"Now, the critical issue is that we must find enough salt to surround all of Terra..." Alexander gestured with a smile.
A smile flickered across Sanguinius's lips, and he couldn't help but let out a laugh. Lion's eyes twitched, Guilliman rubbed his brow in frustration, and Cegorach broke into his signature cackling laughter.
"Next step," Sanguinius took over the conversation, "We need to forge a decree and send it to Rogal Dorn, ordering him to commit suicide on the spot."
"You really want to play the Emperor, don't you?" Alexander said teasingly.
"It's fine; someone has already taken the fall for me on that front," Sanguinius replied, glancing at Guilliman.
"Ambitious, indeed," Lion shook his head, also glancing at Guilliman.
"Highly ambitious," Mortarion added with a nod of agreement, his gaze likewise landing on Guilliman.
"You lot..." Guilliman exhaled deeply. "This wasn't even my idea. I only suggested concealing the Emperor's death for the good of the Imperium."
"Just like the 'Second Empire' was for the good of the Imperium?" Lion sneered. "Just like splitting the Legions?"
"Roboute... the name is derived from Germanic, roughly meaning 'bright fame,'" Alexander looked at Guilliman and continued, "But in other languages it can be translated as the treacherous one."
Guilliman felt a bit depressed. "My father told me the name Guilliman means 'Hope,'" he said.
"They aren't mutually exclusive. We all know the God of Deceit is also a god of hope, and just like you, he's blue," Cegorach cackled. "So ambitious!"
Guilliman's expression soured further.
"Let me explain why we cannot hide the Emperor's death from humanity," Alexander signaled Cegorach to stop laughing. He looked at Guilliman. "The Warp is a dimension of will. In that realm, will is everything."
"Any race that hasn't severed its connection to the Warp has a collective will that can warp the Immaterium and, by extension, shape reality. To put it simply, every race possesses a version of 'Ork Logic' (I fink, derefore it is), it's just that Orks are biologically wired to use it more easily."
"Now, if we do as you say and hide the death, making every human and non-human in the galaxy believe the Emperor is still alive... guess what happens?"
"The Emperor—no, the Dark King—would be 'willed' back to life," Ahriman said in a low voice. "I said it back during the Great Crusade: do not let those who don't understand the Warp make decisions regarding it."
Ahriman glanced at Mortarion. It was Mortarion who had pushed for the Council of Nikaea, leading to the ban on Librarians and the suppression of free psychic use.
"Correct," Mortarion nodded. "Especially those who haven't studied numerology."
Does this man have no self-awareness? Ahriman let out a bitter sigh of despair.
"I see. So we need to study numerology? I suppose we Psykana-specialized abhumans don't understand the Warp either?" Cegorach chirped, though his face stiffened slightly when Ahriman glared at him.
"You really don't," Ahriman snapped. "Shall we discuss the Aeldari's 'world-shaking' prophecies about Angron, Fulgrim, or Horus being the Dark King? Your race lacks rigorous academic spirit. Your academic misconduct is severe!"
"So what? Is it not common for spells to have minor hiccups? Shall I list some examples?" Cegorach fired back.
Before he could speak, words like "The Rubric" and "The Second Rubric" flashed through everyone's minds.
"Give him a break," Alexander waved his hand. "When I found him, he was drinking with Bjorn in the basement of the Fang. He downed over eighty bottles of Fenrisian Ale by himself and cried while hugging Bjorn's leg. Old man Bjorn is a legend too—he actually let Ahriman cast a spell to pump the ale directly into his veins. They just sat there drinking and crying about the fickleness of fate and the Great Crusade. They nearly drank the Fang's entire weekly reserve and almost killed themselves."
Cegorach burst out laughing. Ahriman's aura grew even gloomier.
"In other words, if everyone believes the Emperor lives, he truly will return..." Guilliman's face twitched.
"Why? Do you not want him to come back?" Alexander asked with a few chuckles.
"Of course, I wish for the Emperor to stand again and lead us. He is the core of the Imperium, the eternal ruler. He is the lighthouse... but we cannot disturb his rest for our own selfish gain. Though it is heartbreaking, I believe the people have the right to mourn his passing," Guilliman said righteously.
"How can one be so grandiosely hypocritical?" Mortarion asked.
"Exactly that grand," Cegorach echoed with a giggle.
"Then the question becomes: how do we bury him?" Lion asked grimly. "First point: where is the body?"
"Theoretically, the Emperor's remains are still on Terra, atop the Golden Throne," Sanguinius said, touching his chin while glancing toward the distant Sol System.
Currently, the Astronomican was still functioning, but it had mutated under the influence of the Domain of Encroaching Ruin. Every Navigator or person with psychic talent could now see the black sun hanging over Terra. In the Warp, it was the Emperor's corpse; in the material universe, it was Terra itself.
"Organize a kill-team, board Terra, reach the Golden Throne, and bring back the body," Guilliman suggested.
"A perfect embodiment of the Imperium's 'human-centric' philosophy," Alexander rubbed his temples.
"It obviously can't be an ordinary kill-team. Lion, can your 'Forest Walk' reach the Imperial Palace?"
