Kevin had been the "recovering" God-Emperor of Mankind for approximately three weeks when he realized that having regular visitors was, in fact, worse than having no visitors at all.
This was not the conclusion he had expected to reach.
For the first four months of his imprisonment on the Golden Throne, Kevin had desperately craved connection, had yearned for someone—anyone—to acknowledge his existence as something more than a sacred object to be worshipped and protected, had fantasized about conversations that went beyond one-sided prayers and incomprehensible binary chanting.
Now he had those connections.
Now people came to talk to him regularly.
And Kevin was discovering that there was something uniquely torturous about being the recipient of other people's hopes and dreams and deepest confessions when you couldn't actually respond to any of them.
It was like being a therapist who had been gagged and strapped to a chair.
Everyone wanted to pour out their feelings.
Everyone wanted guidance and validation and reassurance.
And Kevin could give them nothing except his silent, suffering presence, which they inevitably interpreted as profound wisdom or divine approval or whatever else they needed to believe.
At least they're talking to me, Kevin thought, trying to find the silver lining in his situation. At least I'm not completely alone anymore.
But being surrounded by people who didn't actually know who he was, who couldn't hear his responses, who projected their own meanings onto his silence...
That was its own kind of loneliness.
Guilliman came every three days, like clockwork.
The Primarch would enter the Sanctum Imperialis with the kind of quiet reverence that Kevin had never seen him display anywhere else, dismiss the Custodes who normally guarded the chamber, and then talk.
And talk.
And talk.
Three hours.
Sometimes four.
Occasionally five, if the weight of command had been particularly heavy that week.
Kevin learned more about the current state of the Imperium from these sessions than he had learned in the entire previous four months of psychic observation, because Guilliman wasn't just reporting facts—he was sharing his interpretations, his frustrations, his hopes and fears and the million small decisions that kept humanity's empire from collapsing entirely.
Kevin learned about the ongoing campaigns against the Tyranid hive fleets, those ravenous swarms of alien biology that consumed everything in their path and that seemed to treat the galaxy as an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Kevin learned about the Necron dynasties that were awakening across the galaxy, ancient robot-skeletons who wanted their stuff back and didn't particularly care how many humans they had to kill to reclaim it.
Kevin learned about the Ork WAAAGH!s that erupted constantly on the Imperium's borders, green-skinned murder-fungus that existed purely to fight and that were somehow both the silliest and most dangerous threat in the galaxy.
Kevin learned about the political infighting between the High Lords of Terra, the constant jockeying for power and influence that consumed energy that should have been directed toward actually running the Imperium.
Kevin learned about Guilliman's exhaustion.
That was the thing that came through most clearly in these sessions—the bone-deep weariness of a being who had been fighting without respite for centuries, who could see exactly how much needed to be done and knew he would never have enough time or resources to do it all.
Guilliman was tired.
So incredibly, impossibly tired.
And Kevin couldn't do anything to help.
He could only listen, and nod internally, and wish desperately that he had anything useful to offer besides his silent presence.
I'm sorry, Kevin thought during every session. I'm sorry I'm not what you need. I'm sorry I'm not your father. I'm sorry I can't give you the guidance and support you're looking for.
All I can give you is someone to talk to.
I hope that's enough.
It's probably not.
Celestine came twice a week, her visits a welcome contrast to the weight of Guilliman's sessions.
The Living Saint didn't talk about politics or war or the endless crises facing the Imperium.
Instead, she told stories.
Stories about the worlds she had visited, the people she had met, the small moments of beauty and kindness that still existed even in a galaxy defined by war and suffering.
She told Kevin about a shrine world where the faithful had spent three hundred years building a cathedral by hand, stone by stone, as an act of devotion that required no technology and no outside help.
She told him about a hive world where the underhive gangers had formed an unlikely alliance with the local Arbites to protect a hidden garden—a single patch of living plants that someone had managed to nurture in the depths of the industrial hell.
She told him about a space hulk that had been transformed into a mobile monastery, home to a sect of monks who traveled the galaxy offering aid to whoever needed it, regardless of their affiliation or species.
She told him about love stories and acts of heroism and moments when the darkness of the galaxy had been pushed back, even if only briefly, even if only in one small corner of existence.
It was propaganda, in a way.
Kevin knew that.
Celestine was presenting a carefully curated selection of humanity's better moments, ignoring the vast ocean of suffering and cruelty that made up most of Imperial life.
But Kevin appreciated it anyway.
He had been drowning in awareness of the galaxy's horrors for months.
