Warhammer 40: Doom

Chapter 165 Gifts Exchanged
When the Primarch returned, the Sons of the Emperor's Legion suffered heavy losses, with only two hundred men remaining.

After the Third Legion's gene seed cultivation chamber on the moon was attacked by terrorists, the "wilt disease" virus raged.

This horrific genetic plague gradually degrades the Space Marines' enhanced organs, causing those infected to decay in agony.

Those who are infected are in a dangerous state.

Wilt disease can break out at any time, either during the implantation stage or suddenly during battlefield operations.

Its uncertainty caused the Third Army to suffer greatly.

Countless great warriors did not die on the battlefield, but succumbed to the wilt disease.

The father of genetics did not return, there was no pure source of genetic seeds, and the Third Legion teetered on the brink of disbandment.

The return of Forgrim is undoubtedly exciting.

New genetic seeds were cultivated, and the Third Legion was saved.

During his Legion replenishment, Fugrim went to the forge to have a weapon forged for himself.

To conform to himself and to the definition of perfection, the Primarch must personally forge weapons worthy of him.

He saw a disheveled giant forging weapons with his iron hands.

Vogrim knew from their extraordinary connection and the bond of blood that the extraordinary giant before him, whose face was covered in soot, was his blood brother.

"This is not a place for you. Don't let oil stains and coal dust pollute your splendor."

The brother spoke calmly, but his tone carried a hint of disdain.

Foghrim smiled in a perfect arc: "My dear brother, we are both sons of the same father, and my hands have been stained with engine oil as well."

His voice was as smooth as melting honey, yet it contained the sharp edge of steel.

He refuted his brother's words with utmost elegance.

The implication was that he was reminding his brother not to underestimate him.

“Is that so?” Felus slowly shook his head, looking at his brother’s arm, which was a pair of beautiful, slender hands.

"Your frail arms cannot withstand the test of the fire; the flames of the furnace will scorch your delicate skin."

Feralus raised his silver arm, his voice deep and rough like a forge blower, and said to his brother:

"The arms used for forging should be full of power, not elegant and delicate."

Two progenitors, two imperial offspring.

They seem like two opposites, one elegant and beautiful, the other rough and simple.

“I don’t think so.” Fugrim smiled gently and walked forward slowly, his steps so elegant they were captivating.

"Get up, all of you." He stopped in front of the felt mat and gently called to the craftsmen around him to rise.

Fugrim pulled down his long robe and slung it across his shoulder, then lifted the lower part of his purple robe and tied them around his waist.

Only then did Ferrus realize that his brother's muscular chest, perfectly proportioned long legs, and magnificent appearance concealed immense power.

Fugrim picked up the tongs, grabbed an iron ingot, placed it on the felt, and asked his brother, "Interested in a contest?"

The firelight cast its glow on his fair skin, as if draping him in a fiery cloak, making him resemble a phoenix rising from the ashes.

"Of course!" Felus, naturally, would not refuse an invitation from his brother. He casually wiped the grime off his face and readily agreed.

The sight of his brother standing elegantly beside the forge inspired him, and he immediately set about forging weapons.

The rude action made Fugrim shake his head and smile bitterly. His brother wiped the filth off his face with his hands, only to get even more soot on his face.

Combined with the sweat flowing from the high temperature, it looked as if his face was covered with a layer of paint.

But he quickly adjusted his mindset and pondered what kind of weapon he needed to create, one that would be worthy of him.

Jingle bells~ Jingle bells~
The continuous hammering interrupted Fugrim's thoughts; the rude brothers had already begun forging weapons.

Those strange, silver-gray iron hands kept striking the iron blank, shaping it into form.

The brother looked extremely serious, absorbed in forging, like a human-shaped forging hammer.

His eyes lit up, an idea flashed into his mind, and the weapon he was going to create began to take shape.

The two Primarchs unleashed their divine power and crafted weapons using unique techniques.

Ferrus was blessed with exceptional talent; his iron hands swung in perfect circles, striking the scorching iron blanks and causing sparks to fly.

Fugrim was adept at using tools, readily employing various forging implements, and his forging techniques were equally beautiful and elegant.

Sparks flew and sweat splattered as the two brothers used their individual skills to forge the perfect weapon in their hearts. The surrounding blacksmiths knelt down in disbelief. The two demigods used the felt mat as their arena to compete in their forging techniques—a scene rarely seen in ages.

