"This has to be the Emperor—no mistake about it!"
Eden stared at the golden figure before him, certain to the marrow.
Out in the galactic Empyrean, who else could be as stubbornly adamant as the Old Man himself? He'd barely revived in a cloned body, just recovered the power of speech—and the very first thing he did was insist he wasn't a god.
As if anyone might doubt it.
Aside from the Emperor, no other divinity could have said such words with that kind of iron certainty.
The Emperor's clone clenched a hand into the void as if gripping a hilt, then drew forth a golden holy blade that burned with living flame.
He swept the sword in an arc and cast more fire.
"By the Emperor… is that void-drawn matter, pulled by psychic will?"
At Eden's side, an excited, tinny vox-tone chimed in:
"If we can reverse-engineer a matching transmission lattice, we could deliver fresh Fuel-Drink across the galaxy at once—"
"Cut it out with your cheap soda. The warp-power you'd burn on that one hop could field a whole cohort of Psy-Titans."
Eden retorted on reflex.
There are precious few beings in the galaxy who can seize material across distance—other than the Chaos Gods, perhaps only the Emperor. Only powers like that can stomach the expenditure. Anyone else trying this is just lighting resources on fire.
From a logistics standpoint, teleporting anything is a loss—a white-elephant technology. Unless you have energy to waste and want to set it on fire.
A second later he caught himself and smirked. "Kaul—you're still alive? I was about to schedule you a binary memorial service."
A happy surprise: Archmagos Belisarius Kaul—his right hand in all things technical—was still ticking, not snuffed by the Chaos strike.
Kaul had rebuilt himself too many times to count; in depth of modification he rivaled any High Magos of the Mechanicus, and he'd seeded a forest of data-ghost backups. The Slaaneshi assassin had only destroyed one backed-up noospheric head. His true brain was hidden deep inside his chassis, warded by blackstone panoply and a small museum of sacred relics.
At the first touch of Chaos, his noospheric self downloaded, jumped rails,
…and booted again.
A veteran denizen of the Empyrean, the Archmagos was obsessive about self-protection, and had bought a small arsenal of wards from the Urth Ecclesiarchy.
"Lord Savior, unless I am facing a Chaos God directly, nothing in existence can slay the genius known as Kaul!"
Kaul hummed with confidence.
Still mulling over material transmission, he dug in his heels: "For the true taste of proper Fuel-Drink, no expenditure is too great."
Eden rolled his eyes and let it go. If the cog-sage wanted to tinker, let him. Another tool on the bench never hurt.
"Did you forget something though, Grand Magos?"
"What?"
Kaul thrummed through damaged short-term memory blocks—his earlier brush with Chaos had scorched a few registers.
"Father!"
With a metallic shriek the dutiful son scampered off to check on his prized heavy servo-skull—his father's cranium made manifest.
Eden shook his head.
He watched the Emperor's movements and felt a flicker of recognition at that golden blade.
But he didn't dwell on it. The Emperor's weapons tend to look alike—golden, radiant, proud, and holy. Back when the Old Man was young, his taste probably wasn't far from Eden's own.
"In any case, this war is won. Break out the champagne…"
Now that the Emperor had returned—able to act in realspace again, and in terrifying form—Eden finally exhaled. A thought struck; he immediately dismissed Edork's Greenskin benediction and collapsed to the floor, limbs all but numb.
Faith burns are precious. Save when you can. Building that reserve isn't easy.
He let his guard fall and let his body rest at last. With the Emperor's clone on site, he was the thickest thigh in the entire Webway and Warp combined. No need to waste faith propping up a body now.
If they still lost with this on the board, there was nothing left to play.
Whoom—
Golden flames coiled into a vortex. From within bled the hiss of Chaos Gods:
"Cursed One, our war is not over. All that you cherish will be ground into agony. In the end, victory belongs to Chaos!"
The Emperor answered their threat with sovereign thunder:
"Forged by the will of Mankind, our blade will hew down every delusion. Victory ever belongs to Humanity."
The golden sword in his hand came down like a verdict. Sanctified fire became a formless giant's grasp, wrenching at the manifested minds of the Dark Gods, dragging them screaming back into the Immaterium.
In a single storming gesture, the Emperor banished their shades, denying them any further influence in this place.
Then he drove the holy blade point-first into the ground before the Black Throne. Through that sanctified medium he called down a greater tide of sacred empyric light.
A golden sun blossomed above the Throne.
Hummm—
Its hallowed radiance swept the entire precinct, scourging every Chaos taint and alien stain from the Black Throne's domain, leaving only sanctity in its wake.
Such is the might of empyric power: whether warped malice or sacred light, it can, in measure, reshape matter and world.
The flood did not stop there. More holy force coursed through the Black Throne, out into the Webway's veiled void, knitting breach after breach in the curtain of the Veil.
The vast rent above Commorragh's core was sheathed in a gentle gold.
It all happened with ruthless speed.
Reports streamed to Eden from every monitoring station: the Veil-fissures were entirely under control; no fresh daemon tides were breaching.
Once more the Emperor, through throne and unimaginable might, had corked the Webway's wound— as he had ten thousand years ago.