He had felt every death, every atrocity, every moment of needless suffering that his psychic senses picked up from across the Imperium.
To hear about the good things—even if they were rare, even if they were exceptions to the rule—was like finding an oasis in the middle of an endless desert.
Thank you, Kevin thought during every one of Celestine's visits. Thank you for showing me that it's not all terrible. Thank you for giving me something to hope for.
Even if we both know the hope is probably misplaced.
Other visitors came less regularly, but came nonetheless.
Trajann Valoris visited once a week, delivering formal reports on the state of the Custodes and the security of the Imperial Palace, his golden armor gleaming with the kind of perfection that Kevin had come to associate with the Emperor's guardians.
The Captain-General didn't share his feelings the way Guilliman did.
He didn't tell stories the way Celestine did.
But Kevin could perceive something in Valoris that the Custodian probably didn't even realize he was projecting—a profound sense of relief that the Emperor seemed to be "recovering," that the being he had devoted his eternal life to protecting might someday be able to do more than simply exist.
The Custodes had been guardians without purpose for ten thousand years, Kevin realized.
They protected a corpse.
They defended a shell.
They devoted themselves to a being who could not acknowledge their service, could not command their loyalty, could not give their existence meaning beyond the simple fact of their duty.
But now...
Now they had hope.
Now they believed the Emperor was coming back.
Now their vigil might finally, someday, end—not in failure, but in success.
It was another kind lie.
Another weight added to the burden Kevin was carrying.
But what could he do?
Tell them the truth?
Crush their hope?
Explain that the being they had served for ten millennia was gone and had been replaced by a guy from Ohio who didn't even know how to properly hold a weapon?
No, Kevin thought. No, I'll let them believe. I'll be whatever they need me to be.
It's not like the truth would help anyone anyway.
The Tech-Priests came too, though their visits were less welcome.
Cawl-Inferior had been removed from the repair project after the incident with the hiccup, replaced by a Magos named Dominus Antar who was allegedly more conservative in her approach to sacred maintenance.
Kevin was not reassured.
Dominus Antar was, if anything, even more convinced of the Mechanicus's divine mission than Cawl-Inferior had been.
She spent most of her visits conducting what she called "sacred communions" with the Golden Throne's machine spirit, a process that involved connecting various sensors to the Throne's external components while reciting prayers in binary code.
Kevin could perceive, with terrible clarity, that these "communions" were based on a fundamental misunderstanding of how the Golden Throne actually worked.
The Tech-Priests believed the Throne had a machine spirit—a semi-sentient entity that inhabited the sacred machinery and could be appeased or angered depending on how it was treated.
The Throne did not have a machine spirit.
It had Kevin.
The prayers and rituals and sacred oils weren't communicating with some embedded consciousness in the machinery.
They were just... noise.
Background interference that Kevin had to filter out while trying to maintain the essential functions that kept the Astronomican burning and the Warp at bay.
But Kevin couldn't tell them that.
Couldn't explain that their entire technological theology was based on misinterpretations of ancient technical manuals and superstition accumulated over ten thousand years.
Couldn't point out that the "machine spirit" they were praying to didn't exist, and that if they wanted to actually improve the Throne's functioning, they should probably start by learning how the technology actually worked rather than just applying sacred oils and hoping for the best.
This is fine, Kevin thought, watching Dominus Antar perform yet another pointless ritual. This is totally fine. I'm just going to sit here while they make things worse one prayer at a time.
At least they haven't broken anything critical.
Yet.
The problems started, as problems in the Imperium always seemed to start, with the Ecclesiarchy.
Guilliman's "recovery" narrative had successfully ended the religious civil wars that had erupted in response to Celestine's original revelation.
The factions that had been fighting over whether the Emperor had been "reborn" or not had been given a new interpretation to rally around: the Emperor was "recovering," gradually returning to consciousness after ten millennia of dormancy.
This was not heresy.
This was not a challenge to existing doctrine.
This was simply... additional information about the Emperor's current state.
Everyone could agree on this.
Everyone could support this.
Everyone could incorporate this into their existing theological frameworks without having to admit they had been wrong about anything.
It was, Kevin had to admit, a masterfully crafted piece of religious diplomacy.
The wars stopped.
The killing ended.
The Imperium stabilized.
And then the Ecclesiarchy started asking questions.
"If the Emperor is recovering," Ecclesiarch Decius XXIII asked during a meeting of the High Lords that Kevin observed through his psychic senses, "then surely He will need guidance. Surely He will need to be informed about the current state of His realm, the developments in theological thought, the evolution of the Imperial faith over the past ten thousand years."
