Within the light barrier, eight Primarchs strode down the fortress's main avenue at a measured pace.
Silence hung over the group; the atmosphere for a time was stiflingly oppressive.
Now and then, the weapon backpack atop Ferrus's armor spat beams of light, purging remaining Rangdan pockets of resistance. Silver flames cascaded down periodically as Naxiel Selene, walking on the outermost flank, raised his staff to incinerate alien combatants.
Save for certain extreme alien breeds, ordinary Rangdan elites or slave organisms suffered severe mental breakdowns at the mere sight of the Primarchs from afar.
"Must he truly die?"
The blue giant spoke. Guilliman kept his voice as low as possible, sounding friendly and radiating a warm, welcoming presence.
The "he" in the Lord of Macragge's mouth was the one repudiated by the Emperor—their brother of blood and lineage who had betrayed humanity.
"Defeat him, hand him over to the Master of Mankind for trial, and let him seek redemption through lifelong imprisonment," Guilliman continued, casting a quick glance at Blazkowicz out of the corner of his eye. "We are all gathered here; capturing Solas is no difficult task."
"My foster—" The words caught in his throat, swallowed back just in time. Guilliman suddenly recalled Tarasha Euten's repeated admonitions never to bring up his adoptive parents in front of his brothers.
Noticing that his brothers' expressions remained unchanged, he promptly adjusted his phrasing: "A respected elder once told me that a sinner must bear the weight of his crimes, but must also be granted the opportunity to atone."
With that, Guilliman glanced left and right, observing the micro-expressions of his blood brothers.
As a Primarch raised by adoptive parents, Guilliman cherished emotional bonds. He wished to plead for a chance at life for his renegade brother, unwilling to watch him die before his very eyes. Even if imprisoned, he would at least remain alive. There would still be time in the future to seek the Master of Mankind's forgiveness and spend long centuries earning redemption.
Among the group, the others remained expressionless, their inner thoughts unreadable.
Vulkan's dark countenance stirred slightly; he met Guilliman's gaze with a subtle nod of agreement.
Selene, who was channeling flames to burn the aliens, shook his head, a clear look of disgust crossing his face.
"This is neither a game of childhood squabbles nor playing house."
Lion shook his head, his emerald eyes flashing with cold intent. The creaking sound of his tightening fists laid bare his fundamental stance: "Since entering this war, the First Legion has suffered over fifty percent casualties."
The Lion's voice was heavy, suppressing a raging fire in his chest: "Here and now, I could speak on behalf of the Legion and let bygones be bygones."
His words caused Blazkowicz and several others to raise their brows, looking at Lion in surprise. In their impression, the Firstborn, Lion El'Jonson, was never a generous or forgiving soul—a fact made blatantly clear by the operational style of the Dark Angels Legion that inherited his bloodline.
"HOWEVER!" As expected, Lion was far from finished. "The Legion's sacrifices were born of brotherhood; we can put the past behind us."
"Yet since the outbreak of the Second Rangdan War, who will grant forgiveness on behalf of the mortal soldiers who bled and died in this conflict?"
"Had he not supplied the Rangdan with Imperial intelligence, uncounted millions would still be alive today."
"Pah!" Lion spat a glob of phlegm onto the deck. "I do not even wish to utter his name!"
"Blazkowicz knows best," he gestured toward Blazkowicz. "His advanced telemetry systems know precisely how many mortals the Imperium lost in this war."
Everyone turned in unison to look at Blazkowicz, curious whether their brother would answer.
Lion was using words to indict Solas while simultaneously seeking a like-minded ally. Beyond a doubt, Blazkowicz was the most formidable supporter he could rally.
Yet Blazkowicz shook his head, stating a raw figure after clarifying his stance: "According to backend data models, the Imperium lost several trillion mortals in the J-11 star system alone."
"The ripple effects spanned the entire Imperium, with indirect population losses reaching tens of trillions, leaving half of Imperial territory severely devastated."
Blazkowicz's head shake signaled his refusal to take sides, but the figures he quoted were a cold, brutal reality.
The group came to an immediate halt. Their faces grew heavy, their lips parting without a word coming out. Even Lion, who had intended to rally an ally, froze; the astronomical figures left him momentarily stunned, having never anticipated that the mortal sacrifice had been so horrific.
Ferrus silently nodded his head, using his authority as Supreme Commander to corroborate the accuracy of the data Blazkowicz had provided.
Guilliman fell silent, his breathing growing rapid as a wave of fury surged within him. Muscles twitched across his radiant face, flushed bright red with anger. Being far removed from the core theater, he had never realized the Imperium's sacrifices were of such monumental scale.
"He ought to be hanged from a gallows, condemned for eternity, and left to rot in ignominy throughout Imperial records."
The cultured, diplomatic Lord of Macragge was beside himself with rage, his jaw muscles grinding tightly: "To die in the Imperium's oblivion is a mercy from the Emperor!"
Guilliman knew that sacrifice was the natural baseline of war, but it could not be painted with a broad brush. Had the Rangdan lacked precise Imperial intelligence, countless casualties could have been averted.
