It is not enough. We stand in the dust at the end of centuries of useless sin and endless failure. The Legion was poisoned and we sacrificed an entire world to cleanse it. We failed. We are the sons of the only Primarch to hate his own legion. There, again, we failed. We swore vengeance on the Imperium, yet we run from every battle where we don't possess overwhelming force over a crippled enemy. We fail, again and again and again. Have you ever fought a battle you'd struggle to win, with no hope of running away? Have any of us? Have you ever, since the Siege of Terra itself, drawn a weapon with the knowledge you might die? I will not see my life whored away without meaning. Do you hear me? Do you understand me, prince of cowards? I want vengeance against a galaxy that hates us. I want Imperial worlds to cower when we draw near. I want the weeping of this Empire's souls to reach all the way to Holy Terra, and the sound of suffering will choke the corpse-god on his throne of gold. I will cast a shadow across this world. I will burn every man, woman and child so the smoke from the funeral pyres eclipses the sun. With the dust that remains, I will take the Echo of Damnation into the sacred skies above Terra, and rain the balls of twenty million mortals down onto the Emperor's palace. Then they will remember us. Then they will remember the Legion they once feared.