"The Emperor is aware of the state of the Imperium," Guilliman replied. "He has been observing it through His psychic senses throughout His dormancy."
"Observing, yes," the Ecclesiarch agreed. "But understanding? The Emperor was never... fully aligned with the Imperial faith. He resisted the worship of His holy form. He discouraged the veneration that was His rightful due. Perhaps, in His weakened state, He did not fully comprehend the necessity of the Ecclesiarchy's mission."
Oh no, Kevin thought, watching this conversation unfold with growing dread. Oh no, I see where this is going.
"What exactly are you proposing?" Guilliman asked, his voice carrying a warning edge.
"I am proposing," Ecclesiarch Decius said, "that as the Emperor recovers, we should ensure He is properly educated about the importance of the Imperial faith. That we should provide Him with theological guidance to help Him understand why the Ecclesiarchy's approach is necessary for humanity's survival. That we should help Him... update His views."
They want to indoctrinate me, Kevin realized. They want to brainwash the Emperor into supporting their religion. The religion that exists because people wouldn't stop worshipping Him despite His explicit instructions not to.
This is the most ironic thing that has ever happened in the history of irony.
Guilliman's response was immediate and cold.
"You are proposing," the Primarch said slowly, "to educate the God-Emperor of Mankind. To teach Him. To guide His views. Do I understand you correctly?"
The Ecclesiarch, apparently sensing that he had made a tactical error, began to backpedal.
"I merely suggest that after ten thousand years of... dormancy, the Emperor might benefit from—"
"The Emperor created humanity's civilization," Guilliman interrupted. "The Emperor unified the galaxy. The Emperor designed the Space Marines, created the Primarchs, engineered the Astronomican, and has spent ten millennia holding back the forces of Chaos through sheer force of will. And you believe He needs to be educated by the Church that exists only because His subjects refused to follow His explicit instructions against worshipping Him?"
Thank you, Kevin thought. Thank you for saying what I can't say.
"I... that is to say..."
"The Emperor's views are His own," Guilliman said flatly. "When He recovers sufficiently to express them, you will listen. Not the other way around."
The meeting ended shortly after, with the Ecclesiarch retreating to nurse his wounded dignity and undoubtedly begin plotting other ways to ensure the "recovering" Emperor would support the Church's agenda.
Kevin felt a wave of gratitude toward Guilliman that was almost overwhelming.
The Primarch had protected him.
Had defended him.
Had shut down an attempt to manipulate him before it could even begin.
And Guilliman didn't even know the truth.
Didn't know that he was protecting a stranger rather than his father.
Didn't know that his loyalty was being given to someone who was essentially a squatter in the Emperor's body.
I don't deserve you, Kevin thought. I don't deserve any of this.
But thank you anyway.
The Ecclesiarchy's scheme was, unfortunately, just the beginning.
Once the "recovery" narrative was established, everyone wanted a piece of the recovering Emperor.
The Mechanicus wanted to know if the Emperor's returning consciousness would allow them to access the ancient technological knowledge that had been lost when He was interred on the Golden Throne.
The Inquisition wanted to know if the Emperor would be resuming His role as the ultimate authority on matters of heresy and corruption, potentially overturning centuries of Inquisitorial precedent.
The various noble houses and political factions wanted to know if the Emperor would be reclaiming direct rule of the Imperium, potentially disrupting the carefully balanced power structures that had evolved over ten millennia.
The Space Marine Chapters wanted to know if the Emperor would be issuing new guidance on how the Adeptus Astartes should conduct themselves, potentially revising the Codex Astartes that had governed their organization since the Heresy.
Everyone had questions.
Everyone had hopes.
Everyone had agendas that they wanted the "recovering" Emperor to support.
And Kevin, who had no answers and no ability to address any of these concerns, could only watch as the anticipation built to levels that he knew would eventually, inevitably, result in disappointment.
They're expecting me to solve everything, he realized. They're expecting me to wake up fully and suddenly fix all the problems that have accumulated over ten thousand years.
And I can't.
I can't do anything.
I'm not even the real Emperor.
When they finally realize that I'm never going to "fully recover," that I'm never going to provide the guidance they're waiting for...
What happens then?
Kevin didn't know.
He didn't want to know.
He just wanted to sit in his throne of agony and pretend that everything was going to work out somehow, even though all evidence suggested that it absolutely was not.
The Warp had been unusually quiet for the past few weeks.
Kevin had noticed this, in the way that someone might notice a sudden absence of background noise—a subtle change that registered on the edge of consciousness without demanding immediate attention.
