Chapter 134 The Seventh Legion

As the lock head of the iron lock deformed silently when it was crushed together with the key, the hammer made by Morse was completely locked in the iron cabinet in his office by Perturabo.

This earned Morse a slight smack of his lips in displeasure: "I spent a lot of effort building this hammer."

Perturabo used a dagger to carve the name "Holy Word of Truth" as the weapon on the flat iron lock, and said at the same time: "I know, otherwise it would have been thrown into the vast world by me through the window."

"Don't you think about the vacuum environment outside the window?"

Perturabo walked silently back to the table and sat down. He had just changed out of his armor, and now his attire was back to Olympian style. The Primarch closed his eyes briefly, then spoke: "The memories I sent from Terra contain information about the Seventh Legion."

"Tell me?"

"And you running back to Terra and eating fried cereal while Rogal Dorn and I were scheduled to fight. Another thing I'm curious about is why you heard the word 'hammer,'" his face twitched in embarrassment. "I immediately returned to Invite."

"Oh, I mainly went over to see what Magnus did to my models." Morse walked around the room casually, looking at a shelf made of a dark wood that was as hard as steel. , and small mechanical toys on the shelf. "Magnus escaped from the paper tube?"

"I took him out of Terra."

Morse shook his head: "Okay. Let's talk about the Seventh Legion."

"Unlike the Fifteenth Legion, the Seventh Legion participated in the Unification War."

"I guess this is the normal state of the legion. Only a despised psyker legion has a reason to delay its establishment. However, the emperor does not seem to have much restraint and care for the fifteenth legion. I Hopefully it’s not something he forgot about.”

"Isn't it because you're here, Morse?"

"I can't say for sure. Mors moved further away from Perturabo's desk to ensure that from the Primarch's perspective, the high tabletop would not cover most of his body. "Continue? "

"Their record in the Unification War was acceptable, although not as good as my Fourth Legion in comparison. They captured the Crystal Sea City, conquered the Fifth Ring Fortress, and defeated the Himalayas at the cost of losing three battalions. of a clan.”

The thin piece of paper Malcador gave him appeared in front of Perturabo's eyes. The prime minister did not let him see all the details of the Unification War, but only wrote a brief chronology for him to browse. He can understand this consideration.

"In the first ten years since the establishment of the Seventh Legion, they built 600 fortresses in Terra. However, overall, this is still a newly established legion. Currently, 70% of the people are still qualified candidates. "Their first victorious battle was fought in Europe and was called the Battle of Rome."

Morse briefly put on a choked expression: "Okay, this is the Seventh Legion, I understand. It sounds very ordinary, and it is indeed not as good as the Iron Warriors' record before you returned."

"Oh, not bad." The corners of Perturabo's mouth rose and then were suppressed, "I hope Rogal Dorn can successfully connect with the Legion."

"Don't forget that Rogal Dorn is an emperor with his own small empire, even though he doesn't look like it." Morse did not shy away from his words, "Including surrendered legions and even small political bodies into his Under the flag, this is what he is comfortable with.”

"I hope he goes well, just because it will help our project get on track quickly." Perturabo gently moved away the dozen half-carved and unprimed miniature Astartes in the center of the table. The warrior model took out a newer document from the drawer, placed it on the table, aligned the corners and unfolded it.

"This is a formal cooperation document after discussion between me and Dorn," he said.

Morse let the papers fly into his hands and read them.

"I like the no-nonsense terms," ​​he said, "and the neat format and good organization. Speaking of formats, what's going on with the reports your Corps recently turned in?"

"The level of writing has suddenly improved." Perturabo snorted, "But it seems that everyone thinks that I don't pay attention to why the heirs sent by Magnus to communicate suddenly become busy from time to time."

"At least they found a practical way to accomplish their task," Morse said briskly. "What do you think Dorne would have named them?"

"I can't guess. I haven't seen any examples of his naming. Judging from his personality, he will give a legion name that is easy to understand and short."

Perturabo looked back out the window. In the depths of the universe where he had just threatened to throw away the Holy Hammer, a faint light representing the fleet seemed to appear, tiny but solidly cutting through the indestructible dark obstacle in front of them, opening up gaps for the Emperor's radiance, allowing the golden edge to touch everyone. A human heart that desires or does not desire unity.

