On Fenris.
"You're saying Lemont is still alive. He actually escaped from that damned traitor."
Bjorn the Fell-Handed had just woken up with the full intention of dealing out some disciplinary violence to the cubs. The moment he heard this news, he stopped mid-swing.
As the only member of the Varagyr who had been left behind -- and now learning there was still a surviving brother out there -- Bjorn immediately charged toward the landing site.
Ten thousand years. He had not felt genuine anticipation in a very long time.
And then...
......
"Long time no see, little Bjorn. Who could have imagined that the small cub back then would become the oldest warrior of all."
Bjorn stared at the Contemptor Dreadnought being carried on Volvok's shoulders, reduced to something roughly resembling a man-shaped piece of rubble, its fresh wounds still carrying a faint trace of Nurgle's stench.
The electronic lenses in Bjorn's eyes flashed with an unusual red light. He was a fraction away from having his soul leave his body entirely and distributing one individual beating to every single Space Wolf cub present.
It should be noted: Bjorn is no longer a simple, sacred Ironclad Dreadnought. (GW wrote this into established canon -- Bjorn is currently in a rather peculiar state.)
"Let's discuss it all when we get inside. You can't blame them."
Lemont spoke immediately to forestall what was coming.
Then:
"A ten-thousand-year-old Ancient. This is a ten-thousand-year-old Ancient. What have you people done to him? Why has he been allowed to sustain damage like this? A relic of this age should be preserved with absolute care."
A group of red-robed Iron Priests began unleashing a torrent of verbal abuse in the direction of the Space Wolf cubs, several of them so agitated they were actively dripping servo-fluid as they delivered their tirade.
This was a rare enough occurrence -- the Space Wolves being collectively lectured at length by a group of Iron Priests -- that the cubs said nothing in response. Word of a ten-thousand-year-old Dreadnought in need of repair had reached them, and these Iron Priests had come at speed with a Senior Magos leading them, their excitement barely contained.
But when they actually looked at the Dreadnought, their expressions collapsed.
The cubs had done their best to collect as many scattered components as possible. But it had still been enough to make every Iron Priest present go blank with horror. They did not particularly care about whoever was inside -- what they cared about was the Dreadnought chassis itself.
"Can you repair it?"
The Space Wolf cubs kept their mouths shut, watching the Iron Priests' tirade continue. Fortunately, these particular Iron Priests were the Space Wolves' own dedicated attachments -- a first-founding Chapter still carried enough standing for that. Most of them had been working with the Space Wolf cubs long enough that they were considerably less mechanically detached than a standard Tech-Priest. But facing damage of this severity, there was no good answer to give.
"Repair? How? Contemptor Dreadnoughts are no longer in production. The specific chassis components don't exist. And then there's the matter of...
"Too fragmented.
"The Biologis who placed him in there -- whoever it was -- was a genius. We would not dare touch their work. Our hands are not steady enough."
For once the lead Iron Priest spoke in plain language instead of technical binary or riddle-speech. Their long working relationship with the Space Wolves had smoothed those habits somewhat. And as for the Biologis who had apparently placed this man's remains into a Dreadnought at this level of degradation -- their respect for that individual was genuine.
Reduced to this degree of ruin and still not burned. Still successfully interred. By their honest assessment, no Biologis they had ever encountered could have managed it. The more extreme the case, the more careful they were about touching anything.
Because -- God Omnissiah -- there was only a brain, eyes, a heart, a spine, and a Gene-seed left in there. And the Gene-seed was what held the remaining fragment together.
While the Space Wolves still operated their own Contemptor Dreadnoughts, swapping the sarcophagus was simply not possible. The genuine fear was that touching the life support systems at all would cause what remained to simply come apart. If that happened, none of the people responsible for this outcome would be leaving Fenris alive.
"Apothecary Beta was a great Biologis."
Lemont had already been briefed on the details, and said it quietly now.