The Lion turned his head slowly, looking at Guilliman with a mix of shock, fear, suspicion, and disbelief. "You want to kill me? Are you trying to eliminate the rival heirs already?"
"Eliminate heirs? What has Alexander been telling you?" Guilliman slapped his forehead.
"With the Emperor dead, the eldest son is obviously Lion. He is the biggest obstacle to any of you ascending the Golden Throne."
"Who even wants to sit on that Throne!" Guilliman interrupted, looking at Lion. "Lion, you want it?"
"You really are trying to murder me!" Lion gasped.
"Anyway, a plan to retrieve the body from Terra is impossible," Alexander waved them off. "If we could do that, we wouldn't be in this mess. We'd have better luck figuring out how to stuff that black sun into a coffin."
"Then it can only be a cenotaph," Mortarion suggested.
"Where would we get..." Guilliman started, then realized they actually did have something. "The Armor of Fate... fragments of the Emperor's armor were placed into Terminator Honors. If we find a few pieces and have Alexander use his Time Cape to restore them, we'll have the 'clothes.' Nice one, Mortarion."
"See? Why else would I be called the Lord of Death?" A look of pride crossed Mortarion's shadowed face.
Is the Lord of Death in charge of funeral arrangements now? Guilliman opened his mouth but decided not to say it.
"The armor might not be enough. Let's put the Emperor's Shield and Sword in there too," Alexander added thoughtfully.
"The Emperor's Sword too?" Guilliman frowned, his hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his waist. He had to admit the blade was incredibly useful against Warp entities. Giving it up was a difficult prospect.
"He is our biological father. I understand you have issues with him, but is this really necessary?" Mortarion looked at Guilliman with moral condemnation.
"I am considering this from a utilitarian perspective," Guilliman said without blinking. "The Emperor is dead; he has no use for the sword or shield. If we don't bury them, they would be of great help to Lion and me."
"What's the big deal? It's not a conflict," Alexander shrugged. "We'll hold the funeral, then dig up the grave and take the sword back out. The shield and sword will return to you and Lion, and we can resize the armor for Sanguinius to wear."
"We can dig it back up?" Even Guilliman's eyes twitched.
"Of course. Does grave-robbing affect the fact that he's dead? No! We just have to make sure not many people see us. As long as he doesn't crawl out of the grave himself, it doesn't matter. In fact, digging it up might prevent that from happening."
Guilliman opened his mouth and then closed it. He realized Alexander was probably right. From a pragmatic standpoint, the grave had to be robbed.
"You lot are funny," Cegorach laughed. "You haven't even finished discussing the funeral, yet the grave-robbing plan is already settled."
"Next is the location. The funeral must be broadcast to every human-inhabited planet, but the site itself is crucial," Alexander mused. "Any suggestions? I believe we should choose the second most important planet in the Imperium."
Alexander's gaze swept over Cegorach, Ahriman, Dante, Sanguinius, Lion, Mortarion, and Guilliman. This small council was carefully arranged. Dante represented the Imperium Nihilus, Mortarion represented the Grandfather, Cegorach was the Chief Suona player, and Ahriman's naturally miserable face provided the perfect mourning atmosphere.
"Mars."
"Mars."
"Mars."
"Mars."
"Mars."
"Barbarus."
"Macragge."
Everyone turned to look at Mortarion and Guilliman.
"Barbarus still exists?" asked Lion, who had bombarded the planet during the Heresy.
"If the Imperium can have a 'Second' one, why can't Barbarus?" Mortarion replied coolly.
"If you give me a few hours, I am confident I can convince you all of Macragge's vital importance to the Imperium," Guilliman added.
"Mars is out," Alexander waved them off. "Mars is the center of my faith. Holding a funeral for the Emperor there would be bad luck."
Alexander was serious. His ties to Mars were deep; holding a funeral for the Dark King there had a high chance of negatively impacting him.
"Would Baal suffice?" Dante asked after getting a confirming look from Sanguinius.
"The Rock could also host it."
"I don't care where we bury him, as long as it's far from Prospero. I'm terrified the Dark King will crawl out."
"If we can't decide, why not bury him in the Webway? We don't use it much lately anyway. Let that Hoec fellow guard the tomb."
"I reckon burying him at my doorstep is also bad luck. I abstain."
"I can still spend a few hours explaining Macragge's unique status."
In the end, Guilliman won. Macragge was designated as the site for the Emperor's funeral. It wasn't that he actually spent hours explaining; it was that only Dante was seriously competing with him.
Dante's competition wasn't just out of faith, but out of Baal's economic needs. Baal's three radiation-choked moons were struggling. While food wasn't an issue thanks to the "Mini-Holiday Set," the economy was failing.
Pilgrimage was their main industry, but since their greatest attraction (Sanguinius) had literally flown away, tourism had plummeted. If the Emperor was buried on Baal, business would boom again.
However, Dante could not outmaneuver Guilliman. Macragge was established as the location.
"Now, next question: who will be the Chief Mourner?"
"The Chief Mourner." This question made Guilliman frown slightly. In Macragge's culture—and indeed across many civilizations—the Chief Mourner is the heir of the deceased. Even if the heir cannot personally preside, a proxy is appointed. Now that the Emperor was dead, this role became paramount: Who is the Emperor's successor? Who can replace the Emperor as the unifying force of humanity?