The Chaos Gods were still there, of course.
He could feel their presence in the Immaterium, the vast entities that had been watching him with such amusement since their first introduction.
But they had been... passive.
Observing without interfering.
Watching without commenting.
It was almost peaceful, in a terrible sort of way.
Kevin should have known it wouldn't last.
The disturbance came in the deep of the night—or what passed for night on Terra, where the cycles of day and dark were more tradition than physical reality—a ripple in the Warp that was different from anything Kevin had felt before.
It wasn't the pressure of Chaos trying to break through his defenses.
It wasn't the presence of the Dark Gods turning their attention toward him.
It was something more focused.
More personal.
More...
Familiar.
Kevin felt the presence approaching through the Warp like a ship moving through fog, growing clearer and more defined with each passing moment.
It was a soul.
A human soul—or something that had once been human.
A soul that carried the weight of millennia, that blazed with power that rivaled the greatest champions of Chaos, that was moving toward Terra with purpose and determination that suggested this was no random wandering.
And as the presence drew closer, as Kevin's psychic senses resolved the approaching entity into something comprehensible, he felt a spike of recognition that hit him like a physical blow.
He knew that soul.
He knew it from the original Emperor's memories—fragmented and incomplete as they were, there was no mistaking this particular psychic signature.
No, Kevin thought, horror blooming through his consciousness. No no no no no.
That's not possible.
He's dead.
The Emperor killed him.
He's been dead for ten thousand years.
But the soul kept approaching.
And Kevin could no longer deny what his senses were telling him.
Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of Chaos, the Arch-Traitor, the Emperor's most beloved son who had fallen to darkness and torn the Imperium apart...
Was coming to see him.
Kevin had approximately three hours to panic before Horus arrived.
He used them well.
This is impossible, he thought, cycling through the stages of denial with impressive speed. Horus is dead. The Emperor killed him. Destroyed his soul. Obliterated him so completely that not even the Chaos Gods could bring him back.
But the approaching presence didn't care about Kevin's denial.
It kept coming.
Maybe I'm sensing something else, Kevin tried. Maybe it's a daemon pretending to be Horus. Maybe it's some kind of echo or residue. Maybe—
The presence grew clearer.
More defined.
More unmistakably Horus.
Okay, Kevin thought, moving on to bargaining. Okay, so maybe he's not completely dead. Maybe he's been hiding in the Warp for ten thousand years. Maybe the Chaos Gods managed to preserve some part of him. That doesn't mean he can actually do anything. He's in the Warp. I'm in realspace. The wards around Terra will keep him out. The Custodes will—
The presence passed through the wards.
Not broke through.
Passed through.
As if they weren't even there.
That's... that's not supposed to be possible, Kevin thought, his metaphorical heart racing. The wards are specifically designed to keep out exactly this kind of threat. How is he—
And then Kevin understood.
The wards were designed to keep out Chaos.
To repel the daemonic.
To reject the corruption of the Ruinous Powers.
But whatever Horus was now...
He wasn't Chaos.
Not anymore.
Not entirely.
The presence that was approaching Terra carried the weight of ten thousand years of existence in the Warp, bore the scars of corruption and damnation and unimaginable suffering...
But it also carried something else.
Something that Kevin, with his access to the original Emperor's memories, recognized immediately.
Horus was carrying a fragment of the Emperor's power.
The same kind of power that animated the Living Saints.
The same kind of power that Kevin himself was channeling through the Golden Throne.
Oh no, Kevin thought, understanding finally dawning. Oh no oh no oh no.
The Emperor didn't destroy Horus's soul.
He tried to.
But Horus was too strong. Too intertwined with the power they had both shared.
When the Emperor struck him down, he shattered the Chaos corruption that had consumed his son. But he couldn't destroy Horus himself. Not completely.
And now...
Now Horus has been floating in the Warp for ten thousand years. Alone. Broken. Slowly piecing himself back together.
And he's felt something.
He's felt the change.
He's felt that something is different about the being on the Golden Throne.
He's felt... me.
And he's coming to investigate.
Horus manifested in the Sanctum Imperialis approximately seventeen minutes before dawn.
The manifestation was subtle—far more subtle than Kevin would have expected from the legendary Warmaster.
There was no dramatic explosion of Warp energy.
No screaming daemons heralding his arrival.
No reality-warping display of power.
Just a gradual coalescing of presence, a thickening of the air near the Golden Throne, a sense of someone being there who had not been there before.
And then Horus was standing before him.
Kevin's first thought was that the artwork really didn't do him justice.