Their skills are extraordinary and beyond the comprehension of ordinary people; they represent a level that craftsmen can hardly reach in their lifetime.

Sweat poured down Fugrim's face, his silver hair sticking to his skin, yet he seemed oblivious as he vigorously struck the anvil.

Lightning flashed across the iron felt, the power of lightning contained within, and the supreme divine weapon revealed its intent.

Felus lifted flames from the furnace, his iron hands striking them relentlessly, infusing the iron billet with heat and power.

It is also a divine weapon, full of passion and power, and when the flames leap, it seems as if a phoenix is ​​crying.

Sweat dripped down his face, yet he felt no fatigue; excitement welled up within him as a powerful weapon was about to be born.

In his excitement, Felus looked up at his brother, amazed that his brother's skills were no less than his own, and that the weapons in the lightning were equally powerful.

As if by telepathy, Fogrem looked up, his purple eyes reflecting his brother's face.

His dark eyes reflected his own image, as if they held a thousand unspoken words and the most sincere approval.

The two brothers smiled at each other, their unspoken understanding stemming from blood ties and shared hearts.

As the sparks subsided, the quenched weapons were taken out of the oil, their brilliance dazzling, eclipsing the fires of the forge.

Ferrus held a longsword in one hand, looking it up and down with eyes full of admiration.

The longsword shone with a golden light, emanating an inextinguishable flame, its blade resembling a phoenix about to take flight.

Fugrim held a warhammer wreathed in lightning, its surface flat and its head sharply beveled, with a winged eagle standing to his side.

"Flame Sword!"

"The Furnace Breaker!"

The two Primarchs exchanged a glance, tacitly announced the names of the weapons, and then burst into laughter.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The rugged-looking Feralus Marus forged a beautiful longsword, while the elegant and graceful Forgrim crafted a crude and violent warhammer.

The weapons they forged were inspired by the image of brothers; they were the embodiment of the image of brothers in their hearts.

"A magnificent longsword; your forging skills are unparalleled." Fugrim exclaimed in admiration, acknowledging his brother's superb craftsmanship.

“It’s not just flashy,” Feralus smiled and shook his head, casually waving his flaming longsword, slicing the pure iron felt in two, the cut surface as smooth as a mirror:
"It's practical, not just a pretty face."

Fugrim nodded repeatedly, a hint of pride on his face, knowing that his brother was using an object to represent a person.

The brother was praising himself, saying that he not only had a glamorous appearance but also a strong inner self.

“Your warhammer is quite good too.” Felus stared at the warhammer in his brother’s hand; he was very pleased with the Forgebreaker Warhammer.

“Of course,” Fugrim tilted his head in a gesture of respect, never concealing his arrogance: “Only the most resilient warriors have the resolve and strength to wield it.”

He was also using an object to symbolize a person, praising his brother's extraordinary resilience and strength, which lay beneath his seemingly simple exterior.

Without prior arrangement, the two brothers commented on each other, their inner appreciation and admiration overflowing in their words.

And so, as their purple and black eyes met, they made a decision as if by unspoken agreement.

The two Primarchs strode toward each other, their faces beaming with delight as they met up close.

“My brother, this weapon is worthy of you.” Felus’s resolute face wore a sincere smile as he held up the flaming sword and presented it to his blood brother.

Fugrim did not refuse, and respectfully took the flaming sword from his brother, holding it solemnly in his hand.

“As a return gift, my brother, this warhammer is worthy of your wielding.” Forgrim presented the warhammer, allowing his brother to accept the weapon he had forged.

Felus, equally solemn and respectful, accepted the Brokensmith's Warhammer and gripped it tightly in his hand.

“Ferus Marus,” he announced to his brother, in the most approving tone.

“Forgrim.” The beautiful peacock, with a serious expression and a melodious, mellow voice, announced her name to her brothers: “Brothers, you can call me ‘Forgrim’.”

"Hahaha!"

When their eyes met, they burst into laughter again, their wildness and elegance intertwining to create a unique melody.

The two blood brothers, after a forging competition, deeply recognized each other and cherished each other.

Just as the two Primarchs were getting excited, a golden-armored Royal Guard entered the forge and gave them a formal salute.

The voice beneath the Imperial Guard's helmet was cold, like that of an emotionless machine: "The Emperor requests your presence."

(End of this chapter)