From now on, "George" is the name I gives to the Emperor whenever he speaks or thinks to himself.
Thirty-four days had passed. The refit work on Eternity's Vanguard was complete, and the ship was ready to depart, along with the rest of the fleet. His fleet, numbering somewhere between seventy and ninety ships, was a standard size for an expedition of this nature—large enough to be formidable, but not overwhelming. Everything was in place for the journey ahead.
Let's see what my fleet has."
George tapped the air, and a hologram flickered to life before him. His eyes darted from one data point to the next, scanning the fleet's status with practiced ease.
Fleet Composition
Dr,Neoth's fleet would consist of multiple classes of ships to provide the necessary variety in firepower, utility, and strategic flexibility. The ships would range from super-heavy capital ships to smaller, more agile craft, ensuring that the fleet can handle various tactical scenarios. The fleet size would be large enough to establish dominance but also capable of adapting to different threats.
Flagship - The Eternity's Vanguard-Class
Quantity: 1 The Eternity's Vanguard would be Neoth's flagship, a symbol of his power and the most technologically advanced vessel in his fleet. This ship would serve as both a command center and a mobile headquarters, directing the fleet during long-term operations.
Super-Heavy Battleships - Aegis Sovereign-Class
Quantity: 6–8 These powerful battleships would form the backbone of Neoth's fleet, capable of laying waste to enemy ships with devastating firepower. They are few but powerful, ensuring that his fleet can withstand and strike back at the most potent threats. Their advanced technology would allow them to survive even against superior numbers.
Escort Carriers - Sentinel of Neoth-Class
Quantity: 10–12 These ships would provide vital support, ensuring that Neoth's fleet has both air superiority and the ability to launch significant assaults on planets or space stations. They would also serve as reconnaissance and logistical hubs.
Dreadnoughts - Nephilim-Class
Quantity: 4–6 The Nephilim-class dreadnoughts would be heavily armored, heavily armed vessels designed for direct combat. These ships would be used for both tactical assaults and to provide heavy fire support during battles.
Battlecruisers - Empyreal Watcher-Class
Quantity: 10–15 These versatile ships would make up the bulk of the fleet, handling everything from skirmishes to defensive operations. Their ability to switch between long-range fire support and close-quarters engagements would make them essential for maintaining a flexible fighting force.
Heavy Cruisers - Promethean Light-Class
Quantity: 12–20 The Promethean Light-class ships would be plentiful within Neoth's fleet, acting as a secondary support line for heavier engagements. These ships would likely perform roles such as fleet escort, reconnaissance, or defensive actions, while their energy-absorbing capabilities would give them a unique advantage against energy-based weapons.
Auxiliary Ships and Support Craft
Quantity: 30–50 These would include smaller vessels such as destroyers, frigates, supply ships, and specialized auxiliary craft. Their primary role would be to ensure that the fleet has adequate resupply, reconnaissance, and specialized capabilities (e.g., boarding, intelligence gathering, or shield support).
That should be enough—let's just pray the Eldar don't show up."
During the refitting process, the first batch of artificially created soldiers was born—five thousand infants, larger than most human newborns and capable of walking on two legs from the moment of birth. Their rapid growth was equally astonishing; in just four weeks, they had matured to the size and appearance of fully grown adults.
"I should pay them a visit—they are, after all, technically my children."
George couldn't afford another betrayal, not from his men, or in this case, his children, not after what happened last time.
"Looks like you were a good dad, sir," Jacob, the ship's AI and his close friend, chimed in.
"Heh, I don't want them turning against me in the future," George said, his tone matter-of-fact.
"That's good, sir. At least they still think of you as their father—or at least, they look like they do," Jacob answered in a flat tone.
George materialized in the sprawling training grounds, where the next generation of warriors honed their skills. The clang of weapons and the hum of energy drills filled the air. One of the young trainees spotted him and sprinted over, his youthful vigor radiating with every step.
The boy dropped to one knee before George, his voice respectful but warm. "Good afternoon, Father. How can I serve you today?"
