On the avenues of the Petitioner's City.
"Commander, in the name of the Hope Primarch Savior, the Velletalis Storm 13th Infantry Company will crush all signs of rebellion!"
Master Sergeant Holmes acknowledged the order, then led his Solar Auxilia company forward in grim silence, Redemption Personal Combat Armour and badges glinting beneath the noon light.
They would coordinate with the constabulary to contain the street violence.
In truth, this could become a small war.
Power struggles on the Throneworld are a tangled knot, where too many opportunists make the winds blow as they will. Every transfer of power has brewed rivers of blood.
The lessons of history are etched in memory.
Most recent were two convulsions: the "Primarch's Calamity" brought on by the Lord Regent's return, which triggered a chain of atrocities by Chaos cults, xenos, and mutants—
Districts burned, blood flowed through the streets, and tens of billions perished.
And then the upheaval called the "Spring of Terra," sparked by the reforms of the Hope Primarch Savior.
He swept aside legions of hidden heretics and malcontents embedded on the Throneworld. Even with careful planning and restraint, hundreds of millions of innocents still died.
Now, after his reforms and purges, the Throneworld is far cleaner than before, and annual bloodshed has dropped sharply.
Countless Space Marines, Inquisitors, Solar Auxilia, and peacekeepers work in the shadows to quietly excise heresy—
Doing all they can to blunt the influence of the Chaos Gods upon the Throneworld.
No one dares grow complacent—least of all now. None wish to see the Hope Primarch Savior's investiture stained by blood and terror.
Crack—
As the din of the street swelled, the Solar Auxilia drew their polymer batons in unison.
At any moment they were ready to bring them down on the heads of rebels, to beat defiance into smoke and dust.
"Why do these people oppose the Hope Primarch Savior?"
The sun at midday was bright enough to make Holmes narrow his eyes; he glanced up, almost on reflex.
A dozen years ago, no one could see the sun.
Only after the Savior arrived did the heavens reclaim a sun, and its light once again bathed Holy Terra.
According to one historian, the last time Terra knew true daylight was before the Age of Dark Technology.
Today, the Terra Environmental Maintenance Edicts issued by the Hope Primarch Savior are in force. In low orbit, thousands of weather satellites and climate control platforms lie hidden.
More environmental restoration modules have been emplaced.
These mechanisms rescued Terra's environment: skies turned blue, seasons settled into warm, pleasant rhythms.
Even the hive-cities now have shaded boulevards, irrigated gardens, and curated urban vistas.
The Throneworld—once misery-scarred and ruined—has grown into a gentler haven.
Holmes could not fathom the dissenters' minds. The Savior changed the lives of everyone.
He restored the honor of the Solar Auxilia, drove out suffering, disease, and famine; no longer do Terrans starve in the gutters.
Even the old, sprawling Corpse-Recovery Guild of Terra has shifted roles—reorganized into sanitation.
What more could those people possibly want?!
"Perhaps His Excellency the Grand Inquisitor has not yet scoured Terra deeply enough. Pockets of heresy still hide within."
That was Holmes's final conclusion.
Then he led his Auxilia into the chaos, batons flashing against the heretical rioters who had sparked the attack, beating them into a headlong rout.
Holmes's judgment, as it happened, was right.
After the Spring of Terra, the newly empowered Hope Primarch Savior authorized Grand Inquisitor Deville to carry out a comprehensive cleansing of the Throneworld.
But the population here is measured in the tens of trillions.
All the hive-cities together cover as much residential area as an entire sector elsewhere—and they are labyrinthine.
Structures from a hundred ages, tunnels and conduits by the million—these warrens hide too many people and organizations for even the Ministry of the Interior to fully chart.
It is, in essence, a shadow-world existing beside Imperial rule.
Deville mustered cleansing forces numbering in the hundreds of millions, harnessed the Machine Goddess's computation to drive the sweeps, and had the Ministry of the Interior re-audit the populace.
