In this universe, the Taint is the Dragon's Pride. It speaks of gender transformation, of sensuality, of sweet romance.
Thus, the primordial beings of this universe underwent a transformation.
Let us give our thanks to the Taint.
*Warning:*
Gender transformation, twisted plots, filled with stereotypes, second-person perspective with galgame-like romantic scenarios, slight mature content. This is a caricature and does not faithfully represent the original.
Since it's categorized as light novel, it should have the essence of one!
[Legion I] Lion El'Jonson
She is the lioness from the forests of Caliban.
A tall and robust physique, a full-bodied frame, a muscular and streamlined waist, both explosive and powerful, all favor her.
Golden hair that flows past her shoulders, beneath her hood are unpredictable, mysterious green eyes.
Lion speaks little, but when she does, her words pierce the heart like a heavy sword.
She often wears a stern face, cruel and cold. In her world, there's only submission and conquest.
"The First Legion has no secrets."
When she speaks, loyalty is her constant hue.
*Galgame Line:*
You are the Wolf King (Not really).
You are a knight of Caliban, her most trusted Dark Angel subordinate, her right-hand man.
During a routine report, her cold green eyes gaze down upon you from above.
A cold, dark green throne, intricately carved, symbolizing loyalty and honor, she lies within her forest.
You're used to it. Jonson is like this. She's not indifferent to her progeny. The knightly culture of Caliban has deeply shaped her. She cares, but can't show it.
She's been a ruler for so long, the king of Caliban, she's lost touch with peer interactions.
But it doesn't matter. I am your Dark Angel, a knight under the king, offering you eternal loyalty.
"This mission, you all did well."
Praise evident in her voice.
Efficient beheadings, swift pacifications, foolish enemies; her knights are her sharpest blades.
"What reward do you desire?"
You look up, quite audaciously, but your deep blue eyes meet hers.
She smiles.
[Legion II]
She has been forgotten.
You too have been forgotten.
[Legion III] Fulgrim
She is the phoenix of the Phoenicians.
Perfection, elegance, fingers adorned with meticulously crafted purple armor, with golden dust shimmering between.
Silky silver hair cascading like a waterfall, moving with her swordplay, dazzling to behold.
A perfect body contour, devoid of visible muscle, yet filled with strength, capable of elegantly beheading foes.
She's the understanding third sister, beautiful and enchanting.
"We are always on the path to perfection."
Her purple-pink lips move as she speaks.
*Galgame Line:*
You are Ferrus Manus (Not really).
You are a strikingly handsome Phoenix child with a moderate case of OCD.
Standing in the training grounds, you're frustrated. For some reason, you can never execute the final move of that sword technique perfectly.
In your frustration, you hack at the training post.
"Oh, my darling, that's not right."
Silky hair cascades down, tickling you slightly, a warm and steady breath caresses your neck.
The primarch's arms wrap around you from behind, taking hold of your sword.
She's unarmored, purple and pink beads, strung together with golden threads, wrap around her pale arm, hanging lazily.
"That's not elegant. The sword would be heartbroken."
She grips you, applying a gentle force.
You hold your breath, following her rhythm, executing that perfect strike.
"That's more like it."
You look up and over your shoulder, her purple eyes smiling down at you.
[Legion IV] Perturabo
She is the relentless steel of Olympia.
Neat deep gray hair, a no-nonsense expression, always stern.
Golden ornaments surround her, yet they aren't ostentatious. The heavy crown of honor rests upon her.
A voluptuous figure, solid, yet filled with steady strength.
In her icy blue eyes lies unwavering conviction.
"For the Emperor."
She is loyalty. She is honor.
*Galgame Line:*
You are Sigismund (Not really).
You are an extremely loyal, adaptable, and somewhat smooth Imperial Fist.
The seemingly hard and unapproachable Dorn actually has her own adorable side.
She always slept clutching the blanket her grandfather gave her, her massive form curling up in bed, tightly holding onto her small blanket.