"There's no need to kneel, Lion," George said with a faint smile, motioning for him to rise. "I'm free today, so I thought it'd be a good time to watch over your training—and your brothers' as well."
"That's good to hear, Father," Lion replied with a nod, his tone steady and respectful.
"Lioonnnnn! Why are you always the first to greet Father?!" A loud voice echoed across the training grounds as another boy sprinted toward them, his steps heavy with urgency.
Lion turned to him, his expression unchanging. "Maybe because I don't spend every second obsessed with fighting," he replied in a flat tone. "I actually pay attention to my surroundings, Russ."
'Somehow, their personalities mirror their counterparts exactly' George observed, a mix of nostalgia and unease flickering across his face as he watched the boys argue.
"There, there, no need to fight, brothers," came a soothing voice from above. Another boy descended gracefully, his wings catching the light as they carried him effortlessly through the air.
"Sanguinius!" Russ protested, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "Lion always steals my chance to meet Father first!"
"And I've told you already," Lion replied with his characteristic flat tone, "it's not my fault you're too distracted to notice when he arrives."
'Yeah' George thought, suppressing a sigh. I just hope my decision to recreate something as familiar as the Primarchs doesn't end in disaster this time.
"Alright, kids, enough fighting," George said firmly, his tone carrying just enough authority to quiet them down.
"Only if you hug me first!" Russ shot back, crossing his arms with a playful pout.
George sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. At least this one has a softer side, he thought as he pulled Russ into a brief, yet reassuring embrace.
Once Russ was satisfied, George turned to Sanguinius. "Where are the rest of your brothers?"
"I've only seen five of them so far, Father," Sanguinius replied, glancing between Lion and Russ. "These two included."
"Lead the way, then," George instructed.
Sanguinius nodded, his majestic wings fluttering as he leaped into the air, gliding ahead with effortless grace.
George cast a look at Lion and Russ, who had already begun exchanging glares. "You two better stop fighting," he warned, his voice sharp but patient. "Or I'll stop training you altogether."
That got their attention. Both boys exchanged sheepish looks before falling in line, following after Sanguinius in silence—for now.
After a brief search, George came upon a clearing where seven of his sons sat in a circle, meticulously tending to their weapons. The soft rasp of whetstones and the hum of energy emitters being calibrated filled the air, a symphony of discipline and focus.
Each boy worked with quiet precision, their personalities reflected in their methods—some deliberate and methodical, others quick and efficient. The sight brought a rare smile to George's face, a mix of pride and bittersweet reflection.
They're so much like their predecessors, he thought, though he quickly pushed the sentiment aside. This time, things will be different.
Lion, Russ, and Sanguinius came to a halt beside him, their earlier squabble momentarily forgotten as they watched their brothers.
"Alright, kids, how are you all doing?" George broke the silence as he stepped toward the group, his voice warm but commanding.
At the sound of his voice, every one of them froze mid-task, their weapons momentarily forgotten. In an instant, the circle dissolved as they rushed toward him, their excitement palpable.
"Father, are you here to train with us?" asked a boy with striking white hair and piercing purple eyes, his voice filled with a mix of eagerness and admiration.
George smiled, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Yes, Fulgrim," he replied. "I'm free today, so I thought, why not spend it with all of you?"
The announcement was met with a wave of cheer, the boys' enthusiasm lighting up the training grounds.
"Alright, kids, there are only ten of us here," George said, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where's the rest?"
The group fell silent, an uneasy tension settling over them.
Ah, George thought wryly. Let me guess—they're fighting each other again.
Finally, a boy with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes spoke up. "Father, Perturabo challenged Dorn to a siege battle. The others decided to join in."
George sighed heavily. "Thank you, Guilliman. I trust it's nothing serious, right?"
"If I'm being honest, Father," another boy chimed in—a quiet one with blue hair and red eyes—"they're using real weapons and war machines."
George pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did I think this was a good idea? "Where are they now?"
