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The appearance of fissures meant the Golden Throne was deteriorating—buckling under the burden.
It might well collapse.
When that happens, the Imperium will face a dreadful catastrophe, and the Emperor—released from the Throne's bindings—will be dragged down into the Immaterium completely.
When the tech-sages discovered this, they were seized by panic.
It felt as if the very sky of the Imperium was about to fall.
And not only them.
If this news were to leak, the entire Imperium of Man would plunge into fear and turmoil, shattering the fragile calm just restored.
Fortunately, the Custodian Guard and the Savior's personnel stationed in the Imperial Palace locked down the information in time and soothed the agitated tech-sages.
Even the High Lords were not permitted to know.
There had already been a painful lesson: the last time the Golden Throne had issues, the High Lords' meddling drew the Aeldari from the dark—nearly causing a disaster.
The present crisis was worse; the Golden Throne's failure looked irreversible. If those people learned of it, their fear would only create greater trouble.
As a key senior figure for the Savior's demesne on Holy Terra, Grand Inquisitor Deville also received the news.
But the Grand Inquisitor did not panic.
"So long as His Majesty the Savior still stands," he told himself, "the sky of mankind will not fall. The sun endures…"
Deville had never doubted the Savior.
He believed that august being could settle all matters, and the Mechanicum of Urth was already researching the Throne and preparing contingencies.
All he needed to do was fulfill his duty—and offer up his loyalty.
Now, his duty as Grand Inquisitor was to seize this chance to further consolidate the Savior's authority,
To make that sun blaze even brighter.
"Milord, all personnel of the Inspectorate have assembled and await your order."
His deputy—black trench coat, glacial eyes—came to report.
He was fully armed, ready to rip and crush traitors the instant a command was given.
"Begin."
Deville nodded and smiled as he gave the order—a smile edged with cruelty, like Death pronouncing a sentence.
Any order from the Grand Inquisitor meant the end of heretics and rebels.
That was one reason all feared him.
He was unflinching: under the Savior's will he would destroy any target, no matter who it was.
If the Savior commanded Holy Terra be blown to pieces, he would gladly pay with his life to see it done.
Without the slightest hesitation.
"For the Savior!"
The deputy snapped a salute, pivoted, and strode away—each footfall spaced identically.
Such was the Inspectorate.
Black coats, red armbands, ruthless and cold; they seldom spoke, simply appearing at the least expected moment before a dissident—
—and consigning them to a merciless abyss.
In terms of authority, they roamed Holy Terra unchecked, constrained by no one but the Savior; even the Inquisition was subject to their oversight.
In terms of force, many among them were gene-wrought Astartes, bearing the finest arms, able to requisition formations and Titan God-Engines.
The Inspectorate was the Savior's black glove—his overt special guard, a reinforced Inquisition that stood united within.
The Adepta of the Imperium feared them.
Deville lifted a hand and traced the air; a dense, black list bloomed in the projection before him—touching many of the Imperium's high officials.
"Social Security Management on Holy Terra" was only the public face. He meant to use the present unrest to conduct an unprecedented purge of Terra's managerial class,
To clear out the Savior's lingering opponents and those who would obstruct the new order—eliminating every hidden danger.
It had to be done. Leave too many remnants of the old regime,
And the consequences would be endless.
Deville knew His Majesty the Savior would not issue such a cruel order—nor could he be the one to wield that knife openly.
Put simply, this was Deville's decision alone.
But as Grand Inquisitor, he had to shoulder it; the Savior had raised him up for this very moment.
It was an unspoken pact.
And this might be the last service he could render His Majesty the Savior.
Such a purge would breed hatred and discontent. When it was over—when the waters stilled—so too would the "guard dog" meet his end.
His Majesty would remove the self-authorizing hound to quench the final embers of backlash, then rule the Imperium with a new political order.
This Grand Inquisitor, this High Lord—one of the most powerful men in the Imperium—would offer himself as the sacrifice, the finest gift for the Savior's coronation.
Soon, the Social Security Management operations began on Holy Terra; regulations and decrees were promulgated apace.
