Chapter 434 – Return to Terra! Father and Son Face Off! Kneel!
As expected, provoked by Guilliman's words, Magnus immediately let out a hysterical roar:
"You can humiliate me, but you cannot slander the Thousand Sons warriors and the people of Prospero who died innocently!"
"They once rendered great service to the Imperium of Man, and now you want to brand them as the lackeys of the Chaos Gods, traitors to humanity—what right do you have to do that?"
Watching Magnus on the verge of breaking down, Guilliman calmly stepped closer, his gaze deep and cold. "Because you lost. It's that simple."
The victor writes history. No matter how many glories the Thousand Sons once achieved, they can be wiped away entirely—as though the Legion never existed at all.
In fact, the Emperor had already done this before. Take the XX Legion, the Alpha Legion: their Primarch, Alpharius, had been erased from Imperial records by the Emperor himself.
At those words, Magnus's furious shouting ceased abruptly. He finally grasped the reality of his position: if he gave in to despair now, those Thousand Sons warriors who died innocently would forever bear a false and damning legacy.
That was absolutely not the outcome he wanted.
As Guilliman had said, the Imperium was full of people eager to see him dead. Once inside the Imperial Palace on Terra, there would be virtually no one to speak on his behalf—let alone allow him to speak for himself.
If even he refused to tell the truth, who knew how those Imperial scribes would fabricate events, twisting and demonizing those who had died for the Imperium.
Magnus let out a pained groan and began confessing everything to Guilliman in full detail—
From his first contact with a Warp entity, to cooperating with it in building Prospero, to curing the Thousand Sons' flesh-change, and finally revealing the true nature of Tzeentch…
Of course, during this account Magnus instinctively painted his own actions in a better light—but every time he did, Jack Wells, standing nearby, would forcibly correct him.
After all, no one can be perfectly objective. When recounting one's own deeds, it's only natural to lean toward one's own side.
Only by cross-checking multiple perspectives could they piece together a clear and reasonably complete account.
Once he had the full picture, Guilliman prepared to leave and report to the Emperor.
Before stepping out of the cell, Guilliman gave Magnus a pointed reminder:
"Mortarion and the others will come to see you. Watch what you say and what you don't."
"I'm not the only one submitting a report to the Emperor."
The meaning couldn't have been clearer—if a single word of insult toward the Emperor escaped Magnus's mouth, Mortarion and the other Primarchs would faithfully report it.
And then his crimes would multiply, making his situation far worse.
He would have to restrain himself.
"Heh… Russ is a brainless brute, Mortarion and Lion are petty schemers. Each of them is stupid in their own way—I won't fall for their tricks."
Proud and arrogant, Magnus had never held his Primarch brothers in high regard. Even Horus, soon to become Warmaster, was in Magnus's eyes nothing more than a street thug.
At best, Horus knew how to fight. He could never compare to Magnus, who commanded boundless knowledge and psychic power.
As for Mortarion—constantly breathing in chemical fumes—Magnus considered him a despicable little man. If not for the Emperor's restraint, Magnus would have already sent the Thousand Sons to wipe out the Death Guard.
Guilliman ignored him and left with Jack Wells.
In another chamber, after a short wait, the three Primarchs who had also met with Magnus cheerfully invited Guilliman to a lavish banquet.
Clearly, seeing Magnus brought so low had greatly lifted their spirits.
Guilliman advised his brothers to take this as a warning, but Mortarion and the others were dismissive, assuring him they had no intention of contacting Warp entities.
And that much was true—unlike Magnus, the other Primarchs had no direct stake in the Warp, nor could they gain much from it.
They simply lacked the psychic talent to develop such power.
While Mortarion and the others celebrated their "mission accomplished," the Universal Megacorp's headquarters had just received data on a new spacetime technology from the front lines.
The core research teams of the Science Nexus immediately began testing the technology and quickly integrated it into their knowledge base.
In truth, the Megacorp already had significant progress in spacetime research—such as FTL particle technology from the Edge of Tomorrow universe, and spatial engineering from the Halo universe.
