"Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west—don't underestimate a poor youth! If you've got the guts, don't use your psychic powers!"
"Shut up! Why would I not use my powers and still be the Master of Mankind? Speak! When did you get here?"
"I just arrived! Stop hitting, stop hitting, big brother—no, Father! I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have walked in on you and Malcador getting cozy!"
Diedrech Torismund would've been fine if he'd kept quiet, but opening his mouth made everyone want to smack him. Even Malcador, who'd been watching the show from the sidelines, rolled up his sleeves and joined in.
For making the Master of Mankind lose face in front of the Imperial Regent, Diedrech was double-teamed, pinned to the ground, and thrashed for a solid half-hour, his face beaten into a pig's head.
Thankfully, the Custodes standing guard outside had the sense to close the door, or else if anyone else had seen, the good fatherly image Diedrech had just built would've been obliterated.
"Why aren't you back with your legion? What are you doing here?"
Slumped on the floor, Diedrech wriggled his body, flipping over like a maggot. This time, he didn't dare run his mouth for cheap shots. Lifting his swollen pig head, he fumbled for a moment to find the right direction before voicing his question:
"Old yellow man, why is the Second Legion so small? Are you hiding my troops?"
Truth be told, it was a bit unfair. After bonding with his big boy, Diedrech quickly noticed a major issue: the Second Legion's numbers were pitifully low.
Through observation, Diedrech found no genetic defects in his sons. Aside from being a head taller than the average Space Marine, they were practically perfect.
But upon learning that the Second Legion had been scattered across other legions since its founding and only recently reassembled, Diedrech began to suspect the yellow-skin had stolen his kids.
The thought that he might've been freeloaded made Diedrech feel deeply uncomfortable. He immediately ordered his legion to go eat while he went to demand answers.
After hearing his rebellious son's inner journey, the now-calmed Emperor exchanged a glance with Malcador, confirming their earlier conversation hadn't been overheard, before speaking.
"All of the Second Legion's members are here. I haven't hidden any of your sons. As for why their numbers are so low, that's entirely because of you."
"Me?"
The Emperor nodded. With a flash of golden light, he tossed an experimental log into Diedrech's hands.
"Due to your higher-dimensional nature, even though you were just a pile of scraps when you crashed onto Terra, turning you into a Primarch was no easy task.
To craft your body, I had to fuse you into the already-failed Second's form. Even then, your structure wouldn't stabilize. But am I one to accept failure? So…"
"So what?" Now Diedrech was genuinely nervous. Who knew what kind of weird stuff the Emperor had stuffed into him during his creation?
Thankfully, the Emperor didn't play the riddle-master this time and spilled the rest straightforwardly.
"So I threw in all the leftover scraps from making the other Primarchs. But that caused an excess of Warp debris, so I added some C'tan shards—or, more accurately, C'tan dandruff, to be precise.
This made your gene-seed extremely difficult to adapt."
Diedrech could hardly describe his feelings. It was like buying a pet dog, raising it, and then finding out it was a mutt. Worse still, he was the mutt.
This was where the Emperor and Malcador's emotional intelligence diverged. Seeing the kid's mental state crumble, the Emperor just kept rattling off experiment details, while Malcador handed Diedrech a cup of tea.
With a heart full of absurdity and trembling hands, Diedrech chewed up the hot tea—cup and all—swallowed it, and continued asking, "So, don't I have any strengths? Like how each Primarch has a specific role—give me some positive feedback!"
Diedrech wasn't giving up, desperate to hear some objective praise from the Emperor's mouth.
"Of course you do. I'm the Imperium's greatest scientist. It may sound a bit haphazard, but you can look at it from another angle."
"How so?"
"For instance, you might possess the First's civilization, the Third's finesse, the Fourth's resilience, the Tenth's wisdom, and even my Sagittarian loyalty. The possibilities are endless."
Diedrech gave a silent, bitter laugh. After sorting out who those examples referred to, he forced a smile uglier than a sob.
"So I'm just a total failure, then?"
"I won't allow you to insult my son like that." The Emperor flatly denied it, refusing to admit he'd approached the experiment with a "waste not, want not" mindset.
Perhaps due to the earlier thrashing, the Emperor's fleeting emotional intelligence took the high ground, and he offered comfort.
"Even if you don't trust those brothers you haven't met, you should trust me! You've inherited some of my traits."
"What strengths do you even have?"
Diedrech racked his brain but couldn't find any human-like qualities in the Emperor. Yet the golden giant, seemingly oblivious, pointed to his face and declared, "Charm. You've inherited my otherworldly, peerless charm."
"What's the use of this stupid thing? Am I supposed to go play Roman she-w—ugh!"
Before he could finish, Diedrech felt a shiver run through him, as if saying the rest would trigger something terrible. He clamped his mouth shut.
After learning this secret, Diedrech quickly connected it to the grassy illusion he'd seen when the lance struck him.
In hindsight, Diedrech couldn't complain. Without the Emperor's quick thinking, Rambo and the others might've been goners.
Perhaps out of ulterior motives or a rare act of compensation, before the Emperor kicked Diedrech back to his legion and took off with his fleet, he uncharacteristically granted some privileges.
First came the standard Primarch welcome package: tax exemptions for the homeworld, special governance rights over nearby systems, and a few years of tax-free status.
In simple terms: I don't have time to babysit you. Run things yourself. Whatever you conquer is yours, as long as you don't cross the Imperium's red lines. Do whatever you want.
The unique perk was that the Second Legion wasn't required to join the Great Crusade immediately. The Emperor gave Diedrech an almost indulgent degree of freedom.
Even Malcador chimed in, promising that despite the Imperium's tight startup phase, they'd assign a Mechanicus Archmagos to the Second Legion, ensuring they'd have everything they needed.
But after this trillion-credit subsidy, the two old codgers gave Diedrech a small task: quickly establish a starport nearby to bring the surrounding sector under Imperial control, serving as a supply hub for the Crusade's frontlines.
Honestly, this kind of treatment—enough to make even the Nails of Angron jealous—left Diedrech feeling a twinge of guilt, wondering if he'd misjudged them.
Watching the Phalanx fleet vanish in a flash, the golden-haired giant, kicked back to Tranquility, sighed deeply. Then he noticed a group of oversized tin cans staring at him with longing eyes.
"What're you looking at? From now on, your father's sticking with you lot. Hurry up and take me to our flagship. By the way, where's that Gough guy? I don't see him."
"Uh, well, Gough, he… he's sick! Yeah, he's sick. Probably doing rehab training in the dueling cage right now."
The company captains chimed in one after another, quickly brushing Gough aside as they escorted their gene-father onto a stormbird.
Meanwhile, in the dueling cage, former Legion Master Gough was getting mobbed, fighting to protect the helmet his father had personally touched!
"Gah—hand over the helmet!"
—Picture Here-