The training fields of Terra pulsed with new life.
Months had passed since the awakening of the Primarchs, and now, with the Legions forged from humanity's finest and tempered in the Emperor's vision, the fire of unity burned brighter than ever before. Each Primarch, shaped by their own nature, began molding their warriors not just through command, but through presence.
In the northwestern expanse of the training complexes, under the open sky, Angron stood in silence. Shirtless, his towering frame glistened with sweat as he drove his fists into a steel training pylon. Each strike left a dent. Each strike sent tremors into the ground.
He didn't speak.
He didn't remember a past life.
But within him, there was a storm.
He felt rage at the sight of chains. Disgust at submission. Fury at cruelty.
No one taught him these things. They were born into him, etched into his soul as if his very existence rejected the concept of slavery and oppression.
His warriors, still newly created Astartes, watched in silence. He didn't call them brothers. He didn't shout orders. He simply trained, and they followed.
One night, as the crimson glow of Terra's industrial skies dimmed beneath the artificial lights, a young Astartes named Kael stepped forward, unable to contain his question.
"My lord," he asked, voice steady but respectful, "Why do you hate chains so much?"
Angron turned his gaze toward the young warrior. His eyes burned, not with hatred, but with something far deeper: memoryless pain.
"I don't know," he said after a moment. "But when I see a man in chains, I want to break them. I want to tear down the walls that hold him. That's all I need to know."
He turned back to the pylon.
"But you will never wear chains. You will break them. For all mankind."
In that moment, something changed in the hearts of his warriors. They saw not just fury, but purpose. Not just violence, but justice.
And the seeds of the most passionate, loyal legion began to take root.
---
Far to the south, within the obsidian towers of the Raven Guard's bastion, Corvus Corax moved through the shadows like a ghost. His legion was becoming an extension of his own quiet intensity, silent, calculating, and impossibly quick.
He walked between his warriors during training, correcting a stance with a glance, adjusting a breathing rhythm with a tap on the shoulder. He rarely spoke.
But when he did, they listened.
One mission, a simulated operation deep within Terra's artificial ruins, saw one Astartes disobey orders and rush into enemy territory early. He succeeded, yes, but it cost them their perfect execution.
Later, Corax pulled the Astartes aside. Not in front of his brothers. Alone, in the silence.
"You were fast. But speed without restraint is chaos."
The Astartes bowed his head. "I thought I could end it before it began."
Corax looked at him evenly. "You ended a piece. But not the war. Learn from it. We are not a hammer, we are the scalpel. The whisper before the storm."
That night, Corax stood at the highest point of the bastion, gazing toward the stars.
"When the time comes, we will fly among them. And they will not even see our wings."
---
To the far west, amid snow laden fields and frosted peaks, Leman Russ howled into the wind.
His legion, wild, laughing, intense, clashed and bonded over battle and feasts alike. They trained as warriors, as hunters, as brothers.
Russ wrestled them, sparred them, drank with them. He shared stories—some real, others grand tales meant to stir their spirit.
They loved him, not because he demanded it, but because he earned it.
"Who are we?" he bellowed one night, standing atop a frozen hill.
"The wolves of Terra!" his warriors shouted back.
"And what do we do?"
"We hunt! We guard! We fight!"
Russ laughed, eyes gleaming with fierce pride. "You're more than that. You are the shield-bearers of humanity. The fang against the dark. And if the stars tremble at the sound of our approach, good."
---
In the golden halls of the throne city, the Emperor stood with hands behind his back, watching the projections of his sons' legions on floating displays. His golden armor shimmered in the candlelit silence.
They were growing. Becoming.
And soon, they would not just be weapons, they would be hope.
"They are readying," he whispered to himself.
The stars would soon know their names.
And humanity would march toward the stars, not in fear, but in triumph.
---
Ps: can't find a angron picture without the butcher's nail