In matters of technological advancement, the Science Nexus always moved with speed and precision.
Now, the Megacorp was only a hair's breadth away from mastering spacetime technology!
…
The Solar System – The Imperial Palace on Terra
"Your Majesty, Guilliman has sent word—Magnus has been brought to Terra and awaits your judgment."
At the base of the grand throne steps, Chancellor Malcador reported to the Emperor seated upon his golden throne.
This mission had been completed far faster than Imperial officials had expected.
However, the number of unexpected incidents along the way far exceeded their predictions.
"The Universal Megacorp's main fleet has halted a hundred light-years from Terra, sending only a detachment of twenty-three warships into the system."
When Malcador delivered this detail, his feelings were deeply mixed.
Three hundred thousand warships made up this expeditionary fleet—and the Megacorp had over a thousand such fleets.
Such staggering industrial capacity was almost beyond comprehension.
From Guilliman's report, Malcador also learned of the events in the Prospero system—Golden Age AI Iron Men fleets, an artificial black hole… Things he'd never even imagined before.
Even more unbelievable, the Megacorp had fought the Abominable Intelligences as a father disciplines his unruly son—beating them into submission.
For the Imperium, this meant that the Megacorp's strength now rivaled the peak of humanity's Golden Age.
Upon hearing this, the Emperor even paused his personal oversight of the FTL engineering project, considering whether to simply hand over the Golden Throne to the Megacorp's ruler.
After all, the Imperium was already firmly on the right track. Once the FTL project was complete, returning to a Golden Age was only a matter of time.
What could the Chaos Gods of the Warp truly do to humanity then?
Although the Emperor's political skill was unmatched, he had no real lust for power. As a man of the Golden Age, his rule was only ever meant to lead humanity toward a better future.
If the Megacorp could truly make the Imperium—and humanity—greater, then he would willingly yield the throne to Li Ang, the Megacorp's head of state.
He would even bow to him.
"Your Majesty, shall we summon Magnus now?"
At that moment, Malcador's voice broke the Emperor's thoughts.
The Emperor stopped pondering the matter. He intended to deal further with the Universal Megacorp—only after determining their true nature would he decide whether to entrust the Imperium to them.
"Bring him here. I have words for him."
At his command, Malcador ordered the Custodian Guard to escort Magnus in.
During the wait, Malcador studied the young Primarch closely. He could not fathom why Magnus had come to this point—nor why his actions had brought the Imperium to the brink of collapse.
Thankfully, with his capture, the predetermined doomsday of the Imperium had been averted.
Humanity's rise from the Age of Darkness to the road of revival had taken countless sacrifices, and Malcador had no wish to see Magnus destroy it all.
Soon, Magnus—now with his severed arm reattached and fully healed—was brought to the base of the long throne steps, flanked by four towering Custodian Guards.
Looking up at the Emperor seated high above, Magnus showed none of the devotion or loyalty he once did. He stood tall, eyes fixed straight ahead, glaring at the Emperor without flinching.
Though he said nothing insulting, his gaze and posture made his defiance plain.
"Magnus, your actions have greatly disappointed me." The Emperor's voice was cold and even.
From his throne, his eyes and psychic presence swept over Magnus again and again. His expression revealed no anger, no pity—only the detached appraisal of a craftsman inspecting a tool that was broken, yet perhaps still usable.
For this Primarch—now a tasteless morsel, too flawed to be useful, too troublesome to discard—the Emperor would have to decide carefully.
"Disappointed? Hah. To you, we Primarchs are nothing more than expendable tools—use us when we have value, discard us when we don't!"
Magnus shot back immediately. And, truth be told, he wasn't entirely wrong. To the Emperor, most Primarchs were tools.
Only a few—Horus, Lion El'Jonson, and a select handful—truly held importance in his eyes.
Once, the Emperor had counted Magnus among them. His immense psychic potential made him a key part of the Emperor's strategy against the Warp's Chaos Gods.
