Warmaster.
Now, another Primarch had returned, and humanity was ramping up its stake in the war once more.
Humanity was Destiny itself!
Just as the Imperial Truth expounded: human stewardship of the galaxy was an undeniable mandate, and no race could defy it.
The Primarch's return at the climax of the war was enough to prove that destiny lay with humanity, and the doom of the alien empire was sealed.
Human morale skyrocketed; mortals and Space Stars alike felt their hearts surge, their spiritual fatigue instantly swept away, leaving in their eyes only a desperate thirst for victory.
On the bridge of the Blood Tears, Cyrene stood by the observation port, witnessing the magnificent battlefield outside.
At this very moment, even as a Primarch, panic stirred within his heart.
Coming from a desolate, nomadic world straight into the life-and-death battlefield of an interstellar civilization, he had been exposed to too much along the way, constantly shocking a Primarch's heart.
The various weapons and energy rays flashing outside reflected off his beast-skin clothing, making him look utterly out of place.
"My Lord, this is J-11. We have arrived at the primary battlefield."
The Sanguinary Guard stood behind the Primarch, his captain's attitude humble as he pointed toward the golden, blackstone fortress on the dark side of the Ninth Planet: "The Emperor Himself sits in command."
He then ticked off the planets one by one: "Your glorious brothers are fighting a frontal decisive battle against the Randan Lords."
"The Lion, El'Jonson; the Iron Hand, Ferrus Manus; the Lord of Drakes, Vulkan; the Warmaster, Blazkowicz Nowick."
The Sanguinary Guard knelt on one knee toward the void, reverence on his handsome face as he chanted the names one by one like an epic poem.
"And you." The Guard captain lowered his head to the Primarch: "The Emperor's son who returned from the void, the Primarch of the 11th Legion—Nassir Cyrene."
"Your brothers and your Legion are waiting for you."
"Rise." Cyrene's voice was clean and clear, raising a hand to bid his brother's son stand.
He gazed out at the battlefield, his heart remaining unsettled for a long time, stirred with ripples of emotion.
As the warship traversed the Warp, Cyrene had absorbed a wealth of knowledge concerning the Imperium of Man, and he learned where he came from.
The Emperor, the Primarchs, his blood brothers, the magnificent Great Crusade.
Created by the Master of Mankind, he was His blood-descendant, born with the extraordinary mission to purge the aliens and reclaim humanity!
Wearing a sheep-skull mask, Cyrene looked down at the Blood Angels, his crisp voice asking: "Am I to go to war now?"
The Guard captain looked up at the Primarch, answering earnestly: "Before your return, the 11th Legion was deployed to the Eighth Planet, tasked with assisting the Salamanders Legion."
"Normally speaking, your return would be marked by a ceremony proclaiming your return to the citizens of the Imperium."
"But... right now, the Imperium is at war."
"Red tape." Cyrene shook his head indifferently, turning to the helmsman: "Take me to see the Legion."
"Following the Primarch's command."
The Blood Tears began to turn, the golden warship approaching the Eighth Planet's spaceport amid the blessings and awe of friendly forces.
Having completed their escort mission, Cyrene declined the Sanguinary Guard's honor guard, urging them to quickly rejoin their Legion.
Having witnessed the intensity of the war, he finally understood Sanguinius's generosity.
A Gloriana-class battleship was often a decisive force in warfare, capable of turning the tide of battle.
The Archangel had risked a great deal by using his flagship to escort him.
Now that the escort mission was complete, he urged the Blood Tears to leave quickly to avoid any accidents for his brother in deep space.
Anxious to return to their Legion, the Sanguinary Guard naturally did not refuse. The Blood Tears docked at the spaceport for a brief resupply before hurriedly departing J-11.
Riding a high-speed descent shuttle, Cyrene could easily see the Iron Legions assembled outside the command hall.
They stood in neat formations, sharing an inexplicable resonance with him.
The Space Marines, named after the Astartes, were his genetic progeny inheriting his bloodline, and the absolute core mainstays of the Great Crusade.
"Are you all scared out of your wits?" He turned around, his tone losing its severity and stiffness, carrying a hint of teasing: "The ancestors always said human glory would endure forever in the galaxy. Now that you've seen it, your legs are shaking."
The warriors who had followed him across the wasteland worlds stood rigid at that moment, their calves trembling.
No matter how fierce they were, they were ultimately mortals, shocked into a daze by the massive impact, forgetting even how to speak.
"W-we cannot comprehend it." The tribal chief warrior stepped out, his rough voice stuttering: "All of this happened too fast. It feels like a dream."
His words struck a chord; hundreds of men, women, and children nodded repeatedly, and some collapsed to the ground.
"It's fine." Cyrene held his head high, raising the sheep-skull staff in his hand: "I will lead you all forward, to know this universe anew."