Chapter 302: Please Act Normal, You're Scaring Me
Hades admitted—for one fleeting second, his mind went completely blank.
The sheer impact of what he'd just heard slammed into him like a hammer, and every instinct in his body started screaming.
For a moment, he considered bolting—running as far as he could and somehow warning Mortarion and Guilliman. Then reality reasserted itself: that was impossible.
Next, he considered self-detonation to take the Emperor with him—but quickly realized that even if he blew himself up, it wouldn't matter.
After a brief lapse in reason, Hades forced himself back onto the rails of logic. He carefully maintained his previous posture and expression, pretending calm—though he could feel his heartbeat pounding faster and faster.
At present, aside from that one earth-shattering declaration, the Emperor before him was still behaving within the limits of Hades' understanding. He hadn't shown any outright signs of psychosis or megalomania… yet.
Please not the false-god route. Please not the false-god route. And Emperor help me, not some even worse apocryphal madness.
Hades began silently praying to anyone who would listen. He'd rather every Primarch be a raving lunatic than watch this Emperor lose his mind.
He made up his mind: if the conversation took a turn toward that kind of insanity, he'd either detonate himself on the spot—or, more wisely, play along, flatter the Emperor just enough, then slip back to the Death Guard and convince Mortarion to form a Primarch Alliance.
Seeing Hades remain silent, the Emperor tilted his head slightly, as though puzzled by his lack of response—but continued speaking anyway.
"Step two."
The Emperor casually spread his hands, lowering his gaze for a moment before looking back into Hades' eyes.
"Hades, left or right? It makes little difference, but you may choose freely."
Every hair on Hades' neck stood up. He didn't understand—couldn't understand.
Step one was the Emperor proclaiming himself a god.
Step two was… asking him to choose left or right?
Left or right what?!
The Emperor's voice remained calm, almost absentminded, muttering what sounded like fragments of ritualistic nonsense—something about the right hand representing righteousness and justice, the left symbolizing cunning and subtlety.
All superstition. All meaningless.
Hades' mind went blank again. Slowly, carefully, he spoke in the same tone he'd been using throughout their conversation—though inside, he was screaming, already mentally saying goodbye to the Death Guard.
"I would prefer that you explain the meaning of this choice in detail, Neoth. I do, after all, suffer from decision anxiety."
The Emperor paused.
"You are correct. I had forgotten that you mentioned before that you dislike making choices. Very well. The right hand."
Oh for Throne's sake— He didn't even answer the question! He just picked for him!
Hades could only watch in mute despair.
The Emperor, deaf to Hades' inner screams, continued with unhurried grace. Golden light began to gather around him.
Then—Hades' eyes widened.
The Emperor raised his right hand. With his left index finger, shaped like a blade, he drew it gently across the first joint of his right pinky.
A thin line of red opened—snick—a soft sound as the severed fingertip fell onto the table.
There it lay, upon the main conference table of the Ultramarines' 19th Company guest chamber: the Emperor's own severed pinky joint. Blood-red flesh, glistening—and within it, the pale gleam of bone.
Hades' brain stopped working altogether.
He was silent, completely still, frozen in absolute shock as he witnessed the Emperor's act.
The Emperor, apparently unfazed, stared calmly at his wounded hand. Golden fire licked across the cut—flesh and bone regenerated instantly, whole and perfect once more.
Then, lowering his gaze, the Emperor looked upon the piece of flesh he had just severed.
In that instant, brilliant golden light exploded through the chamber—a blinding white conflagration that swallowed everything.
Raging faith roared within the blaze—violent, domineering, absolute.
Cold, merciless psychic light surged up to meet it, wrestling, colliding, fusing in a blinding storm of divine fury and mental will.
In the heart of the fading blaze, countless whispers rippled through the fire—faint and ghostly murmurs of the living and the dead alike.
They were prayers, pleas, belief, and devotion—flickering through the blinding white light that erased all sense of up or down, heaven or earth.
Those whispers brushed across the Emperor's cheek.
To some, it might have felt like a kiss.
To others, a blade's edge.
The Emperor's expression did not change. He ignored the voices of billions, their hymns and cries, their worship and doubt—his eyes fixed on the fingertip he had severed moments ago.
Now, the flesh had completely burned away, leaving only the white bone gleaming in the holy fire.
The flames slowly died down.
The Emperor reached out and picked up the small bone segment. It shone faintly with golden light—smooth as polished ivory, yet humming with a psychic force so cold and sharp it could slice the soul.
It worked.
The Emperor's eyes softened in satisfaction.
Then he looked up—at Hades, who stood in the corner of the room, scythe raised in a clear defensive stance.
Hades met his gaze, gripping Obituary tighter.
"I don't understand," The Emperor said calmly, still holding the bone.
"Neither do I," Hades answered. He was trying to stay composed. The psychic fire just now had been far too intense—a cataclysmic clash of powers utterly incompatible with the dark, void-like realm within him.
He hadn't fled.
He couldn't flee.
Because the door—Throne damn it—the door was locked. Reinforced, sealed.
And then Hades suddenly remembered: it had been Malcador who closed it on his way out.
His thoughts screamed in panic.
He should've remembered Malcador was on the Emperor's side.
Still, Malcador at least stayed within human comprehension.
But the Emperor— what in Terra's name was he doing?!
Hades swallowed hard. He needed to say something—anything—before this spiraled further. Otherwise, the Emperor might truly fail to understand why he was pointing a scythe at him right now.
"...Neoth," he began carefully, "your current behavior aligns quite closely with… certain stereotypical villain archetypes. I'm becoming genuinely concerned that you're not the person I thought you were…"
A beat.
"But rather… something closer to an entity from the Warp."
The Emperor was silent for a long moment—still holding the tiny piece of bone aloft.
