Chapter 508: Resume Your Former Trade, O Emperor
"Ghazghkull is currently entrenched on Armageddon. As you are aware, that greenskin is effectively the Prophet of Gork and Mork in this era."
Arthur placed a data-slate before the Emperor.
Meeting the Emperor's gaze—a pair of eyes currently dwelling within a youthful frame yet reflecting the weight of eons—Arthur maintained an expression of absolute, youthful vigor. The Emperor hesitated for a moment before drawing the file toward Him.
"I am aware," He replied.
He had intended to maintain His usual divine silence, but under the scrutiny of Arthur's gaze and driven by some inexplicable metaphysical pressure, the Emperor found Himself speaking plainly.
In truth, the Master of Mankind was well-versed in the movements of the Warp-powers. Had He not been, Vulkan would never have returned during the War of the Beast, nor would the Black Templars have produced so many miraculous Champions.
"Excellent," Arthur nodded politely.
As He skimmed the opening pages detailing the Dawnbreakers' strategic objectives, the Emperor—feeling his very personality being "realigned" by the proximity of his sons—twisted His mouth in a grimace of discomfort before speaking again.
"Your strategy is... optimistic, to say the least. I do not speak of the technical hurdles—the Webway Shield-Borer is in your hands, after all. But from a purely martial standpoint, you are risking the cultivation of an incredibly troublesome rival. If you intend to deliberately steer the evolutionary trajectory of the Orks... do not let them touch the Shield-Borer. That is My counsel."
As a man who had once hand-forged Warp-engines using the quintessence of twenty souls and raised a literal army of ghosts, the Emperor had naturally considered using the greenskins—those biological legacies of the Old Ones—to facilitate the Webway Project.
But the reality was a lack of control.
The Orks were not orphaned in the Warp. They had their own Gods.
And unlike the Eldar Pantheon, Gork and Mork were not prone to "slacking off." Though the twin deities spent eternity brawling with each other and showed little concern for the internal politics of their "Boyz," they maintained a robust racial sub-network. They periodically blessed a Warboss to trigger a galactic uprising, eschewing cryptic prophecies in favor of the raw "Waaagh!"—all while physically pummeling any other Warp-deity that tried to poach Eldritch souls from their chosen race.
The Emperor had won the War for Ullanor ten millennia ago and had pondered the planet's unique properties even then. But, realizing He had far too many enemies and far too few friends, He had abandoned the project. He had crowned Horus as Warmaster, dumped the logistics onto his son's lap, and retreated to the shadows of Terra.
In hindsight, the Emperor thought, that wasn't my best management decision.
He queried the current status of the "Human Pantheon."
"We have no intention of letting them near the Borer," Arthur explained. "The focus is to create a 'leaky' Webway environment. We will apply survival pressure to force the Orks to adapt to the Labyrinthine Dimension."
Currently, the Tuchulcha Engine, the Plagueheart, and the Ouroboros were being held in Ramesses' custody. Their internal consciousnesses had undergone a "Humanization Protocol," though truth be told, the Dawnstar scientists had no idea how to operate them. Ramesses was effectively using raw psionic brute force to jump-start them, turning these cosmic artifacts into high-tier drills for tunneling through reality.
We simply cannot read the manuals, Arthur admitted to himself with a shake of his head. He gestured for the Emperor to continue reading.
Orks were an adaptive species. They unlocked genetic "tech-trees" based on the severity of the crisis they faced and the sheer mass of the mob.
As time passed and environmental variables shifted, the evolutionary paths of the greenskins diverged, growing wider until they formed specialized tribes centered on a "Waaagh!" field.
This was the blueprint for the Ork Empire, and the very reason the Dawnbreakers intended to use them as biological miners for the Webway.
But they weren't going to be reckless. No giving them Shield-Borers. No unlimited scaling.
The transmigrators were wary of raising a "Final Boss" in their own backyard.
The current strategy was "Learning."
The Emperor flipped to a section provided by Trazyn the Infinite, Director of the "Imperial Association for the Repatriation of Metal Abhumans." It discussed the link between the Orks and the ancient Krork, and the results of sixty million years of research into the correlation between greenskin technology and the Waaagh! field.
Ork technology could be learned—especially by a psychic race.
Or rather, it was simply "Old One Tech" translated through a fungal lens.
"Oh... I see."