"The realistic training grounds," Fulgrim replied, his tone cautious yet calm.
"Then we need to stop them. Now!" George declared, already striding in that direction.
The boys quickly fell into step behind him, their eagerness shifting to a sense of urgency. Russ and Lion bolted ahead, their competitive nature flaring as they raced each other to see who could reach the battlefield first.
"Show-offs," Fulgrim muttered with a smirk, while Sanguinius took to the air, flying ahead to scout the situation.
As they arrive at the battleground, all of them silence as the scene of 10 of them fighting each other. Dorn and Perturabo dual each other,
The two Primarchs regarded each other with a mixture of hatred and grim respect. They had been rivals since the earliest days of their training, their philosophies and methods irreconcilable. And now, their enmity had brought them to this fateful confrontation.
"Still clinging to your rigid ideals, brother?" Perturabo sneered, his voice a cold growl, dripping with disdain. "They'll break just as easily as you will under the weight of my hammer."
"And you," Dorn replied, his voice steady and unyielding, "remain a slave to your bitterness, Perturabo. No fortress you build can shield you from your own failings."
With a roar, Perturabo lunged forward, Gravictic hammer descending in a devastating arc. Dorn sidestepped with practiced precision, his Voidslasher sparking as it deflected the hammer's crushing blow. The ground beneath them cracked and groaned under the sheer force of the impact.
Dorn countered, Voidslasher plasma's field generator roaring to life as he brought it around in a precise slash aimed at Perturabo's side. Perturabo twisted away, his armor sparking as the blade grazed it, leaving a shallow cut. Perturabo retaliated with a backhand swing, the hammer's massive head forcing Dorn to leap back to avoid the crushing strike.
The duel was a clash of ideologies made manifest—Dorn's calculated, defensive strikes against Perturabo's brutal, unrelenting assault. Each blow was a testament to their skill and strength, each parry a reflection of their indomitable will.
"You've always underestimated me!" Perturabo snarled as he pressed forward, hammer swinging in wide, destructive arcs. "You think your precision makes you superior, but it's nothing compared to raw power!"
Dorn's response was calm and cutting. "And you've always let your anger cloud your judgment. That's why you'll never win."
Perturabo roared in fury, his attacks growing wilder, each swing of Gravictic hammer carving trenches into the ground. Dorn, ever the tactician, used the openings created by Perturabo's fury to his advantage. Ducking under a reckless strike, he drove Voidslasher upward, its blade biting deep into Perturabo's armor, eliciting a spray of sparks and a snarl of pain.
But Perturabo was no fool. Twisting with surprising agility, he drove his armored elbow into Dorn's chest, sending the Imperial Fist staggering back.
The two Primarchs paused, breathing heavily, their armors scarred and weapons bloodied. Around them, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath, as if the very universe awaited the outcome of their duel.
"You've earned my respect, Rogal," Perturabo said, his voice low but still seething with hatred. "But respect won't save you."
"And you've earned my pity," Dorn replied, steadying his stance. "But pity won't stop me."
With a deafening roar, the two Primarchs clashed again, their weapons colliding with a force that shook the very ground beneath them. The duel raged on, a brutal, titanic struggle between two brothers turned bitter foes.
George stormed into the chaotic battlefield, his eyes blazing with determination as the clash of weapons and the roar of engines surrounded him. With a single wave of his hand, he unleashed a surge of psychic power, an invisible force that swept through the area like a tidal wave.
The air grew heavy with his presence, an oppressive aura that forced everyone to a standstill. Even the massive war machines ground to a halt, their pilots frozen in place. Every combatant, Primarch or not, felt the weight of their father's will, except for one.
Magnus stood amidst the eerie silence, his crimson skin glowing faintly as he looked around, unaffected. His eyes sparkled with curiosity and awe as he turned to George. "Father, can you teach me that?!" he asked eagerly, his voice breaking the quiet.
Before George could respond, Russ's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and biting. "You stupid fool! Can't you see Father's in no mood? Especially since you were part of this mess!" Russ growled, his contempt for Magnus's affinity for magic seeping into every word.
