Eden sat in his lavish, dark-gold hover limo and gunned it straight toward the Throne Palace.
He was worried he might miss the show.
On the way, he scrolled back through that forum thread, trying to puzzle out why this had blown up—and, more importantly, what the Emperor Himself was thinking.
Why suddenly post a public broadside against Roboute Guilliman? Was it just a split-personality bout of spicy trash talk, or was He truly condemning His primarch-son?
Eden reached a conclusion:
"This is partly a shift in temperament, sure—but that fire's been smoldering in Him for a long time.
"Now that He can move in the material world again, He's itching to give Old Roboute some hands-on 'fatherly love'—in person."
The spark, most likely, was Guilliman's post–Horus Heresy decisions—most famously that roll of toilet paper, the Codex Astartes.
After the Heresy ended, the Imperium had, more or less, broken the traitor main force. That was the exact moment to unite.
Worse, the war had already proved the loyalty of the loyalist primarchs and Space Marines.
But Guilliman, fearing a repeat of the catastrophe, convened the other primarchs and dissolved the Legions, breaking them into smaller Chapters.
In practice, that dismantled the Imperium's legion-level warfighting capacity; the bite was gone from Humanity's strongest blade.
It's one reason why the Imperium later fought with such difficulty—after a civil war, we basically took a knife to our own tendons.
Nothing like the Great Crusade days.
Of course, Guilliman wasn't talking nonsense.
The treachery of the fallen primarchs and their Legions had burned war from the galactic rim to the heart of the Imperium; Holy Terra itself hemorrhaged lives in the siege, leaving mere tens of billions.
That bred a visceral distrust of primarchs and Astartes across every Imperial stratum.
When your model students—Horus and the then–Luna Wolves—go traitor, who still trusts the ones left?
In that climate, Guilliman compromised—dismantling the Legions to reduce the threat and win back trust.
He'd even explained in replies to the thread:
"I once believed it the right thing. I obeyed the Emperor's wish that mankind be ruled by mankind.
"And I had another concern: I would not see the Astartes as provincial tyrants over wide territories.
"Seizing rule from a would-be tyrant, only to make the Space Marines tyrants themselves, profits no one.
"If the Ultramarines still ruled the Five Hundred Worlds, it would open a path to corruption, an excuse to establish a thousand petty empires by pointing at Ultramar.
"I do not believe the other Chapters could replicate our stewardship; among the Astartes there will always be poor lords. Another Ultramar is unlikely.
"Far likelier is a cruel, blood-soaked regime."
Translation? Apart from me and the Ultramarines, the rest of you lot are garbage at civil administration.
He figured the other Astartes couldn't govern Imperial territory worth a damn, so the safer move was to dissolve and devolve power.
That split the remaining loyalist primarchs into Codex vs. anti-Codex camps and almost kicked off another round of fratricide.
Luckily, the Codex got rammed through.
In Guilliman's view, it was only a first-aid measure to survive a crisis of trust—future restructuring would follow Imperial needs.
Had he kept steering the reforms, maybe it could've ended well.
Who knew he'd "pop by" the Phoenician's crib and get stabbed into the ICU for ten thousand years?
After that, the Imperium spun out. Wars grew in scale, and there were no more Legions to meet them.
So we paid in meat.
The loyalist Chapters didn't exactly get showered with trust either—Human suspicion lingered, whole waves of Astartes thrown into the Eye of Terror during the penitential crusades.
Basically, delivering fresh troops to Chaos.
And the kicker: his big justification—"let Humanity rule Humanity"—didn't turn out so hot.
It was a train wreck.
Human grandees proved even more ambitious and less restrained; once in power, they kept kicking off fresh power struggles.
With no unified supreme leader, the whole polity turned to sand and slid further into the abyss.
Meanwhile, the territories actually run by Astartes—orderly, armed, and resilient.
They held.
Even Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds? Still essentially administered by the Ultramarines, not some utopian "Humans rule Humans" experiment.
Guilliman himself got over-deified, hoisted onto a shrine.
You could call the reform a failure of failures.
When he finally woke, he seems to have realized the Imperium needs a strong, singular hand on the tiller—like the Emperor once was.
And that veteran Astartes—more self-disciplined, more devout, better at checking their appetites than baseline Humans—might be the better governors.
So, post-resurrection he seized authority as Lord Commander and, semi-openly, restored the Ultramarines to a near-Legion scale.
A partial mea culpa.
From Guilliman's vantage point, this is all coherent:
"I meant temporary triage. I go down for a nap and they fossilize it for ten thousand years?
"Good thing I woke in time, dragged the Imperium back from the brink. I'm the MVP of the primarchs—13.0 hard-carry. Without me, we'd be toast."
Then this "Roman Rake" shows up tallying scores: "0–3 KDA, 3.0 rating—skill issue. Please self-reflect."
And dares to call him a bot for "missing the Terra defense"? As if he was AFK for the Heresy!
