Commorragh was being devoured. The pocket expanded to a scale larger than the stars themselves, resembling a bloody maw that tore through the void. It reached toward the city that once served as the hub of the Webway—the greatest metropolis of the Aeldari, which had later fallen into a den of vice and a tumorous sore.
There was little resistance. The Drukhari within had already been purged by the Lord of Balance and Hunting (Jaghatai Khan). The Dark Prince, who might have interfered, was currently cowering in Her own domain, licking Her wounds. Within moments, the entirety of Commorragh, along with its surrounding satellite cities, was swallowed whole and vanished.
Hoec trembled at the sight. What a colossal existence that was—stronger even than the Dark Prince. The weapons prepared by the Old Ones in the past had been swallowed by him, and the survivors of the War in Heaven from beyond the galaxy had integrated into his form.
This one being spanned two domains; in the entire Warp, he was second only to the Dark King, who now lay sprawled across the Immaterium as a corpse. Hoec looked shakily toward the direction of the Dark King's body—or rather, just the general direction. He didn't have the courage to gaze upon the true Dark King. Why on earth does a Dark King even exist?
Hoec felt as though in the ten thousand years he had spent inside Slaanesh's belly, the world had been turned upside down. He really needed to ask Cegorach about this.
As if sensing Hoec's thoughts, Cegorach's cackling voice rang out behind him. Hoec maneuvered his wheelchair to face the sound. His legs were broken, having long ago lost the power to run; the wheelchair and the shattered limbs were a reflection of his lost authority.
Cegorach dashed over like a gust of wind and delivered a sharp kick to Hoec's broken legs. Hoec let out a scream, tumbling from his wheelchair and rolling across the floor of the Black Library in agony.
"Cegorach, you madman! Why the hell did you kick my broken legs?" Hoec cursed in the foulest language of the Pantheon.
Cegorach watched Hoec rolling on the ground and couldn't help but giggle. "I'm the Laughing God! I kicked your legs for fun, of course." He giggled again and landed another kick on Hoec's shins.
Hoec gritted his teeth, glaring at the Jester. This cursed clown hadn't changed at all. Back in the days of the Pantheon, Hoec had hated him most. Hoec loved to roam and run among the stars, and Cegorach would always pop out of nowhere to trip him.
Every day inside Slaanesh, Hoec had wondered why he ever listened to Cegorach—why he believed the Jester's oath that he would have his revenge and save the Aeldari. He often suspected it was just another of the clown's lies.
But looking at things now, while Cegorach might have told many lies, "saving the Aeldari" had been the truth. It was just... Hoec climbed back into his wheelchair and glanced toward the Dark King. "Why? Why was He born?" His voice was laced with panic.
"Oh... that was a tiny little accident. A minor deviation in the Aeldari prophecies," Cegorach said, his gaze flickering guiltily. "Actually, we did predict the birth of the Dark King. The Aeldari Farseers guaranteed that the Dark King would be born from the humans' civil war, and that Warmaster Horus would be the one."
"Based on that, we made many plans. Though we accidentally accelerated a few Primarchs toward Chaos and daemonhood, everything seemed to be going well. According to the plan, the birth would be stopped. The Emperor, the King of Ages and the collective entity of humanity, would kill Horus and prevent the ascension."
"The humans might pay a terrible price, and the Emperor might die, but the birth of the Dark King was supposed to be interrupted."
"And which step went wrong?" Hoec asked, looking entirely unsurprised. He knew exactly what Aeldari prophecies were worth. If he disliked Cegorach, he felt pure hatred for Lileath. That bitch's blind prognostications made him want to tear her limb from limb.
"The bad news is, the Dark King did emerge from the Heresy, from the final battle between the Master of Mankind and Horus," Cegorach explained. "But we got it wrong. The Dark King wasn't Horus. From beginning to end, the Dark King was always the Emperor."
"Did the Aeldari discover the error themselves?" Hoec asked.
Cegorach scratched his head awkwardly. "Uh, no. The first one to realize this was a human sorcerer, Ahzek Ahriman. He heard our prophecy about Horus being the Dark King and sensed something was off. He performed a divination and realized the Aeldari were wrong—it was the Emperor.
At that time, the Emperor had already stepped onto the Vengeful Spirit, the very altar for the Dark King's ascension. Poor little Ahriman nearly wet himself on the spot. He suddenly realized the Traitors were all clowns; they only lived because the Emperor was kind enough not to want all of humanity to die with Him. Yet every step they took forced the Emperor to ascend and sacrifice the entire race."
"Fortunately, the Emperor is reliable. He's practically a superman. He overcame the urge to ascend and held out for ten thousand years. After the Heresy, Ahriman stopped fighting the Empire as much, but he frequently attacks the Aeldari just to slap the Farseers across the face with psychic power."
"If it were me, I'd slap them too," Hoec's eyes twitched uncontrollably. He then looked at Alexander, hanging in the void. "And what about him?"
"Alex? He's an ally, the new King of the Gods of our Pantheon. Don't be fooled by the fact that he's merged two domains; he still has plenty of humanity," Cegorach said cheerfully.
"...Merged Wicked Arts and Greed-Dissolution, yet still has 'plenty of humanity'?" Hoec asked fearfully. "Are you sure he isn't just profoundly insane?"
The Emperor could refuse to become the Dark King, and Alexander could balance two domains while claiming to be human—the human race definitely had a genetic predisposition for madness.