But never had the Emperor imagined Magnus would ally himself with such a god. Though it had been done without malicious intent, the damage was real.
Prospero had fallen because of him. The Thousand Sons had been annihilated because of him.
"You are a Primarch of the Imperium—granted your own domain, your own armies, and boundless honor. You have no right to lecture me about tools."
The Emperor's voice remained cold.
He did not bother to argue about the "tool" accusation; the truth was that everyone—without exception—was a tool in his plan to restore the Imperium.
If Magnus enjoyed such power and privilege, he was expected to use it for the Imperium. If he could not, then he had no reason to exist.
The Imperium did not keep idlers.
Looking at the son who had once shown him the utmost respect—now standing like a defiant adolescent—the Emperor sighed inwardly.
The greater the hope, the greater the disappointment.
He should have known Magnus could not restrain his thirst for forbidden knowledge. He should have kept the boy at his side, guiding him closely.
It would have been far better than letting him consort with Tzeentch, disrupt the Imperial Webway, and ultimately bring the Imperium to ruin.
The more the Emperor thought on it, the more his anger burned. He unleashed his psychic might, sending crushing force into the backs of Magnus's knees.
Magnus resisted with all his strength—but the Emperor's power was overwhelming. With a heavy thud, he was driven to his knees.
The impact gouged two deep circular dents into the palace floor. Sharp edges of broken stone sliced into his flesh, drawing bright crimson blood.
Malcador instinctively wanted to glance toward the Emperor—to silently suggest a lighter hand. But then he thought: if the Emperor's temper turned on him, he might be made to kneel as well. The humiliation would be unbearable. So he simply lowered his head and pretended not to see.
Magnus tried to rise again, muscles straining, veins bulging in his neck. He put every ounce of his strength into it—but against the Emperor's might, it was futile.
And the Emperor's gaze held not a flicker of sympathy.
Over ten billion lives on Prospero—along with the battle-hardened warriors of the Thousand Sons—had been lost because of him. Yet, as his son, as a Primarch of the Imperium, Magnus still lived to stand here on Terra.
If the Emperor didn't draw blood from this ungrateful son—if he didn't administer a father's "lesson"—the bitterness in his heart would not fade.
So before any real conversation began, he would first make this fool clear-headed—wipe away any thoughts poisoned by the Chaos Gods.
The relentless psychic pressure drove shards of stone deep into Magnus's knees, piercing the meniscus. Even his cartilage was slashed by the jagged fragments.
If the Emperor kept this up, Magnus might well lose the ability to stand at all.
After several long minutes, Magnus finally collapsed, drenched in sweat, his face pale as death.
"You can still bleed," the Emperor said coldly, "but your people—through your folly—now lie forever in the pulverized dust of the Prospero system, without even a fragment of bone left behind."
Seeing the ruined state of Magnus's knees, the Emperor's anger eased slightly.
By administering this private punishment here in the throne room, he could also silence any voices in the Senatorum who demanded harsher penalties.
Magnus said nothing. Blood loss and searing pain blurred his mind, and even the towering hatred in his heart began to dull.
He lifted his heavy eyelids to look at the Emperor. He wanted to glare, to defy—but could not summon the strength.
Seeing that Magnus had calmed, the Emperor finally spoke in earnest:
"Your actions have endangered the Imperium, shamed your brother Primarchs, and utterly betrayed your people. I will ask you once: do you admit your guilt?"
Before sending Magnus to the tribunal for formal judgment, the Emperor would first conduct this "rehearsal."
For someone of Magnus's rank, the true trial was here and now.
If Magnus was foolish enough to throw away this chance, the Emperor would hand him over to the High Lords—and with the crimes on record, a death sentence would be assured.
But the Emperor was still willing to give him one last chance. If Magnus would admit fault—whether sincerely or not—he could still be saved.
Heaven helps those who help themselves. Even the smallest chance of survival had to be seized, no matter the humiliation, no matter how low one had to bow.
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