So Curze comes to Macragge to cut him down—that's his fault; the team feeding all over the map—that's his fault; he sails with three thousand warships to relieve Terra, only to hit the Vengeful Spirit and six thousand more ships phasing in from the warp—and that's also his fault?
Why duel the Phoenician? Who else could fight him if not me? (Yes—Fulgrim, "the Phoenician.")
That's my fault too?
He's salty. People over-index on whether he made the last fight, like it erases his Heresy-era contributions.
Without him stabilizing the wider galaxy, Terra might've suffered far worse.
And afterwards, he did sail back and climb the wreckage toward a postwar order.
So he blasted the "Roman Rake" and even scheduled a gentleman's duel.
But from the Emperor's angle, His primarch-son Roboute Guilliman… looked different.
During the Heresy, while the Emperor held on by sheer will upon the Throne, Guilliman and bros built Imperium Secundus in Ultramar—as if Dad were dead and only the Bros could save what remained.
They even threw a little celebration.
Then they learned the Emperor lived. Imperium Secundus: instantly disbanded. Guilliman: warp-speed mustering to Terra, sabers out.
But the Siege of Terra raged, the Emperor waited red-eyed, and the reinforcements… never arrived. Always "on the way."
Guilliman later explained: the warp turned into a maze, with loops and "ghost" Vengeful Spirit fleets—he couldn't reach Terra in time.
Unavoidable.
But the Emperor is severe. He looks at outcomes. However you slice it, the war window was missed.
Founding Imperium Secundus also cost precious time.
What followed infuriated Him more: the right answer to a broken empire is a single commanding will to seize, hold, and rebuild.
After His own Great Crusade, only when the machine ran smoothly did He recede and devolve power.
Guilliman? Before the crisis was even done—before the mess was cleared—he dissolved the Legions.
Poor command judgment. Overcautious.
If, after the dissolution, he'd delivered recovery and reconstruction? Fine.
But he didn't. He fell to the Phoenician's trap, got carved and carted home, and slept it off on a stasis throne.
For ten millennia.
Tell Me how that isn't dropping the ball.
To the Emperor, losing to the fallen brother's gambit? That's just weak.
Walking off mid-season? Unforgivable.
And then the kid has the gall not only to shrug off criticism, but to trash-talk Dad and call for a duel.
"Don't cry. Kneel and beg later."
Yeah, that'll go over great. How could the Emperor not take this offline and make it real?
From a third-party angle, Eden could roughly chart both hearts.
He withheld judgment.
Neither the Emperor nor Old Roboute were "wrong." The Dark Gods and this miserable galaxy are the problem.
And a father cuffing a son? Not exactly something he had grounds to block.
Besides, Roboute truly had slipped—failing to see who he was mouthing off to and then challenging Dad to "knock his crown off."
The one saving grace: the Emperor these days is a shade gentler—not that cold iron He used to be—or Roboute would be in real trouble.
He shouldn't die today, but a "belt dipped in antiseptic" lesson seems guaranteed.
What Eden didn't realize was this: the Emperor's anger also had to do with Eden himself.
All the Savior had achieved stood in brutal contrast to the primarch-sons.
Eden seized Imperial power, crushed rival blocs, reorganized the map—ambitious, forward, exactly what He wants in a successor. That naturally makes the sons look… less.
Sometimes He wondered: after the Heresy, if the Savior had ruled instead of the over-cautious Roboute…
Would the ending be different?
Would Humanity have been spared this decline?
"Should be fine… right?"
Eden breathed out. Even so, he was a little worried.
The Throne Palace loomed into view; the hover limo burned in through the gates.
…
Black Throne Hall
The Throne blazed gold, its radiance cascading across cathedra-steel, lending sanctity to the cold machinery.
The Emperor's clone-body, unusually, had risen from the Throne to loosen His limbs.
A faint ember of wrath smoldered between His brows.
Yet as He felt the White Scars Primarch and Roboute Guilliman approach, He sat again, wearing the usual impassive mask.
Guilliman entered with Jaghatai Khan.
The closer he came to his father, the tighter he clenched—already rehearsing how he'd confess the Emperor's Sword had been "misplaced."
"Father!"
At the sight of the Emperor, Roboute's knee buckled and he half-knelt, head almost touching the floor—textbook contrition.
Eden, arriving at the doorway, saw it all: Old Roboute on one knee, head bowed to the tiles, the very picture of remorse.
He nodded. "Old Roboute has the read of the room. Maybe he knows and decided to fold. The Emperor probably won't go too hard."
Everyone knows: when parents lay into a rebellious kid, the real trigger isn't just what you did—it's your attitude after.
If you confess quick, sob hard, and repent from the gut, chances are you get off lighter—at least not beaten that badly.
But if you stiff-neck it… up you go on the hook.
Then, the very next heartbeat, Guilliman stood up—beaming.
The punchable kind of beaming.
"Father, so You took back the Emperor's Sword! I feared some xenos heretic stole the relic—I've been searching for days."
He had meant to confess and ask for help.
But he caught the Sword's familiar aura—the scent of consecrated oil—and then saw it, right by the Throne.