In Guilliman's view, that person should be Alexander, both politically and religiously. However, Alexander's attitude suggested he was unwilling to take the position, likely due to Warp-related or ritualistic concerns. Guilliman turned his gaze toward Alexander.
"You should understand that the position of Chief Mourner is equivalent to being the Emperor's heir," Alexander spoke casually. "Or rather, the successor to the Dark King. If I take that role, the Dark King might choose to resurrect directly through me. Do you really want a Dark King who wields the Hammer of Wicked Arts in his left hand, the Blade of Greed-Dissolution in his right, and rules over three domains?"
"No? Then don't let your Uncle Alex be the Chief Mourner."
Guilliman found it difficult to even imagine such a terrifying scene. "In that scenario, the Four Gods of Chaos would become your unbreakable allies," Alexander added. Guilliman immediately understood and nodded in realization.
"Then the Chief Mourner should be..." Guilliman looked at Sanguinius and Lion. Sanguinius was the successor the Emperor had once designated; based on merit, he was the most suitable. Lion was the Emperor's eldest son; based on primogeniture, he was the most suitable.
Deep down, Guilliman favored Sanguinius. Sanguinius was undoubtedly the most fitting. If Lion's stern face were hung in a cathedral, the number of clergy scaring themselves to death in the middle of the night would be significant. By contrast, Sanguinius's image was much better. And Guilliman believed Lion wouldn't mind...
"Are you trying to make Sanguinius the Emperor again?" Lion asked with a sneer, glancing at Guilliman.
"Again," Mortarion added sarcastically.
Guilliman ignored Mortarion. "Sanguinius remains the Emperor, Alexander crowns him, you serve as the Warmaster commanding the military, and I will serve as the Grand Governor of the Five Segmentums, handling administration and logistics."
"And what do I do?" Sanguinius asked with a smile.
"You... you become an 'Idol.' To save the Imperium, Sanguinius, Lion El'Jonson, and Roboute Guilliman have decided to debut as an idol group," Alexander interjected before Guilliman could speak.
"To stop the aggressive 'Second Empire' idol group, the Cegorach Agency has decided to launch the 'God of Death' idol group, but the center, Yvraine, is getting closer and closer to Guilliman..." Cegorach continued the joke.
Guilliman rubbed his brow. "So, is Sanguinius acceptable as the Chief Mourner?"
"Actually, I have a copy of the Emperor's Final Testament here..." Alexander spoke softly.
"A testament? What testament? How could the Emperor write a testament as he fell?" Guilliman raised an eyebrow.
"I found it behind the 'Upright and Bright' plaque in the Palace of Heavenly Purity... oh wait, I mean the Imperial Palace on Terra."
"Since when did Terra have an 'Upright and Bright' plaque?" Guilliman rubbed his temples; he had a growing bad feeling.
Alexander smiled, pulling a piece of parchment from his robes.
Guilliman's eyelid twitched at the sight of the parchment. He suddenly realized where this "testament" came from—Alexander still had a large stack of blank edicts signed by the Emperor.
Guilliman looked at the parchment in Alexander's hand. It read:
"Since the beginning of man, survival has been the primary occupation. Living is the logic of man; surviving is the truth. I never had the heart to take the world for myself, nor did I believe I possessed the virtue to rule. I only wished to wait for a person of benevolence and ambition to claim the world while I assisted from the side."
"Yet Heaven does not nurture man, and benevolent ones were hard to find. When I met the young Malcador, who had never seen the former glory of humanity, I could not contain my emotions. Beneath the twisted stars of the Old Night of Chaos, I recounted human history—from the wheat fields of Asia Minor to the city-states of Mesopotamia, from the books of the Indus to Cai Lun's pulp-turning paper, from Liu Bang starting as a minor official to Augustus reshaping Rome..."
"Every word I spoke was earnest; grief came from my heart, and tears fell like rain. Suddenly, Malcador stood up and asked me: 'Why not take the world yourself to restore the human order?' I truly could not bear the chaos of the world and the suffering of the masses. I finally answered Malcador's plea and titled myself Emperor. It was not for greed for power, but out of a single-minded desire to save the suffering people."
"Thus, I destroyed temples, established logic, flattened xenos, and unified the lands. For a time, there was a sense of thriving revival. Yet I was ultimately not a good man or a wise ruler. I have failed my descendants and my people, nearly allowing the human foundation to collapse. Fortunately, my people are resilient and have continued the national destiny for over ten thousand years. I am beyond grateful."
"Now that my end is near, let future generations judge my merits and faults. Whether praised or condemned, I accept it gladly. However, in this moment when the heavens collapse and the earth sinks, I must make a decisive judgment and choose a son to inherit the Great Succession.
I have twenty-one true sons, most of whom are heroes. Though they possess the talent of generals, few have the virtue of a ruler. I once favored my sixteenth son, Horus, yet Horus imitated me everywhere but resembled me nowhere. Ultimately, fate is heartless; father and son slaughtered each other in a tragedy of human relations."
