Not long ago.
Heavy, muffled footsteps sent tremors through the deck, a metallic hum rolling across the ground like a hammer striking people's hearts.
It made everyone instinctively wary and solemn, as if something weighty were pressing down on their chests.
They were the Cursebound Legion, the Emperor's holy host. They executed the Imperium's enemies on the most dangerous battlefields, in the coldest possible way.
Even if they did nothing at all, their mere presence crushed the spirits of the living around them.
"Has the Lord of the Rift been forgiven by the Emperor… Is that why he's been granted such a blessing…?"
Facing the black-armored warriors wreathed in flame, Ansemor couldn't help holding his breath, his heart filling with indescribable reverence and worship.
These holy soldiers were so sacred that his own kind could never be mentioned in the same breath.
Their black armor wasn't just black, but a deep ebony tone, studded with skull relics as decoration.
Their helms resembled jagged skulls, hollow eye-sockets burning with cold flame, cruel and merciless.
They had no emotion, no reason—pure machines of battle, never to be stopped by any foe.
As the Cursebound Legion passed, Ansemor and the Lord of the Rift's warriors dropped one after another to one knee, offering their awe to the black-armored soldiers—and to the Master of Mankind Himself.
"The Lord of the Rift's redemption has arrived. Gather every brother. We will follow the holy host into battle."
Ansemor had never felt so secure. With the Emperor's might descending, those bizarre, crafty xenos and the Flayed Ones were no longer any threat.
The only fate awaiting those alien heretics was total annihilation.
The Chapter Master and his captains were practically vibrating with excitement.
"Where the holy host points its blade—that is where we strike. Whomever they mark as the Imperium's enemy—that is our target.
"This will be the most glorious battle since the Lord of the Rift was founded!"
"Those heretical xenos dare to wear the Aquila. They have profaned the Imperium. They must be judged!"
Ansemor and the others lifted their chins, brimming with fervor, swiftly slamming full magazines into their bolters and igniting the power fields of their swords.
Before the holy host, beneath the Emperor's gaze, they would unleash strength beyond anything they'd ever shown.
Whoever faltered would be sent to the children's table forever after.
This was a chance to fight alongside the Emperor's sacred host—something you could brag about for thousands of years. After today, who would dare claim the Lord of the Rift was disloyal?
"Heretics!"
Suddenly, the flames among the Cursebound Legion surged with a boom. A non-human psychic roar rolled out—like the wrath of a great existence.
It was also the horn that signaled an attack.
Ansemor and the others instantly understood: the Emperor's holy host was about to charge the alien heretics.
They broke formation in perfect unison, opening a corridor for the holy host.
At a time like this, how could the Lord of the Rift's Chapter dare charge ahead of the sacred host? That would be blasphemy.
Ansemor and a captain beside him stared toward the golden, heretical "crafty xenos" and the Flayed Ones on the cathedral's great platform, eyes blazing with hunger for glory.
The Lord of the Rift's battle-will was fully ignited.
The heretical aliens in the plaza were nothing but straw dummies waiting to be cut down. If anything, they feared there wouldn't be enough for the holy host and the Lord of the Rift to kill.
Then, in the next instant, Ansemor and the others went cold to the bone. Some warriors, overwhelmed by terror and the shattering of their faith, even let their bolters slip from numb fingers and clatter to the floor.
Because the Emperor's Cursebound Legion had leveled their black gun barrels at them.
And the cold fire in those skull-helms' eye sockets burned with murderous intent.
…?!
Emperor above—how did we become heretics?!
In a heartbeat, they went from hot blood to ice. The entire cathedral platform fell into dead silence.
Ansemor trembled, unable to believe it.
"The Lord of the Rift has never betrayed the Imperium. Why does the holy host aim at us?"
The captains were even more despairing.
"Has that great being judged the Lord of the Rift guilty… beyond forgiveness?"
"We are guilty. We can never repay those sins!"
As a penitent Chapter, the Lord of the Rift had always carried guilt, always toiled with grim diligence.
Now the Cursebound Legion's actions felt like a death sentence.
