Forest temple.
Rumble—rumble—rumble—
The Lion shoved open the ancient stone doors carved full of reliefs, moss and powdered stone sifting down as if no one had ever pushed them before.
After that he went in, stepped into the dim corridor, and kept going until he reached the temple's hall—where that ugly, torture-device-looking Golden Throne sat.
"You've come back."
The familiar yet frigid voice came, making Lion's body twitch despite himself—pure instinct.
"Father?"
He slowly raised his head—and saw what he did not expect.
Upon the Golden Throne was not the desiccated skeleton others had described—Zabriel and the rest—but a crown-helmed, gold-armored, powerfully built middle-aged figure.
The Emperor as the Primarchs remembered him—the Master of Mankind, the "tyrant" in the mouths of traitors.
His gaze was razor-hard, full of judgment and an authority that would brook no defiance.
But something was off atop the Throne—things that clearly did not belong.
Luxurious red wine. A slab of grox ribs. Cookware. And a handful of machines that looked suspiciously like entertainment rigs of dubious purpose.
"You, too—like Horus—have come back intending to seize the Imperium's power?"
The Emperor took a delicate sip of wine.
He looked at the Lion with deeper suspicion now, a thread of anger in his tone.
As always, the Master of Mankind was sizing up his son—but this time the severity was greater, brewing with long-held displeasure and wrath.
"No, Father. I have never coveted power that does not belong to me."
Faced with his father's accusation, the Lion half-knelt without thinking. "All I desire is to set right what You created with Your own hands—to share the burden You carry."
"Worthless!"
The Emperor crushed the cup, and his fury rolled on. "You can't set anything right. You couldn't even hold together that pitiful 'Second Imperium' you cobbled up—couldn't control it.
What right have you to speak of saving the Imperium?!"
Hearing that key phrase—"Second Imperium"—made the Lion's heart tighten all the more.
He obediently sank to both knees and lowered his head.
But after hearing his father's contempt for his capability, he hesitated and tried to explain in a small voice. "Father, when we received word of You, we immediately—"
"Silence. Still trying to make excuses?
You selfish, spiteful, jealous little whelp—you never once saw your own problem!"
The Emperor's anger spiked higher, cutting off the Lion's words—then came a barrage of verbal flensing.
From the Second Imperium, to the Siege of Terra, to the sundering of Caliban, He enumerated the errors and misjudgments the Lion's temperament had led to.
Every charge had its logic. Every sentence hit with full force.
Then came a blow aimed straight at the heart: "You're a pale shadow of that Savior boy, %#$@&…"
With a mingled exasperation and a father's love gone harsh, He laid out Eden's achievements one by one—regaining swathes of territory, hauling the Imperium back from the brink, shaping a cloned vessel for the Emperor's will—and contrasted each with the Lion, excoriating him without mercy.
The verdict: Lion, failing marks. The Savior, the neighbor's golden child. MVP. Learn from him.
And then a command—help the Savior govern the Imperium properly.
Such ultimate "tough love" from a father—weaponized as scathing invective—was hard to bear, precisely because it came from his father's own mouth.
The Lion swayed, eyes stinging.
A bead or two nearly fell.
This was him with armor-plated composure, too—when Guilliman and the Khan had faced the Emperor's "tough-love" persona before, they had simply shattered, weeping outright.
The old Lion might have met such dressing-down with anger and jealousy—maybe even a clash.
But now, he could swallow it, and he had learned to reflect.
"Father, I will obey Your order. But I—"
He slowly raised his head.
Those weathered features looked up at the Emperor—his father—still with more to say.
"Out. Out, out, out—get lost!"
But before anything else could leave his lips, a shockwave of soul-force slapped him away—ejecting him from the place entirely.
"The little brat still dares interrupt my browsing."
The "Trash-Talk Emperor" seemed to grow impatient, grumbling as He snatched up a dataslate and resumed surfing.