"Of the remaining twenty sons, two died young, nine rebelled, and the tenth, Ferrus, has fallen. Among the rest, only one son is of noble character and deeply resembles my own person; he will surely be able to carry on the Great Succession. Today, I pass the throne to the thir—(erased)—teenth son."
"...Pass the throne to the thirteenth son? Me?" Guilliman said in a panic. The air instantly froze.
Lion rushed forward with a speed difficult even for a Primarch to track, snatching the testament from Guilliman's hand. His sharp observation skills quickly noticed something: this testament, had been altered.
In the final line, "Thirteenth Son," the "Ten" looked like it had been scraped and rewritten over the word "To," and the ink for the top and bottom strokes of the "Three" was a different color than the middle stroke. It was clear that "Pass the throne to the First Son" had been doctored into "Pass the throne to the Thirteenth Son."
Lion looked up gloomily at Guilliman. Even Roboute Guilliman felt a bit flustered being stared at by Lion El'Jonson like that. "I only just received this testament," Guilliman said, taking a deep breath. He then let out a bitter laugh, realizing how ridiculous it was to explain. Everyone knew where this came from.
Obviously, Alexander had written it himself. Guilliman just couldn't tell if Alexander was doing it for fun or for some Warp-related calculation.
In truth, Guilliman misunderstood Alexander. Alexander did want to write a testament for the Emperor, but the moment he took out the parchment, the words appeared automatically. Alexander hadn't altered a single thing; the Emperor had written it himself.
However, making Guilliman the Chief Mourner and successor was indeed Alexander's plan. The funeral was a ritual, and the Chief Mourner was the center of it. As the heir and presider, one could easily be used as a vessel for the Dark King's resurrection.
Alexander couldn't do it, and neither could Sanguinius. Sanguinius was born from the event of his own death; he was too close to "Encroaching Ruin" and too perfect a medium. Lion was also risky, symbolizing the primal, unchecked creativity of Caliban.
Guilliman, by contrast, had the best resistance. His domain was Ultramar—the order of blue and gold across five hundred worlds. The people there lived better lives, held more hope, and harbored less despair.
Guilliman's sincere belief that he could withstand the sorrow of this dark universe gave him partial resistance to Encroaching Ruin. Furthermore, his upbringing gave him a wealth of humanity—a shield woven by King Konor and Lady Euten that kept the chaos of the Warp at bay. He was the perfect candidate.
In Alexander's twenty thousand dream loops, the Dark King had tried to use Guilliman before, but every time, Guilliman—like the Emperor—successfully resisted the birth of the Dark King.
Guilliman observed Alexander's expression for a moment, sighed, and waved his hand. "Fine, I'll be the Chief Mourner. What about the specific rituals?"
"Heh, isn't that my specialty?" Mortarion smiled thinly, sounding quite confident. "As the Lord of Death and a master of numerology, I am most proficient in funeral matters."
"In your opinion, how should this ritual proceed?" Guilliman asked.
"Living sacrifices," Mortarion said solemnly.
"Is there something wrong with you?" Guilliman asked, not for the first time.
"We must use 'Living Pillars' " Mortarion continued. "We must select 62,748,517 individuals with suitable souls and bury them alive beneath the Emperor's tomb to support the structure..."
"Are you trying to wipe out all of Ultramar?"
Mortarion looked at Guilliman strangely. "Who said anything about humans? Am I a tyrant? A sorcerer who loves human sacrifice? The T'au Empire has plenty of 'livestock,' don't they? We use thirteen Ethereals as the anchors, and in each of the four cardinal directions, we place 15,687,126 T'au from the Fire, Earth, Water, and Air castes..."
"No," Alexander interrupted. It wasn't that Mortarion's method wouldn't work—actually, his logic was sound. The Dark King was a collective of human will, while the T'au were "soul-dim" and had no connection to him.
Mortarion's plan was essentially to force-feed xenos souls to the Dark King. Since the Emperor was a xenos-hating pioneer, he would have to spend time purging those souls from his being, effectively delaying his resurrection.
The problem was that the Dark King would become even stronger afterward. Alexander feared the Dark King would wake up before his own plan was complete.
"My suggestion is to follow the 'Rites of Alex,'" Alexander said. "Mortarion, yours are the 'Rites of Set'."
"According to the Rites of Alex, as the eldest son, Lion... you have to smash the ritual basin before the coffin is moved. Sanguinius, you are responsible for scattering spirit money—since you can fly, it's more convenient. Mortarion, you will carry the funeral banner at the front. Cegorach, you and your troupe will blow the horns."
"Guilliman, you are the most favored son; you must wail loudly beside the coffin. Ahriman, you are the 'worthy grandson'; you cry along with him. And we need eight strong men to carry the coffin. It must never touch the ground.'"
"...Are you sure this is the 'Rites of Alex'?" Guilliman couldn't help but ask.
"Do you know the rites, or do I? Do you know the four ways to place a fish head? Do you know the seven postures for a toast?" Alexander retorted.
"Who will the pallbearers be?" Sanguinius asked. "As those who carry the Emperor into the mausoleum, this duty cannot be borne by mortals, or even Astartes. I, Mortarion, and Guilliman have duties. Lion can carry it after smashing the basin, but we are still missing seven people. Who will they be?"