Bathed in the aureate rain, the Emperor's clone was the very image of holiness.
The Custodes arrived, dropped to one knee as one; only the rasp of armor and clenched breath broke the hush.
The Captain-General's grip tightened on his spear. Voice thick with guilt, like a confession:
"Your Majesty… For ten millennia your light has burned within the Astronomican, and yet we let the galaxy sink deeper into night, the Imperium further into decay.
We failed your ideal."
He bowed his head. Tears spattered stone.
"Now that you have returned, command us, and we shall go to war anew. Even if the Custodes must burn soul and life to ash, we will pour the Emperor's wrath upon the skulls of Humanity's foes!"
"Father…"
Now even the White Scars' Primarch, Jaghatai Khan, went to one knee, heart a knot of contradictions.
He had revered and resented the Master of Mankind—had thought the Emperor's retreat into the palace a sign of spent ambition and closed walls.
Only when the Emperor chained himself to the Golden Throne for Humanity did the Khan understand what scale of labor his father had undertaken—and what it had cost.
And now the Emperor took that burden up again, ascending the Black Throne to bear still heavier pain, so that Mankind might keep the Webway.
Upon the Throne's dais, silence.
The Master of Mankind had returned. He possessed a body in the material universe again, could receive audiences, could speak.
Naturally he would take up command of the empire he had forged. None would gainsay him.
Not even the Hope Primarch.
Ten millennia ago or today—Humanity and the Imperium are the Emperor's to rule.
There was no question.
All waited for his answer—for his direction, his disposition of Imperial power.
The Emperor seemed tired. Energy wreathes shivered about his frame.
He accepted the pain, sat once more upon the Black Throne, and looked down upon them all.
The Master of Mankind considered.
At last, he spoke again: "The Imperium… does indeed require a new course. But I am exhausted—and I must remain upon this Throne to hold back the Dark Gods and any peril from the Immaterium.
I cannot personally govern.
I shall appoint one of my Primarchs as Ruler of the Imperium. From this moment, all affairs of state shall pass through him.
Custodes, Holy Terra, and every Imperial official, governor, and warrior will heed his word.
He will clean up the wreckage of our realm and lead Humanity to glory…"
It was a profound shift.
Yes, Roboute Guilliman had seized a portion of power upon his return, serving as Imperial Regent. Later, the Hope Primarch had stormed Holy Terra's halls and pried greater authority from the High Lords.
But none of that had been sealed by the Emperor's own assent—at best, concessions to crisis and drift.
Now, the Master of Mankind himself shattered his prior apparatus and gathered all power back from the High Lords, the other Primarchs, and the exalted alike.
Entrusted… to the Primarch he acknowledged—the Imperium's new ruler.
That meant any who opposed this decree would be counted as betrayers of the Emperor, and thus enemies of the Imperium.
The Emperor's thoughts and words came haltingly.
He raised his hand with effort and pointed at the Primarch of the White Scars, the Khan.
Every gaze swung as one to Jaghatai Khan. Shock rippled through the hall.
Most had expected Roboute Guilliman, the Imperial Regent—or the Hope Primarch, the Savior.
But the White Scars' Primarch? He had wandered the Webway for too long; surely he could not best unite the Imperium of Man.
"…?"
"F… Father…?"
The Khan stared back at the ocean of eyes, equally stunned.
He tapped his own chest, incredulous. "You mean… me? You would have me rule the Imperium?!"
His feelings tangled.
Part of him thrilled at the Emperor's trust; part of him felt the weight of it descend like a mountain.
Everyone knew the Khan disdained a throne's fetters and preferred the saddle of war. Otherwise he'd never have abandoned a king's crown to ride behind the Emperor on the Great Crusade.
Had Father gone soft? Worse—was he compromised by Chaos?
The Khan swallowed, unsure whether to accept.
Just as he wrestled toward a decision, he noticed the Emperor's hand twitch and sweep a little to the side.
The meaning was obvious.
The Khan was blocking someone. The Emperor wanted him to move.
Realization hit: Father hadn't been pointing at him at all.
He'd been tearing himself up for nothing.
"Hmph. Fine—have at it."
The Khan's face fell, but he stepped aside with uncharacteristic haste, revealing the Hope Primarch behind him.
The Savior was still seated, catching his breath, knitting his frame back together.
It wasn't disrespect. In truth, the two of them—two suns—shared the Empyrean daily, cheek by jowl beyond the veil. He dropped in often enough to check on the Old Man, rig warp-draw taps to pour the Emperor a long, hot "energy bath," and even had Webby, the Machine-Goddess, keep him company now and then.
If you didn't count that business of making the Emperor "sit the Black Toilet," Eden was arguably the most attentive, filial soul in the Imperium.
Formal pageantry wasn't going to add much here.
Besides, the defense just now had driven his body to the edge of failure. If he didn't rest and repair, he might simply topple over and die on the spot.
How embarrassing would that be?
While Eden was wheezing and jabbing himself with Panacea, he felt a tide of attention crash over him.
"…?"
He looked up. Everyone was staring.