"We will do what we can to restore enough function for mobility. Combat is no longer a possibility."
"Thank you..."
The Space Wolves looked at the shattered Contemptor, and while none of them wanted to acknowledge it -- everyone present already understood. This Dreadnought was going to be a relic now. In every practical sense.
---o---
Clang. Clang. Clang.
But before the cubs and the Iron Priests could finish sorting through the details, the assembly bell rang again.
In the great hall, everyone wore expressions of formal solemnity.
The group of cubs who everyone would have normally assumed should be hanging upside down receiving punishment were instead kneeling on the floor.
The two Astra Militarum regimental colonels and their Commissars who had returned alongside them had been invited to sit in the place of honor, in the most prominent seats at the center of the gathering, as honored guests of the Chapter watching the assembled Space Wolves.
The space before them was covered with fine drink -- though this was specially prepared for mortal guests, not the type allocated to the cubs. The Space Wolves had always enjoyed raising a cup with valiant baseline humans, and they always had something suitable ready for the occasion.
But the atmosphere today was not celebratory.
Three cloaks in very poor condition hung at the center of the Fang's great hall. The cubs who had returned alongside the Ancients looked up at those three banners, and in their eyes sat a small, unmistakable flicker of pride.
This confused the other Space Wolf cubs considerably. These people had not managed to protect the Ancient -- that was obvious from the fresh damage marks. How could they have the nerve to look proud? Under normal circumstances, shouldn't the entire group be assigned to a Penitent Crusade?
"The full account has been recorded through helmet documentation. I'm going to release it now. Certain portions have required editing. And everyone present -- take note -- this does not leave this room without authorization."
As he said this, Logan Grimnar's expression had its own involuntary muscle twitch.
When he had first watched the recording, he had felt his entire understanding of the universe fracture slightly. By Russ and the All-Father -- what was all of this? Was this still Warhammer 40K? Someone had relocated it somewhere else entirely.
And the thing that had made even Logan nearly break his composure -- or which had made the entire Chapter burst out laughing -- was the Dark Angels Dreadnought. This legend deserved the highest reverence. But the fact that he had not died at a traitor's hands, and had instead been blown into his sarcophagus by an Ordinatus cannon that the Lion had personally handed to Perturabo...
All right, everyone who watched that part laughed. It was objectively terrible. Hell humor at its finest. But that somehow didn't stop anyone from laughing.
However, considering what those obsessive Dark Angels would do, and given that even their own senior warriors didn't know that Dreadnought's identity, the Space Wolves had decided to keep that Dreadnought and his companion's presence quietly buried. No telling what those maniacs would do with the information. Their Chapter Master hadn't worried about those lunatics, but Logan preferred not to create more complications than necessary.
As for the remaining content: Bjorn and Logan had both been somewhat furious about the Dreadnought's condition. Taking that level of damage while shielding the cubs -- there was no good way to look at that.
But before the fury had time to fully develop, they had seen Daemon Primarch Mortarion appear on the recording.
At that point Logan thought: these people actually made it back. Two Astra Militarum regiments. An Astartes company. Plus a less-than-full-strength Chapter. By all rights, those numbers multiplied by one hundred still would not be enough to survive that field. And yet. Then came the footage that had made his blood run hot in a way he had not felt in a long time.
After ten thousand years -- a gene-son of the Emperor, black armor and a golden sword, one blow delivered, the daemon retreating, the dark presence shattered.
One-on-one. A Daemon Primarch banished.
So Logan had needed to decide what to do with the cubs. Most of the Chapter was assembled and present. He decided to hold a full session. They would release the footage publicly within the Chapter -- with specific edits.
The footage of those loyal-turned-traitor Chapters was removed entirely.
Shortly:
"Those figures are all Ancients. You people were fighting alongside -- actually, in a formation led by -- ancient Ancients of that era. Damn it, why wasn't I there!!!"
Just as he had predicted, the moment the four ancient Dreadnoughts appeared on the footage, the entire hall erupted.