Sanguinius understood the Warp better than Guilliman. He knew the eight pallbearers were the key—they were like eight nails driven into the coffin to keep the Dark King dead. Ideally, they needed eight Primarchs.
"The right people will show up when the time comes; no need to worry," Alexander waved him off. "One more thing. According to the rites, we must give the Emperor a 'Posthumous Title'."
Alexander looked around at the gathered group. "Do you have any good ideas?"
"This is the system of Posthumous Titles; you may read it." Alexander handed out several documents to the gathered assembly.
"The Temple Name is the easiest to decide. As the saying goes: 'Ancestors have merit, and Sovereigns have virtue.'
For one who founds a dynasty and establishes the foundation, the title should be Great. He can be called Magnus Progenitor (Great Ancestor)." Guilliman was the fastest to absorb this information.
His judgment on the Emperor's Temple Name received general consensus—there was really no other choice. As a founder, he had to be titled "Ancestor."
Given the Emperor's father was a tribal leader in Asia Minor, could he be seen as a feudal lord?
After a short discussion, they agreed the Emperor had not inherited his father's position; the Imperium of Man was a continuation of human civilization from the Golden Age. Thus, the Emperor should be called Magnus Progenitor, and his father could be posthumously honored as Aratorum Fato Mortuus—meaning one who died in the fields.
"As for the Posthumous Title... the Emperor possessed the virtue of weaving heaven and earth together, the merit of achieving immense knowledge, and a benevolent love for the people. He could be given the title Morum Cultor (Cultivator of civilization)," Guilliman said, setting down his documents.
Lion's mouth twitched. He looked at Guilliman, opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing. Sanguinius rubbed his forehead and shook his head, feeling helpless at Guilliman's blatant flattery. Mortarion let out a cold, mocking laugh. Ahriman looked at Guilliman with disbelief, as if asking if Guilliman actually believed his own words.
"With jokes like that, why stop there? I'll just give you the seat of the Laughing God," Cegorach cackled.
At the same time, they knew what Guilliman was thinking. His becoming the heir was unexpected and unpopular with many who preferred Sanguinius. If he gave the Emperor a "Bad Posthumous Title," it would invite suspicion or attack. Therefore, he chose the best possible one.
Lion watched Guilliman. This guy had just been acting like a victim who was forced into the inheritance, yet now he was immediately using political maneuvers to stabilize his position. What a monster, Lion thought, who has integrated politics into his very instincts.
"A 'Morum Cultor' title is fine, but the Emperor's merit lay in his strength and unyielding logic, his power over mighty foes, and his suppression of chaos. He could also be titled 'Imperator Invictus' (Unconquered Emperor)," Lion said in a low voice.
The group showed more agreement. It was still a praise-heavy title, but it carried connotations of constant warfare and exhausting the populace. Had the Emperor died early in the Great Crusade, this would have been perfect.
"In that case, 'Tempestate Rector' (Helmsman in the storm) might be better," Ahriman suggested. "Expanding territory, subduing distant lands, and establishing order through military force. Isn't it exactly right?"
If used for the Emperor, it could perfectly summarize both the glory of the Great Crusade and the tragedy of the Great Heresy.
"In the Emperor's long life as the ruler of mankind, the Great Crusade and the Heresy were only a part. We cannot ignore the ten thousand years he sat upon the Golden Throne as the God-Emperor," Sanguinius said with a smile. "Since he is the God-Emperor, why not give him the title Deus (The Divine/God)?"
This was an interpretation that went beyond the standard system. In history, Deus was used when a ruler was so complex or their deeds so inexplicable that people literally didn't know how to judge them. Sanguinius played dumb, but everyone realized the depth of the Great Angel's thoughts.
"How about 'Lux Aeterna'? The eternal light, and 'illustrious virtue and merit.' It fits the Emperor perfectly," Guilliman mused.
Guilliman was being a political monster again. He had drawn out the discussion only to pivot to Lux Aeterna—a title that was appropriate, safe from criticism, and not overly sycophantic.
However, historically, those with the title Lux Aeterna often died young or mid-career. If they wanted to follow Guilliman's logic of "Solar" imagery, there was a better one.
"Then Pater Lūcis (Father of Light) works just as well. 'Shining upon all directions,'" Lion countered.
"Agreed," Guilliman nodded instantly.
Lion's expression froze. He realized he had been baited by Guilliman into suggesting the very title Guilliman wanted.
"I don't think we should be restricted to a single word. As the saying goes: 'The Perfect Man has no self; the Spirit Man has no merit; the Sage has no name.' The Emperor can be called both 'Saint' and 'Sage'. Why not use both? How about 'Imperator Divus, Pius et Sanctissimus'(The Divine Emperor, Pious, and Most Holy)?" Sanguinius smiled, seemingly unwilling to yield.
"Then why not use 'Sage' and 'Light'? Why insist on 'Divine'?" Guilliman asked back with a smile. "Wouldn't 'Sapiēntiā et Lūce Praeclārus Imperator' describe him better?"
"I still insist on 'Warrior,'" Lion grumbled.