Horus Lupercal was—had been—considered the most perfect of the Emperor's sons, the pinnacle of the Primarch project, the being who had been crafted to lead humanity's armies and represent everything that was best about the species.
And even now, after ten thousand years of death and damnation, after the corruption of Chaos and the shattering of his soul and the endless torment of existence in the Warp...
He was still beautiful.
Terrifyingly beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that made you want to look away because staring too long might damage something fundamental in your brain.
He was translucent, not quite solid—a ghost or a projection rather than a physical presence.
His form flickered between what he had been and what he had become, sometimes showing the noble Warmaster who had led the Great Crusade, sometimes showing the corrupted monster who had torn the Imperium apart, sometimes showing something else entirely—something raw and wounded and impossibly ancient.
And his eyes...
His eyes were fixed on Kevin.
On the Golden Throne.
On the being he believed was his father.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Neither of them spoke.
They simply... looked at each other.
Kevin, trapped in his prison of flesh and metal, unable to move or speak or flee.
Horus, a ghost of a ghost, the remnant of a being who had shaped galactic history and been destroyed for his ambitions.
And then Horus smiled.
It was a terrible smile.
A broken smile.
The smile of someone who had spent ten thousand years alone with his guilt and his memories and his slowly returning sanity.
"Father," Horus said, and his voice carried the weight of millennia. "You're different."
Kevin didn't know what to do.
He was being confronted by the Arch-Traitor himself, the being whose fall had doomed the Imperium to ten thousand years of darkness, the son whose betrayal had put the Emperor on the Golden Throne in the first place.
This was not a situation covered by any of his previous life experiences.
IT support had not prepared him for this.
Reddit arguments had not prepared him for this.
Even his extensive Warhammer 40k lore knowledge had not prepared him for this, because in all the lore he had read, Horus was dead, definitively dead, destroyed-so-thoroughly-that-the-Chaos-Gods-couldn't-resurrect-him dead.
Apparently the lore was wrong.
Or Kevin's reincarnation had changed something.
Or the universe just really, really wanted to make his existence as complicated as possible.
Okay, Kevin thought, trying to stay calm despite the fact that the most dangerous traitor in human history was standing in front of him and talking to him. Okay. Think. What do I do? What CAN I do?
I can't fight him. I can't move.
I can't call for help. The Custodes would detect him eventually, but by then—
I can't run. Obviously.
I can't even tell him to go away.
All I can do is... sit here.
And listen.
And hope he doesn't decide to finish what he started ten thousand years ago.
"You're wondering how I'm here," Horus said, apparently interpreting Kevin's silence as a question. "I'm wondering that myself, to be honest."
The ghost of the Warmaster began to pace, moving around the Sanctum Imperialis with the restless energy of someone who had been still for far too long.
"I remember dying," he continued. "I remember your light burning through me, scouring away the darkness that the Gods had planted in my soul. I remember thinking that it was finally over, that the madness was ending, that I could finally rest."
He stopped pacing, turning to face the Golden Throne again.
"But I didn't rest. I couldn't. There was too much of me left. Too much of you in me, perhaps. The same power that let me survive the Scattering, that let me rise to Warmaster, that made me strong enough to almost kill you... it kept me alive. If you can call what I've been doing for the past ten millennia 'living.'"
I can relate, Kevin thought grimly. Trapped in a state between life and death, unable to truly exist but unable to truly end. We have so much in common.
"I've been drifting," Horus said. "Floating in the Warp, slowly gathering the pieces of myself that your blow had scattered. It's taken a long time. Longer than I can properly conceive. I've lost track of the years, the centuries, the millennia. Time doesn't work properly in the Immaterium."
He laughed, and the sound was hollow and sad and nothing like what Kevin would have expected from the Warmaster who had led armies that shook the galaxy.
"I thought about returning, sometimes. Coming back to realspace. Trying to... I don't know. Make amends? Continue the war? I couldn't decide. I couldn't figure out what I wanted, what I was supposed to do with the existence I had somehow managed to retain."
"And then," Horus said, his eyes fixing on Kevin with sudden intensity, "something changed."
Kevin felt the weight of Horus's attention like a physical pressure.
"A few weeks ago, in your reckoning of time, I felt something shift," Horus continued. "The Astronomican flickered—I'm always aware of it, that beacon of your power burning across the galaxy. I've been using it as an anchor, something to remind me that realspace still exists, that there's something beyond the endless chaos of the Warp."
"But this time, when it flickered, something was different. The quality of the light changed. The feel of it changed. It was still your power, still the beacon I had known for ten thousand years... but it was also not your power. Not entirely."