Magnus shot Russ a glare, his calm demeanor shifting. "And you think barking at me like some feral beast will fix this? Maybe if you had a fraction of the wisdom—"
"Enough!" George's voice thundered, silencing both of them. His gaze swept over his sons, disappointment etched into his features. "What were you thinking, using real weapons and war machines against each other? Do you realize the danger you've put yourselves and your brothers in?"
The Primarchs exchanged uneasy glances, their usual bravado faltering under their father's scrutiny. Even Perturabo and Dorn, who had been locked in their bitter duel moments ago, looked chastened.
"Magnus," George finally said, addressing his eager son, "what I just used is not a tool for showmanship or personal gain. It's a burden, wielded only when absolutely necessary. You, more than anyone, should understand the consequences of power."
Magnus nodded slowly, his enthusiasm tempered by George's words.
"And Russ," George continued, turning to the Wolf King, "your disdain for your brother's talents does not excuse your lack of restraint. Both of you must learn to set aside your rivalries—or it will be the undoing of you both."
The two brothers reluctantly nodded, though their eyes still held the simmering embers of their rivalry.
George sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he released the psychic hold on the battlefield. "Now, everyone—clean up this mess and meet me at the central training grounds. We're going to have a lesson in discipline."
The Primarchs moved to obey, their father's command leaving no room for argument. As they dispersed, George lingered, his thoughts heavy. They have so much potential. I just hope I can guide correctly this time.
As the group arrived at the central training grounds, the air seemed to crackle with tension. George stood tall before them, his gaze sharp and unyielding as he looked over the ten sons who had caused the chaos earlier. Their varied expressions were a mixture of defiance, guilt, and, in some cases, smug satisfaction.
Perturabo, Dorn, Konrad, Ferrus, Horus, Corvus, Mortarion, Icarus, Angron, and Khan—the usual suspects in such a mess. Each one of them had been at the center of the brawl, and now they stood before him, waiting for judgment.
"Alright," George said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority, "do you know what you all did wrong today?"
The silence was palpable, but Perturabo broke it first. His voice was sharp and biting. "Dorn used his sword worse than Fulgrim, Father," he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"And he tried to throw his hammer at me!" Dorn barked, his hands clenched into fists, frustration and a touch of embarrassment clear on his face.
George sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You two, enough," he said, his voice cutting through their bickering. "I want to hear from the rest of you."
Horus, always quick with an answer, leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with the same charismatic confidence that had won him so many followers. "I saw it as a good opportunity to test my skill, Father. My sons can't keep up with me, so my brothers are the best source for training."
George's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered Horus's words. His charm is still there, he thought, a hint of exasperation creeping into his mind. "I see," he replied, his tone measured.
Ferrus, standing with his arms crossed, spoke next. "I wanted to try my new weapon, Father," he said, his voice filled with that same unrelenting drive for improvement that defined him.
George turned his gaze to the other two. "And you two, Corvus and Konrad?"
Corvus, ever the strategist, answered first. "Our tactics worked well together, Father, so we teamed up." He spoke with a quiet certainty, and Konrad nodded beside him in agreement.
"I hate Magnus," Mortarion muttered under his breath, but then, with an icy glare toward the Thousand Sons Primarch, he spoke more clearly. "And that's why I joined the fight. Couldn't resist the chance to put him in his place."
Magnus, his gaze cold, glared back. "I wanted to test my new magic, Father," he said, his voice calm but tinged with an underlying challenge as he stared at Mortarion.
George's eyes flickered between the two, sensing the palpable animosity between them. He said nothing at first, choosing to let the tension hang in the air. Finally, his gaze moved on to the last pair.
"What about you two, Icarus and Khan?"
Khan, standing proudly with his usual air of confidence, answered first. "Me and Icarus's skills are on par, Father. We wanted to test who had the upper hand."
Icarus, the usually quiet and calculated one, nodded in agreement, his eyes focused ahead as he stood beside Khan.