Hoec had observed humans before; he wasn't surprised the Dark King was born from them. This race seemed born not to live long or enjoy life, but to find a moment worth dying for. To them, death wasn't an end, but a grand coronation.
Knowing Cegorach chose to cooperate with humans, Hoec was actually quite afraid. Cegorach himself was essentially more like a human god. Hoec had once discussed death and immortality with him; Hoec believed eternal life was good because it allowed for infinite exploration.
Cegorach, however, believed death was the climax of a drama. Life without death was like losing the most theatrical moment of one's existence. With humans and Cegorach mixed together, a mad and destructive plan was bound to brew.
Hoec eventually sighed. "Back then, the Old Ones gifted us to the Aeldari. They either worshipped Asuryan's boundless energy or Vaul's creativity... even I gained a following. And you, Cegorach—the Old Ones gave you to the Aeldari as a device for entertainment and culture. You were surrounded only by poor children and orphans."
"The Old Ones told us: 'O soulful races, do not indulge only in power and technology. The strength we give you will one day fade, and the technology we grant will one day be surpassed. But the culture and the morality within it are eternal.' Yet the Aeldari held morality in contempt and obsessed over power."
"Now it seems the prophecy has come true. We have all faded, and only you remain to protect the Aeldari."
"I didn't protect them all," Cegorach's voice suddenly turned quiet.
"Some weren't worth protecting. At least... did you protect those children who followed you back then?" Hoec smiled.
"Most of them—those poor children and orphans I raised, who grew up watching my plays—most of them died for our cause," Cegorach's mirth vanished.
"Some volunteered to become Solitaires, playing the role of Slaanesh, their souls falling forever into the Dark Prince. Some were devoured by demons during dangerous missions, their souls dispersed beyond even my reach. Some willingly wiped their memories and cast aside my blessings to infiltrate various places for our plan, never returning to my side even in death."
"Their names are remembered by no one; the world sees them only as Harlequins and fools. But I do not feel sad for them. Many people in this world want to play the hero but end up as clowns. My children play the clown, but die like heroes in a tragedy. Their lives were dramatic enough—it was a good script."
Hoec opened his mouth, but in the end, his thousands of words turned into a slight bow of respect.
"Old Hoec, this is why I like you," Cegorach giggled again. "You've traveled far, giving you talents the other guys in the Pantheon lack. You understand what greatness is; you can read the spirit within the drama. Alright, I'm done talking to you. I have a meeting to attend."
"Fine," Hoec nodded. "I will begin my work as well."
"...Hm?" Cegorach looked at Hoec strangely. "Work? What work can you do?"
"Though my legs are broken and I've lost the power of roaming, I am still the Webway navigation system created by the Old Ones. I can—"
"Navigate what? Don't you know you've been rendered obsolete?" Cegorach looked at him speechlessly. "Ever heard of the 'Anywhere Door'? The Webway isn't very useful anymore. Man, I only fished you out for the sake of our brotherhood, and because you aren't worth much without legs, so Alex let you go. Forget it, I have a meeting. I've been learning the Suona (funeral horn) for so long just for today. Go play by yourself."
With a blur, Cegorach vanished, leaving Hoec sitting alone in his wheelchair, looking blankly at his broken legs. Suddenly, Cegorach reappeared, kicked Hoec's legs again, and vanished instantly.
"AHHH!!! CEGORACH!!!" Hoec wailed, falling to the ground, clutching his legs and cursing.
******
"...A funeral for the Emperor? A formal ceremony?" Guilliman looked at the plan with shock. "Why?"
The man who was theoretically the highest-ranking official in the Empire raised his question.
"Because our dad is dead, obviously," Mortarion said, propping his face up with one hand and taking a sip from his glass. "By Barbarus... is this Angron's shit? Why does it taste so bad?" Mortarion looked at the crimson liquid in his hand with horror.
He was a Primarch known for his resilience. Even before he became a daemon, his 14th Legion had the habit of drinking toxins as wine. But now, a single sip of this red wine made him feel bitter.
Dante, the Regent of the Imperium Nihilus and second-highest official, looked a bit guilty. This was Baal wine he had brought—he had brewed it himself hundreds of years ago and kept it in his cellar until now.
Ahriman took a small sip as well. The already despondent sorcerer let out an even more despairing sigh. "This reminds me of the despair and terror I felt in the Library of Terra when I divined that the Emperor was the Dark King. Next time, I'll teach you the wine-making methods of Prospero."
Dante smiled awkwardly. "Actually, this is the method the Great Angel imported from Prospero back then. We don't know why it tastes so bad... we even wondered if you Thousand Sons were chanting minor hexes in the Warp to curse the recipe." Ahriman sighed even more deeply.
Guilliman rubbed his brow. "I am well aware our father is dead. But funerals are for the living; they are useless to the dead. The Emperor has always been the core that unites the spirit of the Empire. Essentially, the Imperium exists as a unified entity because of Him. If we hold a public funeral, it could shatter our unity and destroy morale."
"So your meaning is... a secret death? Hide the news of the Emperor's passing and brush off the previous omens?" Alexander looked up, smiling as he questioned Guilliman.
"That is my rational judgment. Based on the information I have, it is the best choice," Guilliman nodded.
"Fine. In that case, where are we going to find enough salt to surround all of Terra to cover up the smell of the Emperor's death?" Alexander asked, nodding with a straight face.