The other Dreadnoughts were not Space Wolves lineage. But to fight alongside warriors like these -- that was glory of the kind you died happily to have experienced. The assembled cubs watched the group kneeling in the center of the hall with pure, tooth-aching envy.
But then.
They saw the Emperor Titan. They saw the Nurgle Plague Titan formations. They saw Nurgle's chosen Champion -- Typhus. And then...
The moment the Contemptor Dreadnought was dismembered piece by piece by Typhus to shield the cubs, every single set of eyes in the hall turned toward the group in the center with a very different expression.
How do you even have the face to be here. Why didn't you die there instead of letting the Ancient take that for you.
Every Space Wolf cub in the center of the hall lowered their head quietly in response. The shame was genuine and visible.
But then the surviving cubs had no more bandwidth to spare for being scrutinized -- because at that moment:
Daemon Primarch Mortarion appeared on the screen.
The moment that presence registered, even the most dim-witted observer understood: this battle these people had just survived included a Daemon Primarch. How are they standing here right now? Were they corrupted? Surely they should be...
Every other Space Wolf's gaze shifted toward Volvok and the rest of the group, and the expression was something else now. Something approaching a specific, profound respect.
How did you come back alive from this.
Feeling the weight of that gaze, several of the cubs lifted their heads slightly.
And then:
The entire battlefield detonated into noise.
Because guess what appeared on screen.
Unseen for ten thousand years. A son of the Emperor, returned to the mortal world. Black armor, golden sword, one strike delivered, the daemon shattered, the malice broken.
Even the Daemon Primarch could not withstand it.
And in that moment the thought in every mind present was identical.
A Primarch.
Ten thousand years. A full ten thousand years. And a Primarch has appeared again within the Imperium.
No wonder these people made it back alive. There was a great Primarch who had returned.
In that instant every single Space Wolf, without exception, felt something swell inside them. Because the Imperium had needed this. Ten thousand years in the dark, with no horizon visible. And every one of them -- even these cubs, even a freshly founded Chapter -- had quietly wanted a Primarch to appear.
And this Primarch had appeared already leading their most revered Ancients, returning after ten thousand years.
When Guilliman had come back, his relationship with the Space Wolves had been deeply strained. But this Primarch -- if it were this one who came -- that would be entirely different. Any being who could make the most stubbornly independent wolves who had marched through the Great Crusade and stood at the Siege of Terra address him as "My Lord" -- what more was there to say.
The star's destruction brought the account to its close.
The hall was completely silent.
"One more matter. The Ancient's Gene-seed has two copies. One is here. The Ancient previously entrusted a great Biologis to work on a solution to the Curse of the Wulfen...
Here Logan's expression did something complicated. This was one of the Chapter's innermost secrets.
"That Biologis provided us with five Gene-seeds cultivated from the Ancient as a base, plus the biotechnical data for three additional surgical procedures added on top of the existing Astartes template. You've all seen it -- the Ancients all stand considerably taller than us. And those Blood Angels descendants also received the upgrade. Your thoughts..."
Logan indicated the Gene-seeds in front of him. Under any normal circumstances, if anyone else had attempted something like this, he would have been picking up his axe already. But since this was the Ancient's personal commission, there was little to object to. As for the three additional procedures -- their effectiveness had already been demonstrated in practice. The Lamenters had performed demonstrably above the standard cubs across every engagement metric.
And in all honesty, the main Chapter's Space Wolves had been outperformed by a formation that included Lamenters. That was a fact.
"The Rubicon Primaris procedure originates from the Emperor. However, for certain specific reasons it was not widely disseminated. He entrusted it to a small number of specific Biologis. One of them was Apothecary Beta."
The broken Dreadnought's voice cut in at that moment. This was one of Zhou Ye's small-scale experiments -- a limited test rollout, allowing the Space Wolves to choose for themselves.