"You misunderstand me, Hades," he said evenly. "Though I believe my words were perfectly clear."
Hades stared back at him, unblinking.
He was almost certain this was how he'd die.
So much for the Death Guard…
"I truly hope it's a misunderstanding, Neoth," Hades said.
"But first—"
He drew a steadying breath, tightening his grip on the scythe.
"Let me make my position absolutely clear, to avoid unnecessary… incidents. My goal—always—is for humanity to live freely, independently, and with self-determination. Not as the followers of some higher being, but as masters of our own fate. Humanity must endure on its own terms, face its crises, and overcome them through its own strength."
"And I, Hades, will act in accordance with that principle—while pursuing the wellbeing of myself and those I hold dear, as long as it does not violate that core ideal."
He spoke quickly—precisely—laying out his creed like a shield.
The Emperor's puzzled look gradually softened into a radiant smile.
Still that same dazzling, infuriatingly serene smile.
Only now he was still holding a severed bone while doing it—which, combined with everything else that had happened, made the entire scene feel deeply, unsettlingly wrong.
Hades didn't understand. He only knew he desperately wanted to curse.
The Emperor finally spoke, his tone relaxed, even warm.
"That is precisely why I chose you, Hades."
He chuckled lightly.
"It has been so long since I met someone like you. I have seen too many hollow souls… and too many narrow ones. And those trapped in between—driven to madness by the pressure of both."
He shook his head, smiling still.
"I respect your clarity, and I admire your honesty—if only you'd lower the scythe."
Hades didn't move an inch. He was painfully aware that if this came to blows, he wouldn't last one strike against the Emperor—but that didn't matter.
"You'll have to dispel my misunderstanding first, Neoth," he said firmly. "What exactly is your second step? Your third? What comes after? Because, frankly, I've never seen a plan that involves cutting off one's own pinky finger."
The Emperor blinked, as if genuinely thinking about it.
"It doesn't have to be a pinky," he said thoughtfully. "Any body part containing my bone would suffice."
…That's the part you focus on?!
"Why do I have to carry your bone? What's it for?"
The Emperor turned the finger bone between his fingers, the small motion oddly casual—like a bored man idly playing with a rubber eraser during a meeting.
"It's a conduit," he said. "From an esoteric standpoint, it remains linked to my psychic essence. Through it, I can transfer part of my power—specifically, the impure fragments mixed with faith—to you. That way, I can offload them… and reduce the risk of my own apotheosis."
Hades froze—then exhaled a long, shaky breath. The scythe in his hand dipped as tension finally bled out of his shoulders.
"You could've led with that," he muttered. "Instead of giving me a surprise moral-choice test."
The Emperor stopped spinning the bone, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Perhaps it's habit," he admitted. "I have always preferred to demonstrate my power first, and only afterward, issue an explanation or command."
Hades inhaled deeply.
"And I suppose," he said, voice bone-dry, "that once they've seen your 'power,' they fall to their knees in worship and don't need an explanation, right?"
The Emperor hesitated for a fraction of a second—and then, slowly, nodded.
"Explanations take time. In most cases, they yield no tangible gain."
Yeah, right, Hades thought flatly. You're terrifying, not efficient.
He imagined poor Malcador, forced to witness this sort of thing for centuries. The old man probably hadn't survived this long through sheer willpower—it was pure cardiac resilience.
Suppressing a sigh, Hades glanced at the Emperor again, sheathed his scythe, and wordlessly sat back down.
Seeing him return to his seat, the Emperor smiled at him—a friendly, easy smile.
Hades nearly forgot how to breathe.
He changed the subject immediately.
"You said it's a transfer of psychic power?"
Anything to avoid replaying the mental image of the Emperor slicing off his own pinky. Still, the faint metallic gleam of the bone in the Emperor's hand made that impossible to forget.
"You mean for me to absorb that power? But if I take in too much…"
He trailed off. No. That didn't sound right.
"You're not having me consume it outright. You're planning to use it to suppress my Black Domain, aren't you?"
The Emperor smiled and nodded, satisfied.
"Exactly. That's why I must declare myself a god. Your Black Domain still lacks the force to counter the tides. It's time we gave it a push."
"Once the power of faith weighs down your Domain, you'll be able to operate freely across the entire Imperium—and unleash it when needed."
Hades thought in silence, his mind spinning through implications and risk assessments at full throttle.
So that was the plan.
The Emperor would permit belief in the so-called Lord of the Underworld—letting faith siphon toward him, feeding his Black Domain.
Then, through his own declaration of divinity, the Emperor would create a stronger, stabilizing counterforce—keeping Hades' power immense but contained.
It was insane.
And yet… it made perfect, terrifying sense.
If balanced properly, it meant Hades' Black Domain could grow to an unimaginable magnitude without ever turning feral.
But the cost—
The Warp would notice.
The Four would notice.
They'd have to.
This was like building a nuclear reactor on the surface of reality—visible from every infernal corner of the Immaterium.
Would they retaliate?
Could they?
Hades shook his head rapidly. It was madness—audacious, dangerous, and entirely Emperor-like.
Finally, he swallowed and sighed.
"It seems… I don't have much of a choice. Fine. I accept. I accept."
Across the table, the Emperor's golden eyes gleamed—and he smiled that dazzling, too-perfect smile again.
Hades wanted to punch something.
He tried, at least, to salvage a shred of dignity.
"But tell me, Neoth—aren't you afraid the entities of the Warp will act first?"
The Emperor's expression cooled, his mirth fading.
"They already have, Hades," he said quietly.
He turned his gaze toward the far wall, his voice almost lost in the hum of psychic resonance.
"After the Perfect City… you'll need to visit the Twelfth Legion."
<+>
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