When the stress became too much, she would occasionally mutter in her sleep.
Being her progeny, you naturally wanted to comfort your mother.
Seeing the blanket she unconsciously crumpled, you had an idea.
So, you sewed a small plush bear for her. Though it seemed small for her massive stature, it was quite large by Astartes standards.
The bear was a pale yellow, with golden button eyes. It was fluffy, and you made sure its texture matched her blanket.
You chose a time when she was reporting her achievements to present it. When it was your turn, you revealed the plush bear.
Dorn, usually stoic, raised an eyebrow.
"You shouldn't jest in such a solemn setting."
You were, of course, punished.
However, afterward, you saw that same crumpled plush bear.
[Legion VIII] Konrad Curze
She is the specter of the night.
Pain, pain, pain, screams.
No, she can't go to the light. Too bright, too bright.
Death, slaughter, fear, rage, screams.
Her long black hair covered her pale face, clotted with blood and grease, even tangled with cobwebs.
Her sunken eyes, dark and devoid of light, were filled with madness and obsession.
She was thin, unlike the other Primarchs who were robust. She looked skeletal.
Destruction, darkness, prophecy, future.
The world is doomed to struggle and collapse. She will die, she will die!
Everyone will die!
No hope, no salvation!
Tormented in this endless night!
[Galgame Line]
You are Sevatar. (Not really)
You were the first in the Night Lords to willingly help Curze, kind-hearted, yet strong enough to withstand her madness.
You found her, a strange little human child, freshly emerged from a birthing pod, wet and looking frail.
Originally planning to harvest her flesh, you were moved. It had been a while since you'd seen such a defenseless infant in the Underhive.
You took off your grimy coat, wrapped her in it, and left some rat meat.
"Hold me."
The infant murmured.
You didn't.
And then?
You left. Your remaining kindness and capability only went so far.
She was doomed, but you couldn't resist doing that small act of kindness.
However, after that, the Underhive became much safer. Every day, hundreds of outcasts hung on the walls, skinned and mutilated.
No one bothered you anymore, and occasionally, you'd find a pile of skinned rats where you slept.
Only when the Emperor arrived did you realize that the infant was Konrad Curze.
She's having another episode.
You sighed, stepping into the dungeon, cold and sticky blood flowing on the floor, sticking to your feet.
In the darkest corner of the room, among a pile of mangled corpses, something was there.
You sighed again, resignedly approaching, then casually sat on a corpse.
"You will die."
"You are guilty."
The specter whispered in your ear.
"You will die horribly, screaming for your mother. I will inject you with a painful toxin, and you will be terrified to the point of excitement."
You shrugged. This was the 108th death she had described.
She licked your face,
"Why aren't you afraid? The future is chaotic darkness. No one can be saved. Wise or foolish, kind or mad, why aren't you afraid?"
You remained still.
"Hold me."
She said, her voice becoming more intense,
"Hold me, damn it, hold me! I saw you holding me, just damn hold me!"
You didn't move. It was the only thing you could do.
You wanted to prove to her that prophecies aren't always right.
"Damn it, hold me!"
She threw you aside, your body sliding and crashing against the wall.
The shadowy specter emerged, lying directly in your weakened embrace.
"That's better."
[Legion IX] Sanguinius
She is the Angel of Baal.
The perfect angel of the Imperium.
Her voluptuous and smooth curves, pristine and delicate skin, a kind face, always smiling at everyone.
Golden curly hair, gentle and kind blue eyes, she looked like a saint from ancient paintings.
White wings spread from her back, soft and beautiful, gently brushing the air, carrying her into the sky.
She is the Archangel, she is Sanguinius.
[Galgame Line]
You are Horus. (Not really)
You are just an ordinary person.
Very ordinary. You might not even be a Blood Angel. Average looks, average martial skills. The only thing you can boast about is a slight artistic touch, but not much.
You can analyze beautiful paintings, but that's about it. Compared to other art masters, your analysis is worlds apart.