The Emperor scanned the file in silence, occasionally emitting a sound of mortal interest as the "Apprentice's" biology reacted to His focus. He grasped the Dawnstar's logic.
The Orks possessed a fascinating trait: the more they evolved, the less their technology relied on the Waaagh! field. They moved away from "I Believe" and toward "I Understand." Their machines ceased to be miracles of collective imagination and became standard, albeit brutal, engineering.
This was why the Adeptus Mechanicus had spent ten millennia obsessively excavating high-tier Ork sites. Even if a tribe hadn't reached the "Krork" stage, the wargear of a Warboss was a treasure trove of lost science.
In this stage, the "Big Mek" class of Orks would begin to deconstruct technical principles to invent new solutions. The Dawnbreakers knew this well; Deathwatch reports from the Octarius War had already confirmed it.
Facing the Tyranids, some Ork Bosses had begun wearing "Crown-Artifacts." These devices could jam the synapse-signals of Hive Fleet node-creatures and even disrupt higher-tier Tyranid command units, causing entire swarms to go "offline."
The transmigrators might take risks that made High Lords faint, but on macro-strategy, they were consistently "Stalwart."
Regarding the Webway, they weren't going to be radical. Not after seeing the results of the Emperor's gamble against the Four.
If necessary, the Emperor could trigger another "Mutual Destruction" event. Therefore, there was no need for frantic "Great Works." Everything could proceed in stages.
Arthur intended to deploy the Legion of the Damned into a designated sector of the broken Webway. This would apply targeted pressure on the Orks. Simultaneously, they would use the Shield-Borer to sever sections of the Webway already claimed by daemons, sealing the breach to prevent the enemy from shifting their tactical focus.
The premise: Ghazghkull had to survive Yarrick's counter-stroke.
If the Prophet fell, the Dawnbreakers would simply maintain the "Extermination Protocol" for the Armageddon Sector.
It was up to the Warboss to prove his worth. The Dawnbreakers wouldn't hold back, but if Ghazghkull held the line, they would "channel" him into the Webway project, preventing a desperate last stand that would cost too many human lives.
Secondly: The deployment of a Webway gate on Armageddon.
Armageddon currently lacked a functional gate. Harlequin surveys showed the system's network had been seized by Orks during the Ullanor Crusade. The Jester-units had breached the Imperial Palace; they could certainly find their way onto Ullanor.
This was further proof that Orks possessed the genetic potential for Webway mastery.
The plan was to drop an asteroid-anchored gate into the Armageddon system. After all, the planet had been "relocated" once; it didn't share the natural conduits of other worlds.
Finally, there was the matter of the Webway itself.
Human R&D in this era was not weak—especially the "Darwinian" scientists of the Mechanicus who had survived the purge of Mars.
With the Dawnbreakers seizing the "Right of Forging" and placing non-Martian Forge Worlds under military governance, the Tech-Priests had been "unchained." Their exploration into the Dark Age of Technology had yielded staggering results.
The reconstruction of Desolator-class Battleships—once a lost art due to the complexity of multi-lance turrets—was already on the dry-docks of the Dawnstar. Forge World Lucius had even replicated a void-shield system for Knight-chassis.
But the Webway was not "Standard Tech."
During the Dark Age, Mankind had not been a "Semi-Psychic" race. Some geniuses had even achieved FTL transit without the need for Geller fields. The main tech-tree simply didn't account for the soul-logic required for the Labyrinthine Dimension.
Furthermore, this project was a lightning rod. Gork and Mork might intervene if they saw their Boyz being "handled." The Four Gods would certainly move to sabotage any human growth. The project leader would have to shoulder the burden of infinite resource consumption while fending off the ceaseless harassment of the Warp.
They needed someone with infinite energy, peerless wisdom, and a visceral understanding of the Webway. Someone who stood firmly for Mankind and could not be turned by the Dark Gods.
Who in history has that resume?
Under Arthur's earnest gaze, the Emperor's hands began to shake like a leaf in a storm.
"I—"
"We are not Your equals in this, Father."
Arthur cut Him off, setting the tone for the discussion.
The four of them had self-awareness. They knew their limits.
Management? They could do that. Emotional validation? A specialty. Using their "Outsider" status to flip the board on human politics? Done. Pointing the Imperium toward the right tech-tree using their knowledge of the future? Easy. Ensuring the common man had a hot meal? Their primary drive.
But "Standard R&D"? They were clueless.