Even so, progress was agonizingly slow.
In the dark seams of Terra, the teams found all manner of bizarre, undocumented populations.
In one hive's abyssal under-levels they even uncovered a primitive tribe—
People dwelling there since before the Age of Dark Technology, nearly untouched by science, surviving by hunting mutant fauna and collecting algae.
The irony bit deep.
That tribe's home held a remnant pocket of groundwater, nurturing a little ecosystem.
Their lives were, by some measures, better than those of many Terrans above during the 40K era—before the Savior's reforms.
At least those primitives had relative safety, fresh food, and water.
Their average lifespan was higher, too.
In keeping with the Hope Primarch Savior's governance ethos, the cleansing forces did not destroy the tribe's environment. They protected it instead, while providing selective aid.
The Ecclesiarchy, catching wind of this, surged in next—dispatching hosts of priests to evangelize the primitives.
They sought to make them understand and revere the Emperor.
To the Ecclesiarchy, such a mission promised a singular triumph of faith.
Primitive natives on Holy Terra are rare and symbolically potent. If they could be bathed in the Emperor's light, it would showcase His glory even more.
Soon, under the "God Loves All" sect's guidance and special investment, the tribe tasted Imperial life and technology.
They received good bread, meat, and pure water—could even access the Psy-Net.
There was one hitch: once introduced to the network, many among the tribe became obsessed with browsing pictures—
Most of them "tastefully cool" portraits of handsome men and beautiful women.
This triggered a backlash inside the Ecclesiarchy against "God Loves All." Bishops argued the primitives were not at fault; the sect had led them astray.
Under fire, the sect slunk away. Another order took over, tasked with nurturing and cementing the tribe's faith.
The affair also sparked a dispute between the Ecclesiarchy and the Urth Mechanicus.
Ecclesiarchal voices claimed that images on Urth Mechanicus and Savior-dominion forums carried hedonistic elements, and must be more aggressively moderated and banned by the Mechanicus.
They singled out the so-called "2D" aesthetic as a serious toxin corrupting Imperial youth and mores—calling for its immediate abolition.
The Urth Mechanicus dug in and refused to yield.
All Psy-Net data, they countered, is already filtered by the Machine Goddess—there can be no problem.
To accuse otherwise is to blaspheme the Goddess.
More, they staunchly defended "2D": for a great many young tech-adepts, it is joy and—on some level—faith.
They would not accept a ban, especially given its connection to the Machine Goddess.
The quarrel escalated.
In anger, the Urth Mechanicus released troves of evidence of Ecclesiarchal priests' sordid deeds—particularly those of a hedonistic stripe.
They were stomach-turning.
The scandal rocked the Ecclesiarchy. As they finished purging a number of "unclean" cases and prepared a counterattack—
The Urth Mechanicus published more: a cascade of the Hope Primarch Savior's likes and comments on "2D" artwork within the Psy-Net.
The content made it plain: the Savior himself enjoys such "2D" pieces—leaving tips, urging favorite creators to update.
At that, the Ecclesiarchy fell silent.
They could hardly denounce the Hope Primarch Savior—especially not with a Redemption God-Engine looming over their cathedra. Several bishops fainted from fury.
Afterward, both sides quietly let the matter cool and ceased to mention it.
Inside the Ecclesiarchy, though, the line hardened: priests and the faithful were forbidden to access any related material, and ordered to denounce it.
Declared unclean.
In reality, the Psy-Net content they condemned is safe—pre-filtered by the Machine Goddess and sheltered by the Hope Primarch Savior's Little Sun essence.
Especially after that Being gained a wisp of the Essence of Excess, even if such content carries a faintly corruptive pull, any faith in "pleasure" it generates will be absorbed by Him—
Not offered up to the Prince of Excess.
The Hope Primarch Savior's deliberate tolerance of those materials is, in essence, a loosening of thought.