You often wonder why the perfect angel chose you.
You wondered if she was playing with you, but her demeanor suggested otherwise.
As for you, of course, you loved her, but you were genuinely puzzled.
The door to the room opened, and Sanguinius, in a simple white robe, entered. A green olive wreath crowned her golden hair.
She folded her wings and held a bowl of grapes in her hand.
"Want some?"
She ate a grape and playfully poked you with the tip of her wing.
The soft feathers tickled.
"Um, Angel?"
"Yes, what is it?"
She looked at you with gentle and kind eyes.
"Why did you choose me?"
"I'm far from perfect."
Sanguinius smiled, her eyebrows arching playfully.
"True love has no prerequisites."
She loved everyone, and she loved you.
[Legion X] Ferrus Manus
She is the Gorgon of Medusa.
Dull black hair, a stern expression, everything about her was the color of steel.
Her muscular body, covered in scars, her silver-black iron hands gleamed on her arms.
She often wore a stern face but would occasionally burst into hearty laughter. Rational, serious, responsible.
Compared to her radiant friend Fulgrim, she wasn't fond of adornments. Though she had badges of honor, they were either black or gray.
She pursued rationality but also accepted reality.
This is Ferrus Manus.
[Galgame Line]
You are Fulgrim. (Not really)
You are Vulkan. (Also not really)
You are her last comrade in the dueling arenas of Nuceria.
But that's a distant memory.
You remember Angron from those times, before the Butcher's Nails. She was humble, gentle, always hugging others, selflessly giving encouragement and support.
She always listened to others' misfortunes, comforting their tormented souls.
She was gentle, she was kind, she had heard too many tales of suffering.
But she was the most unfortunate one.
She was nailed. You watched her struggle, you watched her plead, you watched her cry.
In the end, her furious roars filled the arena, a scream that lasted for three days and nights.
She changed, but she was still struggling against the nails in her mind.
She was still the same, still liked to hug others, still liked to comfort
others, still felt sorrow for others, still rejoiced for others.
But when she hugged you, you could hear the roaring of the nails in her brain.
She started to become irritable, she started to bleed from her nose, a blurry mix of blood and flesh flowing from her flared nostrils.
But she was still so kind, so gentle, she wanted to save everyone.
On the last day, she shared her flesh and blood with the starving rebels, swearing to die in battle, returning to the red sands.
But she fled.
That traitor.
Everyone was executed, except for you. The blade aimed at your heart didn't take your life.
A giant named Khârn found you. He took you back, performed surgery, and you became a giant too.
Then you saw her, the slave trapped in glory and loyalty, the mad Angron chained to her throne.
She was going mad, she couldn't control herself, she was shouting your names, helplessly swinging her axe.
"Angron"
The madwoman turned her head and saw you.
She's back.
She tried to control her twisted expression, but failed. Twitching muscles, drooling, a mix of despair and ecstasy appeared on her face.
Angron looked at you and knelt.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
Angron's muscles twitched uncontrollably. The distant roar of the nails in her brain was audible, and chunks of flesh began to flow from her nostrils.
You approached and embraced her.
"I'm sorry, I thought you had fled."
Angron closed her eyes in pain.
"Kill... me. End me."
You didn't.
But after that, she was imprisoned for eternity.
---
[Legion XIII] Roboute Guilliman
She was the pride of Macragge.
Golden short hair, a politician's perfectly timed smile - friendly, yet distant.
In her sky-blue eyes, her thoughts remained inscrutable.
A perfect silhouette, she was like a sculpture from ancient Rome.
She and her legion were symbols of the Imperium's glory.
Under her embrace, under her wings, in the five hundred worlds of Ultramar, humanity lived freely and beautifully.
---
Galgame Line
You are an idealist, yet also a pragmatic and exceptional warrior. (It seems all exceptional warriors are like this?)
Question: Where can you find Guilliman?
Answer: Her administrative office.
You stand beside her desk, categorizing the flood of administrative tasks.