After understanding the Third Diocese's situation—and the consequences their rebellious behavior might have triggered—the Emperor's fury reached its peak.
Those heretical rebels had been tempted by the Changer of Ways, twisting the course of the Vigilus campaign. Unforgivable.
The Master of Mankind arrived bearing wrath against the Chaos Gods and the heretical rebels alike, ready to burn away every life aboard this ship tied to the Third Diocese.
He was as cold as ever, especially under the influence of the Warp's darkness.
Ansemor and the others felt the Emperor's anger and turned to ash inside. Facing the Cursebound Legion's gun barrels, they had no courage left to resist or flee.
They refused to die as traitors.
So they stopped struggling. One by one, they dropped to one knee before the flame-wreathed Cursebound warriors.
"Emperor above… we accept Your judgment. End the Lord of the Rift's sins."
That was Ansemor's plea.
If the Emperor judged the Lord of the Rift guilty, deserving execution, then they deserved that end.
They had to accept it all.
That was the Master of Mankind's influence—no one could resist.
Now, all it would take was a squeeze of a trigger, and these unresisting warriors would be slaughtered within seconds.
And yet, at the very moment execution should have fallen, a gentle psychic power descended, slowing the tragedy.
Some presence was trying to intervene from the Warp.
"Sir, please don't get worked up.
"This penitent Chapter is still loyal. They're still living strength for Fanes. You can't just kill them."
Eden was numb with stress as he manifested in psychic form before the Emperor's Warp-avatar.
The Emperor's tyrant persona seemed to have taken the lead—very bad news. If this went wrong, it would become a massacre.
The Third Diocese needed judgment, sure. Execute the upper ranks and the implicated figures—that's enough. The rest should be kept to serve the Imperium's needs.
Even a mosquito's leg is still meat, especially when Imperial forces in the Vigilus region were already thin. The Lord of the Rift still had value alive.
Besides, xenos were running rampant in the Fanes system, and the Kalozasa Dynasty risked rebelling. In a moment, they'd need these men's help defending the place.
Until the Imperial main host arrived.
And Eden himself was the Emperor of the Imperium—by rights, every human belonged under his rule. Wiping out an entire Space Marine Chapter like this…
What a waste.
It felt like someone reaching into his pocket, pulling out his money, and tossing it into the sea.
So Eden stepped in to stop the Emperor's enraged tyrant-self from gunning the Lord of the Rift down.
More than that—Eden didn't like mass slaughter.
Even if the Lord of the Rift were foolishly loyal and shackled by the Ecclesiarchy's faith, he still didn't want those loyal warriors to die.
Solve the Ecclesiarchy's vermin and the ugly troops they'd manufactured with torture-augmetics and frenzy drugs, and that would be enough.
"Boy… are you trying to stop my decision?"
The tyrant-Emperor's shadow loomed, gaze like a abyssal beast. Flame pressed down directly on Eden.
He was in the heat of rage. Almost no one could restrain Him.
This was the being who had launched the Great Crusade—the ruthless monarch who had slaughtered His way from one end of the galaxy to the other.
If any other primarch were here, they'd likely fall to their knees and beg for mercy. No one could bear that fury.
That towering wrath rolled outward unconsciously, and within it lurked a dark, terrifying power.
"Yes. I will stop your decision. I am the Emperor of the Imperium now, and I'm responsible for humanity and the Imperium."
Eden did not yield even an inch. He withstood the raging force, his voice iron.
His meaning was unmistakable.
If he was the Emperor of the Imperium, then Imperial affairs were decided by him. So long as his reasons were just, even the Emperor couldn't interfere without restraint.
Eden had his reasons, and they were strategic.
For an Imperium this vast, two competing voices would breed endless chaos. The Imperium's ten-thousand-year disorder was tied to that exact problem.
He'd only just unified the Imperium's strength, forcing the Ecclesiarchy, the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the rest to obey command.
If the Emperor could intervene at will, confusion would inevitably follow, and Eden would lose control of that rampant faith.
Especially with the old man growing more confused, more often.
After speaking, Eden simply waited for the Emperor's response.