It jars loose minds long shackled across the Imperium and releases a measure of vitality.
Of course, all of this is kept strictly within reason.
These were only ripples kicked up by the cleansing operations, and under the Savior's deterrent shadow they drew no blood.
In former days, a dispute of doctrine like this would have been enough to start a war—cracked skulls and broken spears everywhere.
The cleansing forces spent oceans of resources and manpower, prying open the Throneworld's dark seams one by one and digging out ancient remnants.
They mean to scour every last corner of the Imperium's heart—and have recovered precious technologies along the way.
Holy Terra could never do this before.
When the Throneworld was a wasteland of chaos, merely keeping its masses alive and its organs of state turning consumed all strength.
A campaign on this scale was unthinkable.
Worse, such an undertaking demands the cooperation of every Imperial organ. In the old Imperium, the meetings, arguments, and factional brawls alone would swallow decades—centuries.
The endless tug-of-war and delay would strangle any plan in its cradle.
Only by pressing the entire Imperium down with force and authority did the Savior compel the departments and powers to move—brushing aside vested interests—
To carry out a planetary purge of the Throneworld.
No shrine-district, no office, no precinct was beyond the reach of the cleansing teams.
Save the Imperial Palace.
That bastion is one of the most secure zones in the Imperium; the Custodian Guard conducts only limited sweeps there. Anything heavier risks danger.
Over the years, the operations orchestrated by Grand Inquisitor Deville have, in broad strokes, scrubbed Terra's shadowed underbelly. Millions of criminal and heretical cells have been dismantled.
According to the plan, the next step is a census-audit of Terra's populace—numbered in the trillions.
Too many heretics melted back into the crowd after their groups were broken, gnawing at order from within.
Every xenos and heretical risk must be rooted out—especially the Tyranid genestealers hidden among the masses.
This phase was still in preparation when news arrived that the Savior would become the Imperium's ruler—stirring up every malcontent skulking in the human sea.
Thus the unrest.
After cowing the High Lords and other grandees, the Grand Inquisitor was anxious—and quietly ashamed.
He judged it his own failure: as the Savior's hound, he had not culled every hidden threat in time.
One small mercy—after several cycles of purges, the scale of chaos was greatly reduced.
Compared with the Primarch's Calamity and the Spring of Terra, the damage to the Throneworld is negligible.
What may suffer is the Savior's image—blemishing His coronation with the taste of disorder.
For the Imperium's new "Emperor" to ascend as Holy Terra erupts in attacks and bloodletting—what greater sacrilege?
It would sour too many eyes across the sectors.
No matter what it takes, Deville must stabilize Terra at once and guarantee the Savior's investiture proceeds flawlessly.
He resolved to advance the next phase under a new name.
In the Savior's name, Deville summoned the pertinent Imperial leadership to consider countermeasures.
Hours later, a new operation and a suite of edicts were issued.
The campaign was titled the "Holy Terra Public Order Management Action"—tasked with addressing the Throneworld's immediate public-order crisis.
Deville and the leadership framed the present disorder as a matter of public order, not open heresy, rebellion, or insurrection—
Downgrading its significance in the record.
This action would unify multiple departments and advance in five-year nodes—resolving Terra's policing problems thoroughly.
But first and foremost, it would crush the current unrest with thunder.
Grand Inquisitor Deville's hawk's gaze swept the chamber; his tone was iron:
"Gentlemen, we must pacify this disturbance within five days. There is no ceiling on the resources committed…"
His hand lifted, tracing the Ministry of Inspection's formal sign: "For the Savior!"
Behind him, dozens of inspectors in black greatcoats and red armbands echoed with blazing fervor:
"For the Savior!"
Under that pressure—and the contagion of zeal—the others present swore as well.
Some foreheads beaded with sweat.
These men are fanatically loyal to the Savior—so much so that even the Emperor stands behind Him in their hearts.