Anxiety blew away; he straightened with relief—Lord Regent composure restored—and began to report:
"Father, Brother Eden will need the blade for the ceremony. He may come to you to borrow it briefly."
Now that Father had returned to the galaxy, the Sword was hardly Roboute's to keep.
The Emperor did not answer. He rose from the Throne.
Down the steps He came, presence swelling. "I hear you claim to know war better than I, to grasp the Imperium's plight more keenly?"
"Oh, Throne—He's limbering up…"
Eden held his breath. "No, He pre-warmed ages ago—belt already in hand."
He offered Roboute a silent eulogy. No dodging this beating.
Guilliman, facing the Father advancing step by step, retreated twice.
A realization cracked across him; he jolted.
A sinking suspicion: the anonymous "Roman Rake" and "Eagle Who Loves Speed" on the forum—he suddenly knew who they were.
He glanced at Jaghatai, pleading for confirmation.
"Brother… fare thee well."
Khan forced composure, drew a deep breath, and nodded solemnly.
And then he drifted backward—lest the blood spatter his leathers.
Primarch duels do happen. Emperor-on-primarch corrections? Rare.
Confirmation shattered Roboute; he shut his eyes.
What exactly had he typed at Father? Called Him a crybaby? Said His brain was as unrefined as a greenskin's?
Told Him to duel like a man and not to kneel and beg?
"Waaagh…"
One thought filled Guilliman's skull.
The old terror His Father had left carved in his psyche loomed again; he trembled.
"Father… it was a misunderstanding."
Roboute collapsed back to both knees, voice hoarse.
He did not have it in him to duel Father; no primarch truly did.
Even Horus—corrupted by Chaos—didn't act normal in His presence.
Too late.
WHUMP—
Warp-light detonated. Wreathed in holy gold, the Emperor's muscles swelled like adamant forgings.
His voice flensed Roboute's fear:
"If you are still My son, do not kneel like a craven little wisp and beg.
"Did you not challenge Me to a man's duel? Is this all the courage the former Lord Commander can muster? Or have you learned nothing in ten thousand years—
"Just as you were then—dissolving My Legions out of fear and impotence.
"Stand. Strike Me!"
Guilliman rose, eyes red.
His knuckles shook with all the words he'd never voiced:
"Father, though You scorn me—though I can never meet Your standard—I have, for the Imperium… given everything.
"And You never saw even a little of it!"
Dust geysered at his heels; he hurled himself at the Emperor—every sinew behind a single punch—
WHUD—
The Emperor caught his fist and smiled a millimeter. "At least now, you show a glimmer of courage, My son."
The smile vanished in a golden blur.
Roboute pinwheeled past Eden, face torqued by the impact, and cratered into the deck.
Eden—had a single thought:
"What a warp-charged bitch-slap. So He has been pulling His punches on me!"
Khan's eyes glistened; Roboute's words stabbed a familiar place. Perhaps every primarch nursed the same ache:
A son's hunger for a stern father's praise—never once given.
Khan wiped quickly. Not that much empathy between brothers:
"Good thing I'm not Roboute. Father praised me the other day. I'll show him the holo later. Let him stew."
He caught Eden palming a recorder.
"You're recording?"
"You aren't?"
Eden shrugged. Prime blackmail material from the primarch vault. Must save it.
More seriously, a knock-down, drag-out dust-up can vent a lot of poison and get real things said out loud.
But Roboute's screams made Eden flinch.
This wasn't a duel between men. This was Roboute getting worked.
As the Emperor really started to feel it, Eden and Khan exchanged a look and ghosted farther back.
Stray shots kill.
Roboute did sneak a few jabs through—enough to bruise Father's eye-rim.
Khan felt a pang of envy.
To land even a few clean shots on the Emperor—your own Father—in a bout like this… that's a strange, ineffable honor.
The bastard didn't deserve it.
Between blows, the two finally spat truths—and insults—at each other.
The hits landed harder.
At last, winded, the Emperor halted the "man's duel."
"Son, at last you've spoken some truth.
"Perhaps I was too hard on you. I expected more—Humanity needs you stronger.
"But I also admit: I neglected your feelings. For that, I apologize."
The once-unyielding sovereign of mankind—apologized to His son.
No small thing.
He looked at Roboute, hope in His eyes:
"The Imperium hereafter is yours to keep. I trust you to bear the charge—and surpass Me…"
He wasn't speaking to Roboute alone, but also to Eden and to Jaghatai.
A bequest of duty.
Help Eden rule. Unite. Lead Humanity back to the sun.
He slumped back onto the Throne, a trace of weariness on Him. Even this took its toll.
A shade of age haunted His outline.
He knew His epoch had passed. Time to lay down Heavier Burdens, to commit galaxy and empire to the young.
He would watch from the Throne, and see Humanity flourish.
A faint wave—dismissal. "I must rest. Take Roboute to the medicae. I know you have them waiting outside."
On the Hall's floor:
Roboute lay there, chest heaving, face ballooned like a grox.
Tears clung to his lashes.
But he was smiling.
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 500 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]