"I've already explained Tempestātum Rector, but I'd like to add Numinis Conscius. The Emperor was deeply aware of ghosts and gods. We could call him Imperator Numinum Conscius," Ahriman said, clearly enjoying the chaos.
"According to the rites, Decōrus et Formōsus means 'graceful and beautiful in appearance,' and Integer et Rēctus means 'pure and upright in conduct.' How about Imperator Praeclārus, Integer et Pius?" Cegorach said mockingly.
"The graceful appearance is true, but where is the 'Pure and upright conduct'?" Alexander laughed.
"Must it be a praiseful title?" Mortarion finally spoke up. "'Absconditus' — The Hidden — for one who does not show his face, and 'Obscurus' — The Dark / Secluded — for one who disrupts rites and changes the order of the gods. Why not the 'Imperator Absconditus et Obscurus, Pius'?"
"There are plenty of other choices: 'Superbus' — Boastful, 'Resistens' — Resistant, 'Errōsus' — Erroneous, 'Luxuriosus' — Licentious…"
The three loyalist Primarchs immediately glared at Mortarion with murderous intent.
"...My Lords, there is something I don't understand," Dante whispered as the argument showed no signs of ending. "Will we be distributing the Rites of Posthumous Titles to the citizens of the Imperium?"
"If not, will they understand the complex praise and blame behind a single word? If they don't understand, what is the point of our debate?"
Dante's question caused the room to stiffen.
"We must distribute it. People must know the Emperor is dead. The Posthumous Title is the final verdict on his life, unifying his image in the hearts of humanity. We need them to understand his life has reached its final stroke to prevent rumors that he will resurrect after seven days."
"Of course, we can't expect everyone to understand... so the title itself should be easy to grasp," Alexander said after a moment of thought.
The group looked at one another, and finally, Guilliman broke the silence: "Then there is only one way." Everyone nodded in unison.
In Nurgle's Garden, Nurglings ran through the woods spreading the news. The message started in Macragge and radiated through Ultramar, the Segmentum Ultima, and eventually the entire Imperium. Every person on every planet heard it: The Emperor of Mankind was gone forever.
Although there had been signs—collapsing statues, turmoil in the Ecclesiarchy, and a lack of that inexplicable peace when praying—the official confirmation still struck them with immense grief and terror. Countless people collapsed from sorrow. In the Ecclesiarchy, many refused to believe it, claiming it was a conspiracy by the ambitious Roboute Guilliman. Some even tried to resurrect him through prayers to the Dark Gods.
Secondary Warp entities or Greater Daemons who failed to clear out these prayers were touched by the "Residual Fire" of the Dead Sun (the Emperor) and burned to ash. For a time, the Warp was filled with wails, and many minor entities began praying to the humans to stop praying.
The Four Gods also became targets of these prayers, but they were unwilling to have anything to do with the Dark King. The moment a cultist prayed, they would strike them down, obliterating their soul to prevent the power of the Dead Sun from invading their domains.
This chaos was eventually calmed by the actions of the Church of Saint Doraemon. The Ecclesiarchy was dismantled and reorganized, with vast numbers of believers being absorbed into the cathedrals of Saint Doraemon.
Fear was slowly dispelled, but grief remained. It soaked the Warp like water, tinting even the realms of the gods with a melancholy atmosphere.
Simultaneously, another message arrived: The Emperor's funeral would be held on Macragge.
This sent ripples through both reality and the Warp. Lower-tier daemons, driven more by instinct than intellect, began to stir. Slaaneshi daemons wanted to turn the funeral hall into a den of pleasure; Tzeentchian daemons saw a chance for schism and change; Nurgle's daemons saw a gathering of crowds as the perfect time to spread plagues; and Khorne's daemons tried to spark a war.
But the instincts of these low daemons were suppressed by the Chaos Gods. The Gods realized what Alexander was doing—this funeral was a ritual to delay the resurrection of the Dark King. They weren't sure how long it would delay him—months? years? decades? It depended on the Dark King's state and the development of human thought.
For ten thousand years, the Gods had dealt with the "Emperor problem" by simply delaying it. They had never cooperated to fight the Dark King together, largely because they simply couldn't win.
When the Heresy ended and Horus died, the Gods had tried one final strike to destroy both the Emperor and the incipient Dark King. The result was that the Emperor's "stats" were too high, and his "King of Ancient Ages" mechanics were too broken. The Dark King was both powerful and mechanically bizarre. With a "slow-motion replay" of absolute power, he had nearly killed all four Gods simultaneously as they went down together.
To survive, the Four Gods had been forced to cast their wills into the deeper reaches of space-time just to get a chance at reviving. This was why, after the Heresy, the Warp had been relatively calm and the Imperial Cult took so long to rise—at that time, both the Four Gods and the Emperor were effectively "dead," slowly returning from the depths of the Warp.
The current Four Gods were essentially reconstructions of themselves after being shattered by the Emperor. Meanwhile, the Emperor had intentionally suppressed his own resurrection, remaining in a state of "almost-but-not-quite" alive.
Every time Slaanesh recalled the memory of being torn apart by the Dark King, there was no pleasure, only bone-chilling terror. Only Khorne, through his unbridled rage, could resist that void, but even he could not defeat the entity itself. Furthermore, Khorne had been "bought" by Alexander with the promise of a Great War and was currently focused on accumulating power.
