Chapter 173: Huron, You've Been Exposed! |
"Greetings, Chapter Master Huron."
Aglaia slightly tilted her head, her gaze slowly sweeping across the port space as if evaluating something.
Then, she turned to Huron. With her chin slightly raised, maintaining a proper dignity neither haughty nor humble, she offered a calm nod of greeting.
Stepping back, she decisively relinquished the initiative in the conversation.
The gravity in Huron's eyes eased slightly, and the tense lines of his shoulder armor imperceptibly relaxed a fraction.
Without another word, he stepped forward to meet Romulus.
It was, in a way, a matter of fate.
Before heading to Ultramar, Huron had been preparing for his first Great Rift conquest war since ascending to the position of Chapter Master.
The Great Rift auxiliary force, built over fifty years of tax evasion, along with the 'complete' Astral Claws Chapter, was fully geared and ready to deploy. They had finished purging the pirates and heretical forces from the Badab Sector. All they needed was for the requested reinforcements from the Black Templars to arrive, and they could launch their expedition.
This infuriated Huron greatly. However, considering the forces at his disposal, no matter how frustrated he felt, he had no choice but to order the Maelstrom Warders back to their strongholds to wait for the next opportunity.
Meanwhile, he holed up in Badab, secretly cursing these Sons of Dorn for disregarding their brotherhood and lacking any sense of credibility or honor.
But after hearing that the four lords had gathered Imperial forces at Baal to launch the Dawn Crusade—an endeavor that still held the rapt attention of the High Lords of Terra—the resentment festering in his chest instantly dissipated.
Huron's fingers unconsciously stroked his deactivated Power Fist. His gaze pierced through the observation port, cast deep into the void.
There, the Gloriana-class battleship of the Nemesis Chapter hovered silently, its adamantium armor rippling with a cold, metallic luster under the starlight.
An indescribable sense of sour bitterness welled up in his heart—
It was not jealousy, but a deeper emotion akin to profound regret.
Now, he was angry about only one thing:
When the Black Templars left back then, why hadn't they taken his forces along?!
Three years.
In just three short years, this Expeditionary Fleet had set out from the galactic north and blazed a trail straight southward.
They had reclaimed nearly a thousand fallen planets and eradicated countless heretics and Xenos.
They had reconstructed ancient trade routes, manifesting the majestic awe of humanity once again.
Whenever sporadic battle reports trickled into the Macragge Sector, Huron would pore over them endlessly in his tactical room, as if trying to witness that epic Crusade firsthand through those cold lines of text.
He knew of Karna's valor and charisma. That brilliantly dazzling presence was impossible to ignore, shining like the sun whether on a corpse-strewn battlefield or in a resplendent council hall.
As for the other two, their information was so scarce that even Calgar only knew their names. It was only today, upon finally beholding their true forms, that Huron could truly feel the immense pressure radiating outward from within their very beings.
One was composed and serene, lacking a single flaw. He felt like an observer watching from thousands of miles away, yet he exuded the contradictory sensation of a blade pressed squarely against one's throat.
The other was cynical and playful, treating the mortal realm as a mere game and seemingly indifferent to worldly matters, yet the flickering ripples deep in his eyes betrayed a profoundly lethal nature.
They were both far more exceptional than he, Huron, could claim to be. They were figures worthy of his admiration and emulation.
However—
When Huron arrived before Romulus, his breathing grew slightly heavy, and his servo-systems let out an almost imperceptible hum.
Romulus Quirinus.
A master strategist, deciding the fate of battles from thousands of miles away.
A ruler of the stars with endless authority resting in the palm of his hand.
In that instant, the light igniting in Huron's eyes was not merely respect. It was a searing ambition that nearly burned through his rationality.
'This is what a true man should be!'
"I offer you my highest respects, Lord Romulus."
He delivered a solemn salute, his posture respectful but never subservient.
'A man born to achieve great things.'
Romulus mused softly.
"It is a pity that his abilities cannot match his ambitions."
Rameses's voice echoed directly in his mind.
"He has operational skills, sure, but his interpersonal relations are an utter disaster. It takes a special kind of talent to turn every Imperial faction outside the Adeptus Astartes into enemies."
His gaze swept over the Space Wolves outside the port, who were currently busy picking fights with the Tech-Priests, as a vague plan began to form in his mind.
'I really should send these combative wolf-pups to take a stroll on the Silent Vow. The Dark Angels' reactions would certainly be entertaining.'
At the same time, deductions regarding Huron's future scrolled through his mind like a stream of data:
Huron. Leader of the Great Rift. Pioneer of tax evasion. Master of illicit gene-seed expansion.
