"This is what a human city should look like…"
The reignited sun washed the skyline; light scattered off the facades in a thousand points, and the whole city seemed to glow.
Commorragh—once a Dark City—no longer felt so gloomy and choked in mist.
It felt… human.
Hands clasped behind his back, Eden pictured the city to come.
He was very, very pleased.
A city entirely his—wealth beyond calculation.
On that count alone, he was now one of the richest beings in the galaxy—and would only grow richer.
Footsteps. The White Scars' Primarch strode up beside him.
He looked down over the newly pristine avenues, more and more astonished. "Brother, how in the warp did you guide that Tyranid swarm?"
It was uncanny.
The swarm hadn't just driven out the daemons; it had cleaned the rubble, scoured the streets—polished the paving until it shone.
No xenos bio-waste left anywhere.
Apart from some scars of battle, the place might as well have been new.
Even the most highly taxed hive-cities didn't look this clean.
"Maybe that hive fleet has… particular tastes," Eden said airily. "Or they just hate Drukhari building materials."
Every hive-fleet had its peculiarities. Having a brood that liked playing janitor? Entirely "normal," right?
He had to admit, the Redemption Swarm's cleaning power was absurd. Even the tightest, filthiest corners—down to the last speck.
Not a stain left.
If it wouldn't be a political disaster, he'd keep a detachment of bugs here in the Webway metropolis—newly christened Dawn City.
But he couldn't.
Leaving Tyranids in a human city would have… consequences.
More importantly, they'd steal a mountain of jobs.
Civil Affairs had run the numbers: sanitation in Dawn City alone would create close to 20 billion jobs—lifting untold families.
Other sectors would be in the tens of billions more.
Humanity needed work desperately.
As Lord of the Imperium, he was responsible for everyone. Too many were suffering; too many needed employment.
Every single post mattered.
Those posts would settle refugees from the darkened zones, let them put down roots—
—and feed families.
And restored families, given real schooling, would return quality population to the Imperium—
—more living strength for Eden to marshal.
That was the point of building an economy and seeding jobs: every household that recovers and can spend sparks demand elsewhere—
—and prosperity spirals upward.
All of which buys resources and manpower for the wars to come.
His economists had autopsied the Old Imperium's decline.
So much of the slide into ruin traced back to poverty.
Vast populations sank into extreme want; industries withered; resource extraction stalled; there was nothing left to squeeze.
Those people weren't even fit to conscript into the Guard as cannon fodder.
Worse—extreme poverty breeds Chaos cults.
The crisis fed on itself.
An Imperium that can't replenish its economy fights itself broke—again and again.
Eden had inherited that—not just the tidy ledgers of his Hope Dominion, but the threadbare, drafty tent that was mankind at large.
Some advised him to refuse the poisoned chalice—that the Imperium was a crushing liability.
If he kept to his own territories—free of the trap of the poorest billions and the blighted regions—his realm would grow faster, claim more stars.
The hardliners were blunt: maintain momentum, let the worst regions and most desperate billions die off naturally.
Pick viable zones, reclaim and rebuild there.
Let some provinces of the Old Imperium perish; digest the relics and lingering value; shed the load and sprint.
Cruel, yes—but from a cold future-first vantage, "better."
Some would pay the price.
Within the Hope Dominion that line stayed fringe—it didn't match Eden's convictions.
But among the Imperium's upper crust, it had fans.
"Life is the Emperor's coin."
If culling bought mankind a longer future and a brighter horizon, some argued, so be it.
Farce inevitably followed.
One high official trumpeted the doctrine all over the forums—until he ran the math and discovered his own sector was on the "to be abandoned" list.
He flipped overnight—became its fiercest foe.
"Every human life is the Emperor's coin—spent with care, never lightly thrown away!"
He even launched the slogan, "I can sacrifice, but I cannot be sacrificed!"
The "New Imperial Development Grand Line" committee heard the case—and Eden shut it down without a blink.
He would take the Imperium whole. Reclaim every fallen province he could. Save every Imperial soul he could reach.
Hard? Yes. But that was the duty of a Lord of Humanity.
Choose retreat, and mankind would lose its will to climb—and be crushed when an even harder trial came.
So the Line was set:
Guided by faith in the Great Savior; reform the political machine; build commerce; expand transport; and sharpen the sword.
Let the Savior's light reach every border; smash every heretic and xenos that resists; take back every inch of lost ground.
Right now, Dawn City was the keystone.
It would be the commercial heart and Webway hub—an engine of jobs and energy beyond counting.