She sits in her chair, the usual politician's smile gone, staring expressionlessly at the incoming documents.
The sun of Macragge was setting, casting a warm orange glow through the window.
Guilliman put down the last document and sighed deeply.
"Good, the new administrative reforms are effective. Today's paperwork is about 26% less than usual."
Indeed, you used to work late into the night.
Guilliman blinked, her sky-blue eyes relaxed and content.
"It's still early. I should visit my mother."
Guilliman's mother, Lady Yuton, was a graceful and kind woman, and Guilliman inherited her kindness.
Now, you stand at the kitchen door, guarding the mother-daughter duo inside.
Soft whispers came from the other side of the door.
Lady Yuton loved baking, and naturally, Guilliman learned the art from her.
When Guilliman was young, Yuton would knead dough with her, watching the soft mixture rise.
"A new policy is like dough; you need to give it time to rise."
The scent of fresh bread wafted out, tickling your nose.
Guilliman opened the door, holding a plate of chocolate and wheat cookies.
She took one and offered it to you.
Her fingers brushed your lips lightly.
"Tell me, how did they turn out?"
Typical Guilliman, always knowing what to say.
Beneath her logical exterior was a fiery soul.
---
[Legion XIV] Mortarion
She was the Reaper of Barbarus.
Dry, tangled hair, a dull white, lifeless, brittle, and frizzy.
She didn't care about her appearance. Pale skin, sunken cheeks, peeling lips due to constant exposure to toxic gases.
Tall yet thin, she resembled a scarecrow in a field, made of mere twigs.
She disliked adornments; Barbarus had no place for such wastefulness.
Always in plain clothes, sometimes even undyed.
She sat among her sisters, their silks and golds clashing with her funeral attire.
Just like her, the farmer who mistakenly attended the ball.
She was the harvester, indifferent to whether she reaped wheat or lives.
---
Galgame Line
You are Horus. (Nope.)
You are Calasthenes. (Wrong again.)
You are Hades. (Yes, that's right!)
Mortarion poked the figurine in front of her.
It was a finely crafted Death Guard figurine, its unique mechanical arm signifying it was Hades.
Since Mortarion silently questioned Hades about why he always left the Death Guard for other legions, Hades just smiled and gifted her the figurine.
Mortarion stared resentfully at the figurine.
Why was she still alone when all her sisters had their beloveds?
Hadn't Hades been with her from the beginning? Why was their relationship still like this?
She touched her hair discontentedly, twirling a strand around her finger.
Her hair, tainted by the toxic gases of Barbarus, was dry and lacked the softness of her sisters'.
She recalled the labels others had given her.
While they all conquered worlds, she was always dubbed the "Reaper."
Her sisters were empresses, queens, or angels.
Was it really because of her appearance? Was Hades truly that shallow? Had she misjudged him?
She felt the vulnerable part of her retreat into a corner.
Seeing Mortarion's mood swings, Hades was on high alert.
What had he done wrong this time?!
He tried to meet her gaze, hoping to calm her, but Mortarion's eyes were too intense. He looked away, focusing on her dry hair.
He remembered his shock when he first saw Mortarion and realized she was female.
By the Emperor! Was this some cruel joke?!
Then he saw all the female Primarchs.
And they all had their partners.
Seeing the interactions between the massive Primarchs and the Astartes, Hades felt blinded.
He had to ensure Mortarion wasn't swayed by Calasthenes, or there'd be chaos.
But first, he needed to figure out why she was upset.
He thought back. Wait, could it be that Mortarion was jealous of Guilliman?
Though it seemed far-fetched, with Mortarion, it made sense.
"I shouldn't have been away for so long."
"But there were urgent matters in the Extremis sector."
"I was even summoned by Guilliman, but I refused because I'd been away too long and returned immediately."
Guilliman, that damned Guilliman!
Was she trying to steal her progeny?!
Seeing Mortarion even angrier, Hades was clueless.
"What's wrong, Mortarion?"
She glanced at him, which he took as a cold stare.