If left without intervention, history would simply repeat itself—in 150 years, in M41.903, an Imperial audit would gradually penetrate the Badab Sector, and Huron would be exposed.
The members of the audit committee would unearth the first discrepancy from a mountain of records, then a second, and a third...
They would first discover his tax evasion, and by following the trail, uncover the excommunicated Tiger Claws Chapter.
While investigating the issue of harboring the successor chapter, they would accidentally expose his unsanctioned, over-strength ranks of Space Marines.
And when they dug deeper into the source of his recruits, the darkest, most blasphemous evidence would finally surface.
In his desperation to expand his numbers more rapidly, Huron had 'slightly' tampered with the gene-seed using the Warp.
After that, it would all be over.
A rising star of Chaos would emerge, second only to the topknot-sporting Abaddon.
In a mere hundred years, he would grow his Red Corsairs warband into the second-largest Chaos Astartes faction, surpassed only by Abaddon's Black Legion.
"Indeed. He is a standard Astartes supremacist, placing his trust solely in the Adeptus Astartes."
Romulus replied mentally.
It was too early to execute this Chapter Master. People could change, and it was unjust to judge the man of the present for crimes he might commit in the future.
Erebus being the sole exception.
"My greetings to you, Chapter Master Huron."
Romulus paused in silence, studying the man before him.
There was plenty of room to maneuver regarding Huron's situation. They didn't even need to fully resolve it; just delaying the inevitable for another century would be a victory in itself.
Rameses had recently begun researching the Power of the Death God. Once they managed to cultivate a full legion, they would head straight into the Eye of Terror at Cadia to snatch the Sword of the Crone. When that happened, Guilliman might even awaken early.
"We need the relevant data, especially the records of refugees from various sectors."
Romulus said, his gaze shifting past Huron toward the fortress-monastery.
"Of course. Our staff has already finished processing them. Please, follow me."
Huron responded immediately, making a standard guiding gesture with his right hand.
He paid no attention to the endless stream of vehicles and equipment being unloaded from the transport ships. He didn't even cast a second glance at them, even though a mere fraction of those supplies would have been enough for his past self to lead his entire Chapter into a glorious war.
'Building a solid relationship with the four lords is more important than anything else.'
The group stepped forward to follow, the sound of their boots striking the adamantium floor echoing rhythmically through the long corridor.
Romulus's gaze slowly swept over the defensive emplacements along the way.
The route Huron had meticulously plotted was nothing short of perfect. From the deployment arrays of the Orbital Defense Platforms to the firing arcs of the ground-based anti-air batteries, every strategic node was clearly visible.
These fortifications showcased the unique rigor of a commander accustomed to dealing with deep-space raids. The overlapping fields of fire between the gun emplacements left absolutely no blind spots.
However, the handling of the population distribution left much to be desired.
It was visibly sluggish. The bloated congestion of gathered crowds contrasted sharply with what should have been an efficient process of dispersing, inspecting, and resettling the people back onto transports heading for the rearward sanctuary planets.
"Quite the schemer."
He couldn't help but chuckle softly, then directly posed a question.
"Chapter Master Huron, may I ask if there are any particular difficulties in the population distribution process here on Calth?"
Huron felt a surge of joy. It was exactly as he had anticipated—leaders who pursued absolute perfection could never tolerate wasted efficiency.
"Yes. Due to the presence of Genestealers, we must perform genetic testing on every incoming refugee."
Huron's voice sounded particularly deep through his power armor's Vox-caster. He deliberately slowed his speech, imbuing each syllable with just the right amount of gravity.
"However, the Adeptus Mechanicus has monopolized the production and operation of the testing instruments, and through this, they have taken control of parts of the planetary defense system's logistics..."
'What do they want with controlling the port?'
Romulus's gaze cut through the observation window, locking onto the distant, bustling loading docks.
Those red-robed figures wove across the cargo platforms, their servo-skulls circling like greedy vultures over every transport ship that made port.
The answer was blatantly obvious—
They were taking advantage of the Sector's chaos to dispatch explorator fleets, fishing in troubled waters across various worlds.
If they managed to unearth an STC fragment, it would be an incredible boon. But even if they found nothing, they could still quietly advance their own secrets amidst the turmoil.
Romulus stared into the void for two seconds. He simply waved his hand without revealing a hint of emotion.
Arthur silently turned and walked away.
'If you won't do the job, there are plenty of others who will.'
Seeing this, Huron couldn't help but clench his fist in excitement.
However, that excitement did not last long.
——
Smack—!
The adamantium conference table echoed with a dull thud under the heavy strike. A parchment document, bearing the wax seal of the High Lords, slid half a meter across its surface.