Everyone knows it: Deville and the Ministry of Inspection are the Savior's special guard on Terra—His attack-dogs, to tear apart any who stand against Him.
There is no other way.
The Throneworld crawls with would-be kings, while the Savior Himself is away; only high-pressure supervision can keep the bogles and beasts in their pens.
When He truly takes the throne, things may be loosened by degrees—
The Ministry's remit pared back from civil affairs piece by piece.
When the officials had dispersed, Deville walked alone—hands clasped behind him—onto a terrace. Not a hair on his head was out of place.
He gazed upon the labors below, and his eyes brightened with a shard of rapture.
"My Lord Savior, I will fulfill the charge You laid upon me—so Your majesty and authority may pass unimpeded!"
This scion of a hereditary house from Urth's Royal Court District had clawed his way from the galaxy's rim to the Imperium's heart by ruthless art—and an unblinking, fanatical devotion to the Savior.
For loyalty, he would give all.
Now the Being he reveres has inherited rule—become the Imperium's sovereign, the new Emperor.
To Deville's mind, from this day on, Holy Terra shall have only one sun: the Hope Primarch Savior.
Of course, the Emperor still exists—but only as an object of religious veneration, not a hand on the levers of state.
Else the appointment means nothing.
So long as Imperial factions read and exalt the Emperor's "will" above the Savior's edicts, they will sow misrule and confusion—
Driving up the cost of governance and choking unity in its crib.
Even now, Terra's policies move under the pistol's press:
Guns leveled at every faction's brow until they nod along.
The slightest tremor could cascade into chaos.
Such high-pressure monitoring cannot endure. Force may menace life—but it rarely masters hearts and thought rooted like bedrock.
Stay this course, and a greater calamity will bloom.
Thus Deville must magnify the Savior's authority—until the sun that is His sign burns so bright no eye can look away.
In truth, the Savior and His highest council have long debated one question:
How to diminish the Emperor's influence?
The Emperor's cult has become a problem for the Imperium—and a weapon in the hands of too many powers.
A practical path now is to promulgate the Golden Sun alongside worship of the Savior—further softening the Emperor's image and strengthening devotion to the Savior.
That demands a Reformation: across the Imperium, raise countless Golden Suns and statues of the Savior—while occluding and removing a portion of Imperial effigies—
Creating a balance, so belief flows ever more to the Savior.
And the Emperor's opinion?
The Old Man would applaud Deville and the others, every step.
He has said it a thousand times: He is not a god and should not be worshiped.
But the faithful act like they never heard—calling it the taint of the Dark Powers, or a test the Emperor set upon His own church.
Now faith itself has become the Emperor's torment—the weight that breaks Him. He can scarcely suppress it any longer!
No one can bear the price of the Emperor ascending to godhood—no mortal, no daemon king.
Should He climb that final stair and fulfill the prophecy of the Dark King, He would become mankind's most terrible foe—bar none.
Like the Prince of Excess and the Aeldari—
Incapable of coexistence. Only one falls, and the other breathes free.
On that day, mankind will taste its greatest tragedy.
Primarchs and Imperial warriors alike will lift blades against the Master and Guardian who was once Man's lord—
Until one side lies wholly fallen.
A hundred years ago, the Great Rift may well have been a gambit by the Chaos Gods—slashing down humanity's number, stanching the flood of faith—
To deny the Emperor that last step.
It was only a stop-gap.
Now, as the Savior's dominion and the Unbending Crusade reclaim swathes of space, the Emperor's light once more spreads across the stars.
The grateful who rose from misery pour out ever more devotion to the Emperor.
It deepens His shame and suffering. He knows He is both humanity's shield—and its death knell.
What sorrow. What rack and wheel.
From the Palace's Throne Hall, forbidden whispers seep:
The Tech-sages tending the Golden Throne have found a lacework of hidden fissures across that colossal engine—
And the cracks are multiplying…
(End of Chapter)
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