Ramesses' "breakthroughs" were usually achieved by swinging a whip. He provided the "Vision," "The Park" provided the labor. He had started by squeezing daemons; now he was squeezing psychic xenos.
The primitive accumulation of Warp-capital was over. They were now using labor contracts to bind the psychic races of realspace. It was a quantitative leap in efficiency, finding a "Third Way" for the galaxy's species while facilitating the sharing of knowledge between Man and Abhuman.
"I..."
The Emperor began to mentally tally the tasks the Dawnbreakers had assigned Him.
He had started with two baskets of chores. Now, before He had even left the Webway, they had piled a mountain of boulders on His back.
"Why don't You just have Me split My consciousness into a billion fragments and staff every office in the Segmentum?" He thought.
Wait. I actually can do that.
"..."
The Emperor sank into a brooding silence, wondering why He was the one doing all the work.
In truth, being "Multi-Processed" was not a problem for an entity of His caliber.
Arthur, Romulus, and even Guilliman found the state of "Distributed Consciousness" unsettling. Long-term fragmentation often led to cognitive schisms and "Not-Human" psychological issues.
But for the Emperor, it was a non-factor.
He was already in the final stages of a ten-thousand-year mental breakdown. Any Imperial port had thirteen different versions of His Creed. There was likely a "Cult of the Emperor's Left Hand" in the sewers and a "Sun-King" worship on the spires. He was so fractured He didn't even have to try.
The Dawnstar was paying the energy cost for His manifestations; the group had zero guilt about overworking Him.
"Emperor, think of the past. Think of how You stood tall when everyone else cowered. You had an idea and You tested it. A vision, and You mapped it. A goal, and You chased it. Millions of us, gathered for Your great work."
Arthur clapped the Emperor on the shoulder, using formal honorifics but speaking with the tone of a veteran counselor.
"We need You to maintain that consistency."
"..."
He ate the sugar-coating and spat the bullet back at Me.
Truly, he is a Warmaster, the Emperor thought.
He looked into Arthur's eyes, then back at the task list.
"Sigh... Leave it to Me."
The Emperor accepted his fate.
"Pfft—!"
Guilliman, while expertly handing over files to Romulus and utilizing Karna's grassroots data to plan his reforms, couldn't contain his amusement at his Father's plight.
His primary task was the optimization of the "Greater Ultramar" sub-government—building a system that would bridge the gap between Dawnstar, Baal, Badab, Cadia, and Macragge. He was methodically stripping away the influence of the Terran High Lords and the local nobilities.
He was a master of this work. He had done it ten millennia ago. Back then, the Ultramarines knew only Guilliman; the Emperor was a distant myth.
The Dawnstar "Work-Group" was a fascinating dynamic. When a crisis hit, they went private to preserve operational security. When things were calm, they stayed connected for mutual oversight—and to listen to the Primarchs "roasting" each other. It helped him understand his new brothers.
Even his Father felt... human now.
If only it had been like this ten thousand years ago, he thought.
He accepted a file from his "Eldar Assistant," Yvraine: [PROPOSED SETTLEMENTS FOR AELDARI CADRES WITHIN THE MACRAGGE SECTOR].
If the Emperor had built a platform for his brothers to communicate—to share their burdens, to argue, to vent—the Heresy might never have happened. Knowledge was the antidote to the dark.
Hearing his "Thirteenth Son" snicker, the Emperor's face went rigid.
"Thirteen. Tool. Imperium Secundus," the Emperor began muttering under His breath.
Guilliman's head dropped. He returned to his writing with focused intensity.
"Emperor," Karna spoke up, emerging from his "recharge" state.
"Do not tease Old Thirteen. Consider his personal feelings."
Guilliman looked up, touched by the support.
"I was merely joking," the Emperor replied with absolute, stoic gravity.
He knew exactly who Guilliman was. He knew the boy was capable, tireless, and burdened by a crushing sense of responsibility. He also knew the Regent sought personal validation through achievement.
That nature inevitably drove him toward the apex of power. His excellence naturally drew the reverence of those around him.
It wasn't a flaw. It was simply "Loyal Ambition."
"Good," Karna said, returning to his role as a galactic lighthouse.
"We need all hands on deck for the work ahead."
SPLASH.
Romulus, who had been enjoying a glass of warm milk to soothe his nerves, suffered a catastrophic spill as he choked on a laugh.
Guilliman's face went flat once more.
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