The Department of Justice, obeying the new edicts, led the Solar Auxilia and constabulary in wide-ranging special actions—striking, preventing, and defusing all destabilizing elements,
Especially protests, rioting, and incitement—so that order might be maintained and civilians live in peace.
These measures bore the Savior's stamp: none of the old, indiscriminate cruelty of the Imperium.
The vox-systems across each hive district broadcast the Savior's hymn, calling all residents to obey the rules and refuse to join criminal organizations.
Else, a severe penalty would follow.
Then, the relevant forces moved sector by sector—arresting criminals and agitators, assigning penalties and "education" by tier,
Even death sentences.
At the same time,
The Inspectorate secretly mobilized more armed assets and began purging the departments.
Because several earlier rounds had already scoured away many spies embedded by assorted factions, the Inspectorate's movements were even harder to detect.
No notice went out beforehand, to avoid wider disruption.
…
The Petitioners' City.
Administratum General Secretariat—Tax Archive Department main hall.
This office was tasked with correcting and disposing of the Imperium's mountain of backlogged tax files. Only by combing those "ancient accounts" clean, collating them into proper data and uploading,
Could the tax apparatus accurately re-assess the Imperium's myriad civilized worlds—and abolish abnormal, erroneous levies.
The Secretary of Archives convened his subordinate officials as usual, receiving reports and assigning the next cycle's tasks.
Clerks reported various archival absurdities.
For example, a certain Rogue Trader dynasty owed the Imperium one Throne Gelt, unpaid for 130 years—the file asked whether staff should be dispatched to collect again.
How such a ridiculous file entered the Administratum's process was anyone's guess.
But once a file entered the machine, no matter how absurd, the Imperium's procedures would grind on: stamp after stamp, audit after audit, year after year—staff dispatched to "resolve."
Like human automata.
Unless you could change Imperial law and departmental procedure, you did as the forms decreed.
That single Throne Gelt had consumed tens of thousands of work-hours from Administratum personnel, bleeding manpower and materiel.
Was that admirable rigor—or just ossified?
If not for the Savior's reforms—psyker-net infrastructure integrating everything, streamlining all process flows—
That absurd file might have marched through the Imperium's systems forever.
Yet the new bureau's investigation showed that Rogue Trader dynasty had been wiped out 130 years ago, a fact confirmed by the Inquisition.
Alas, because the Inquisition's archive and the Administratum's didn't interface, the notice was lost in the flood.
The Administratum kept sending dunning letters—and since no statute recognized the dynasty as "rebels," there was no basis for forcible seizure.
And so that ludicrous file idled in the Administratum for over a century, discovered and finally sealed away only now that inter-departmental data flowed freely.
The Secretary of Archives stood upon the dais, listening, and yawned.
He had little interest—and much disgust.
"Damn that Savior—stripped our power…"
He fumed inwardly.
Data integration and archival re-ordering did improve efficiency and accuracy—but it also dragged "quiet" secrets into sunlight.
Which meant his hereditary clan's interests had taken a grievous hit: they lost their grip on the trade of files.
On Holy Terra, every power had a family carving it up—titles inherited forever.
The Hope Primarch, the Savior, had smashed all of it.
Worse, they had neither the means nor the courage to stop him—only to vent in secret, and seek new interests within the altered order.
Suddenly, the hall fell silent. You could have heard a pin drop—only the thud of powered greaves approached.
The Secretary sensed something wrong.
He looked up—and froze.
Black trench coats, red armbands—Savior's hounds—with two fully armored, grim Imperial Fists Astartes behind them.
Everyone knew what that meant: there was a heretic or rebel in this hall.
"By the Emperor… please, not me…"
The Secretary's body trembled; he prayed.
The rest of the officials were the same—sweat pricked brows, breaths held—terrified to draw the black reapers' eyes.
But when the Inspectorate's interrogator met his gaze,
He knew it was over.
They were here for him.
"I…I…"
He tried to explain, but words failed him. Even so, a high official's habits kept his posture correct.
He dared not resist; no one did.
Everyone knew: before the Inspectorate, confession was leniency; resistance, severity.
If you spoke plainly, there was a chance to live.
Resist, and you were rebellion incarnate—your life forfeit, and your clan dragged down with you.
