The thunder rolled across the silver skies above Terra, the world no longer fractured by war, famine, or fear. Towering structures of alloy and light pierced the clouds, forming spires across Rome, the Heart of Terra.
In the Great Assembly Hall, a colossal amphitheater constructed with impossible precision, eighteen Primarchs stood before their father, each a god among men. Their golden eyes shimmered with anticipation. Around them, thousands of newly forged Astartes stood in perfect formation, each battalion sculpted in strength, discipline, and soul.
The Emperor sat atop the Throne of Mankind, not as a king, but as a father to sons, and a guardian to humanity.
His voice broke the silence. "My sons," he began, "the time has come to forge the future."
He gestured, and from deep beneath the Hall, massive gates opened. Rows upon rows of warriors marched forward, fully transformed Astartes, enhanced and modified with pain, fire, and purpose. Each bore unique heraldry, armor details, and subtle variations, all tailored from the gene-seed of one of the Primarchs.
"These are your Legions," the Emperor declared, standing tall, cloaked in robes of starlight and metal. "Your gene-sons. Birthed not of war, but of will. Sculpted in your image, and refined with your essence."
Horus stepped forward first, his deep, commanding presence mirrored in his Legion. Their black and gold armor shimmered under the sun, wolf emblems etched into their pauldrons.
"They shall be the Luna Wolves," Horus said with pride.
"More than wolves," the Emperor responded, "They are hope. They are strength. They are yours."
Angron approached next. He was calm now, no nails in his head, no uncontrollable rage, only a simmering fire and hardened discipline. His warriors looked like ancient gladiators, but bore armor fit for gods.
"They will never know slavery," Angron said quietly. "They will fight for the freedom of all."
"They shall be the Eaters of Chains," the Emperor declared. "Chains broken by loyalty, not madness."
One by one, the Primarchs stepped forward. Each was met with their Legion, each forged in days of agony, molded by science, and strengthened through psychic bonds with their Primarchs.
Roboute Guilliman's legion stood like tacticians made flesh.
Lorgar's bore devotion, but without blind zeal.
Ferrus Manus's legion shimmered with steel, as if metal coursed through their veins.
And Vulkan's warriors exuded warmth, a contrast to the flames they wielded.
There were no fanfares. No applause. Only quiet unity.
"You shall not be my weapons," the Emperor continued, voice resonating through every heart and soul. "You shall be the Blade of Humanity. Shields to the weak. Justice to the lost. And should the darkness rise, you will not falter."
He paused, looking down upon his sons, both forged and born.
"I did not raise you to be monsters," he said, softer now. "I raised you to be angels. Angels of light, of fury, of discipline. Go now, lead your Legions. Train them, teach them, love them as I have loved you. This galaxy will test us, but we are Mankind. And we endure."
The ground trembled as the Legions turned, moving like tidal waves of power. The Primarchs walked among them, not as distant gods, but as leaders—mentors, brothers, and icons.
The first true generation of the Legiones Astartes had risen.
Terra now had its sword.