Jaghatai Khan's bold declaration left the other three Primarchs momentarily stunned.
Vulkan stepped closer, his heavy, crimson gaze locking onto the Great Khan's eyes. "My brother, what is it you intend to do?"
A wild, untamed fire burned in Jaghatai's expression. "I am going to bring Russ back, brothers."
"You are mad!"
Guilliman lunged forward, his ceramite gauntlets seizing Jaghatai's broad pauldrons, violently shaking him.
But the Khan effortlessly broke the Lord Regent's grip, staring back with absolute, unyielding earnestness. "Russ is your brother too. To heal our Father, he led his sons into the nightmare of the Warp in search of the mythical Tree of Life. I cannot, I will not, leave him to an unknown fate in the dark."
"The Imperium is currently—"
"Russ is not the only one teetering on the edge of the abyss!" Guilliman roared, his voice suddenly echoing like thunder in the cavernous chapel, cutting Jaghatai off entirely.
"Do you have any idea the torment I endured, watching you all vanish one by one into the void?!" The Lord Regent's composure finally shattered, the suffocating pressure of ten millennia spilling over. "Father's grand design, His entire legacy, was thrust upon my shoulders alone! Every single choice is an agonizing burden! Do you know the crushing weight of knowing a single word from my lips can condemn trillions of Imperial citizens to die?!"
Guilliman's explosive outburst plunged the chamber into a heavy, breathless silence.
Vulkan slowly reached out, placing a massive, steadying hand upon Guilliman's arm.
"Forgive me," Jaghatai murmured, his tone softening instantly.
"I am sorry, brother," Lion El'Jonson said, their voices echoing in sudden, unified contrition.
Even Vulkan, after a brief, sorrowful pause, added his own deep, rumbling apology to the choir.
In the wake of the Horus Heresy, consumed by their own grief and obsessions, the Primarchs had scattered, abandoning the Imperium for their own solitary crusades. Following the treason of their brothers and the catastrophic bloodletting, Guilliman had taken it upon himself to shatter the Legions, relinquish absolute military power, and entrust the governance of the galaxy to mortals, praying they would tread the path the Emperor had laid.
It was precisely because of Guilliman's sweeping reforms that the colossal, sprawling empire had not immediately disintegrated into ash when he was struck down by Fulgrim.
Yet, mortals could not steer the monstrous leviathan that was the Imperium of Man. If the transhuman demigods themselves had forsaken the governance of the realm and the Emperor's will, how could frail, short-lived humans be expected to shepherd this colossal domain back to prosperity without straying into dogma and madness?
After Guilliman was sealed in stasis by his grieving sons to halt his death, the great ship of the Imperium was left utterly adrift in the void. The grievous, bleeding wounds inflicted by the Heresy were never allowed to heal. Xenos and traitors, like jackals scenting blood, tore at the Imperium's flanks for ten thousand years. Sustained only by its sheer, monstrous momentum and countless grim miracles, this fractured empire had stubbornly endured.
When Guilliman finally awoke, he did not inherit a thriving realm. He inherited a rotting carcass teetering on the precipice of total annihilation.
For the sake of the Emperor's vision, Guilliman once again stepped into the crucible. He sought to violently correct the course of the dying leviathan, but plagued by enemies within and without, the vessel was riddled with rot, its condition arguably more dire than the immediate aftermath of the Siege of Terra.
In moments of crushing doubt, Guilliman had stood alone before the Emperor's effigy, praying, demanding to know where his brothers had gone. Had they all truly forsaken their Father's great work?
In truth, among the vanished, only Vulkan had ever returned. Though the Lord of Drakes despised politics and refused the mantle of governance, he had nonetheless bled to ensure the survival of humanity. But what of the others?
When Guilliman learned the Lion still drew breath, his heart had swelled with fierce joy, though it was tainted by a bitter sliver of resentment. Only after they spoke did Guilliman realize his brother had also just awakened from a cursed slumber, his plight arguably more tragic. Ten thousand years had ravaged the Lord of the First; he was a scarred, aging shadow of his former self.
Yet, the Lion's demeanor remained stubbornly unchanged. After a brief, heartfelt reunion, their dynamic had swiftly devolved back into mutual, aristocratic friction.
