Horus Lupercal, the resplendent Warmaster—his question hung above the Golden Throne like a war-hammer forged from the entire weight of the Great Crusade, freezing the vast hall in a moment outside time.
Malcador's excuse, that tired parable of "the forest and the wolf," now sounded so feeble.
The children had grown up; they had seen the wolf with their own eyes, and worse—darkness that could swallow the whole forest.
They needed no bedtime tale, but the truth—however cruel, a truth that must be spoken aloud.
As that suffocating silence strained every soul, a thought—spoken not in sound but blooming within every sentient mind like primordial background radiation—descended without a whisper.
It came not from the withered figure on the Throne, but from the will behind him: the force that stitches space-time, sustains the Imperium, and has burned for ten thousand years.
[Yes.]
One word, yet it carried more energy than a super-nova, more weariness than endless night.
[I know everything.]
No anger, no plea—only a heartbreaking calm that accepted the fact.
Like a warm yet crushing ocean, it enfolded every restless soul, and in that instant they felt the loneliness this will had borne for ten millennia.
[You ask why I hid the truth from you.]
The Emperor's thought echoed in each Primarch's heart, shaping itself to their natures.
For Guilliman and Dorn it became endless diagrams and logic-chains of reality's stability, too vast to grasp.
For Magnus it showed the "ocean" of the Warp—far deeper and darker than any picture he had ever dared to paint.
For Sanguinius it was the final definition of "sacrifice," steeped in endless sorrow yet resolute.
For Horus it became the memory of Ullanor: a father's purest pride and hope as he set the laurel of Warmaster upon his beloved son.
[Because, my sons, what you face is not a simple "enemy."]
[They are not xenos, not physical things a Bolter or Chainsword can end.]
[They are a… "disease"—a plague of the soul, spread by thought, propagated by understanding.]
The thought turned razor-sharp, an obsidian scalpel laying bare the nature of Chaos.
[To speak Their names is to plant Their seeds within you.]
[To study Their nature is to invite the plague into your blood.]
[Their very power lies in "being known."]
[The more you understand Them, the nearer you approach; the more you fight Them, the more you become what They are.]
[Is not Khorne's fiercest enemy the most wrathful warrior?]
[Is not Tzeentch's rival the most suspicious schemer?]
[The "Imperial Truth," that cold dogma you now see riddled with holes, was never to deceive you—it was to shield you.]
[It is a sterile wall of thought, a potent antibiotic against the galaxy's contagion of knowledge.]
[I needed a mankind absolutely ignorant of the concept "god."]
[Only within such a mental vacuum could I perform my… "surgery."]
The Emperor's will pointed toward a direction all had overlooked: a vision of a titanic project far beneath Terra's surface flashed through their minds.
A boundless tunnel woven of gold and light.
Intangible yet real, it lay beneath the bedrock of reality, a quiet corridor able to string the stars together, untroubled by any tempest.
[Humanity's cradle became a dark, leaking prison for one reason—the Warp.]
[Every interstellar voyage is a gamble of plunging the soul into poison.]
[Every faster-than-light message a mad shout into the abyss. We depend on it, we are chained by it, we are tainted by it.]
[It is a rotting noose around mankind's neck, forever tightening.]
[My plan was never to teach you to swim better in that venomous sea, but to lead all humanity out of it entirely!]
[I am building a new "road."]
[A galactic highway of our own, separate from reality and sealed from Chaos.]
[When it is done we shall end our dependence on the Warp. Scholars shall replace Astropaths, and greater wonders shall bury Warp-drives.]
[We shall slam shut the gate to Hell, silencing the whispers of those "gods" forever.]
Only then will humanity obtain true, uncontaminated freedom. That is the genuine, radiant future I have envisioned for all of you.
This grand design, awe-inspiring enough to make one shudder, left even the angriest Guilliman and the most paranoid Perturabo momentarily speechless.
They saw that behind the dreary Great Crusade, beneath the countless bloody conquests, lay such a god-tier ultimate plan capable of reshaping the very structure of the Universe.
Yet this silence was soon broken by a deeper sorrow.
But this project will require time.
And until it is completed, I need you—my sons, my Primarchs—to win that time for me.
The Emperor's mind turned to every Primarch, the emotions within now incomparably complex, mingling trust, expectation, and a… tragically mistaken judgment that now felt crushingly heavy.
I did not tell you the truth, not because I distrusted your strength. On the contrary, it was because I… believed too much in your resilience.
While I worked on this secret project, the barrier between reality and the Warp remained firm.
Those beings could not directly interfere with reality as they would in the future.
Their power could only seep through, only tempt, only whisper through the cracks in your hearts.
And I believed that my sons—crafted by my own hand, representing humanity's perfect form—your wills forged of reason and strength could withstand those insubstantial whispers.
That thought swept across each Primarch, as though conducting an inspection centuries overdue.
I believed Angron's rage would be suppressed by his inner yearning for freedom, not exploited.
I believed Lorgar's hunger for truth would lead him to embrace the light of science, not turn toward deeper darkness; that Magnus's wisdom would keep him reverent before knowledge, not make him its Master in arrogance.
I believed Mortarion's hatred of tyranny would make him the Empire's staunchest shield, not turn that hatred upon me.
I believed Konrad's pain would be healed by the honor of justice, not make him pain itself; that Perturabo's talent would find fulfillment in the Empire's great achievements, not be devoured by personal envy.
With every Primarch the Emperor's mind touched, the sorrow hidden behind the words deepened.
I regarded you as perfect warriors, perfect generals, perfect sons.
I sent you to the darkest corners to face the heaviest pressures. I assumed your loyalty and toughness would let you spill your last drop of blood for the Empire even without understanding 'why we fight'.
Finally, that oceanic consciousness focused on the Warmaster Horus. The feeling within was no longer a sovereign's scrutiny, but a father's deepest sigh, brimming with boundless love and endless remorse.
And you, Horus… my pride, my Warmaster, my dearest son.
I entrusted the fate of the galaxy to your hands, yet hid the greatest secret from you alone. It was the greatest gamble of my life.
I wagered that your radiance was so dazzling no shadow could take root beside you.
I wagered that your love—for me, for your brothers, for the Empire—would overcome any temptation or confusion rising from the depths of your soul.
At that moment the thought carried an unmistakable tremble, enough to shatter even a god's heart.
I… lost the bet.
That final word crashed into every soul with the weight of a cosmic Big-Bang singularity.
There were no further explanations.
The Emperor's will ebbed away like a receding tide, leaving only a dead silence suffused with indescribable grief and regret.
Within the Throne Room, deathly stillness reigned.
The Primarchs had their answer.
One vaster than any lie, heavier than any betrayal.
They were not fools who had been deceived; they were heroes upon whom too much hope had been placed—heroes who had ultimately failed.
They were not pawns; they were the most precious chips the Emperor had staked everything upon in his wager against the malice of the entire Universe.
And the outcome was total loss.
Horus remained on one knee, but for the first time his ever-proud head slowly lowered. He stared at the hands that had won countless Worlds for the Empire, yet now felt a piercing chill he had never known.
At last he understood.
His rebellion had begun the moment his father turned away at the Ullanor Triumph.
It began with that burden named 'trust'—a weight he could neither comprehend nor bear.