Aglaia still held her hand out in a halting gesture, but Rameses had already beaten her to it, slapping the document down directly in front of Huron.
"Chapter Master Huron—"
Rameses dragged out the syllables, his fingertips rhythmically tapping the glaring tax audit seal stamped on the file. He leaned in slightly, casting a heavy shadow over Huron's suddenly rigid face.
"You've been exposed."
——
Inside the conference hall, Aglaia stared directly into Huron's eyes.
The air was thick with unspoken threats.
"Chapter Master Huron, according to known Imperial records, the Tiger Claws Chapter has been excommunicated. I must confirm one thing: do you still remain loyal to the Imperium?"
After Huron had personally handed operational control of the Astral Claws over to Romulus, and Rameses had slapped the document onto the table, the atmosphere in the hall grew decidedly hostile.
Buzz~
A servo-skull emitted an uneasy mechanical hum from the corner, while the scratching sound of an auto-quill scrawling across parchment seemed exceptionally grating.
"Of course."
Huron nodded with total candor, allowing the Inquisitor to see every minute shift in his expression.
Although Lord Rameses's sudden ambush was terrifying, the Expeditionary Fleet's stance was already crystal clear: they intended to protect him.
Questioning him now was a good sign. Doubts raised in this room meant there was still room for negotiation.
"While the Great Rift serves as a galactic hub, it also borders dangerous Warp rifts. As the Maelstrom Warders, we have held our ground here for centuries. No one has the right to question our loyalty."
His Power Fist tightened involuntarily as he recalled the countless days and nights spent trading fire with Chaos warbands.
The flashes of artillery illuminating the void, the sight of Warp-corrupted vessels disintegrating before his eyes... the mere thought that he might one day become something like that sent a chilling wave of revulsion shooting up his spine.
Without the supplies and recruits provided by Imperial worlds, his grand ambition to conquer the Great Rift would forever remain an impossible pipe dream.
"Your promises will have to be proven by time, Chapter Master Huron."
Aglaia gave a slight nod. From the corner of her eye, she caught the sudden manifestation of the Callidus Assassin beside her. Shrouded in optical camouflage, the killer seemed to materialize directly out of thin air.
The silent exchange between the two seemed to drop the temperature in the room by a few degrees.
A moment later, the Inquisitor spoke again. "Your refusal to pay taxes is no secret to the High Lords."
"I am aware."
Huron clearly acknowledged the fact. He had been withholding his tithes for fifty years. The merchant alliances in the neighboring, superior sector of Karthago had been jumping up and down in anger, but the Sector's Inspector-General of Tithes hadn't made a single move.
This signaled the Imperium's tacit consent, which was precisely why he had dared to keep doing it.
The Adeptus Arbites were terrifyingly efficient; many Slaaneshi Chaos cults in various sectors were only caught by the Arbites because they failed to pay their taxes. For him to drag out his payments for decades without being investigated was incredibly unnatural.
Though they rarely caught Genestealers, simply because Genestealers were model taxpayers.
The Callidus Assassin stole a quiet glance at Romulus.
The commander of the Expeditionary Fleet was flipping through the files at an astonishing speed. The rustling of parchment dancing beneath his fingertips sounded like an urgent drumbeat. He spent less time on each page than an ordinary man would take to read the title, yet his sharp eyes clearly seared every single word into his memory.
"The Imperium's mandate is for you to guard the Great Rift Zone, not to conquer it. The Imperium does not wish to see the rise of another Macarius. At the same time, it expects that a sector should, to some degree, fulfill its necessary obligations."
Every emphasis in her repeated words was placed perfectly, as if the Grand Master of Assassins were speaking directly through her lips.
The candlelight cast flickering shadows over her bright eyes, making the unspoken implications glaringly obvious.
"I understand."
Huron replied immediately.
"Furthermore, for reasons everyone is well aware of, you must prop up mortal representatives. You are forbidden from explicitly interfering in the political affairs of individual planets."
"Agreed."
His answer remained crisp and decisive, without a sliver of hesitation.
The corners of Huron's mouth twitched slightly. He had waited for a negotiation opportunity like this for far too long. He could accept compromises, Imperial supervision, and drawn red lines. In reality, he had never intended to rebel in the first place.
All he wanted was to conquer the Great Rift and fulfill his personal ambitions.
But the Imperium had consistently ignored him.
Lowering his gaze, Huron recalled those solitary tactical games he had played out in the Badab fortress, the relentless calculations of troop deployments in front of his star maps.
Now, there was finally a chance to put them into practice.
