stone:

Rogal Dorn has rarely asked his genetic father for anything.

In other words, he has never done this before: requesting, demanding, or actively expressing his desire for anything.

Those are all meaningless actions.

The lord of Invite did have something he wanted: but in the face of his duty, mission and mission, desire was nothing.

Ever since he first bowed his allegiance to the Emperor's two-headed eagle, the proud leader of the Imperial Fists has always had one of the firmest thoughts: asking for power is never his right, nor is it what he should do.

After all, what he got in this galaxy and what he got from his father was enough:

Life, legion, responsibility, expedition...

And the most important point: a magnificent dream, a dream big enough for him to spend the rest of his life chasing and building: for the first time, he heard from the Emperor's mouth the Lord of Mankind's vision for the future and the galaxy.

If the plan is good, he is willing to devote himself to it, whether as a warrior who goes through life and death, or as an ordinary architect.

This is enough.

In his eyes, in Rogal Dorn's eyes, the day the Lord of Mankind first set foot on the Phalanx, he gave the Invites everything they needed for the rest of their lives.

He has already obtained everything he deserves to fight for, everything he deserves to hold on to, and everything he deserves to shed blood on. From that day on, all he needs to remember are the shortest and most unquestionable words:

Rogge Dorn, the Emperor's scion, the Primarch of the Seventh Legion, the seventh returning son, strong and unyielding.

He has memorized them.

He's already got them.

What else does he need?

He shouldn't desire anything anymore...

It shouldn't have been...

Couldn't...

…

The fist hit the hardest cold wood table, paused for a moment, and slowly turned into a huge palm, wrapped in solid golden armor, and did not move for a long time.

The Lord of the Imperial Fist with short platinum hair is staying in the most spacious command room of the [Eternal Crusade]. He is standing next to his favorite command table, with his right hand on the one that always maintains absolute

On the cold and hard tabletop.

It was a simple creation made from the foundation of the only tree that existed in the cold world of Invet. It was an office appliance that Dorn built for himself when he was a child to satisfy his increasingly different body shape.

The Lord of the Imperial Fists took only a few beloved things from his home planet: and this table, which always remained cold, was one of them. It required no heat or matching seats. It was the only

Its function is to stand here, maintaining the frosty coldness that is no different from the harshest sky in Invet.

When the storm brought about by thinking swept through the chest of the Lord of the Imperial Fist, making it impossible for him to remain sincere and calm, he needed the coldness here, and he needed the coldness from Invite, to let these precious coldness return to his original state.

Back to his body, back to his chest.

For example: now.

This is necessary, even Rogal Dorn will need necessary means and help: he will never deny this, he will not trust or boast about his power too much, after all, in the face of the tasks he needs to complete,

The power of the Primarch is often insignificant.

The Primarch of the Seventh Legion closed his eyes, and his right palm simply touched the cold that would freeze ordinary people, and patiently waited for his somewhat chaotic heart and mind to return to calm again.

reason.

In his mind, he said to himself.

Rational, honest, calm and unyielding.

He needs these: he needs them wherever and whenever he needs them.

He is Dorn, a scion of the Emperor, Primarch of the Seventh Legion, the seventh son to return... strong and unyielding.

He breathed heavily again and again under the golden armor. Dorn just closed his eyes tightly, letting him spend every moment in the simplest breathing like a thoughtless stone statue.

This didn't take long.

When the heat in the palm of his hand began to bite back the sleepless ice and snow little by little, the Imperial Fist opened his eyes.

Now, restate.

Donne said to himself.

Repeat the facts: no pauses and no lies.

He will never lie: even the so-called well-intentioned ones, even to himself, even the silent words in his heart.

never.

Now, let's get started.

He is Rogge Dorn.

Commander of the Emperor's 7th Legion.

He is about to have a remote conversation with his father, right here.

During the conversation, he will hope that the Emperor will allow the Imperial Fists to retain a portion of the XI Legion's warriors.

This is not his responsibility, nor is it what he should do.

In terms of responsibility, this matter actually has nothing to do with him.

By order, he was not to make any pleas on behalf of these warriors, nor was he to disturb the Emperor in doing so.

But he... will still do it.

……Yes.

He will do this.

Donn blinked, and he took a few steps forward and came to the wall: it was a song of remembrance of past experiences, and every sonorous and powerful sign meant an undoubted victory.

, some are the results of the Imperial Fist alone, and some have the Seventh Legion and other legions intertwined above the logo, which is a symbol of joint operations.

Moon Wolf, Imperial Sky Eagle, Holy Blood, Mercy Fire Dragon...

And that...Iron Eagle.

It is the most widely distributed symbol next to the Imperial Fist: a mighty iron-gray eagle with steel-like strong lines and solemn majesty. It is the symbol and symbol of the Eleventh Legion.

It was a symbol of Dorn's trust.

The Lord of the Imperial Fists stared at the birds of prey that symbolized victory. After a long while, he finally stretched out his hand.

One, two, three...

The fall of the eagle left those too abrupt gaps. Dorn looked at those disharmonious places quietly, silently, but did not really erase them, but allowed those abrupt gaps to remain between the two.

On top of the only memory of two legions fighting side by side.

He held those steel eagles, pinched his fingers tightly, and slowly twisted the mighty steel into a ball.

Heydrich...

He whispered softly in his heart.

He had trusted him, the Lord of the Imperial Fists, had trusted the blond beast.

No one knows when exactly this trust was born: perhaps, it was a joint battle full of silent understanding, perhaps, it was watching the undefeated Eleventh Primarch patiently describe a battle without any trace of doubt.

A beautiful tactic of showing off and stalling.

Or maybe it was when Dorn pointed out a mistake Heydrich had made without mercy in front of several primarchs. The blond beast thought seriously for a moment, then nodded sincerely and thanked,

And never made such a mistake again.

Maybe it was this, maybe it was that, maybe it was two legions, two primarchs. In the rarest interactions and the most serious exchanges, they conquered countless worlds and kingdoms side by side, and survived countless dangers and hardships side by side.

Suffering.

In short, Donne would never deny this: before they ushered in the break, he did trust the blond beast, trusting his coldness, rationality and humility.

Until they received different missions and orders, separated among the stars, and fought fiercely for decades. Until they met again during a mission, the unprecedented silence had enveloped the Eleventh Legion.

Until he saw, in Heydrich's golden pupils, a rationality that was different from anything before: No, that was not rationality and calmness, that was fire sealed by ice.

He once thought that he was wrong, that the long war had interfered with his judgment and perception: sadly, he did not see anything wrong.

He needs to face reality: Heydrich, who he could trust, has disappeared.

Disappeared in the so-called high-efficiency orders full of massacre and extermination, disappeared in the words that were like gravel to the heirs and civilians.

Disappeared... when he gathered the soldiers of the Eleventh Legion who refused to give up rescuing the people in a world, the order to fire without hesitation.

…

The Heydrich he once was disappeared, completely disappeared.

But Rogge Dorn, no.
To be continued...