Fortunately, the existence of the Iron Men had solved many immediate logistical and military nightmares, though their sheer efficiency only highlighted to Guilliman how agonizingly slow and archaic the Imperium's bureaucracy truly was. Even after initiating sweeping administrative purges, the impact was negligible. The Adeptus Administratum still pored over centuries-old ledgers, drowning in mountains of parchment as worlds burned.
Left with no alternative, Guilliman found himself increasingly relying upon the Iron Men's deployments to stabilize war zones the Imperium could not reach.
The Lion, upon whom Guilliman had hoped to lean for governance, immediately plunged back into his clandestine crusades. Every astropathic choir sang of the Lion's obsession with hidden threats. But to Guilliman, the Imperium was already crumbling; if the foundations gave way, all their treasured secrets would burn to ash anyway. No matter how Guilliman pleaded, the Lion showed no inclination to share the administrative burden. He and his Unforgiven moved like phantoms across the stars, striking from the shadows as if operating entirely outside Imperial jurisdiction.
Ironically, it was out of absolute trust in Guilliman's capabilities that the Lion left the logistics to him. The First Primarch believed his own solemn duty was to slay the monsters lurking in the dark. Yet, the Dark Angels refused to cooperate with the Inquisition, hiding behind walls of stubborn silence. To Guilliman, it seemed the Lion was leading his sons on mad, destructive sprees, constantly sparking friction with other Space Marine Chapters and amplifying Guilliman's already impossible workload.
It was not until Vulkan returned that Guilliman felt a true sliver of solace. Vulkan willingly accepted Guilliman's strategic deployments, wading into apocalyptic hellscapes to save innocents. Though he abhorred the slaughter, Vulkan rose from the ashes time and again, for their Father, for brotherhood, and for the future of humanity. He hoisted his great hammer and waded back into the blood.
And when the Iron Men had unexpectedly pulled Jaghatai Khan from the Webway, Guilliman had rejoiced. He desperately needed generals. Even if the Great Khan merely anchored a single sector, it would be a colossal boon. Upon learning that Jaghatai had been lost in the Aeldari labyrinth, perceiving only a few years having passed, Guilliman harbored no blame.
But right now, his patience had violently evaporated.
Just as the atmosphere grew thick and suffocating with tension, a low, grinding groan of metal echoed through the grand chapel.
Creakkk.
High above them, the colossal, gilded statue of the God-Emperor began to move.
The radiant, golden glow upon the raised greatsword gradually dimmed. With the deafening grind of massive gears, the statue lowered its arms, driving the blade point-first into a massive plinth of unknown alloy. The effigy's colossal hands then rested, overlapping, upon the pommel. The majestic, austere face tilted downward slightly, its cold gaze sweeping over the congregation. Suddenly, behind its massive head, a golden halo ignited with blinding radiance.
This sudden, seismic shift instantly drew the eyes of the four Primarchs, their eight elite transhuman bodyguards, and the two Inquisitors.
"What is this? A miracle of our Father?!" Guilliman gasped, staring up at the imposing monument, half-convinced he could feel the Emperor's actual, psychic weight bearing down upon them.
Beside them, however, Ersen the Word Bearer preemptively buried his face in his hands, groaning softly.
The attendant automata tilted its head, mechanically scanning the monolithic statue before pivoting to stare flatly at the stunned Primarchs.
"What correlation does this share with the Emperor's will?" the machine droned.
The automata's deadpan query left the demigods momentarily bewildered.
Ersen's deeply uncomfortable voice slowly drifted over to them. "Honored Lords... I do not know why the Iron Men constructed the Emperor's effigy in this manner. When I first witnessed it, I too was... startled."
The Word Bearer pointed weakly at the towering giant. "In truth, the monument is a colossal, gilded combat automaton. Because the Iron Men extracted various distinct iconographic postures from the Ministorum archives, they opted to construct the effigy as a fully operational siege engine capable of periodically cycling through authorized religious poses to maximize efficiency."
Ersen sighed, refusing to look at the Primarchs' faces. "The glowing sword indicates that its particle disruption field is active. And the halo behind His head... is an active void-shield generator."
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