That was an outcome the Inspectorate deliberately crafted.
Compared with the Inquisition's blunt brutality, the Inspectorate was more restrained—more efficient.
As a rule, their interrogators were polite when they took a person away; sometimes they even notified the family,
But if they used force—then came the thunderbolt of wrath.
Plenty of noble houses and planetary fiefs had been erased by heavy weapons—or by Titan God-Engines.
Possible death or certain death—any official with a working brain knew which to choose, especially when the Inspectorate possessed absolute force.
Thus, many targets under investigation walked obediently at the interrogator's side—no resistance offered.
Invisibly, that lowered the cost of arrests and amplified deterrence.
"Milord Secretary—please come with us."
The interrogator's voice was calm, if cold; the two Imperial Fists behind him were already keyed up,
Ready to strike.
The Secretary stood under the weight of a hundred stares, quite beyond speech.
Face bloodless, fighting to master the tremors in his limbs, he stepped down from the dais—legs barely straight, swaying every few steps,
Like a drunken duck about to crumple.
An Imperial Fist stepped forward to support him. The group departed—leaving only the dread of their receding backs.
Even after the Inspectorate left, the hall stayed tense and hushed.
Only when orders came from above—appointing the deputy to act as interim secretary—
Did a breath of life return.
Grand Inquisitor Deville's purge moved like a surgeon's blade—precise, silent—one after another taken for questioning; almost nothing leaked to the public.
Which was the most terrifying part—no one dared resist.
Some senior figures who had "heard something" only dared curse, softly, in empty, sealed rooms.
They didn't dare so much as grumble aloud.
By the rumors abroad, the Custodian Guard, the Imperial Fists, the War Angels (Adepta Sororitas), and the Officio Assassinorum were all aiding the arrests; ground defenses in many sectors had quietly come online; God-Engines were warming.
Fleets, too, were mustering in secret.
Under such conditions—who would speak out? How could anyone rebel?
The black-coated reapers of the Inspectorate seemed to be everywhere—arriving at the precise place and moment to take away the designated person, then vanishing.
Some noble houses, on hearing the Inspectorate was coming, tied up their own and opened their doors wide.
Some, on receiving word, killed themselves rather than face judgment.
Soon, bloodstains began to appear in certain offices.
They were from those under investigation who had tried to resist—and failed.
Holy Terra's departments sank beneath a black pall of terror. No one knew who would be taken today—or whether it would be them.
Grand Inquisitor Deville followed his program,
Stripping rebels out of the bureaucracy piece by piece—removing anyone who might compromise the Savior's system of governance—and even taking away a number of Ecclesiarchy priests.
The only mercy was his restraint: he did not indulge in massacre. Many implicated were merely arrested, imprisoned, or dismissed.
Even so, more than a million rebels were executed.
It was the largest purge since the Primarchcalamity and the "Spring of Terra," and it felled more administrators than any prior sweep.
The Petitioners' City, residential sector.
A certain scribe returned home, grumbling about the Inspectorate's cruelty.
But the moment he mentioned the Savior, his wife silenced him:
"Have you gone mad? Do you want to die—or lose your rations and pay?!"
Then he remembered: every last resource and supply on Holy Terra now came from the Savior.
He had lifted them out of poverty. There was bread and meat on the table; from time to time the departments even issued coffee, snacks, and other benefits.
Their standard of living had transformed—refugees to middle-class in a breath.
This was one reason the purge met so little resistance: the Savior was feeding Holy Terra—everyone ate on the Savior's grain and drank on the Savior's water,
Even their wages and scrip came from him.
In such a climate, the Imperial elite could not spark a larger revolt. The present disorder was already the limit—
And it had been framed as a public security issue, easily crushed, then "sanitized."
In old Terra, this would have been unthinkable. A change in regime without tens of billions dead hardly counted as a change.
And yet—so it was.
The Savior truly held Terra—and his grip might be tighter than the Emperor's in the dawn age.
Back then, the Emperor still bargained with factions and cut special deals; the Primarch sons were a host of proud warlords. The Savior did not bargain; his hounds simply executed a sweeping purge—
And no rebellion followed.