He believed the Emperor would choose reasonably, rather than let slaughter spread.
No matter how the Emperor's personas shifted, He was still a qualified Master of Mankind. He wouldn't use "authority" as a club to suppress Eden.
Because now the Imperium needed its Savior—more than the Savior needed the Imperium.
Eden and the Emperor were more like partners than superior and subordinate.
From the beginning, after the Hope Sun spent itself to drag Eden back from Slaanesh's palace, the Emperor had sheltered him. And Eden, in turn, had reorganized the Imperium for the Emperor and suppressed that rampant faith-energy.
Otherwise, the Emperor would be in greater pain, in far worse condition.
Mutual benefit.
Now Eden was not only the Emperor of the Imperium, but also Chaos Diablo the Destroyer, the great Four-Armed Emperor, the cunning and ferocious greenskin Rogo, the Aeldari's Savior, and the Tyranids' Hive Mind.
He was controlled by no existence. He had many roads for growth.
He simply chose to use those powers to feed humanity in return, insisting that Imperial humanity remain the core source of his strength.
No mighty being wished to be restrained. Supreme power could ignite violent conflict.
Even if both sides were not hungry for power and maintained a good relationship, there was still a lethal problem—
A clash of ideals and doctrine.
That was the truly irreconcilable contradiction.
Eden didn't want things to go that far with the Emperor. Luckily, the odds were low: he had already proven the path he walked was the best route for the Imperium.
Unless the Emperor could produce a better plan, Eden's word stood.
"Emperor of the Imperium…"
The tyrant-Emperor tasted the words, something unreadable in His tone. He was uneasy—even though the one before Him was the being He had personally crowned.
No king could tolerate being constrained by another, especially not a being like Him.
More precisely, this Savior was now openly holding the reins of every army in the realm, his authority unstoppable.
The boy didn't just intend to manage the Imperium—he intended to "manage" the Master of Mankind's behavior, one step away from saying, Old man, know your place. I'm not some fragile primarch you can push around.
What ambition. What domineering majesty.
"You venomous *#% little brat!"
The tyrant-Emperor drew a deep breath and spat the curse—
But His rage was ebbing.
Wasn't this the outcome He'd always wanted? A more perfect administrator for humanity, so He could finally set down the endless burden.
If that brat couldn't even stop Him, how could he claim to save mankind?
And besides, the Emperor could lose control at any moment. The stronger the brat, the greater the chance he could clean up the wreckage left behind when control failed.
At least some of humanity would be saved, the ember of civilization preserved, instead of mankind being extinguished entirely.
"Emperor of the Imperium, your judgment is correct. I will spare the Lord of the Rift."
The tyrant-Emperor looked at Eden and spoke with gravity.
In effect, He accepted the Savior's constraint over His actions—agreeing to cooperate unconditionally with Eden's plans.
In that moment, the Master of Mankind truly retired, becoming a mighty weapon and bulwark to be directed.
"Perhaps this is the correct choice. I no longer have the strength to watch over the galaxy and the Warp's tides."
That was the tyrant-Emperor's thought.
Before, He had used the Cursebound Legion to act within the Imperium because the Savior lacked the capacity—certain critical nodes demanded His direct intervention.
But now the Savior possessed the same Warp authority and could command Warp-borne forces.
The Master of Mankind could worry less—especially since His periods of sleep had been growing longer, and more frequent.
"Don't worry, sir.
"With your support, I will take Vigilus. Humanity will resist the Warp's corrosion. And with the newest Blackstone technology, we will repair the Golden Throne!"
Hearing this, Eden finally breathed out, confident as he made the promise.
With the Emperor supporting him so completely, Eden had to deliver real results—so the old man's sacrifices wouldn't be in vain.
On the cathedral platform, the Cursebound warriors received the Emperor's latest order and lifted their judgment from the Lord of the Rift.
They shifted targets.
Ansemor and the loyal warriors were granted life, a dizzying relief like crawling back from death.
More important still—
They had been spared by the Emperor.
A sacred psychic vision was projected into the Librarians' consciousness. The warriors' eyes brimmed with tears.