In plain terms, it would become the Imperium's second heart—not far beneath Holy Terra in rank.
It would change humanity's trajectory.
Honestly, if His Majesty weren't "holding court on the Palace privy" on Terra, Dawn City might outrank it already.
As it was, the Emperor doted on Dawn City—pinging for progress and defense updates like clockwork.
He worried.
Eden's thoughts spun on.
He turned to the city again and veered the topic. "Old Khan—doesn't this beat Holy Terra by a mile?"
Jaghatai Khan didn't press about the Tyranids. He nodded. "It does. I like it here."
"It was a jewel of the ancient Aeldari Imperium after all…"
Eden's voice softened.
In leisure and the arts, the Aeldari once stood at the peak.
Even after renovations, Holy Terra still wore too much of the old grimdark necromechanic style.
This place had been a Drukhari seat, true—but under it were the high lines of Aeldari grace.
Once the swarm stripped away the Drukhari's wretched spikes, barbs, and meat-machines, the city's former splendor came into view.
It utterly dunked on any Imperial city—and stood shoulder to shoulder with those in the Hope Dominion.
Dawn City's future look would keep that bedrock—and layer in the Savior's own aesthetic.
By now, the arts under Eden had fused many xenos elements into something uniquely human.
They would synthesize those forms and build a dreamlike beauty all our own.
"In time, every Space Marine Chapter will build a monastery-fortress here—second home, after their homeworlds."
Eden glanced at the Khan.
"Per the plan:
My Redemption Legion, your White Scars, and Guilliman's Ultramarines will each raise a monastery in their demarcated zones.
The Imperium will supply resources for the works."
More banners meant more safety for the Webway city.
"I'll have Jubal Khan start the preliminaries at once!"
The Khan was delighted. Free resources and Webway land? Only a fool says no.
He knew what Webway real estate meant. With a monastery inside the network, White Scars deployments would be lightning.
"The ministry crews will coordinate with your builders," Eden said—and then frowned.
"Though… the Emperor's been… odd lately. Maybe spend more time with Him?"
The Emperor's moods had veered younger and stranger—splinters in the mind widening. Would He stabilize?
"Father's fine," the Khan waved it off, big-shouldered and easy. "He's been in great spirits. We even had a proper drink with that firewater you sent!"
To him, this Emperor was better—easier for the sons to bear.
Eden's experience was different—he mostly met the Emperor's gentle face, which adored him.
But the other sons remembered the tyrant-king.
The Primarchs had stood under that iron gaze—and it had branded them deep.
Even now, meeting the Emperor put them on edge—waiting for the lash of scorn.
After the Great Crusade, under the crushing weight of human destiny, the Roman rake—the immortal who once toyed with life, the Young Emperor—had vanished.
Every fiber turned to saving Man. Pure burden. Pure pain.
Ten-thousand-year plans, sacrifices, deaths, glories, agonies—all worth it—all pointing at one end:
Humanity redeemed forever.
Ends over means.
He was harsh with himself—and harsher with his sons.
He'd poured too much hope into the Primarchs; expectation calcified into cruelty.
No father's warmth—only cold, even cruel, utility.
They were tools—and tools, when dull, are thrown away—like those sons He had ordered erased.
Under that pressure—and their own incomprehension—many Primarchs twisted and yielded to corruption.
The Emperor fell—into a throne of gold, a skull under a crown.
The old iron soul became an old soul, suffering without cease—repenting.
Now the burden had slid to the Savior's shoulders; the Webway dream was real.
The Emperor had eased—moods lighter, younger facets resurfacing from the splintered whole.
In conversation, the change was night and day.
The Khan had felt it first.
The father who'd been all iron had softened; the suffocating pressure faded; He called him "son."
It had the Khan quietly weeping—running to the Palace to soak up that long-denied warmth, drifting the spirit-net with his father like a kid.
They'd even gotten truly drunk together; the Emperor stepped down from the Throne to sling an arm over his shoulders and praise his courage at the Siege of Terra.
The words hit so close the Khan blurred with tears—recording a little holo to brag to his brothers later.
They were boys forged too fast, starved of gentleness.
Now the Emperor acted like a father. How could they not be moved?
Eeden exhaled, eased. If the Khan saw it as good, it likely was.
A happier Emperor was better than a haunted one. He'd fought for millennia. Let Him rest, a little, in His palace.
"Let it keep getting better…"
A comm flash drew Eden's eye; he smiled.
"Guilliman's on the way. Have a proper talk with him when he lands—and then take him to meet His Majesty."