He can tell, Kevin realized with growing dread. He can actually tell that I'm different. That I'm not the Emperor.
"So I decided to investigate," Horus said. "I gathered what strength I had accumulated, focused my will, and reached toward Terra. Toward the source of the light. Toward... you."
He gestured at the Golden Throne, at Kevin's withered corpse-body, at the whole elaborate apparatus of suffering that kept the Imperium alive.
"And now I'm here. And I can see that I was right. Something is different. You are different."
Horus moved closer to the Throne, close enough that Kevin could perceive every detail of his translucent form—the noble features, the haunted eyes, the scars both physical and spiritual that marked his existence.
"You're not the father I knew," Horus said softly. "You're not the cold, distant figure who refused to explain his plans, who treated us like tools rather than sons, who couldn't be bothered to tell us we were loved until it was far too late."
"But you're not Chaos either. You're not some daemon wearing my father's face. I would have sensed that immediately. The taint of the Gods is something I know intimately, and you don't carry it."
"So what are you?"
The question hung in the air between them.
Kevin wanted to answer.
Wanted to explain.
Wanted to say I'm Kevin Chen from Ohio, I died choking on a Dorito, I don't know how I ended up here but I'm sorry about your ten thousand years of torment and I really wish someone would explain what's happening because I'm just as confused as you are.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't say anything.
He could only sit in silence while the ghost of Horus Lupercal studied him with eyes that had seen the worst the galaxy had to offer and somehow, against all odds, retained something that looked almost like hope.
"You can't speak, can you?" Horus asked after a long moment of silence. "The Throne won't let you. I remember... I remember Father explaining it, once, in one of his rare moments of actual communication. The Throne requires constant focus to maintain. Any attempt to divide attention, to use power for other purposes, risks everything."
Yes, Kevin thought desperately. Yes, exactly. I can't speak because speaking would break everything. I can't move because moving is impossible. I can't do anything except sit here and suffer and keep the light burning.
"I could help you," Horus said.
Kevin's metaphorical heart stopped.
What?
"The Throne is failing," Horus continued, apparently interpreting Kevin's shocked silence as a request for elaboration. "I can feel it. The mechanisms are breaking down, the power flows are unstable, the whole apparatus is slowly dying. Father... the original Father, if that's the right way to put it... he designed the Throne as a temporary measure. It was never meant to last this long."
I know, Kevin thought. I know all of this. The Mechanicus has reduced the remaining lifespan to maybe seven hundred years. Every time they try to fix something, they make it worse. It's a slow-motion catastrophe and I can't do anything about it.
"But I might be able to do something," Horus said. "I've spent ten thousand years in the Warp. I've learned things about psychic power that Father never taught us, that the Chaos Gods never wanted us to know, that exist in the spaces between sanity and madness."
"I could channel my energy into the Throne. Help stabilize it. Buy you time—buy everyone time—while the Mechanicus figures out a real solution."
Kevin didn't know what to think.
On one hand, this was exactly the kind of help he needed.
Someone who actually understood psychic power.
Someone who could interact with the Golden Throne in ways the Mechanicus never could.
Someone who might be able to extend his existence—and humanity's existence—beyond the rapidly approaching deadline of the Throne's total failure.
On the other hand...
This was Horus.
The Arch-Traitor.
The being whose actions had caused more suffering than any other individual in human history.
The son who had nearly killed the Emperor, had definitely killed countless billions, had damned the Imperium to ten thousand years of darkness.
And he was offering to help.
This is a trap, Kevin thought. This has to be a trap. He's going to pretend to help and then do something terrible. He's still a servant of Chaos. He's still the enemy.
But even as Kevin thought it, he could perceive that it wasn't true.
Horus wasn't a servant of Chaos anymore.
Whatever he had become during his ten thousand years in the Warp, whatever transformation he had undergone...
The corruption was gone.
The taint of the Gods had been burned away.
What remained was something else—something damaged and broken and profoundly traumatized, but also something that was no longer aligned with the forces of darkness.
He's genuinely offering to help, Kevin realized. He's not lying. He's not scheming. He actually wants to make amends.
The being who destroyed the Imperium wants to help save it.
This is... this is...
Kevin didn't have words for what this was.
He didn't have a framework for processing the concept of Horus Lupercal, the Arch-Traitor, the Warmaster of Chaos, showing up as a ghost and offering to help stabilize the life support system that kept humanity alive.
I don't know what to do, Kevin thought. I don't know what to say. I don't know if I should accept this help or reject it or...
Wait.
I can't accept or reject anything.