"Our Lord of the Rift has been absolved. The Savior, the Emperor of the Imperium, pledged our loyalty before that great being. He saved us!"
Even after changing His mind, the Emperor still spent power to pass on the message—so they would know who had saved them.
That would also help the Savior command the Lord of the Rift more smoothly.
When Ansemor heard the Librarians' words, he felt a surge of joy unlike anything he'd known.
They had washed away their sins.
For thousands of years, the Chapter had pursued redemption and hope—now, at last, it was real.
They didn't know what sort of existence that Savior, that Emperor of the Imperium, truly was, but he had saved the Lord of the Rift's warriors.
As the excitement settled, Ansemor and the others found the battlefield… strange.
The Emperor's holy host did not attack those bizarre "crafty xenos." Instead, it fought alongside them, slaughtering the Necron Flayed Ones.
The remaining Lord of the Rift warriors in the plaza, seeing the holy host wasn't attacking the golden Aquila-wearing xenos, also ceased fire and joined in.
If the Emperor's holy host did not attack those xenos in golden Aquila armor, then they must be loyal.
Perhaps they were a new weapon forged by the Emperor. The Imperium had precedent for using xenos as weapons.
In any case, the Emperor's will could not be wrong.
With all forces cooperating, they cleared every last Flayed One in a remarkably short time—forming a battlefield where everyone present was "loyal."
Ansemor and the others were left confused. They remembered the holy host had come to judge heretics. If everyone was loyal now, then who, exactly, was the heretic?
To them, the war had become absurd—so absurd they didn't even know who the enemy was by the end.
Boom, boom, boom—
Suddenly, a fierce barrage poured out.
After establishing a new firing line, the black-armored holy host opened fire on the Third Diocese's Arco-flagellants and Penitent Engines.
One twisted mass of flesh and machine after another collapsed.
Ansemor and the others gaped.
The Emperor's holy host was attacking Ecclesiarchy troops—forces that supposedly represented His faith and will. That had never happened.
Even during Guilliman's regency, the Ecclesiarchy was never attacked openly.
It was an unspoken rule of the Imperium.
Yet the next moment, the Third Diocese's archbishop—the Great Preacher Freckbor—raised a voice filled with disbelief and anger.
"Emperor… why would You attack the Imperium…
"No. I command you—stop all of this at once!"
Freckbor couldn't understand it. The Emperor attacking his troops filled him with rage, unease, and fear.
For a long time, he had regarded himself as the Imperium. That fear surged up and drowned his reason, and he even ordered the Lord of the Rift and the Ecclesiarchy soldiery to stop the Emperor's holy host.
The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
It was like asking, Sire, why are you rebelling? Pure heresy.
At that, Ansemor, the other warriors, and the many Ecclesiarchy troops all turned toward him in unison.
Their stares were razor-sharp.
They had found the true heretic.
"Why are you looking at me?
"I… I am the Great Preacher. I am loyal. You have no right to do anything to me!"
Freckbor panicked, stumbling backward as the crowd closed in.
In that instant, terror flooded him—
No. I've become the only heretic on the field.
He held his breath, calculating the distance to the hidden passage.
With the force shield on his preaching-crook, he could bull through the incoming fire, reach the passage, and escape the area.
Then his back slammed into something hard—something like living chitinous armor. Something wet dripped onto his head.
Freckbor reflexively touched the top of his scalp and brought his fingers before his eyes.
When he saw the foul, fishy slime, his entire body locked up. He didn't even dare turn around.
He understood his situation at once: his retreat was cut off, and despair swallowed him whole.
The Emperor—and some other presence—wanted him dead.
Freckbor made his decision instantly. With a thud, he dropped to his knees, his words soaked in remorse and submission.
He threw out the only bargaining chip he had.
"Emperor, and unknown great being—I am willing to help the Imperium reclaim control of the Third Diocese and hand over all the hidden treasures.
"That trove includes relics from the Dark Age of Technology, as well as xenos artifacts. Only I know where they are.
"I beg only for a sliver of mercy…"
(End of Chapter)
[Get +30 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 300 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]