Eden stretched a little, then summoned his aide, Tarko.
He needed arrangements made for everything that would happen after his arrival on Fanes.
That included the Imperial Emperor's landing honor guard, the ceremonial流程, and the follow-up governance of the world.
"I need a plan.
"The Imperium will take full control of Fanes—everything there—including the excavation of the Phaeron's tomb legacy.
"That operation could cause catastrophic, irreversible damage to Fanes' environment.
"Many hive cities will be heavily damaged, or even collapse outright, making this planet unfit for habitation for a very long time…"
Eden looked at Tarko and laid out his requirements.
"Even so, I want the tomb-excavation to begin as soon as possible, and it cannot provoke resistance from the Kalozasa Dynasty. More importantly, it cannot inflict excessive harm on the local populace.
"So we need an exceptionally solid justification, and an evacuation plan."
Tarko listened respectfully to the Savior's words.
He tried to keep his face neutral, but his brow still pinched slightly.
It was clearly not an easy task. In fact, it was going to be a headache.
"As you command.
"Before the fleet reaches Fanes, I will present a proposal that satisfies you."
Once he confirmed the Savior had no further instructions, Tarko gave that pledge at the right moment.
That was why he existed.
The Savior had already handled the most critical part. If he, as the aide, couldn't shoulder what came next—
that would be dereliction bordering on blasphemy.
If the Imperial Regent Bayev was the Savior's hand, then Tarko was the Savior's second brain.
Of course, that "second brain" wasn't Tarko alone, but an enormous staff apparatus—experts and scholars across every discipline.
Tarko was the manager of that apparatus, and the bridge that made it function.
After accepting the order, he hurried out of the sanctum. His "busy time" had begun.
He might not sleep for days.
That proposal wasn't just a concept. It needed an executable plan—planetwide evacuation, public calming measures, resource routing, all of it.
Which meant mobilizing massive manpower and compute, and coordinating multiple departments.
They had to finish the work, so Fanes wouldn't be drowned in fresh blood and tears.
After giving the Fanes assignment, Eden began reviewing the backlog of accumulated documents.
All of it had been filtered—intelligence and information he was likely to need.
As the Imperium's Emperor, he had to maintain situational awareness.
"The merger of the Administratum and the Court District Administratum is finally complete. The new Administratum complex in Dawnlight City is finished as well, and departments are moving in by batches.
"Bayev's pushing the work along nicely…"
Eden nodded in satisfaction at the Administratum report in his hand.
The Imperial Regent he'd appointed had essentially completed the political reforms of the Imperium's "bright side," integrating the administrative system.
That, in turn, pushed the shift of the political center—so the Imperium could be controlled cleanly, instead of degenerating into city-states and feudal partitions again.
With every civilized world acting like an independent fief.
This had been decided long ago. Otherwise, maintaining two parallel systems—the old and the new, Holy Terra and the Court District—would be administrative chaos.
Relocating to Dawnlight City within the Webway made every task easier: processing, communication, and security.
The governors of each civilized world could also use Webway routes to report in—and be monitored—far more effectively.
Besides, beneath Holy Terra lay a Webway breach, like a volcano that could erupt at any moment.
Better to relocate early.
The new office zone was a vast administrative metropolis. Space and conditions were far better than before.
It also marked the Imperium's entry into a new phase.
It would reduce Holy Terra's population and supply burden, and free more resources to reinforce defensive systems—
to guarantee the security of the Imperial Palace in the Himalazian Mountains, and the Golden Throne.
"Two Primarch brothers, working themselves to the bone… These years, they haven't rested for a single day, guarding the border night and day."
Eden moved on to the Departmento Munitorum files.
Lion and the Khan were still holding the line around the Pariah Nexus, grinding away as they built fortress belts and layered defensive works.
There was friction with the Necrons in that region, but no large-scale war had broken out.
The Silent King was likely still forcing internal unity among his kind—but there was no question he would become one of humanity's most dangerous enemies in the galaxy.
That being had overthrown the Old Ones and the C'tan in the ancient era. The Aeldari and the Orks, back then, were closer to "regular troops."
Vigilance was mandatory.
From the current situation, the Imperium's defensive lines looked stable.
Earlier, because of the situations at Fanes and Sentinel Star, he'd redeployed part of the Imperial forces.
Now, aside from those already underway, the rest could return to their original war zones.
Stability would hold.
"If we ignore the old man on the Golden Throne, the Imperium is basically booming."
Eden couldn't help the thought.
After reviewing defense posture, he also checked several special items.
For instance, little Angron was growing fast. He'd already gone to the border to learn from his two uncles. In the virtual feeds, he was practically a young powerhouse now.
He resembled Angron in the face, just cleaner, less feral—and his fate couldn't be more different from that tragic gladiator slave.
At the very least, this child was being raised under guidance.
"A Navigator Houses report. That's rare."