The Khan was gesturing and saying something—but without a psychic lift to his voice, the words were mud.
"What?"
"Old Khan, give me a second."
Eden sank another ampoule into his neck and, blessedly, his hearing came back.
Then he understood.
The Emperor's choice didn't surprise him. The Old Man had stepped into a different stratum long ago; he couldn't handle the affairs of matter.
His battlefield lay in the Immaterium—infinite, god-against-god war.
If someone had to rule the realm of flesh and stars…
Then the one who already held the Savior's Dominion, who had seized vast powers on Holy Terra and mastered the Webway, was the only viable choice.
Choose anyone else, and if their course diverged from his, the Imperium would fracture into fresh strife.
And no one could check him if it came to that.
So this was more than appointing a ruler—it was the Emperor's endorsement of the Savior's path. A recognition that Humanity should take that road to glory.
Eden was delighted.
This was effectively "command of all under Heaven's arms." He could rebuild and rule the Imperium in line with his will—without hindrance—
Make the Imperium great again.
He forced his body upright.
A way opened through the crowd, all eyes on the Savior as he walked step by step toward the Black Throne—toward the Emperor.
Eden came before the Emperor and went to one knee.
At a moment like this, ceremony mattered. One must receive supreme power with due solemnity.
Slowly, an anthem for the Golden Sun and the Savior rose; angelic phantoms wheeled across the high vault as a rain of light fell.
The Emperor, too, braced himself and stood from the Throne, coming to meet the Savior.
A smile broke—the warmest in ten thousand years—and for a heartbeat it seemed a great burden slid from his shoulders.
His hands cupped the air; sanctified empyric light gathered and coalesced into a radiant crown, which he set upon the Savior's brow.
His words were equal parts hope and trust:
"Eden, you whelp… the Imperium and Humanity's future I place in your hands.
I know—you have never failed me.
You will lead our realm up from the abyss, and set Man shining among the stars."
No matter the wounds or ordeals, the Master of Mankind's deep love for Humanity had not dimmed.
He had never ceased to think how to lift Man from misery—even if it meant setting himself aflame and giving all.
For ten millennia he had endured, tormented—fearful for Man's fate, grieving his failures, unable to glimpse a future worth the name.
Then the Savior—this upstart Eden—appeared.
And the Old Man saw hope reborn.
Perhaps this was destiny's gift to him and to Humanity. The cosmos had not abandoned its chosen species.
He had waited so long for this moment.
From this day, Mankind's fate would no longer drift in the fog, but take a certain road.
"I accept it all. I accept this charge."
Eden donned the radiant crown the Emperor had forged for him—accepting supreme authority, and the burden of Humanity's destiny.
Exhilaration prickled through him; the weight pressed down in equal measure.
From this moment, he would answer for Humanity's fate—redeem all who suffered and lead them to splendor.
It would not be easy.
But it was a promise. A good beginning.
The Emperor mastered the tremor in his limbs.
He lifted the crowned Hope Primarch to stand at his side, seized his hand, and raised it high.
Together they blazed in aureate light.
The Master of Mankind's voice rang out:
"People of the Imperium—hear and obey. From this moment, you have but one Ruler!"
In an instant, Custodians, Imperial soldiery, and the Savior's own stood as one—then dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.
They swore to the Hope Primarch—the Imperium's new Ruler.
The Khan hesitated… and knelt as well.
At such a solemn, holy hour—a Primarch, a son of the Emperor—he had to make his stand.
Truth be told, the Khan was pleased with his father's choice: to set his blood-brother Eden upon the throne.
It was, undoubtedly, the best course.
Better even than the days of the Great Crusade. The Primarchs would not tear at one another with petty rivalries and jealous wars.
More to the point—Brother Eden was generous. Lavish, even.
He could flood the hosts with logistics—strongest engines, fiercest macro-cannon, ships of the line, and ammunition without end.
The Khan could ride to war unshackled.
Already he could taste it: under the Savior, a grand crusade to rival the Great Crusade—driving out all xenos and heretics, reclaiming the galaxy entire.
In the precincts of the Black Throne, all knelt save two.
They cried the Savior's name and swore their fealty.
And the moment did not stay contained. Carried on the Emperor's vast sacred might, the image of the crowned Savior unfurled in empyric vision across the galaxy and the Warp—
most of all, throughout the Imperium's breadth.
Living Saints, priests of the Urth Ecclesiarchy, Sisters of Silence, the faithful in their millions—felt the miracle stir their soul-sight and beheld that staggering scene.
With it came the Emperor's oracle: the Hope Primarch, the Savior, would be the Imperium's sole Ruler.
It would be the greatest change in ten thousand years.
At the same time—
Holy Terra, private chamber within the Sanctuary of the Living Saint.
Silver-haired Saint Celestine reclined in a white robe, cuddling a great soft white teddy, her pale skin and sculpted grace all the more luminous.
Her thoughts had strayed to a certain someone again.
"By the Emperor—!"
Suddenly, through soul-sight, she saw the Savior's crowned form and frame—and her eyes flew wide…
(End of Chapter)
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