The departure from Ryza was a spectacle of silent, terrifying majesty. Under the direct command of the Primarch, the most politically volatile fleet in the Imperium's history assembled. At its heart was the Macragge's Honour, a vessel of legend. Flanking it were the grim, black ships of Lord Inquisitor Varrus and the radiant, cathedral-like barges of Canoness Celestine. A screening force of Ultramarine strike cruisers formed the vanguard, their blue and gold livery a stark contrast to the utilitarian black of the Deathwatch and the mournful grey of the Black Ship. And at the rear, keeping a respectful, cautious distance, was the captured Necron ghost ship, a silent, crescent-shaped reminder of the impossible power that now traveled with them.
The entire fleet gathered, waiting for the miracle. On the bridge of the Macragge's Honour, Rimuru stood beside Guilliman before the main holo-lith, his hands resting on a crystalline console temporarily integrated into the Primarch's command deck.
"The calculations are complete, Lord Commander," Rimuru said. "On your mark."
Guilliman, whose entire life had been a litany of bloody, treacherous Warp jumps, stared at the clear, star-dusted void on the viewscreen. "Proceed," he commanded, his voice tight with anticipation.
Rimuru gave a simple, mental command. The universe folded.
There was no violent transition, no screaming tear in reality. The view on the screen simply… changed. The fiery orb of the Ryza system was gone, replaced by a completely different star field, thousands of light-years away. The transit was instantaneous, silent, and perfect.
A profound, deathly silence fell over the bridge of the Macragge's Honour. The hardened veterans of the Ultramarines, warriors who had seen the horrors of the Warp firsthand, stared at the new star patterns in stunned disbelief.
Guilliman himself was utterly still, his demigod's mind struggling to process the sheer, paradigm-shattering efficiency of what he had just witnessed. Ten thousand years of naval doctrine, of reliance on Navigators and the treacherous tides of the Immaterium, of horrific losses to daemonic incursions and temporal storms… all of it rendered obsolete in a single, silent moment. He looked at Rimuru, no longer as a mere curiosity, but as the living embodiment of a future he had thought was lost forever.
"The Golden Age of Technology," the Primarch whispered, the words a reverent, sorrowful prayer. "I never thought I would see such a thing again."
The journey to Terra took several more of these "folds," with days of realspace travel in between to allow the fleet's conventional engines to reposition and the Imperial authorities to process the sheer impossibility of their journey. In these quiet moments, the two leaders—the weary demigod and the monster king—talked.
They stood for hours before the galactic map, two rulers from different ends of existence. Guilliman asked about the Jura Tempest Federation. Rimuru described his nation: a meritocracy of monsters, a place where different races with a history of conflict were united by loyalty and a desire for prosperity.
"You have Orks and Goblins living in cities alongside humans?" Guilliman asked, his expression one of profound disbelief. "And they do not simply revert to their base instincts of violence and slaughter?"
"They do, if they are not given a better alternative," Rimuru replied. "A full stomach, a purpose, a name to be proud of, and a leader strong enough to enforce the rules. It turns out that most people, regardless of their species, prefer to build rather than to destroy."
To Guilliman, whose every waking moment was a desperate battle against the base, self-destructive instincts of his own species and the galaxy at large, this was a concept so alien it was both a beautiful dream and a dangerous heresy. He, in turn, spoke of the Great Crusade, of the Imperial Truth—the belief in science and reason—and of the catastrophic betrayal of the Horus Heresy that had plunged the galaxy into an age of faith and fear. He spoke with the deep, personal sorrow of a son who had watched his father's dream burn to ash.
As they traveled, Celestine and her priests sought audiences, hoping to convert the "Saint" to the faith he supposedly represented. Guilliman, however, kept them at a respectful distance, declaring that the "Saint's meditation and preparation for his arrival on Terra were not to be disturbed." He was using his authority to give Rimuru the one thing he needed: quiet.
Finally, after a final, silent fold of reality, they arrived.
They emerged into a system that was not a system, but a fortress. Thousands of warships of the Battlefleet Solar held silent, vigilant orbits. Great, continent-sized orbital plates and defense stations formed a shell of impenetrable armor around a single, dazzling jewel of a planet. Far in the distance, the red glint of Mars, the Forge World of all Forge Worlds, could be seen.
This was the Sol System. The heart of the Imperium. This was home.
The vox channels erupted with a thousand frantic challenges, the defenders of the Throneworld demanding to know the nature of this fleet that had appeared from nowhere.
Guilliman stepped to his command throne, his presence radiating an authority that silenced all alarm. "This is the Lord Commander Roboute Guilliman, aboard the Macragge's Honour," he broadcasted, his voice carrying across the entire system. "I am returning home. And I am bringing a guest for my father."
The challenges ceased, replaced by a rising chorus of awed salutes.
Rimuru stood at the main viewport, looking at the golden-brown orb of Holy Terra. He felt it before he saw it clearly. A psychic presence. A power so vast, so ancient, so unbelievably potent that it dwarfed the Chaos Gods, the gestalt mind of the Osseous Praxis, everything. But this was not a clean, orderly power. It was the power of a billion, billion souls screaming in an eternal chorus of faith, focused into a single, agonizing point of light. It was the psychic anguish of a dying god, held on the precipice of death for ten thousand years. The Golden Throne.
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Rimuru stared at the golden world, his own senses reeling from the sheer, unending agony of the God-Emperor of Mankind. He finally, truly, understood the source of the Imperium's pain, its faith, and its madness.