"Where did this ignoramus crawl out from?!"
Guilliman had been touring the Imperium's daylight realms, rolling out the Hope Primarch's reform packages, presiding over ceremonies, and receiving governors by the dozen.
He'd kept his temper, even his smile.
This was the angriest he'd been in years—enough to slip out of character.
An anonymous poster on the spirit-net had declared that his painstaking Codex Astartes was worthless—good for nothing, unnecessary to the Imperium. The words were honed like blades.
Guilliman drew a long breath and, under the anonym "BlueGiant," fired back at the provocateur, a user styling himself "RomanRake."
Even angry, he kept it civil on the surface—implying the other was showboating, that the piece was unserious drivel from the uninformed.
Cooling a touch, Guilliman posted a sober reply: given the Imperium's post-Heresy condition, disbanding the Legions and promulgating the Codex Astartes had been the safest course—prevention against another treason. The Codex was necessary; that it had gone un-updated while the Ultramar legend slept had indeed caused issues.
But that lapse was not the Primarch's fault.
After sending it, he smirked at himself. "Why am I even explaining to this fellow? Makes it look like I care."
"RomanRake," he judged, had to be a high-ranking Imperial scholar, manager, or noble—educated, yes—but one who had not lived the nightmare of the Horus Heresy. Reading forbidden snippets in dusty tomes could never transmit the feel of that chaos.
Hence the warped conclusions.
Among the Highborn—scholars, Inquisitors, bureaucrats—debate over the post-Heresy settlement happened from time to time. Divergent views were tolerated—to a point. The tightest thought-fetters were for the masses; they were the ones most easily corrupted.
Even among the Highborn, heated arguments could happen—yet they rarely strayed into outright heresy. When tongues went too far, the Inquisition "unboxed" a file or two as warning and, if needed, disciplined the offender—seldom too harshly. Power blocs across the Imperium, even within the Inquisition, were not ideologically uniform; they sponsored different lines of thought, even different readings of the Emperor.
Only when views escalated into wars and uprisings did Judgement truly fall.
Now that Eden had built a better spirit-net, of course people would test its limits. As long as it wasn't outright apostasy or treason, posts stayed up. Sometimes a high scholar's remarks sparked real academic discussion; useful bits were flagged for evaluation—or even brought to pilot programs.
The Imperium was vast. Conditions differed wildly. Until true unity was secured, governance had to be a grand frame—with local governors tailoring policy to their worlds.
This was the Imperium's first megascale reform in millennia. Everyone was, to a degree, crossing the river by feeling for stones. Eden needed more human genius—more viewpoints, regional analyses, historical post-mortems—to avoid repeating failures and to iterate the system toward a unified end state.
Guilliman, as a statesman, understood his brother's intent.
So, after rebuking, he was ready to let it lie. The forum's walls were high; outside eyes wouldn't see—impact contained.
He'd been mocked and maligned before. Even with his brothers, he'd traded barbs—especially with the Lion.
He was just closing the dataslate when ping—a crisp chime. "RomanRake" had logged in, replied, and **@**ed him.
RomanRake:
Whether "optimized" or not, the Codex Astartes was a mistake, full stop.
Dissolving loyal Legions out of fear was failure.
The Imperium must not doubt its loyal warriors, nor should Man be so timid.
Worse, a half-baked Codex hobbled the remaining loyal Legions and has throttled Astartes combat power for ages.
It's not "waste paper," it's toilet paper.
Perhaps that Ultramarine Primarch should reflect! ( "you're bad" sticker )
He then rattled off Guilliman's "flaws": not decisive enough; poor at seizing timing; chronic delays in war.
The barbs landed like needles in a lung.
"How arrogant!"
The calm he'd regained blew apart; Guilliman went red-hot. Fingers rattling the keys, he hammered out a long, careful essay—laying out the strategic rationale, the constraints of the time, the necessity of reorganization—footnote clear and iron-clad.
Felix, his equerry, scarcely dared breathe. The Primarch was tilted. Rare. Usually only the Lion or Vulkan could push him this far.
But the attack was shameless.
Guilliman revised the post twice and clicked Send.
Two downvotes greeted him at once.
RomanRake replied in a blink: "Too long; didn't read. Just excuses." (cute "Omnissiah—'Bad? Practice more.'" emote)
"Damn it…"
Guilliman felt the breath catch. The man wasn't here to reason. He snapped back:
BlueGiant:
Do you even understand war, or the Imperium?
A new user chimed in:
AquilaLovesSpeed:
Brother, breathe. I can prove the OP knows war—and the Imperium—better than you.
The Codex turning into toilet paper is an established fact. Stop being stubborn.
RomanRake:
Correct. I do, in fact, know war and the Imperium better than @BlueGiant. No one knows them better.
"???"
Guilliman nearly laughed from rage. Who could know war and the Imperium better than him? Not even Eden—who shone brighter at economics, planetary development, and talent-spotting.
Enough. End it.
BlueGiant:
Your prattle is beneath reply. I am Roboute Guilliman, Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar and Primarch of the Ultramarines.
Let that fact end this meaningless spat.
RomanRake:
And so what? Also… I'm your dad.
BlueGiant:
Scum! Pray you have the wit to grasp how treasonous those words are!
AquilaLovesSpeed:
@BlueGiant 👍👍👍
The Primarch snapped. A glorious, cathartic flame war erupted.
BlueGiant:
On the most backward agri-world in the Five Hundred Worlds, a plowman's toenail-thoughts have more strategic value than your screed. They at least know not to pour manure on polonium-grain, while you jabber like an Ork-witted halfwit—
RomanRake:
I'm your dad.