He was well aware that Guilliman's attempt to force-feed the Rubicon Primaris to the Space Wolves had gone very badly. The alternative approach -- offering it under different framing, with endorsement from those the Wolves actually respected -- would land considerably more effectively.
With two Dreadnought Ancients already supporting the proposal, Bjorn would almost certainly agree, and Lemont would certainly agree.
"The Wulfen Curse has always been our hidden burden..."
Bjorn glanced at several of the senior figures nearby. They were enclosed in a psyker silence field right now. The mortal guests could not hear this portion of the conversation, and were wisely continuing to eat and drink without asking questions.
"..."
Sure enough, a brief argument broke out across the hall. But quickly:
"Perform the Rubicon Primaris on a portion of the new recruits. Use Lemont's Gene-seeds for them."
Bjorn made the call. With two Ancients both speaking in favor, there was nothing left to debate. They would experiment carefully. If this genuinely resolved the Wulfen Curse -- even partially -- it would be the best news the Space Wolves had received in ten thousand years.
The Gene-seeds themselves were genuine. Zhou Ye had added certain enhancements, but nothing so extreme as to cause problems in practical use. To put it another way: everything he sent out functioned correctly. It was just that occasionally the results were somewhat abstract.
"All right. And now -- begin the celebration. These are cloaks from a Daemon Primarch. As for the rest of you -- we will formally petition the Departmento Munitorum on your behalf as Space Wolves, to recommend appropriate recognition and awards for everyone who survived this engagement, and to file the relevant intelligence report. And additionally..."
Logan looked at Volvok, who was exhaling with obvious relief.
Given that the Ancient had come back more or less intact -- and considering the contributions these cubs had made -- Logan was not going to pursue disciplinary consequences.
However...
"Why did you allow them to depart rather than insisting they remain? You understand what this means for the Imperium."
"Ah, I.... stay behind? Them???"
Volvok stared at Logan and pointed at himself, incredulous. Logan wanted him to go physically stop those people from leaving. Was that a realistic ask?
...
---o---
Shortly afterward, a report was transmitted to the local sector's Departmento Munitorum.
A group of staff who were already running on fumes stared at the footage.
"When did we have a battle of this scale running in our sector? An Emperor Titan fell. A Daemon Primarch -- something that only exists in mythology -- actually appeared."
Every person in the Departmento Munitorum office was staring at the record in a state of collective stupefaction. If the Space Wolves hadn't personally delivered this, they would never have known. And without the Space Wolves transmitting it directly, who knew when they would have found out at all.
"Forward this to Holy Terra. Report a great victory. And note -- a loyal Primarch was present. The loyal Primarch, as the Space Wolves have named them in their report: My Lord. Tell Terra that My Lord led one Death Korps regiment and one Aestia regiment to win an Apocalypse-class engagement."
The local sector Departmento Munitorum completed their processing quickly. As for the Primarch's name -- well, the Space Wolves had only written "My Lord." So that was exactly what they filed: My Lord. Forwarded as received.
Heaven help them -- they were just a sector-level Munitorum office. Their authority went only so far.
The report was loaded onto a vessel very shortly afterward, which began its journey toward Holy Terra.
Forwarding this volume of information through a Navigator relay would have produced something unrecognizable by the time it arrived. Physical delivery was the reliable option.
As for when the vessel would reach Terra and the report would enter the High Lords' Munitorum offices, and when it would actually be read by anyone with authority...
Nobody knew. As a final note: this sector Munitorum office had genuinely not known until this moment that an engagement of this classification had taken place inside their own administrative area.
"And relay My Lord's words to the world of Krieg, and include one of these cloaks in the shipment as well."
The sector Departmento Munitorum finished its processing with that and returned to its endless war against the mountain ranges of accumulated documentation.
---o---
Author's Note: 5,000-character chapter today. First, some readers have asked me to maintain a consistent update schedule. That genuinely cannot be done -- I have zero stockpiled chapters. Everything is written and posted fresh.