The message He wanted conveyed had been delivered. Different facets. Different delivery.
Old hands like Eden and Guilliman took one look at this negative persona of the Emperor and found excuses to bail immediately—no use getting caught in the blast.
The Trash-Talk Emperor logged back into a Mechanicus forum to debate Men of Iron doctrine with the oil-priests—laying down takes by the thousands.
The reason He was so mad? A certain Archmagos had astroturfed the upvotes on His thread—costing Him a limited-run Machine-Goddess Xiaoling special badge.
He was perilously close to begging Xiaoling to perma-ban the guy.
Divergent creeds in the state cult had spawned divergent faith-currents among humanity—and those, in turn, gnawed at the Emperor, manifesting as fractured personas.
This was one of the reasons Eden had begun reforming the Ecclesiarchy—unifying doctrine.
But regardless of persona, one thing never changed: He doted on the Machine-Goddess Xiaoling—like a treasured granddaughter.
Before long, the Trash-Talk Emperor's image faded; the hall shifted again.
Upon the Golden Throne now sat a gaunt, aged figure.
The Emperor's core self.
Wrinkles traced his face as he reminisced—guilt in the lines. "That brat… he's matured—and grown old…"
The Master of Mankind looked forward to seeing the Lion again—but not in the Immaterium; in realspace, in the Black Throne's sanctum.
He was, after all, one of the sons in whom He had placed most hope.
…
Avalons.
Ruins of the desert battlefield. A field camp. A drab military tent.
"Father!"
The Lion snapped awake—then calmed as the space around him came into focus.
His cheeks felt cold. He reached up, touched, and found he'd wept at some point.
That was rare.
"I truly met Father…"
The Lion thought bleakly—and his heart ached.
Not because his father had chastised him and said he wasn't Eden's equal—but because of the state of that body.
By his nature, the Lion sensed the crushing repression, the pain, the torment, and the fathomless black that the Emperor hid behind that façade.
A burden no life should bear. It could break Him—warp Him into something unrecognizable.
The Lion knew Father could lay the burden down at any time—and be free. But He still endured—for humanity.
"Perhaps… Father has longed to depart for a very long time."
A thought struck; his voice trembled.
Even while the Emperor was berating him, the Lion had felt the core self screaming in pain beneath—whispering a message:
"Kill me. Kill me."
Especially in that last sliver of a look as He cast the Lion out.
Father clearly wanted this son to find a path to release Him—lest He snap and fall into a darker end.
But how could the Lion do that? How could he raise a hand to his Father?
"There must be a better way…"
Heavy-hearted, the Lion lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. The sky was still iron-dark.
Night held.
Now he understood the crisis enfolding the Imperium—and how little slack remained. There could be no faltering. No rot.
If Father finally broke, and became some stranger—some blasphemous thing—if He could no longer shield the Imperium—
Then… all might tumble into the abyss.
The Lion recalled the Emperor's earlier tirade—his chest squeezed tighter.
His stubborn pride had caused no small errors; half his sons had turned from him.
Shame.
And in the present age of peril, he had given too little—Caliban destroyed, and himself asleep a thousand centuries.
Letting the rot run deeper.
The Lion drew a long breath. That would not happen again.
Yet, faced with the Imperium's depthless dark, he felt the weight—felt how staggering the load on Eden's shoulders must be.
"Can I save the Imperium? Can that 'Hope Primarch,' the Savior, save the Imperium? Can we draw Father out of the dark?"
So many questions churned.
He had decided to deal fairly with Eden now—together, to haul the Imperium back.
"A pity they're all gone…"
The Lion winced.
The Imperium was strange now—few he knew remained to stand beside him.
Sanguinius, Guilliman, Dorn, the Khan—one after another, the loyal brothers gone—leaving him alone.
He didn't know how to deal with Father's anointed Hope Primarch, the Savior—that was never his strength.
Still—he could try.