Eden flipped to the new file, curious what could be significant enough for the Navigators to bring straight to him.
He skimmed it. A Navigator, while translating through the warp, had heard a call.
Later, after high-rank psykers performed a mind-analysis, they determined the call came from the Avenging Son, the Lord of Ultramar.
"Guilliman's alive. At minimum, he's still kicking."
Eden relaxed at the news. High-tier psykers had already begun searching for his brother's trace.
There was no helping it. Guilliman had psychic potential in his blood, but he'd never studied any psychic disciplines—meaning it was hard for him to claw his own way back out of the warp.
That was one reason so many Imperial warriors were lost in the Immaterium.
They could fight forever—cutting and cutting and cutting—endless daemons, endless horror—
but never find the road home.
At present, aside from Guilliman, the Primarchs the Imperium was still trying to locate included Rogal Dorn, Corvus Corax, and the Wolf King, Leman Russ.
The Wolf King had vanished into the Eye of Terror after the Horus Heresy, disappearing without a trace.
According to the Space Wolves, their gene-father went to seek the Tree of Life—
a thing that could heal the Emperor's wounds, letting Him rise from the Golden Throne and stand again.
To many, it sounded like a bedtime myth meant to comfort grieving warriors.
Sure, the Emperor might stand up from the Golden Throne one day.
Just… in a far more terrifying way.
But Eden felt it wasn't impossible. The warp could birth Chaos Gods and a Holy Sun; finding something absurdly miraculous in it wouldn't be strange at all.
Russ had to have discovered something, or he wouldn't have abandoned the Imperium to search.
Eden had already dispatched agents to the Space Wolves' home world, using their fragmentary intel to hunt for the Wolf King.
After reading for a while, Eden sat at the typewriter and began drafting replies to incoming communications.
Perturabo—the Imperium's newly appointed chief scholar—was hounding him again for blackstone and associated research resources.
He also warned Eden that the Golden Throne's load tolerance was nearing its limit.
It had to be solved, and soon.
His Primarch brother was anxious—and that was understandable.
Eden's earlier "promises" had been huge. Perturabo had worked himself half to death establishing the research world, yet the resources he needed still hadn't arrived.
It was awkward.
But there was no easy fix. Time dilation around Sentinel Star didn't match the Imperium outside. Even though the campaign's progress felt fast here, years had already passed elsewhere.
As for the Golden Throne—how many millennia had that problem existed? Being anxious didn't make it solvable.
Eden was almost used to it.
It was just that, lately, after the Grey Knights detected new trend-changes in the Throne's condition, they'd gotten jumpy—scrambling for archival data from ten thousand years ago.
No one knew exactly what they were hunting. Possibly original technical documentation for the Throne itself.
"Brother, the Sentinel Star campaign is moving fast. The fleet carrying the blackstone is already being assembled. It will reach you soon."
Eden thought it over, then rattled the keys, tossing out another promise:
"The Aeldari craftworld you requested has also been secured. Study it as you please.
"However, due to time-flow variance, the arrival time on your end may be… slightly offset."
Had he actually secured the blackstone on Sentinel Star yet?
Not yet.
But odds were overwhelmingly in his favor. He might as well commit in advance.
If it worked out, it would be the kind of win you could pop champagne for.
After handling these matters, Eden returned to the soft bed, intending to properly rest.
He'd been using his authority at high intensity, and even blending multiple authorities together.
That had made the faith-energy inside the Hope Sun trend toward instability. He needed sleep to suppress it.
Maybe that was why the old man loved dozing off so much. Faith-energy really was a nightmare to control.
Fortunately, there was still some time before the Dreamweaver reached Fanes. He had enough room to rest.
Sitting on the bed, Eden looked toward the window near the bedside.
Through the viewing port he could see, far off, two massive Tyranid splinter fleets interweaving and grinding against each other like storm fronts.
The swarm shrieked in silence. Biomass shells and acid mist bloomed across the void.
This war had been going on for a long while.
It was a void-war between the Bladewing splinter fleet under his control and another Tyranid splinter fleet.
He'd stopped that fleet's invasion.
Otherwise, with Fanes already under so many attacks, it might not have held.
Vmmm.
The sanctum trembled slightly—the sign that the Gellar Field was rising.
"Sigh… It's getting harder and harder to fall asleep. Being a 'god' isn't easy at all…"
Eden pulled the gilded silk curtain closed and let out a quiet breath.
Divinity and humanity were in conflict. That conflict could make him colder, stripping away human desire and warmth.
Thankfully, his human desires hadn't vanished entirely—and he still held the authority of pleasure.
Otherwise, wouldn't he become a warp eunuch?
Eden jabbed a syringe into his neck—an anesthetic potent enough to drop a gigantic mutated beast—using it as a sleep aid.
When the Dreamweaver entered the warp again, bound for Fanes—
he gradually sank into slumber.
…
Fanes.
The roar of machinery and gunfire shook the entire atmosphere.