Lion no longer had any heart to vie for leadership of the conversation; his right hand drifted to the hilt at his waist, gripping it firmly.
Some readied their blades; others remained shrouded in silence.
Ferrus rubbed the hilt of Forgebreaker with his iron hands, his expression calm while a whirlpool of complex emotions churned in his eyes. In his view, Solas was an utter contradiction. The renegade brother had betrayed Imperial intelligence, leaving the Imperial Navy shackled at every turn. Yet he had subsequently betrayed Rangdan intelligence, rendering the aliens' insidious tricks against the Imperium largely ineffective.
In private, no one could truly say which side he belonged to. Merging merit and sin together, the person at the heart of the vortex possessed a complexity that defied simple scrutiny.
"Sheathe your swords."
Russ, who had been silent, finally spoke. He stared straight ahead, the Spear of Dionysus resting horizontally across the back of his neck, both arms draped over its shaft. The Wolf King seemed stripped of a degree of his wild ferocity; his face was calm, his voice marked by a profound composure.
The others turned to look; the brothers had never witnessed such a demeanor from Russ.
Russ tilted his head toward Lion, his gaze following his brother's lowered arm down to the thick hand gripping the hilt of the dimensional blade.
"Are you prepared?" he asked softly, his words carrying a weight of deep philosophical gravity.
The tendons on the back of Lion's hand bulged, yet his proud head bowed slightly, his emerald eyes clouded with a dim haze. Russ's question was razor-sharp, stabbing into the softest sanctuary of the Lion's heart. He was the Emperor's Firstborn, Master of the Dark Angels, the irresistible edge wielded by the Master of Mankind, and the most ruthless exterminator of alien life. Yet no matter how profound the regret, he needed an iron heart right now to execute a brother of his own bloodline.
Lion turned to meet Russ's eyes. Toward this brother, he harbored a natural, rough-edged friction.
"What do you think?" A blade of light ignited, hatred churning within the Lion's eyes: "In the First Rangdan War, the First Legion was nearly wiped out in its entirety."
"Speaking for myself, I cannot tolerate shameful betrayal!"
A low growl fell, followed by an immediate silence as a peculiar emotion radiated outward.
The Primarchs were shaken to discover their inner feelings in complete disarray between their brother's calm query and his angry growl. Fists clenched tight enough to bleed, teeth gritted in burning fury—their hearts were flooded with disgust, and... even more pity. It was precisely this regret and pity stemming from shared blood that prevented the Primarchs from resolving to kill their brother.
"Shall I do it?"
Someone spoke up, clad in gleaming golden armor. Raising his massive chainsword, he looked at his brothers with a face devoid of grief or joy.
Dorn's expression was stern, his golden eyes clear of hesitation: "If he is deemed an enemy, I will not waste pity. Cold steel will settle all debts."
He looked at Russ as he spoke, seeking an answer from his brother. In Dorn's eyes, he possessed the resolve to strike, Blazkowicz's stance remained unstated, Lion was gritting his teeth, and the returned brother, Selene, was raring to move. Meanwhile, the others harbored a hesitant weakness within their hearts.
The pivotal figure was Russ, whose entire aura had undergone a dramatic shift. The Father of Wolves held the golden spear; clearly, he had come bearing the Emperor's secret decree.
Russ grasped the meaning behind Dorn's gaze. Lowering his arms from the shaft, he brought the Spear of Dionysus down into his grip: "He commanded me to kill him."
His tone was calm to the absolute extreme, yet it whistled with a frost cold enough to freeze the soul.
The Master of Mankind commanded his son to kill his brother.
A father ordering the execution of his child!
Yet the Emperor was not merely a father; he was the Master of Mankind. Nor was Solas simply a son; he was an arch-traitor against all reason. Between the two lay a tangled web of intertwined identities.
Scanning the golden spear inch by inch, Russ's face remained composed, his voice steady as ever, as though stating a matter of complete indifference to himself: "I have come, and I will execute his order as the Master of Mankind's executioner."
Russ's words set the definitive tone for the entire affair.
Dorn lowered his chainsword, nodding in silence. After a heavy sigh, he built a wall of silence to shield his emotions. The others spoke no more; the Emperor had made his disposition, and it admitted no questioning.
"Are you prepared?" Blazkowicz looked at Russ, reaching out a hand toward the Spear of Dionysus: "Let me do it. Solas will feel no pain."
"It matters not," Russ smiled and shook his head in refusal: "Whether I am prepared or unprepared has never been mine to decide."
He tightened his grip on the Spear of Dionysus, swearing his loyalty in a heavy voice: "I am the executor of the Emperor's will."
Seeing Russ's unyielding resolve, Blazkowicz lowered his arm, and the others offered no further protest.
"Better that I do it," a dark shadow flashed, and Lion closed the distance in an instant. Russ felt a sudden lightness in his hands as the Spear of Dionysus found itself within the Lion's palm.
"The old debt of Twisted-Horn Mors—I shall claim it back in full today!"