Thus, if the resurrection of the Dark King could be delayed, the Gods were all for it. If Alexander told them that kowtowing at the Emperor's funeral would help delay the resurrection, they wouldn't mind doing it.
"Wait... he actually wants us to kneel?!" Tzeentch squawked, looking at the funeral invitation in his hand, momentarily speechless.
"I never thought this day would come," Reyna said, her voice trembling slightly. She looked into the bronze-edged mirror, which was engraved with scenes of Guilliman receiving the allegiance of five hundred worlds.
Reyna's psychic potential was among the highest of any mortal in the modern Imperium. Although she had only mastered crude techniques to control her vast power, that Warp energy had saturated every cell of her body, slowing her aging.
Yet, years of military life had still left their mark: her skin was rougher than it had been on Ashford, and her complexion had shifted from the pale hive-dweller white to a light sun-kissed brown. Time had carved out the contours of her face, and the deep scar left by a Slaaneshi daemon on Cadia had darkened and healed, becoming a permanent part of her features.
Except for that scar, most signs of aging could be hidden with makeup. According to Macragge tradition, women attending funerals often applied makeup to make their skin deathly pale, used techniques to make their eyes look sorrowful, and painted a single teardrop on their cheek as a symbol of mourning.
The makeup artists of the Macragge nobility had visited Reyna earlier, hoping to prepare her for the funeral. Reyna had refused them, especially when they suggested painting the teardrop. "I have real tears," she had told them.
She also turned down the formal gowns offered by the nobles, opting instead for her Cadian military uniform. The original was long gone, destroyed in war; this one was a replacement from five or six years ago—simple, practical, and true to the Cadian Shock Troops.
"Sanguinius once said something similar to you," Joan's voice rang out from behind Reyna. Joan was younger than Reyna, but not by much. Yet, for reasons Reyna couldn't explain, time seemed to have left even fewer marks on Joan. On her plain face and skin covered in faint burn scars, there was always a sense of detached childhood—or rather, a detached emptiness.
"That I never thought this day would come?" Reyna asked, puzzled.
"Ah, no," Joan looked up, her eyes slightly grey as if stained with ash. "I mean the part about having 'real tears.' Sanguinius said the exact same words... a very cultured phrase."
"I said that nearly an hour ago," Reyna noted hesitantly. Joan blinked. "Oh," she replied.
Joan then asked, "What didn't you expect? Reaching your current status? Being surrounded by nobles?"
Reyna was indeed annoyed by the swarming Macragge nobility, but that wasn't what she meant. "It's the Emperor's funeral," Reyna said. "If I had told my mother when I was a child that I would grow up to attend the Emperor's funeral, she would have been terrified and covered my mouth."
"Oh... yes. He is dead." A tiny spark, like an ember, flickered in Joan's eyes.
"Are you alright?" Reyna couldn't help but ask. Ever since the Emperor's fall, Joan's state had been eerie. Her perception of time was blurred; she often felt stuck in the past, responding to things said hours ago—or even responding to things that would be said hours in the future.
"My bond with the Emperor is too deep," Joan explained. "I was guided by His will since I was a child living in a scrap heap. I have housed His power more than once; my original destiny was to be the vessel for His advent. When He died, a part of me was pulled into that realm of death along with Him."
Joan looked at Reyna. "The entity that governs that realm—the one we once called the Emperor—though He is dead, His instinct for resurrection and rebirth continues to try and manifest at every point in time. In the past, present, and future, that entity is trying to use my body as a vessel to release His power."
"But you needn't worry," she continued. "Alexander's will is also protecting my soul across past, present, and future, resisting that entity's intent... even the Four Gods are protecting me. It just makes my timeline unstable. My memory and will are struggling to adapt."
Joan rubbed her forehead. The burn scars on her body flickered—sometimes clear, sometimes faint, sometimes vanishing, sometimes looking as though they were about to ignite again.
"I am not the only one in this situation," she added. "Many girls like me, Sigismund and all the former Emperor's Champions of the Black Templars, many Saints and Living Saints of the Ecclesiarchy... anyone considered a vessel, an avatar, or a representative of the Imperial Will is facing something similar. I am just a bit more sensitive, so it's easier for me to notice my fate being repeatedly tugged."
Reyna stared at Joan, stunned and silent.
Joan sighed, realizing Reyna didn't truly understand. But perhaps that was for the best. To some extent, Reyna could have been a vessel for the Emperor too, especially since her fate was intertwined with Alexander's early destiny. She was supposed to be a target for the Dark King.
However, that connection had been severed. On the day Cadia fell, the Lord of Thirst had sent a Greater Daemon into reality across time; the Blood God had altered the tide of war to let that daemon reach Reyna; the Great Father's power had slowed Reyna's movements to create an opening.
This resulted in Reyna's "Lectitio Divinitatus" facial tattoo being scarred by the Slaaneshi daemon. The Master of Fortune then twisted that ruined tattoo into a severance of Reyna's link with the Emperor. Because of this, she could no longer be used as a vessel. Similar "interventions" were happening to many people across different points in time, though some, like Joan, were still in a state of tug-of-war.