"Not good."
"What happened?"
Mortarion hesitated. Should she reveal her feelings?
Considering Hades had always been loyal, she chose the hidden option: "Ask indirectly."
"How do you see me?"
Hades answered immediately, without hesitation.
"You are my most trusted comrade, a leader I can trust implicitly. I'd follow your command forever."
Mortarion hesitated again. That was a good answer, but it lacked depth.
"I mean on a more personal level."
Hades was confused. "Could you give an example?"
Mortarion struggled.
After a while, she slowly said, "Like Saint Celestine and her lover."
Hades was stunned.
He had misread the situation!
But facing Mortarion, he felt there was only one answer.
By the Emperor's socks!
---
[Legion XV] Magnus
She was the wise one of Prospero.
A robust and tall figure, her radiant skin slightly bulging against her golden armor.
Her single eye of wisdom shimmered with psychic energy.
Fiery, voluminous red curls cascaded down her face.
Large
gems adorned her armor and bracelets, each glowing differently with every psychic gesture.
But beyond her appearance, Magnus's essence was a reservoir of wisdom.
---
You are a Custodian kitty. (Nope.)
You are a very wise, humble, and gentle Thousand Son.
Magnus sat on a table reading, one leg curled up.
She always did this. Whenever she became excited, she couldn't sit still in her chair.
The gentle breeze from the Librarium's window tousled her long, curly red hair.
You carried a stack of books from the list she provided and placed them at her feet.
"Ah, come see this."
Magnus pulled you into her embrace, pointing at a line in one of the books. Her slender finger traced the dry pages.
The words seemed to dance with her enthusiasm.
The passionate red-skinned giantess wanted to share the joy of her reading, but you found it hard to concentrate.
Her scent, reminiscent of old pages, wafted around you. Her arm around you felt soft, warm, and very real.
Focus!
But the red-haired Magnus was completely engrossed in her reading, oblivious to your distraction.
She couldn't help but read aloud,
"Vanity might be one of the hardest things for the noble to understand. While others see it as self-evident, the noble tends to deny its existence."
(Excerpted from Nietzsche's "Beyond Good and Evil")
You remained silent, well aware of Magnus's own stubbornness.
Wisely, you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself.
After that, she held you close for the entire afternoon.
---
**[Legion XVI] Horus**
Among them, she was the most outstanding, the most cherished.
Her long, black curly hair cascaded down, framing a voluptuous body and robust limbs.
A kind smile, a friendly demeanor, and heartwarming words.
She was noble, yet approachable; glorious, yet kind.
She was the Imperium's Horus, their loyal Warmaster.
---
**Galgame Line**
You are the Emperor. (Not really)
You are Saint Guilliman. (Not that either)
You're a loyal Shadowmoon Wolf, a member of her small council.
When Horus returned, after escaping the cheers, congratulations, and occasional jeers, she found you. The smile she always wore faded, replaced by weariness and a bitter smile.
You blinked but still offered your prepared congratulations,
"Congratulations, the Emperor has finally chosen you."
Horus gave a wry smile,
"I didn't expect that from you."
"No, it's just a formality," you quickly corrected.
She rubbed her temples, contemplating removing the laurel crown but decided against it.
"I know, the Emperor had no choice but to choose me."
"But can I really handle all of this?"
You responded,
"Trust in the Emperor. He believes in you. You are his best choice."
She smiled, removing her armor, revealing marks on her soft skin.
Then she approached and embraced you,
"What will you do now?"
"My Warmaster, I pledge my loyalty to you."
However, later on, you regretted it.
You looked at her as she raised the flag of rebellion against Terra.
---
**[Legion XVII] Lorgar**
She was the Saint of Colchis.
Her obedient white hair flowed down, touching the ground.
Golden scriptures shimmered on her skin.
Her eyes were a holy gold, pure, sacred, and zealous.
She had devoted herself to her faith, kneeling devoutly before her god.
White and gold, symbols of her purity. She always wore robes of these colors.