He squinted at the Khan. "You two good? No brawling, please."
Loyal sons didn't hate each other, but harmony wasn't their strong suit. An incident would be… awkward.
"Brawl? I'm counting the minutes till he gets here."
The Khan's grin beamed—almost too cheerful.
"???"
Eden blinked. "Why so… happy?"
He'd heard the Khan grumble about Guilliman a thousand times. Now he heard "Guilliman" and turned into sunshine?
The Khan drew a deep breath, smoothed his face. "Nothing. Just remembered something fun.
Anyway, coming to see Father? I brought stronger liquor."
Eden eyed him, curious, but waved it off. "Not this time—committee meeting."
Two iron men with turbocharged booze? He'd be carried out. Bad for business.
He left the father-and-son to it and dove into the thousand moving parts of Dawn City's rebuild.
It was pure fuel to raise a grand city to match his vision.
Of course, his "work" was mostly leadership: Secretary Corps and chiefs in tow, he toured sites, checked milestones, ate with foremen, and encouraged the right faces.
As Lord of the Imperium and overall commander for Dawn City's buildout, the main job was showing up.
Not hard work at all—almost relaxing.
—
A few months later.
Dawn City, Core—Harbor Quays
The gilded Macragge's Honour eased into dock, bathing in warm sunlight.
"We're early."
Guilliman watched a city mid-transformation—chaos layered over grandeur—and a spark of awe lit his eyes.
Magnificent. And now—human.
Better still, nothing had waylaid the voyage. No raiders. Barely a warp ripple. Once inside the Webway, it was all green lights.
When the flagship settled, Guilliman boarded a shuttle for the city, to meet the Savior and the Khan.
"Since my return, this is the smoothest trip yet. Maybe luck's turning…"
The thought soothed him.
Then—good news on approach.
The Chief Stormseer had caught a major augury: the Emperor would resolve the Emperor's Sword.
Relief washed him clean.
If Father could recover the blade, the shame went with it.
What remained was to find "RomanRake" and pound the man to paste.
The hatch irised open. Guilliman strode out, smiling wide, and closed with his brothers.
"Eden!"
He hugged the Savior first, then the Khan.
"Brother—how tough is that armor of yours?" the Khan boomed, clapping the ceramite with a clang, voice full of mischief.
Guilliman kept the polite smile.
"Naturally. One of the finest defensive panoplies in the galaxy. Care for a little sparring, Khan?"
Primarchs cared about strength. Always.
The Khan shook his head, hesitated. "No. I… wanted to warn you about—"
But Guilliman cheerfully cut him off and proffered a stasis lunchcase.
"Try this first—one of my treasures."
He popped the field: skewers, glistening and fragrant, enough to make a Primarch swallow.
Aged for decades. Great Unclean One–grade—pure, original-flavor mutant Nurgle-beast. A delicacy.
Guilliman had tasted it once, sustained psychic damage, and vowed to share the love with every brother.
"By the Throne—perfect with liquor. More," the Khan said, mouth shining, thumbs up. He pocketed another box to pair with Father's next drink.
Guilliman was generous. He had enough stock to treat every Primarch.
"What meat is this? I've never had anything like it."
Guilliman's smile sharpened; he'd been waiting. He helpfully explained the source—and holo-projected a very nauseating Nurgle-mutant for clarity.
"You are my dear brother…"
Even the Eagle of Chogoris misted up at the edges.
Learning Eden and Guilliman had both eaten helped. Shared horrors are easier—like a secret pact.
He sealed away the delicacy and made a note to treat the others later.
"Right—what were you going to tell me?"
The Khan thought better of it. He grinned too wide. "Nothing. Come. Father… misses you."
He all but dragged Guilliman toward the Palace, hungry for what came next.
"There's definitely a catch," Eden murmured, watching them go.
He pinged Webby for a quick intel scrape—and the truth dropped onto his slate.
"…oh, hell. Old G, you madman—calling the Emperor a crybaby and challenging His Majesty to a duel?"
On the spirit-net, the Emperor's alt had posted; Guilliman's BlueGiant had flamed back. It was all there—in glorious, spicy scroll.
Eden inhaled, then opened a medlink.
"Put a full med-team on standby outside the Palace. Best trauma suite prepped. Now."
Orders sent, he sprinted for the Palace.
Too late to warn Old G. And if the Emperor knew he'd tried, the smiting might be upgraded.
All he could do was arrive in time to witness the carnage—
—and collect what was left.
(End of Chapter)
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