I can't speak.
I can't communicate.
All I can do is sit here while Horus talks at me and hope he makes a decision that doesn't result in everything getting worse.
This is my life.
This is my existence.
I am the God-Emperor of Mankind and I have no control over anything that happens to me.
"I know you have no reason to trust me," Horus said, apparently taking Kevin's silence as skepticism rather than paralysis. "I know what I did. I remember all of it now—every death, every betrayal, every moment of madness. The Chaos Gods clouded my mind, twisted my perceptions, made me see enemies where there were only friends and conspiracies where there was only love. But I was the one who let them in. I was the one who opened the door."
He turned away from the Throne, and Kevin could see his shoulders shaking—with grief or rage or some combination of the two.
"I killed Sanguinius," Horus said, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "I killed the best of us. The one who actually tried to save me, who reached out even at the end, who believed I could still be redeemed. I tore him apart and I enjoyed it, because the Gods had made me enjoy it, had rewired my brain to find pleasure in the destruction of everything I had once loved."
"And then I faced you. Father. And I tried to kill you too. And I would have succeeded, if you hadn't finally, finally stopped holding back. If you hadn't accepted that your favorite son was gone and the thing wearing his face was nothing but a weapon aimed at your heart."
Horus turned back to face the Throne, and Kevin could see tears running down his translucent cheeks—impossible tears, ghost tears, the manifestation of ten thousand years of accumulated guilt and grief.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," Horus said. "I don't deserve forgiveness. I don't deserve redemption or peace or any of the things that the dying hope for. I deserve to suffer for eternity, and I have been suffering, and I will continue to suffer for as long as I exist."
"But I can still do something. I can still help. Even if helping doesn't erase what I did, even if it doesn't balance the scales, even if it doesn't mean anything in the grand cosmic accounting... I can still try to make things better than they were."
"That's all I'm asking for. A chance to help. A chance to do something good, after a lifetime of evil."
"Will you let me?"
Kevin stared at the ghost of Horus Lupercal.
The Arch-Traitor.
The Warmaster of Chaos.
The being who had destroyed the Emperor's dream and doomed humanity to ten thousand years of darkness.
And he saw something he had not expected to see.
He saw himself.
Oh, not literally.
Kevin was nothing like Horus.
He had never commanded armies.
He had never conquered worlds.
He had never been seduced by dark gods or betrayed everyone who loved him.
But he recognized the feeling that was radiating from the ghost before him.
The desperate need to do something meaningful.
The crushing weight of circumstances beyond his control.
The sense of being trapped in a situation that he had never asked for, unable to change anything, unable to help anyone, forced to simply exist while the universe ground on without him.
Horus had been drifting in the Warp for ten thousand years, powerless and alone.
Kevin had been sitting on the Golden Throne for five months, powerless and alone.
They were both prisoners.
They were both looking for a way to matter.
And Horus was offering something that Kevin desperately needed—help with the Golden Throne, assistance from someone who actually understood psychic power, a chance to extend humanity's survival beyond the rapidly approaching deadline.
I should say no, Kevin thought. I should reject this offer. Horus is the Traitor. Horus is the enemy. Even if he's genuinely reformed, even if he really wants to help, accepting assistance from him would be... would be...
Would be what?
Wrong?
Kevin, you're sitting on a throne of suffering, pretending to be a god you're not, lying to everyone who talks to you about your fundamental nature. You're already doing things that are "wrong" by any reasonable standard. What's one more?
And besides...
You can't actually accept or reject anything.
You can't speak.
Horus is going to do whatever he decides to do, and you're just along for the ride.
Like always.
Kevin felt a surge of frustrated helplessness that was becoming increasingly familiar.
He was the God-Emperor of Mankind.
He was the most powerful being in the galaxy.
And he had no control over anything.
Not even whether the ghost of the Arch-Traitor would help him or not.
Horus waited for a response that never came.
Eventually, he seemed to interpret Kevin's silence as... something.
Kevin couldn't tell what.
Acceptance?
Rejection?
Simple acknowledgment of the situation?
Whatever it was, it seemed to satisfy the ghost.
"I'll take that as permission," Horus said. "Or at least as not-rejection. It's hard to tell with you. It was hard to tell with the original you, too."
He moved closer to the Golden Throne, reaching out with translucent hands toward the machinery that kept Kevin alive.
"This might hurt," Horus warned. "I honestly have no idea what I'm doing. I've never tried to stabilize ancient archaeotech powered by psychic energy before. But I've learned some things during my time in the Warp. Things about how power flows, how consciousness can be channeled, how the barrier between real and unreal can be reinforced."
