Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 607 Medusa's Visitor
The outpost on the edge of Medusa detected the approach of a small fleet.

The ship's silhouette is rigid and its lines are sharp, like a mobile fortress emerging from the void.

The ship is painted in the Imperial Fist's signature bright yellow, interspersed with solemn black stripes—a symbol of the Rog'dorne descendants.

They sailed in a stable and precise formation, like a silent rehearsal.

The flagship "Eternal Resolve" sent out a multi-encrypted Imperial identification code and connection request, declaring its affiliation to the Imperial Fist and its sub-group, the Black Templar.

Representing the Fist of the Empire is Thor Galadon, the Third Company Commander and Fortress Master, known for his excellent defense and unwavering will.

Accompanying him was Marshal Drake Weir of the Black Templar, an experienced expeditionary commander.

His black armor was engraved with scriptures and inscriptions of victories, and his gaze behind his goggles was steady and focused.

The entire delegation consisted of highly skilled Astartes, whose restrained demeanor and stern bearing reflected the discipline characteristic of the Dornish lineage.

As the shuttle boat sailed toward Karada Fortress, Galadon and Will stood in front of the observation window, gazing at the iron-gray surface of Medusa.

Low, muffled conversations broke out in the encrypted channel.

“Brother Weir,” Garaton’s voice was as steady as ever, “information from the Hall of Starspeak and the Inquisition indicates that most prophecies point to one thing: Lord Robert Guilliman is the first Primarch to return.”

This is the scene we've been waiting for.

The marshal did not turn his head, responding with the deep resonance characteristic of the Black Sanctuary: "Indeed."

Numerous omens indicate that the world is about to experience a turning point.

Some documents also suggest that Ryan Aljonson, the Lion King, might also return.

He paused briefly, "but none of the prophecies mention Medusa."

No prophet had ever foreseen that the bloodline of the Lord of Steel would reappear in this place.

“The records are clear,” Galadron continued, in a reporting tone, “all reliable accounts confirm that Primarch of the Steel Hand, Felus Manus, died in the Istvan V massacre ten thousand years ago.”

The certainty of his death far surpasses that of other missing entities.

He turned his helmet slightly, “And this return… in its manner and context, is not in line with any imperial doctrine, history, or prophetic framework.”

This is an exception variable that must be handled as a priority.

“The Emperor’s will is the ultimate source of all miracles,” Will responded, a mixture of piety and pragmatism. “His plans are beyond our comprehension.”

But precisely because of this, we must examine everything with fervent skepticism and thorough scrutiny—especially when miracles unfold in completely unexpected ways.

Unspoken doubts permeated the channel: fears that this was a blasphemous trick by the Warp, exploiting their genuine longing for the Primarch's return.

"The authenticity must be thoroughly verified," Galatton finally said, his tone resolute. "Not just by genetic imprints or memory comparisons, but also by examining the nature of its existence and whether its will is absolutely consistent with the pure goals of the Empire."

The Son of Dorne will find out the truth.

Does the Black Temple cooperate?

"The Black Templar Sword will forever be loyal to truth and the purity of humanity," Will solemnly declared, his fingers unconsciously tracing the hilt. "If she is truly the Primarch, we will offer our utmost loyalty and power."

"Otherwise..." his voice turned icy, "...then the only way to purify it is with fire and explosives."

A brief silence fell, with only the low hum of the shuttle boat's engine filling the cabin.

The two Astartes looked once more toward the approaching, rugged fortress belonging to the Hand of Steel.

Whatever awaits them, they are prepared.
-
The outposts on the edge of Medusa monitor the void in perpetual vigilance.

The sensor array had just stabilized, recording the energy signature of the Imperial Fist fleet's arrival, when a new alarm sounded. Another fleet was emerging from the warp, its signal signature drastically different from the uniformity of the Dornish Spawn.

These ships were elegant and swift, like red comets streaking across the sea of ​​stars, their hulls adorned with the symbol of the Blood Angels—the wings of blood.

Leading the group was a fast combat ship named "Spear of Saint Gillespie," whose sailing posture possessed an almost artistic fluidity, contrasting sharply with the steadfast and composed Imperial Fist "Eternal Resolve."

The Imperial Fist's shuttle boats are preparing to head towards Karada Fortress.

Company Commander Thor Garaton and Field Marshal Derek Weir briefly exchanged this new information via encrypted channel.

The two chapters did not coordinate their actions on their journey to Medusa, but their almost simultaneous arrival was not entirely a coincidence.

The fragments of information sent by the Star Language Court simultaneously touched the rigorous pragmatism of the Imperial Fist and the burning desire of the Holy Blood Angels, leading them towards the same goal.

Following a brief inter-fleet communication, the two delegations decided to meet together.

This was in line with the tradition of cooperation among the Imperial Astartes, and both sides recognized the historical significance of the meeting and the value of mutually verifying their observations.

The Imperial Fist seeks irrefutable evidence and logical justification, while the Blood Angels yearn for proof of hope and faith.

The reception hall at Karada Fortress was more solemn than usual.

The Iron Hand Clan had specially increased security, with two teams of Iron Hand Terminators standing on either side of the hall, their figures like silent steel statues, their power gauntlets gleaming coldly in the cold light.

In the center of the hall, Ferrus Manus stood majestically, her liquid metal arms occasionally rippling under the light, as if they were alive.

The Imperial Fist delegation was the first to enter the hall.

Company Commander Thor Garadon walked at the front, his bright yellow armor standing out under the hall's lighting, the Imperial Fist insignia clearly visible on his shoulder armor.

Following closely behind was Marshal Drake Weir of the Black Templar, whose black armor was engraved with scriptures and oath ribbons, and whose sword hilt was decorated with sacred symbols.

The entire Imperial Fist delegation moved in perfect unison, demonstrating the discipline and precision characteristic of the Sons of Dorne.

Their movements were perfectly coordinated, as if they had practiced countless times, with every detail conforming to the norms of the Astartes.

Moments later, the delegation of the Holy Blood Angels arrived.

Chief think tank member Mephisto led the way, his red armor adorned with intricate gold angel wing reliefs, contrasting sharply with the blue details of the think tank members' armor.

His face bore the distinctive features of a descendant of the Holy Blood, a blend of handsomeness and inner struggle, his eyes sharp and containing a barely perceptible thirst.

The accompanying Holy Blood Angels were elegant yet clearly eager, their armor adorned with various personalized relics and medals, contrasting sharply with the uniformity of the Imperial Fist.

Company Commander Galadon was the first to salute, his movements precise and in accordance with the sacred rites.

“Lord Ferrus Manus,” he spoke through his helmet speaker, his voice as steady as a rock, “on behalf of the Imperial Fist Chapter and the Black Templars, we offer our sincerest respects for your return from a distant time.”

The blood of Dorne has never forgotten the years spent fighting alongside the Primarch.

Your reappearance is a powerful boost to the Empire's convictions, a victory for the divine will of humanity.

Almost at the same moment, Mephisto stepped forward and bowed, his manners impeccable but conveying a more overt emotion.

“Lord Felus,” his voice was more emotional than Garadon’s, “to see you standing here is like relighting a beacon in a dark universe.”

The Holy Blood Angels rejoice at your return, proving that hope still exists, even in the deepest despair.

His gaze was almost fixed on Feralus, as if he were examining a living miracle.

(End of this chapter)