"The Imperium will proceed with rebuilding the Tiger Claws, but it must be done using the gene-seed surrendered by the Ultramarines. Furthermore, the reconstruction must take place on Macragge, under the strict supervision of the Ultramarines themselves."
She added, which was also a way to present a minor demand to the Expeditionary Fleet.
Andal involuntarily clenched his hands. Disrupted puffs of white mist sprayed from his breathing grille, and his servo-systems let out an unnatural hum.
The exact time this sergeant joined the Astral Claws was a mystery, but it was certain he had not participated in the Tiger Claws' original Crusade of Penance.
Rameses, who had already ensnared a Space Wolves' wolf-pup with a Thousand Sons psychic illusion, shot the man a brief glance.
He was the last of the Tiger Claws, and he would also be the last of the Astral Claws.
"The Imperium can trust in the loyalty of the Tiger Claws. However, considering the source of their gene-seed, we require a detailed roster of all Tiger Claws warriors. Their gene-seed must be fully recovered through the gene-seed tithe."
Seeing his tacit agreement, Aglaia continued.
A look of conflict twisted Huron's face.
Bound by instinctive brotherhood, he dreaded the thought of his brothers' lineage being severed. Yet, it was undeniably true that the Tiger Claws had originated from a notoriously infamous founding.
The Cursed Founding.
The Astartes Chapters birthed from this founding were, to varying degrees, afflicted by gene-seed mutations.
This included physical mutations, such as the sharp, protruding bone blades of the Black Dragons Chapter.
It also encompassed psychological mutations, with a significant number of Chapters from that founding having ultimately fallen to Chaos.
This resulted in these Chapters not only suffering relentless, high-intensity scrutiny from the Inquisition but also enduring the cold disdain of their fellow Battle-Brothers.
The Lamenters Chapter, another member of the Maelstrom Warders, was also a product of the Cursed Founding. However, thanks to the surprising stability of their gene-seed and their compassionate, noble demeanor, they had managed to fare surprisingly well.
Truth be told, the Lamenters' mutation was arguably the most severe of them all—they had actually mutated a conscience.
"History has proven that the vast majority of Chapters from the 21st Founding were mistakes."
The Inquisitor's voice fell like the strike of an icy gavel. She deliberately slowed her pace, letting each syllable drive into the air like iron nails.
"The mutations in their gene-seed are far too severe. They no longer possess the right to be preserved."
The data servitors unanimously paused their recording. Their mechanical arms hovered mid-air, all waiting for Huron's reaction.
This was the Officio Assassinorum's bottom line. Due to the nature of his profession, no one in the Imperium—save for the detached Custodian Guard—knew more secrets than the Grand Master of Assassins.
Thus, the Officio Assassinorum could stomach the loss of mundane, material interests, but they absolutely refused to tolerate unstable elements.
Had they not struggled to find concrete leverage against the Black Dragons, they would have erased that Chapter from existence long ago.
Hearing this, Romulus couldn't help but shake his head.
The root of this tragedy clearly lay with the Magos Biologis who had unauthorizedly tampered with the genetic sequences, and the High Lords who had blindly approved the founding. Yet, it was the Adeptus Astartes, battling on beneath the weight of their curses, who were forced to reap the bitter harvest.
Meanwhile, within the noble mausoleums of Terra, those decision-making High Lords were likely nothing more than tombstones etched with hypocritical lies, receiving forgotten offerings.
"...I only ask that the brothers of the Tiger Claws be allowed to participate in the rebuilding of the Chapter."
After a long silence, Huron finally spoke.
"Permitted."
The psychic glow swirling in Aglaia's eyes abruptly extinguished. The invisible link between her and the Callidus Assassin was severed like a snipped thread.
The assassin's figure immediately melded back into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the faint, shimmering specks of fading optical camouflage.
"These are the Imperium's demands of you, as well as its bottom line."
The Inquisitor adjusted the warding chains at her cuffs, the metal links clinking crisply together.
She paused for a moment, allowing the hall's automatic recorders to finish logging the final data entry, before continuing,
"What follows next is a personal request from me."
"Speak, please."
Compared to the beginning of their meeting, Huron's tone was notably more polite.
Many things, once brought out into the open, were actually quite manageable.
Of course, the primary factor was still the imposing presence of the Expeditionary Fleet.
He cast a grateful look toward Romulus, who had facilitated this very meeting.
His own minor infractions were nothing compared to the magnitude of the Expeditionary Fleet's actions.
Romulus was already remotely manipulating Sector politics, orchestrating the appointments and dismissals of various departmental officials, and gathering the Expeditionary Fleet's forces into his own power bloc. What he intended to do next was simply unthinkable.
