The time was not yet ripe.
The Emperor had struck a pact with the Four Gods, surrendering half of the Primarchs in exchange for demigod souls and their corresponding gene-seed technologies. Yet the Emperor had never intended to fulfill the contract; in His eyes, a covenant with gods was nothing more than a scrap of paper bearing a signature. The ten Primarchs promised in the transaction would never be handed over to the Ruinous Powers.
Now, as He prepared to steal the flame from the hands of the Gods, He similarly had zero intention of paying a price—refusing to complete the transaction in any true sense.
In ancient Terran parlance, there was a term known as "freeloading"—to reap a desired benefit without paying any cost whatsoever. This unscrupulous mindset aligned perfectly with the Emperor's current design: to deceive the Gods and steal the Primordial Fire.
After rigorous calculations, the Emperor finalized the preliminary scheme and stepped out from behind the psychic barrier. He cast a single glance over the field of corpses, shaking His head in silence. Raising a hand, He released a cascade of golden radiance, atomizing the physical remains and bloodstains.
As the golden light descended, the Emperor's form vanished without a trace, leaving the ruined landscape behind as if nothing had ever transpired.
Simultaneously, high in orbit above the Rangdan homeworld, an Adeptus Custodes warship quietly slipped away. Its navigational logs were purged, and while its departure was uncloaked, no authority could query its precise parameters or destination.
Thirty thousand warriors of the Eleventh Legion, accompanied by their Primarch Naxiel Selene, set sail under the escort of the Custodians, bound for the Throneworld of humanity—Terra.
Ultimately, the psychic burst event was entered into official Imperial records as a high-grade psyker suffering a loss of mental control, triggering an isolated psychic anomaly. As high-orbital warships multiplied, the psychic event faded from memory, buried beneath an overwhelming mountain of administrative transfer documents.
---
Following intense preparations, the victory celebration drew near. Upon the Rangdan homeworld, humanity was about to employ a grand ceremony to formally proclaim the absolute triumph of the human race!
As the date of the celebration approached, the planet's atmosphere—previously scorched clean by virus bombs—surprisingly gathered thin mists and clouds, pouring down a torrential downpour. The world seemed to weep, mourning the species it had birthed while harboring deep hatred for humanity's victory.
Yet the vast, planet-wide rainfall failed to draw any concern from the Adeptus Mechanicus. After confirming the absence of threat, the Tech-Magi arrogantly withdrew their environmental defense barriers, allowing rain to fall freely across the plaza.
Yet tears could not wash away disgrace, nor could rain dampen humanity's resolve to celebrate its triumph!
In the twenty-first year of the Second Rangdan War, preparations for the victory celebration were completed, and the event commenced on schedule, grander in scale than anything seen before.
The rain fell heavier, the thin atmosphere turning dark and somber.
Beneath the curtain of rain, a towering figure ascended the elevated dais. Serving as the representative sent by Mars to oversee the preparations, it was entirely within bounds for the Archmagos of the Mechanicus to preside over the ceremony.
Clad in deep crimson robes, the Archmagos's massive, heavily cybernetic frame trembled with excitement. Raising an Aquila scepter high into the air, his vocal synthesizer emitted a ringing, high-pitched proclamation: "Celebrate the re-emergence of humanity across the galaxy! Celebrate an unprecedented victory!"
The Archmagos's voice was transmitted directly into the amplification arrays. The massive speaker banks boomed, soundwaves blasting air pockets through the rain curtain and drowning out the roar of the downpour.
"LET THE CELEBRATION COMMENCE!"
The Archmagos's synthetic voice roared as his mechanical arms unfolded to embrace the sky.
BOOM—!
A twenty-one gun salute shattered the air, echoing like thunder through the rain—symbolizing the twenty-first year of the Rangdan War. The pyrotechnic bursts flared and died in an instant, briefly illuminating the parade plaza beneath the flashes.
Beneath the gloomy downpour, blocks of infantry stood immovably erect. They were silent statues, appearing as though they had stood vigilant upon this ground since time immemorial. Heavy raindrops struck armor plates, spraying sparks of unyielding resolve that coalesced into an indestructible steel will.
The warriors qualified to stand in the parade plaza were the elite among elites—hardened legionaries who had climbed out of the deathly abysses of the J-11 system, veterans of ten thousand battles who held death in utter contempt. Though mortal, their resolve had transcended the limitations of mortal flesh.
A mere rainstorm could not move them in the slightest. In the brutal war of attrition, they had faced hail storms of bullets and artillery far denser than rain; when the bodies of their comrades were blasted apart, the searing rain of blood had been immeasurably more terrifying.
As the artillery salvos fell silent, a wave-like roar erupted across the Victory Plaza. It was no illusion—the instant the artillery ceased, hundreds of millions of warriors dropped to one knee simultaneously within a single second, the displaced air compressing into a sound like crashing surf.
SWOOSH—!
Dark shadows settled beneath the rain, resembling endless ranges of pitch-black mountains crouching along the horizon—intimidating, mysterious, and radiating boundlessly lethal intent.
The warriors waited for the arrival of the Master of Mankind.