Because of the news that the Imperium's Emperor was coming, this loyal world had fallen into fanatic fervor.
They poured that fervor and devotion into the purge—methodically exterminating every hateful lifeform, bit by bit.
Now the war was reaching its end.
"Emperor above… Fanes can finally rebuild in peace.
"If we're lucky, we may even restore most of the primary hive before His Majesty arrives."
Zhabok sat on the throne handling emergency governance. On his chest, a pitch-black honorary Imperial aquila caught a glint of sunlight.
After receiving the Emperor's praise and having his shame washed away, he'd immediately rushed off to dig out the aquila he himself had thrown into a bonfire.
Fortunately, it was a special alloy. It hadn't melted.
But the necrodermis governor soon froze—because Fanes' hive core registered new "human" individuals.
The stench of blood was thickening.
Those "humans" were slick with gore, their bodies making skin-crawling scraping sounds and muffled sobbing friction.
But they weren't truly human.
They were twisted living metal wrapped in human skin.
They realized something, and accelerated their hunt for human flesh.
"Damned Flayed Ones. Madmen who've lost all reason.
"In the Emperor's name, they should be hung from gallows and burned in holy fire—until even their souls are gone!"
Zhabok sensed the invasion of those deranged monsters, and his rage surged out of control.
An incursion at a moment like this—wasn't it sabotaging Fanes' historic moment, welcoming the Imperium's Emperor?
"I want the Flayed Ones dead!"
The necrodermis governor seized his combat rod and led his Royal Guard personally, going to execute those warped abominations.
…
Hive-frontline.
Buildings collapsed in chains, and claw marks raked deep across machine-alloy beams.
Necron forces fought side by side with the Emperor's angels, resisting Flayed Ones pouring in from an unknown dimension.
Among the ruins, they formed a peak-shaped defensive array. Living-metal carapace and armor glittered under the sun.
"Damn it. The abomination-virus on these xenos is even infecting our heavy vehicles."
Anselmor tore off his battered helm and spat.
Following the Savior—following the Imperium's Emperor's foreshadowing—he had led the Rift Lord Chapter here to assist in Fanes' defense.
Treating the Necrons as temporary allies.
It wasn't without precedent in the Imperium. And it might well be part of that being's design. His duty was to obey.
But what he hadn't expected was that the xenos and heretics on this world were terrifyingly strong.
In sheer intensity, it was bordering on an apocalyptic warzone.
Only then did Anselmor and the others truly understand how unusual Fanes was.
This planet had endured invasions of this magnitude… and held out until now?
Anyone who didn't know better would think this was a core Imperial fortress world.
As expected, the Imperium's Emperor didn't act without reason. Fanes truly was worth preserving.
They executed the order to the letter, fighting to the last, refusing to retreat—teetering under the xenos tide.
"B-blood… blood!"
Suddenly, a Flayed One Lord tore two Terminators apart in the forward line and lunged straight at them.
Madness incarnate.
Anselmor felt a colossal force smash him down. Pain detonated in his abdomen as the Flayed One's warped claws punched through his artificer power armor and sank into flesh.
Then he saw the gore-slick talons thrusting toward his skull.
A killing blow.
The chill of those talons hit him like ice. He couldn't even raise a guard in time. His soul nearly fled.
"Xenos!"
At the critical moment, a loyal bellow erupted, and a combat rod slammed down—blocking the Flayed One Lord's claws.
The necrodermis governor, Zhabok, arrived in time, stopping the fatal strike aimed at Anselmor.
"For the Emperor!"
Anselmor snapped back, wrenched free, and swung his power sword, severing the Flayed One Lord's arm.
Then the two fought shoulder to shoulder, meeting the Flayed Ones' tide—fiercer with every exchange.
The necrodermis governor pushed at the very front, deep gashes opening across his body, one after another.
Fortunately, for him, none of it was lethal.
Time passed—how long, neither could tell.
Eventually, around Zhabok and Anselmor, there were no Flayed Ones left.
Those warped things retreated, slipping back into their unknown dimension.
"Emperor above… the damned xenos are finally gone."
As Anselmor's combat hormones ebbed, he tore away ruined armor and collapsed onto the rubble, limp with exhaustion.
But before he could truly relax, he heard a wet thunk.
The xenos leader's combat rod had driven into the ground beside him.
Anselmor jolted upright, power sword reigniting.
Yet he realized the other had no intent to attack. The rod looked more like it had slipped from his grasp.
At that moment, the xenos leader didn't even acknowledge him.
He just stared, blankly, up at the sky.
Anselmor looked up as well.
In the sun's corona hung a gleaming golden warship—so radiant it seemed brighter than the sun itself.
"Ah… our Imperium's Emperor has arrived…"
Zhabok gazed devoutly at that gold-shining dream-vessel, the Dreamweaver, and for a moment, he forgot everything else.
(End of Chapter)
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