The High Lords were practically cursing their mothers in frustration, wondering why the Chapter that had stumbled upon these 'Primarchs' wasn't the Ultramarines, but the Black Templars. Damn it, with the way things were going in the Segmentum Ultima, it was genuinely hard to say whose name the region would bear in the future.
It was a truly bizarre chemical reaction between fellow renegades.
Thank the Emperor for Aglaia, a channel of communication that satisfied both sides. Furthermore, Romulus possessed a crystal-clear understanding of the High Lords' limits. Had it been otherwise, an open conflict would have only been a matter of time.
In any case, the High Lords had firmly resolved themselves to a single stance: as long as this group didn't openly secede from the Imperium, and as long as they didn't sail their warships into the Sol System, they could wreak whatever havoc they pleased.
They had fought from north to south in a mere three years; sweeping from east to west probably wouldn't take them much longer.
——
"..."
The air in the conference hall seemed to freeze. Only the suppressed breathing of the Inquisitor echoed against the adamantium walls.
Even through her deliberately controlled rhythm, a distinct tremble was audible.
[Asteria, agri-garden world. Attacked by a Hive Fleet 192 days ago. The Departmento Munitorum and various local Nobles deployed massive armed forces in an attempt to defend this jewel of the Eastern Ultramar Sector. However, the situation remains grim.]
[The last recorded contact with Asteria occurred 32 days ago. Logs indicate that the local Tyranid organisms have reached the hundreds of billions, and the planet is still besieged by tens of thousands of Tyranid bio-ships.]
[Three weeks ago, a joint force consisting of the Ultramarines' Talsar squad, the Mortifactors, and the Lamenters deployed to the agri-garden world of Asteria. They are authorized to initiate an Exterminatus upon the planet if deemed necessary.]
[As of now, no refugee fleets from Asteria have been received.]
"My lord, I request permission to travel to Asteria."
Aglaia stated immediately, her tone dead serious.
"We will go together."
With a light flick of his fingers, Romulus closed the yellowed parchment file.
The Invincible Iron Guard instantly began gathering the documents from the table, silently stowing them into encrypted containers. The sharp 'clack' of the metal boxes sealing shut rang out crisply in the quiet hall.
"Huron, you are in absolute command of the evacuation operations. You are authorized to execute first and report later, but remember to file the paperwork."
"Yes, my lord!"
Huron instantly beat his chest in a crisp salute.
The group swiftly rose and marched briskly toward the landing pad of the Stormbird.
Aglaia's pupils widened slightly as she stared at the backs of the Transmigrators, suddenly at a loss for words.
In that singular moment, the accumulated exhaustion of her daily scrambles to report to the High Lords, and the crushing pressure of her constant anxiety, seemed to melt away significantly.
Hard work, it seemed, truly did pay off.
And now, destiny had made its choice.
The Inquisitor had been graced with good luck.
"...Mm."
In the end, she merely murmured a soft agreement and hurried to catch up with the group, the clatter of her boots against the adamantium floor a bit more chaotic than usual.
Romulus, of course, had not suddenly lost his mind in some misguided attempt to win a beauty's smile.
Aglaia was certainly pleasant to work with. Out of camaraderie, Romulus was perfectly willing to provide her with martial support and manpower; he personally would never skimp on the assistance he could offer.
But no matter how pleasant she was, he would never arbitrarily alter tactical deployments just for her sake, nor would he joke around with the lives of countless warriors.
The key point was that the Lamenters were over there.
The intelligence Huron provided was exceedingly detailed. Romulus felt they could start anywhere; after all, the current tendrils of Hive Fleet Behemoth were spread incredibly thin. Their strategy clearly prioritized gathering Biomass before punching through the defensive lines with overwhelming force.
The presence of the Lamenters instantly gave Romulus a clear direction. It also allowed him to take care of his comrade's emotional state—killing two birds with one stone.
Remember how the Chapters of the Cursed Founding all carried their own distinct flaws?
The Lamenters naturally had theirs as well.
Their warriors boasted incredibly robust physiques and an abnormally high gene-seed compatibility rate. They suffered neither from the Bloodthirst that plagued the Sons of the Angels, nor did they frequently succumb to the Black Rage, with such outbursts being remarkably rare.
These pristine traits were enough to make any Sanguinary Priest of the Blood Angels' lineage turn green with envy.
Therefore, their flaw did not manifest physically.
Romulus abruptly raised his head to look through the observation window. Through the armaglass, he could see the Lamenters' banner hanging in the docking port. The war-torn standard fluttered gently amidst the azure glow of the void shields.
They were exceedingly unlucky.
Very, very unlucky.