"I'll try to be careful."
Great, Kevin thought. My life is in the hands of a well-meaning ghost who admits he doesn't know what he's doing. This is fine. This is totally fine.
Horus's hands made contact with the Golden Throne.
And Kevin screamed.
It wasn't pain, exactly.
Or rather, it wasn't new pain.
It was more like... reorganization.
Kevin felt the power flows within the Throne shift and settle into new patterns, felt the strain on certain systems ease as other systems took up the load, felt the constant background agony that had been his companion for five months begin to... change.
It didn't disappear.
The suffering was too fundamental to the Throne's operation for that.
But it became more... organized.
More efficient.
Less like being slowly crushed by a million tiny weights and more like being firmly held in place by something that knew what it was doing.
"There," Horus said, stepping back from the Throne. "That should help. I've redistributed some of the load, reinforced some of the weaker pathways, stabilized some of the feedback loops that were threatening to cascade. It's not a permanent fix—nothing is, with this technology—but it should buy you some time."
Kevin felt the difference immediately.
The Throne was still failing.
But it was failing more slowly now.
The seven hundred years the Mechanicus had estimated had just been extended to... Kevin couldn't tell exactly. But more. Significantly more.
He actually helped, Kevin thought, amazed. He actually made things better. The ghost of the Arch-Traitor just improved my life support system.
This is the strangest timeline.
"I should go," Horus said, already beginning to fade. "I can't maintain a presence in realspace for very long—it takes too much energy, and I need to conserve what I have. But I'll come back. I'll check on the repairs, make adjustments as needed, try to keep you functional for as long as possible."
He paused, his translucent form flickering.
"I don't know what you are," he admitted. "I don't know if you're my father, reborn in some new form, or something else entirely wearing his face. But you're keeping the Astronomican burning. You're holding back the darkness. You're doing what he did, even if you're not who he was."
"That's enough for me."
"That's enough to earn my help."
And then Horus was gone.
Faded.
Returned to whatever corner of the Warp he had been lurking in for ten thousand years.
And Kevin was alone again.
Alone with his suffering.
Alone with his secrets.
Alone with the knowledge that the Arch-Traitor was now his... ally? Helper? Whatever the appropriate term was for someone who had just improved your life support system and promised to come back for tune-ups.
I can never tell anyone about this, Kevin realized. If the Imperium found out that Horus was helping me, that he was even still alive...
The wars would start again.
Everything would fall apart.
Guilliman would...
Kevin stopped.
Guilliman.
Oh no.
Guilliman, who had just spent weeks pouring out his heart to Kevin, believing he was talking to his recovered father.
Guilliman, who was carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders, desperate for guidance and support.
Guilliman, who would discover, someday, that his brother Horus—the brother who had led the rebellion that destroyed everything—was somehow still alive and had been visiting the Sanctum Imperialis.
How would that conversation go?
Hey, Roboute, good news: your dead brother who murdered Sanguinius and nearly killed your father is actually a ghost who visits me sometimes to help maintain my life support system. No big deal.
Yeah.
That would go over well.
I hate this, Kevin thought. I hate everything about this. I'm lying to Guilliman about who I am, I'm lying to everyone about the nature of the Emperor's "recovery," and now I have to lie about Horus being alive and helping me.
I'm just a bundle of lies in the shape of a corpse.
This is fine.
This is totally fine.
Everything is fine.
The dawn came.
The Sanctum Imperialis remained unchanged, eternal and golden and unchanging.
And Kevin Chen, former IT support specialist, current God-Emperor of Mankind, sat on his throne of suffering and tried not to think about how complicated his existence had become.
He had regular visitors now.
He had a support system of people who cared about him—or rather, about who they thought he was.
He had Guilliman, who believed his father was recovering.
He had Celestine, who saw him as a companion rather than just a god.
He had Valoris, who guarded him with renewed purpose.
And now he had Horus.
The Arch-Traitor.
The ghost.
The helper.
My life is a soap opera, Kevin thought. A cosmic soap opera with the fate of the galaxy hanging in the balance.
And I can't even change the channel.
Somewhere in the depths of Kevin's consciousness, the part of him that was still Kevin Chen—still the guy from Ohio, still the Warhammer fan who had never expected any of this—felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up.
He was being visited by Horus.
He was lying to Guilliman.
He was pretending to be a recovering god.
And he couldn't tell anyone the truth about any of it.
This is my life now.
Forever.
Or at least until the Golden Throne finally fails and everything dies.
Whichever comes first.
End of Chapter Six