"Praise the God-Emperor."
The Saint firmly believed in her faith.
---
**Galgame Line**
You are the Emperor. (Not really)
You are a mortal priest, a close friend of Lorgar before the events of the Perfect City. You chose to stay during the incident, surviving but at the cost of your sight.
"Father, what did we do wrong?"
You felt her soft hair on your face, her grip on your arms trembling.
It seemed she was kneeling before you.
You couldn't tell, you couldn't see.
"This is... this is our fate."
"God tests our faith."
"No, no."
You felt Lorgar's trembling intensify.
"Why would He punish His children?"
You remained silent.
In Lorgar's eyes, she was a Saint, not a mere believer to be tested.
Punishment was for those who needed testing.
She didn't need punishment; she was loyal.
"Oh God, why did you forsake us first?"
She held you tight, and you felt tears.
She was crying.
---
**[Legion XVIII] Vulkan**
She was the best blacksmith of Nocturne.
Her hair, white as fire, and skin, black as coal, framed a muscular body.
She loved to raise her hammer, forging steel in the flames.
Steel tempered in the flames would be the finest.
Countless scars adorned her body, shining brilliantly in the fire's glow.
Kindness.
She was the kindest being.
She despised war, but the Emperor convinced her. For future peace, she had to commit necessary evils.
Once the last war ended, she'd return home to forge.
She never cared for golden crowns.
She was a blacksmith, always had been.
---
**Galgame Line**
You are Ferrus Manus. (Not really)
You were Vulkan's intended, introduced by her father on Nocturne, and also the second-best blacksmith there.
In the forge, flames roared as heavy hammers struck steel.
She worked shirtless, her hammer striking with precision!
You focused on your work at another anvil.
"Look!"
She called you over to show her newly forged greatsword.
A large, orange cat's eye gem was embedded in it, shimmering beautifully in the firelight.
"This is a gift for Horus."
She always did this, gifting her sisters with weapons she forged herself.
"Quite perfect," you commented.
She bashfully smiled, "Thank you."
She patted you as usual.
But she wasn't wearing a shirt.
---
**[Legion XIX] Corax**
She was the people's choice.
Her jet-black hair flowed like spilled ink, and beneath the shadow of her hair was a pale face.
Beneath her terrifying tall appearance was a heart full of kindness and equality.
For the people, for the Imperium.
She would become the raven of doom for her enemies.
---
**Galgame Line**
You are Roboute Guilliman. (Not really)
You were a good friend of Corax on Deliverance. Very rational, you eventually became a Raven Guard.
She returned, lost in thought.
"What's wrong?" you asked. Had her meeting with her sisters not gone well?
"No," Corax shook her head.
Roboute Guilliman was kind, a seasoned politician who knew how to handle situations, and he genuinely cared for her.
Though those Macragge decorations were a bit too flashy.
But what troubled her wasn't that.
She learned a new term from her sisters - "those mere mortals."
A strange and arrogant term. Was this how they all viewed the people?
Then, in the eyes of "those so-called mortals," what was she?
"I want to know how you see me."
"My existence," she added.
You blinked, puzzled. What was going on?
"You are Corax, the one who led us against oppression, the leader we chose."
"You mean, I was chosen from among you?"
You found it a bit amusing. Wasn't that the reality? What was going on with Corax today
?
"Yes, you emerged from among us."
Wait, you realized something and quickly spoke up, better late than never.
"Of course, you are the one I love."
Corax, taken aback by the sudden confession, said, "That's not what I meant."
She laughed, shaking her head, but still gave you a kiss.
---
**[Legion XX]**
Spare me, I won't write about the Alpha twins.
---
**[Hidden Character] The Emperor**
He has a thousand faces.
He can be an old man or a young child.
He can be male or female.
He is humanity.
He loves humanity.
---
**Galgame Line**
There's no line here unless you're a heretic.
Why write web novels? Why not write a proper novel?
This world needs more... excitement!
Happy reading!