"But the Gods are protecting my soul. My will is no longer an empty void to be filled by Him. I will not become Him," Joan said suddenly.
From Reyna's perspective, this sentence felt quite abrupt. "The Gods..." Reyna only grasped that part.
"The Gods—at least for this moment—are on our side," Joan said. "Not just the five with Chaos godhood, but many secondary elemental gods, ascended gods, and even secret entities whose names have vanished from history or who were born from extinct races or altered timelines. They all stand against that Pitch-Black Sun. Even Gork and Mork are participating in this war that mortals cannot perceive... though to them, it's just a more exciting fight. Even forces from other realities are manifesting in the Warp to resist the Black Sun. They are all slaughtering one another."
Joan gestured for Reyna to look out the window. Outside, a sea of people—mostly black and white with splashes of other colors—surged through the streets. People from countless worlds had flocked to Macragge. For this funeral, half of Macragge's mountain peaks had been leveled to accommodate the faithful and the Emperor's mausoleum.
Roboute Guilliman's choice of Macragge was practical; the planet was mountainous, and its original population of four hundred million lived mostly in valleys. Leveling the mountains provided vast empty space.
The number of people who had arrived in recent days was hundreds of times the planet's original population, all brought via the Teleportation Gates. Even from the most remote stars, people in diverse mourning clothes had come to grieve for the same person.
"Right now, this funeral is the eye of the storm. Because it is the center, it is the most peaceful place. You can relax," Joan said.
"What if the funeral itself has a problem?" Reyna asked worriedly.
"Then worrying won't help. You might as well find a comfortable position to lie down," Joan replied softly. Reyna was speechless.
"It's time to go out," Joan glanced at the door. "Those Macragge nobles were driven away, but they will definitely come back. Their heads are filled with politics. They realize the massive power vacuum left by the disappearance of the Ecclesiarchy. Many of them held power through cooperation with the Church, and now they need to establish links with the Church of Saint Doraemon to secure their positions. If you don't want to be entangled, we should leave quickly."
Reyna nodded hastily. She couldn't stand the politicians, so she quickly led Joan onto the street, using Joan's guidance to avoid the nobles. Reyna was in military uniform while Joan wore simple, flaxen robes like a young temple maiden. Normally, they would stand out, but Reyna believed she had skillfully cast a minor psychic spell to lower their presence. It was a technique she had practiced for a long time until it became instinctual.
"Just now, the hidden Raven Guard, Harlequins, Inquisitors, Tzeentchian daemons, Deathmarks, Vindicare assassins, and the guarding Ultramarines all looked at you," Joan said, her detached voice finally breaking slightly.
"Your crude handling of the Warp made them think a Greater Daemon was trying to force its way into reality. They almost all aimed their weapons at you. One Librarian was nearly knocked unconscious by the violent fluctuations of your spell. Only after they realized it was you did they put their weapons away with a look of 'of course it's her.'"
Joan continued to explain the mechanics of Reyna's "spell": "You were essentially taking the 'fist' of your thought—the desire to lower your presence—and punching the Warp with it. Hard. The Warp is a sea of will, and every thread of energy has a consciousness. Usually, if you hit the Warp like that, it hits back. But because of your link with Alexander—whose will in the Warp is second only to the dead Emperor—the part of the Warp you punched was terrified. It had to submissively follow your will and weave itself into a spell to lower your presence."
"This is why you started showing signs of casting after Alexander's first ascension, and could cast crude spells after his second. From the Warp's perspective... you are just a bully using your connections."
Joan looked at Reyna sadly. "No wonder Ahriman always says that letting you cast spells is like torturing the Warp. It wasn't a metaphor. Stop casting so much; the Warp is crying. Besides, it barely works on anyone except common mortals."
Reyna felt a wave of embarrassment; she had truly believed her spellcasting was the result of her own hard work.
"Wait..." Joan suddenly stopped and scanned the surroundings. "Someone is watching us. And they are getting closer."
"Is it someone who didn't recognize me?" Reyna asked, blinking.
"No, not the people I mentioned before. It's... someone else," Joan's gaze darted through the crowd. "Someone has infiltrated. Not just one person, but many."
"How is that possible?" Reyna asked. "With the Inquisition, Assassins, Harlequins, Raven Guard, and Ultramarines watching, how could a large group infiltrate?"
"What if they are a kind even more powerful than Astartes?" Joan captured glimpses of shadows moving through the crowd, closing in on them.
"Custodes? But weren't the Custodes on Terra with the Emperor...?"
"Not all of them. The Eyes of the Emperor—the Custodes intelligence network scattered across the stars—still exists. But these people approaching us are not our Eyes of the Emperor."
Joan's brow furrowed as the future flashed before her eyes. "I see many Custodes, ones not belonging to the Captain-General's command. But there is one..." Her vision blurred at the sight of a figure of immense power, nearly equal to a Primarch. "Is it...?"
The figure Joan couldn't see clearly lunged forward with incredible speed, reaching for her arm.
"Sun God (Apollonian)," Joan whispered the word.
Just then, another figure—who had approached Reyna and Joan unnoticed—reached out and caught the Custodian's hand.
"Long time no see, Captain-General."