George let the words of his sons settle into the air for a moment. His gaze swept across them once more, disappointment evident in his eyes.
"Do any of you understand what went wrong here?" he asked, his voice calm but tinged with frustration. "This was not about testing skills or proving dominance. You let personal rivalries and pride cloud your judgment. You're supposed to be brothers, not enemies. And as much as you may not like it, your actions affect the entire family."
The Primarchs shifted uneasily, but George's gaze softened slightly as he continued.
"That said, you are all still my sons. And you will learn from this. But from now on, there will be no more petty squabbles. The next time I see any of you brawling with your brothers—real weapons or not—there will be consequences."
The words hung in the air, a warning they knew would not be ignored. As George turned to leave, the boys remained silent, each lost in their thoughts.
"I trust you understand," George added over his shoulder, his voice resolute. "Now, meet me at the personal training ground. The rest of your brothers are there."
One by one, the Primarchs began to disperse, though the glint of rivalry still lingered in their eyes. It would take more than a few words to mend the rifts between them. But for now, the storm had passed.
As they walked, a quiet understanding passed between them, though not without the flickers of old rivalries still lingering in their gazes.
Horus, always the leader, spoke first, his voice a low murmur to the others as they walked. "Do you think he'll be teaching us himself today?"
"Wouldn't put it past him," Ferrus replied, his tone gruff but laced with respect. "He's not one to let us slack off."
"Let's just hope this training doesn't involve more of Magnus's magic," Mortarion muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing at the thought of his brother's sorcery.
Magnus, walking beside him, couldn't resist a quick retort. "I'm sure you'll find it fascinating once you learn to control your hatred, Mortarion."
Mortarion shot him a glare, but said nothing more, his brooding silence the only response.
The group reached the personal training ground, an area far more private and secluded than the general training fields. Here, they would face a different kind of challenge—one that would require more than just strength and skill. It would demand their unity and discipline.
As they arrived, George stood in the center, his stance calm yet commanding. "Gather round," he said, his voice carrying across the training ground. "Today will not be about individual glory. It's time to work together—each of you will push the other. If we are to succeed, you must learn to rely on each other, not just yourself."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "This is your true test."
Before George could assign the teams for training, the blaring sound of alarms suddenly pierced through the air, cutting through the tension that had begun to settle among the Primarchs. The sharp, urgent sound echoed across the training grounds, and all eyes turned toward the source of the disturbance.
"Dr. Neoth, we are under attack by what appears to be an Ork fleet," came the voice of an officer over the intercom. "We request your presence on the bridge immediately!"
George's expression hardened, the warmth of their earlier lessons fading into the urgency of the moment. He turned to face his sons, his voice calm but commanding. "Alright, boys, looks like your training will have to change into a real fight. Who's with me?"
The response was immediate, a collective roar of agreement rising from the group. They had been trained for this—the Primarchs were not just warriors of skill, but of purpose. They were born for combat, and the threat of an Ork fleet was the perfect opportunity to put their abilities to the test.
"Let's show them what we're made of!" Horus grinned, his usual leadership shining through as he slapped Ferrus on the back, urging the others forward.
"To battle!" shouted Russ, his voice full of excitement as his usual wild energy surged forward. He was already eager for the fight, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.
"Stay sharp," Dorn cautioned, his voice steady and focused, a rare moment of calm in the face of battle.
The others were equally enthusiastic. Magnus, though he had been itching to test his magic, now felt a surge of anticipation. "Let's end this quickly," he muttered, his tone steely.
George raised his hand, the authority in his posture silencing the group. "Enough talk. Time to move. We will meet on the bridge—no exceptions."
With a single, swift motion, George turned and began to stride toward the ship's command center, his sons following closely behind, each determined to fulfill their purpose.
The battle was no longer a distant possibility; it was here. And as they made their way toward the bridge, there was no doubt in anyone's mind—their true test had come, and they would face it together. The Primarchs had been forged for war, and today, their skills would be put to the ultimate challenge.