The Lion had his pride. Father's endorsement of Eden did not equal the Lion's endorsement.
And Father's state… wasn't exactly normal.
The Lion would contribute in his own way—rally armies, then rendezvous with Eden.
He had the keys to wake the dark technologies.
In this night, they would have to employ weapons once deemed too dangerous.
As he wrestled with the plan, dawn paled the sky—a shaft of morning light speared the darkness and washed across the Savior's honor-banner.
The gilded tracery on the cloth glimmered faintly.
He looked up at it, thoughtful.
"My lord."
Zabriel approached with the knights. "Avalons' commander is willing to provide us with ships. What are your orders?"
They had waited long enough—for the next step.
The Lion turned; his features set once more. The First Primarch. The Lion.
His indomitable will locked in. His aim grew still and sharp.
"We join the expedition Eden has stirred across this star-mist. But first, we go collect certain engines of war.
Bring the commander. I want a briefing."
His hunter's sense already told him what Eden was doing—organizing a long march to retake the Haze-Sector. He could almost feel the route.
From Avalons' Marshal Haraga, the Lion obtained the sector charts of that Haze—Imperial standard issue—the last update a little over a century ago.
Given the Imperium's old communication crawl, that counted as "up-to-date." A century would not have erased whole swathes. Not yet.
Those places were likely still resisting. Barely.
"The Imperium has bled away far too much…"
The Lion studied the map and sighed.
He'd braced himself—but to see it… it still hurt.
Since the Heresy's end, the Haze-Sector had shrunk again by another third—one could imagine how many human lives had been smothered.
Swift as swordplay, his fingers danced across the star-atlas, dizzying to watch—until a campaign line burned clear.
"If Eden truly means to save the whole Haze-Sector, he'll choose this line of march. His next target will be this central nexus."
The Lion tapped the screen—a core industrial zone.
The First Legion's warlord trusted his own read—and he knew this sector like his hand.
Much of it had been won by his armies.
He chose—and gave the order:
"This is our rendezvous—Vostonia Pan-Sector. Muster the host. Bring the dark engines. We link up with Eden there!"
Vostonia Pan-Sector lay at the heart of the Haze's industry—adjacent to the Halo Stars and the Eye of Terror's fringes—a precious Imperial nexus not yet fallen.
If Eden meant to save the Haze, he could not sidestep Vostonia.
And the Lion could call his scattered sons from across the stars—re-forming them into an army.
After the First Legion's sundering, many successor hosts still laired in those reaches—numerous and potent.
If their gene-sire called, they would come—saving Eden considerable toil.
The Lion looked to Zabriel. "We depart now. We'll travel through the Forest of Caliban—not by voidship."
He had mastered a faster passage—witch-roads through the Empyrean. Quicker than a starship.
They might well reach Vostonia first.
…
The Immaterium. The hush of Caliban's Forest.
"What is that?"
Leading his knights down the trail, the Lion followed the road in his heart.
As he passed the place of waking, he noticed another branch—black as pitch.
The Watchers had warned him from it—he was not yet strong enough. Do not step there.
Curiosity flared.
He bade the knights halt and walked alone to the mouth of that darkling path—then slowly leaned in.
Thrumm—
A wall of churning black and reek slammed him—nearly choking him.
Eyes—horrors—stared back. Thoughts swam. Base desires and buried ambitions surged and clawed.
A vision rose—himself in gold, a crown on his brow.
"No. You will not steer me."
Blood-red light burned in his eyes. He throttled back the swell. And saw.
At road's end loomed a titanic, monstrous Primarch-shadow—behind it, four twisted shapes of different hues—coalesced evil of a galaxy.
He yanked himself out, hard.
Good that he had not set foot there.
Such is the danger of the warp—one step and corruption might claim him.
"Those are our foes, then…"
The Lion muttered. "A fallen brother—once a Primarch—and the blasphemous gods at his back…"
He chose—deliberately—not to look up—to the black sun that hung above those gods.