——

"My legion." The demigod-like white-haired giant announced in the wind and snow. His resolute and cold face was paler than a stone and harder than an ice sculpture. The emotions that may exist in his heart were covered by the appearance of silence. However, , the cold oath he used to welcome the arrival of the Legion infinitely expanded his power and reliability, making him a great object of admiration and respect.

Perhaps compared to superficial joy and warmth, this is what a legion that longs for solid victory needs most.

Sigismund relaxed his breathing. The weapon was not in his hand, making him feel a little light and unstable.

Surrounding him were his battle brothers, whose bright yellow shoulder armor stood out like a mark on their iron-gray power armor. Some of them had ancient inscriptions on their armor as a mark of honor for having fought hundreds of times in the Unification War.

Rome, he saw the words engraved on the shoulder of the brother in front of him and knew that he had participated in the first battle of the legion.

Clean air caressed the fine scars on Sigismund's face through the breathing grid. The ice and snow of Invit washed the air, but Sigismund still heard the smell of dust and cooking smoke.

After the Unification War, in the plateau camp where he was born, the ropes of scrap metal bells and the faint static sound on the electric kites in the sky whispered softly in his ears again.

He grew up in the shadow of the desert fortress burning with the sunset and the wandering gangs, watching those guys wearing pale metal masks and abandoned ridiculous crowns take away the orphans in the camp. His former companions died until he killed the mortal who let the legend spread on the land with the title of the King of Corpses.

Then he was taken away by the recruiter - we come for you, the recruiter said.

Then he was sent to the moon, to be transformed. He was evaluated, received his assertion, and then joined the Seventh Legion, gathered under the banner of the Sky Eagle with more recruits.

After a long time, he knew that he almost went to the Eighth Legion. Sigismund thought that maybe it would be suitable for him, but the Seventh Legion was better. He was already here.

His gene-father looked at everyone, every battle brother. Sigismund felt that the word father was unfamiliar. Companion, friend, brother, and even teacher, he accepted these words, but father was beyond his reach.

The quiet echo spread in the air, and Sigismund saw Sera, the calm girl, the girl who lived with him in the camp, and was once a puzzle of his orphan life.

Sera looked somehow particularly peaceful, and the shadow of the dead comforted Sigismund's heart to this day.

The girl pressed an iron rod to her forehead, and the other end of the iron rod was wrapped with a leather belt. This prayer-like silent ritual did not protect her life, but Sigismund would always remember her ritual.

The remaining shadows of the war scraped across the door panels, forming a trembling hissing firelight, and his feet were full of sticky blood, staining his boots.

He picked up the iron rod from the dead girl's hand that year, and slowly put the cold iron rod against his forehead. Then he killed the enemy, he killed an enemy before becoming a soldier of the Emperor, and he became a warrior at that time.

And he kept the habit of touching the cold iron with his distracted forehead.

Through the shadows of the past burning in the dust, he saw the father of genes, Rogal Dorn, his blade sleeping at his waist, the ice and snow of Inwit lodged in his body, showing through the light irises and pure white short hair. Silence radiated from him, like the vast snowfield on the eve of a blizzard.

"Are you willing to dedicate your lives to your brothers, the Legion, and humanity? Are you willing to dedicate your lives to me, to your oath?"

"We will dedicate ourselves to our brothers, the Legion, and humanity," thousands of voices penetrated the ice of the snowfield, more piercing than the cold wind.

A strange sense of purification was penetrating deep into Sigismund's heart, where a peaceful place gradually formed. The shadow of his past gave way to the cold wind, and the eternal light of Inwit fell on him.

"We will dedicate our lives to you, to our oath."

"Will you swear again, in front of the brothers who shared the oath?"

"We swear again."

The icy wind swept across the snowfield, and the broken ice hit the armor. The cold froze the dust and blood, leaving only the unchanging firmness.

Rogal Dorn was silent in the light reflected by the ice and snow.

Then the father of the legion said: "I accept you as my heirs. You are the Fists of the Empire."

Sigismund closed his eyes. His mind spun from the past to the present, into an expectation of the future. The dusty wind that once blew through the Drifting Camp was washed by the snow of Inwit, filtered into pure will.

He felt a quiet coolness from his forehead deep into his bones, as if he was pressing his forehead against the surface of Dorn's longsword.

Father. He thought. Gene father.