The psychic presence of Terra was not a wave or a storm; it was the very firmament of this reality. It was a constant, keening scream of a trillion, trillion souls in prayer, a roar of faith, fear, and devotion so immense it had the weight of a physical law. And at its heart, a single, agonizing note of pure, incandescent power burned with the intensity of a dying sun.
Rimuru stood on the bridge of the Macragge's Honour, his own senses, which had withstood the chaos of the Warp and the silence of the Necrons, now reeling from the sheer, unending agony at the system's core. It was the pain of a being held at the brink of death for ten millennia, its mind used as a lighthouse, its soul as a shield, its very existence a sacrifice.
He turned to the silent, watching Primarch. "What is that… pain?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Roboute Guilliman's noble features, usually a mask of stoic resolve, were etched with a deep, personal sorrow. He looked towards the golden orb on the viewscreen, and his voice was that of a son speaking of his father. "That," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of ages, "is the sound of the Emperor, holding back the darkness for ten thousand years."
The journey from high orbit to the surface was a descent through the layers of humanity's history and its self-made prison. They passed through a shell of thousands of warships, a fleet so vast it dwarfed any they had seen before. They flew past continent-sized orbital plates, glittering with the lights of billions. And then they entered the atmosphere.
There was no green. No blue. The surface of Holy Terra was a single, planet-spanning city, a monument of gothic architecture and human industry so vast that the mountains of old Earth were now the foundations for its deepest hab-blocks. It was a world entombed in gold and iron, the sky a permanent, hazy shroud of industrial output and the reflected light of a trillion souls.
Their destination was the Sanctum Imperialis, the Imperial Palace, a fortress-continent that was the heart of the Imperium. Their ornate shuttle, flanked by a squadron of golden gunships, landed at the Lion's Gate spaceport, a structure vast enough to swallow armies.
The reception committee was not made of politicians or generals. They were giants in auramite armor, golden figures of breathtaking artistry and lethal purpose. Their helmets were plumed with red, and they carried guardian spears that hummed with a power that made even Captain Arken's Terminator armor seem crude. They were the Adeptus Custodes, the personal guard of the Emperor, beings who had walked beside him in the flesh.
Their leader, a Shield-Captain whose golden armor was etched with the names of a thousand battles, stepped forward. His gaze was ancient, cold, and utterly uncompromising.
"Lord Guilliman," the Shield-Captain's voice was a low, resonant bass. "Your return to the Sanctum is welcome. But you have brought an unsanctioned xenos into the Throneworld. This is a transgression against ten thousand years of tradition. It cannot be permitted."
The ten golden warriors raised their spears as one, the tips aimed not at Guilliman, but directly at Rimuru. The air crackled with the power of their weapons. Celestine and her Sisters tensed, their hands flying to their bolters, ready to defend their "Saint."
Guilliman did not flinch. He simply took a step forward, his immense frame shielding Rimuru. "Shield-Captain Valerius," the Primarch said, his voice now devoid of all weariness, replaced by the cold, absolute authority of the Lord Commander. "This being is my guest, here at my command and for a purpose that concerns the very survival of this Imperium. Your traditions are noted. My orders supersede them. You will stand down."
The Shield-Captain did not move. His ancient eyes, which had not known fear in millennia, stared at Rimuru. He and his brothers could feel it. A presence that was a hole in the universe. It did not register in the psychic song of the Emperor that was their constant companion. It was a note of utter, terrifying silence in a choir that had been singing since the dawn of the Imperium.
"Its presence is a blasphemy against the sanctity of this world," the Custodian stated, his voice flat.
"Its presence," Guilliman countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "has just saved a dozen worlds and holds a key to a future you and I have both forgotten. I will not have my authority questioned at the gates of my own home, Shield-Captain. Not even by you."
The standoff was absolute. The son of the Emperor versus the guardians of his sanctum.
After a long, silent moment that stretched into an eternity, the Shield-Captain gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. The guardian spears were lowered.
"We obey the will of the Lord Commander," the Custodian said, his voice still a block of ice. "But know this, Primarch. We are the Emperor's final shield. Should this… 'guest'… prove to be a threat to the Master of Mankind, we will act. Regardless of the consequences."
The path was now clear. Guilliman led his strange, politically explosive delegation—the Inquisitor, the Canoness, the Astartes Captain, and the monster king—deeper into the heart of the palace. They walked for miles down the grand processional way, a corridor so vast its ceiling was lost in shadow, its walls lined with the silent, colossal statues of the other Primarchs, a somber reminder of glory and of betrayal.
Finally, they reached a set of great, golden doors, each a hundred meters high, emblazoned with the Imperial Aquila. The doors boomed open, revealing the chamber of the Senatorum Imperialis.
Inside, seated on twelve colossal thrones, were the High Lords of Terra. The most powerful mortals in the galaxy. The Fabricator-General of Mars, the Master of the Administratum, the Ecclesiarch, the Lord Commander Militant of the Imperial Guard—all of them turned their ancient, powerful gazes to the entrance.
They stared in stunned silence as the returned Primarch strode into their chamber, and at his side, walking with a calm, serene confidence that was an insult to the crushing grandeur of the palace, was the impossible, silver-haired, golden-eyed being they had only heard of in the most frantic and heretical of whispers.
The political battle for the heart of the Imperium was about to begin.