Then he returned to the first path.
With his knights, true to his nature, he pressed on—to the next chamber.
There, the proscribed weapons waited—the engines of extinction.
—
High orbit. Within The Rock.
Eden stood beneath an observation dome, watching the void; behind him stood Azrael, Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels, and the Chapter's other Grand Masters—respectful, tight-faced.
"The Lion went to Avalons, and didn't think to ping me."
Eden breathed out, helpless.
He'd only just gotten word from the Fallen about the Lion—but by then the fleet had already made the jump.
Still—given the Lion's ability, he would deduce the play and find them.
With his forest-walking and warp-step tricks, the man might just whoosh into Eden's path any second.
Eden had bolted in the first place because he'd felt the doom-tide gathering at the next hub—Vostonia Pan-Sector.
That was the unknown enemy's pressure. Even the warp snarled and surged; numberless hosts of Chaos daemons were mustering.
Not just the Four's vassal hordes—hordes of undivided things beyond count.
A chaos revel the like of which he had not yet seen.
Vostonia was one of the Haze's industrial hearts—if it died in that storm, the fallout would be beyond imagining.
It could even vomit up a new Eye—another warp-rent like the Eye of Terror.
If that tear linked with the Eye and the Halo Stars' wounds, it could sever yet more of the transit chokepoints.
Then the Haze-Sector… would be done.
"I hope we're not too late…"
A dense pall crept over him again.
He meant to link up with Guilliman and the Khan at Vostonia—together to break the enemy.
But spread as they were, at normal speed they'd miss the window.
So—he needed the Tuchulcha Engine and the Ouroboros to assemble the Disharmonic Engine, punch a Webway corridor, and converge fast.
This would be the battle that decided the Haze-Sector.
Thinking of the haul lifted him a little.
The Rock was a treasure vault.
Secrets and artifacts from age upon age—packed room after room. Even Azrael himself was stunned.
Truth be told, they rarely laid hands on those vaults.
Now the Urth Mechanicus' Archmagi—and a few big-brained Ork Big Meks—had arrived with the Plagueheart they'd recovered; the Disharmonic Engine would be assembled in the void near The Rock.
And nothing else would be wasted. There were Men of Iron here, even!
The forward explorers, while hunting down Tuchulcha, had opened a sealed cell and found two battered—but still animate—Men of Iron.
Almost got people killed.
They'd since pulled stacks of data on the Iron Men as well.
The worth of such ancient human engines was beyond dispute—war-forms, builders, pathfinders.
And the materials, weapons, and principles to be stripped from them could kick Imperial tech forward by long strides.
"So many priceless toys—and you're just sitting on them? No. We're going to use them."
Eden was delighted. The sheer haul washed him clean. The pressure of the coming fight eased—if only for a breath.
He threw the gates wide—flooded The Rock with survey teams and researchers.
While hunting for Tuchulcha, they would catalog every secret. Everything goes on the books.
In the space ahead, Urth Mechanicus Ark-Mechanica arrived in a trickle—dozens of lighter craft peeling off—ferrying crews to The Rock to begin archaeological work.
"No…"
Azrael—Master of the Inner Circle, warden of so many secrets—spoke in a tight, shaking voice.
He gazed at the grease-monks pouring into the fortress-monastery—measuring, scanning, recording—until a hollow ache opened in his chest.
From today forward… the Dark Angels have no secrets.
With the grease-monks' dig-to-bedrock methodology, even the Chapter's metaphorical underwear would be up on a slate—no privacy, nothing hidden.
From the most secretive chapter to… the most over-documented. To the last intimate measurement.
The pendulum swings.
And they didn't dare make a peep. Not against this iron-willed Savior—this Emperor of the Imperium.
Just then—while the Supreme Grand Master drowned in grief—an involuntary gasp, stifled and sharp, sounded nearby—and snapped every gaze that way.
(End of Chapter)
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