BlueGiant:
…(several paragraphs of razor-tongued rhetoric)
AquilaLovesSpeed:
😅👍
RomanRake:
I'm your dad!
BlueGiant: (uploads pic—a corner of the Armour of Fate)
Ignorant cur!
If you have a mote of courage, report your location. We should talk.
Enough was enough. He hit Report, then prepared to take this offline.
He would show this "high Imperial" the price of insulting a Primarch—and the Emperor.
A good thrashing—or a cooling spell in a cell.
He'd assumed the identity drop would silence "RomanRake." Instead, the man replied:
RomanRake:
I'll be in Commorragh. Try not to cry like a fart-sprite when you arrive.
Even Felix had to speak: "My lord, shall we invoke the Inquisition?"
Such insolence must be met by the Inquisition's iron fist. Under interrogation, "RomanRake" would repent.
"Not yet."
Guilliman shook his head. This was only a forum spat. The spirit-net was built for frank debate among the Highborn. Likely the man simply didn't believe he was truly Roboute. If the Inquisition weighed in now, it would poison the space—who would speak freely again?
Besides, this was personal. He would settle it personally.
He tugged a smile taut. He wondered what face that man would make when he saw him. Would he kneel and beg?
Bzz—
The comm chimed. Seeing the channel ID, Guilliman smiled from the heart and opened it.
Eden's holo winked in—bright-eyed, excited.
"Old G, good news. Commorragh's Webway? Handled. Pop the champagne. Start packing for the Victory Celebration—it doubles as my coronation."
Eden had pinged him early lest "a thousand reasons" make him miss it. The Webway routes shaved years off travel; this time should be fine.
"I knew you'd win. The Imperium will look new again."
Guilliman grinned, genuinely glad. With Eden wielding a Webway metropolis, the Imperium might claw free of its choke points. The greatest human victory in millennia—worth any celebration.
He nodded, solemn as if marching to a decisive front: "Whatever it takes, I will be on time to witness your crowning."
Truth be told, whenever Eden fought or held grand rites, fate had found ways to make him late. Not this time.
Eden's smile widened.
"Then I can relax. Come early if you can—His Majesty just told me He wants to see you."
At "the Emperor," Guilliman's face stiffened. He knew of the clone plan; clearly, it had succeeded.
To face the Emperor—his Father—in truth set a small tremor in his heart. Worse—the Emperor's Sword. He'd… misplaced it. How could he face that?
"What is it?" Eden asked, catching the flicker.
Guilliman shook it off. "Nothing. I depart soon."
"Good." Eden paused, then added, "Oh—about the ceremony, I may need to borrow the Emperor's Sword. Give it an extra coat of sacred oil before you come. See you at the coronation!"
The holo blinked out. Silence filled the room.
Guilliman pinched the bridge of his nose; he and Felix stared at each other, queasy.
Yes—the Sword had to be there. Symbol of legitimacy, of transfer. And it was missing.
He turned to his equerry: "Have we searched Macragge's Honour bow to stern?"
Felix nodded. "My lord, records show no matter left the armoury or the ship. We swept it all; several prognosticators assisted—nothing. We even scanned the surrounding void."
The Emperor's Sword blazed with psychic signature. If it existed in the region—even in the Warp—signs should show.
Yet it was gone.
"Then search again."
Weariness edged his voice.
After a pause: "If we… commissioned a replica, would that—work?"
Felix kept his silence. He would not touch such sacrilege—especially not where the Emperor was concerned.
Two weeks later. Nothing.
Guilliman felt like a condemned man as he gave the order to embark.
They had to leave for Commorragh—or risk missing the Celebration.
He stood at the viewport, staring into the deep, a knot of irritation grinding his ribs. Search teams remained aboard, tearing into deeper crawlspaces.
On a thought, he opened the slate and typed:
BlueGiant:
@RomanRake I am en route to Commorragh. I expect you to show a warrior's spine—not sob, snivel, and kneel.
Data points suggested "RomanRake" was likely a high-ranking military man—such accounts weren't handed out lightly.
So he challenged him.
The nameless fire in him wanted a clean fight between men—to pound the fool into the deck until he begged.
He looked forward to it.
…
Three months later — Commorragh, the Webway
The Redemption Hive Fleet had finished its purge and digestion and pulled out of the Dark City. Full to bursting on a "special flavor" feast, they drifted back to the Ranch Sector to go on harvesting and swelling Eden's Tyranid avatar—Bladewing.
Eden stood atop the former Supreme Overlord's spire, looking out across the city.
Boom—
Commorragh's dying suns flared in speckled blaze—brighter, almost warm. The Urth Mechanicus had studied the system and judged the star salvageable; at terrible expense they'd seeded it with swarms of hydrogen cyclonic torpedoes and kindled it anew—bringing sunlight to the Dark City for the first time in tens of thousands of years. (Adeptus Mechanicus)
Above, void-lanes glittered with arrivals. Fleet after fleet crowded the docks.
The engineering armadas of the Hope Primarch.
Eden had paused almost every other megaproject to converge his builders on Commorragh and refit at maximum speed.
This would be the most prosperous, magnificent city in human history—a hub for commerce and transit for the Imperium and the galaxy.
Human destiny would pivot on this Webway metropolis.
He'd pored over the Ministry of Works' plans—dreamlike, staggering—architecture to stun every visitor.
Watching the engineering fleets slide into place, he breathed out:
"At last, an edge of our own. I can almost see humanity's vigor again—every living thing sprinting toward spring…"
(End of Chapter)
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