…
The Senatorum Imperialis.
Grand Inquisitor Deville petitioned to convene a session with the High Lords to discuss what must come next.
The High Lords eyed two empty seats in silence.
Those two had already been confined, awaiting judgment by the Hope Primarch, the Savior.
"Lords and ladies, the cleansing is complete. It's time we advanced certain crucial matters."
Deville broke the hush.
Though displeased, the High Lords exhaled a little.
They set about fixing a date for the coronation. Even if the Savior could not return in time, a provisional ceremony must be held to ratify his rule.
After the purge, there was no one left on Terra who could truly disrupt the new order.
"Perhaps," said Lord Solar Moore, supreme commander of the Astra Militarum, spirits high, "we should raise a new sacred statue of the Hope Primarch, the Savior…"
If the Savior was to be the Imperium's new sovereign, his station could not remain merely equal to other Primarchs.
A grander, taller statue must be raised—at the center of the Plaza of Heroes—
To declare his majesty.
The proposal passed without dissent; none dared oppose.
The planned figure wore golden panoply, much like the Emperor's own; even the Ecclesiarchy held its nose and assented.
The Ecclesiarch did, however, whisper one objection:
"By the Emperor's grace—the new statue's specifications seem to exceed those of the Emperor's own. Should we not amend that?"
Grand Inquisitor Deville hesitated—then held to the original design.
It was no blasphemy.
The golden sun above the new statue's brow symbolized the Emperor—that was the first turn of the religious wheel, and there could be no compromise.
In the end, the new statue was approved, and the Savior's provisional coronation was set.
Once the communiqués went out, the Social Security drive proclaimed its first results.
The Administratum and other departments followed, announcing a new holiday—Savior's Coronation Day—to celebrate the coming of his rule.
The civil ministries likewise declared that, in honor of the coronation, material investments and supplies for Holy Terra would be doubled.
The Throneworld would be remade.
At once, Terra's oppressive mood evaporated—replaced by jubilation.
Many had done nothing at all—yet thanks to the Savior's coronation, their stipends doubled.
Who wouldn't be pleased?
With the new statue rising, the provisional coronation held, and benefit after benefit unfurled, reverence for the Savior only grew; public support reached new heights.
Holy Terra could not do without the Savior, just as the sky cannot do without the sun.
—
While all this transpired on Terra,
Not long ago—
In the Black Throne precincts.
Before the Throne, Eden stood beside the Emperor; their clasped hands lifted high, proclaiming him the Imperium's new ruler.
Amid the thrill, he suddenly felt a draft.
"Tch—"
Eden glanced down—and hissed.
There were his iron-slab pectorals. Wonderful. He'd joined a galaxy-wide psy-broadcast wearing nothing but his ripped physique, again.
His body was like cast adamantine, every edge cutting; scars crisscrossed him, and the holy light only made him look more warlike.
Still, he couldn't shake the sense he was a public flasher. How many times now had he "gone live" in the noösphere wearing only muscles?
Half the noble ladies of the Imperium were losing sleep over this.
Thankfully, the Emperor's conjured pageantry soon faded.
All present save the Savior were ordered to withdraw; the Emperor had grave matters to discuss.
He staggered back into the Black Throne; even his telepathy was broken by fatigued static.
His voice had never sounded so tired. "You should have received the message by now, yes?"
Eeden nodded, his face grave.
But the Emperor's next words tightened his chest: "I cannot hold on. You must find a way to kill me—completely—without delay…"
The Master of Mankind spoke in fragments.
He was so sorrowful, so full of blame; his gaze was pleading—almost begging:
"All of this is my fault. The damage to the Golden Throne cannot be undone. When it fails, my divinity will slip its shackles and become a catastrophe no one can withstand.
"You—my successor—you must, before that moment… end my life."
Perhaps this was the Emperor's most vulnerable moment—the charge before the end.
"So it's the Golden Throne after all…"
Hearing this, Eden relaxed.
He slapped his chest, brimming with confidence.
"Old man, rest easy. I can fix the Golden Throne. I'll have you sorted—properly and perfectly."
(End of Chapter)
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