Behind the monumental war memorial on the parade plaza, a beam of golden light pierced the darkness as a figure walked slowly toward the foreground. Golden-armored Custodians strode forward, their heavy boots splashing through water droplets, coming to a halt along the edge of the elevated platform to safeguard the entire Victory Plaza.
Within the kneeling infantry blocks below, mortal soldiers kept their heads bowed, watching rain strike the deck and scatter into mottled golden light. The mortals exerted every ounce of control over their bodies, using tense muscles to suppress physical trembling, determined not to lose composure during the ceremony.
Yet they had glimpsed the light—they knew the Master of Mankind was standing atop the dais. How could their hearts not leap with emotion?
It was He who had brought an end to the Old Night; He who had reunited humanity; He who had launched the Great Crusade to conquer the galaxy. Without the Emperor's guidance, humanity would still be sinking within the dark age, drifting toward inevitable oblivion.
Now, humanity had achieved an unprecedented victory, crushing the Rangdan Empire and trampling the alien homeworld beneath its heel.
This rain was the testament to a glorious victory—the sorrowful weeping of a condemned alien species!
Across Victory Plaza, golden light spread outward. Upon this gloomy, somber realm, a warm, golden sun began to rise.
"Arise, most valiant warriors of the Imperium."
Without the transmission of speaker arrays, a gentle, steady voice echoed directly beside every ear, imprinting itself upon every soul.
The Master of Mankind had spoken. Not through the mouthpiece of a Custodian, but in His own true voice. His tone was gentler than imagined, combining a father's majesty with a mother's mercy, His intimate words sounding as though He were whispering right beside them.
Tears welled in the eyes of countless soldiers as they remembered those closest to them, choking back emotions that threatened to break.
Once again came the thunderous roar of waves crashing against reef. The army rose beneath the golden light, gazing up at the figure atop the high platform.
The Emperor stood there, radiating blinding golden light. Enveloped within a hazy radiance, His image appeared distinct to every soldier in the parade ground. To one He was a valiant warrior; to another, a wise commander; to another, a trusted comrade-in-arms. He was the perfect reflection of every warrior's inner ideal.
The moment He appeared, the gloom retreated into the darkest corners, as though a blazing sun had granted hope to the world.
Instantly, the skies brightened. The gloomy rain was bathed in gold, transforming into a holy rain of divine grace—a scene so sacred it challenged the eye to behold it directly.
The Emperor raised His right hand and pointed toward the heavens. A beam of golden light shot from His index finger, piercing the cloud layer and rippling outward like waves across a pond.
In a split second, the clouds dissolved and the rain ceased. Stellar light descended like a luminous veil, spreading across the atmosphere like grand palace drapes. Master artists set to work with frantic brushes, employing the absolute pinnacle of their craft to capture this sublimely sacred scene.
"Ah... Ah..."
A chorus of voices rose, light and airy as lark song. The golden rain of light seemed to condense into musical notes, dancing amidst the ambient mist. The maidens of the choir sang in melodious harmony, chanting epic poetry depicting heroic deeds.
High in the sky above, battleships lined up in tight formation, led by the Imperator Somnium, cruising directly over the Victory Plaza in a absolute display of human military power.
Beneath the War Memorial, the Emperor opened His arms to embrace the cosmos, flanked by His genetic sons clad in ceremonial robes, standing guard at His side.
The Emperor's majestic voice echoed once more: "Let the commendation ceremony begin!"
Rogal Dorn stepped forward from the line, holding a ceremonial banner in each hand as he strode to the edge of the elevated platform. The Primarch raised the flags, waving them to either side to signal the infantry formations to open a central corridor.
In an instant, the plaza swung into motion. The formations parted, retreating to both flanks to yield a red-carpeted central walkway. Dorn continued to cycle the ceremonial flags, his sleeves fluttering as he directed the movements of the parade blocks.
The mortal army obeyed like an extension of his own limbs. Having endured a protracted war, strict obedience to orders was a fundamental trait engraved into their very souls.
Along the endless straight path extending toward the horizon, the dense military formations parted, clearing the central corridor within minutes without a single misstep. Dorn nodded in satisfaction, his task completed.
Ferrus Manus immediately took over, stepping up to the vox-array in his capacity as Supreme Commander: "The commendation ceremony begins!"
There were no lengthy victory speeches; efficiency and speed were prioritized. The war had been far too long, and every unit present understood just how hard-fought it was to stand upon the alien homeworld for this celebration. They needed no impassioned rhetoric—the warriors required honor to soothe their scarred hearts.
HOOOO— HOOOO— HOOOO—
Along both flanks of the plaza, Fenrisian warriors of the Space Wolves blew massive horn instruments. The blast of war horns mingled with the ethereal choir, a combination both paradoxical and harmoniously grand.
At the sound of the horns, Space Marines and mortals alike straightened their backs, turning their eyes toward the corridor to salute the honored units.
With heads held high and chests swelled, the commended troops marched beneath the respectful gazes of their peers, their expressions stern and resolute.
Unit after unit, they strode along the red carpet, ascending the steps to the high platform to receive personal commendations from the Master of Mankind and the Primarchs.