The light and shadow on the screen flickered. That "the dark king" consuming the future, that golden silhouette overlapping with the corpse on the Golden Throne, was like a silent heavy hammer, shattering the "common sense" that had been maintained in the Throne Room of the Terra Imperial Palace for two centuries.
There were no screams.
No breakdowns.
There wasn't even the expected fear.
In its place was a strange, collective relief that spread rapidly after the extreme shock.
It was like a pack of trapped beasts in a maze for years, finally discovering that the puzzle that had been tormenting them actually had no answer—or rather, the answer lay outside the puzzle itself.
"Ha..."
A light chuckle broke the dead silence.
The laughter came from the shadows, from the Lord of the Raven who always hid himself in the corners, Corax.
He looked up, and in those black eyes as deep as the night sky, an unprecedented sense of ease actually emerged.
"That explains it."
Corax's voice wasn't loud, but it reached every corner clearly.
"That explains everything perfectly."
He looked at Vulkan beside him and spread his hands, as if he had dropped a thousand-pound burden.
"Brother, do you remember the topics we discussed during the Great Crusade?"
"We were always confused. Why did Father possess such vast wisdom, yet appear so dull, even cold, on certain matters of 'humanity'?"
"We thought he was too busy."
"We thought he sacrificed his emotions for the bigger picture."
"We even blamed ourselves, wondering if we weren't doing well enough to understand the emotions of mortals."
Corax pointed at the golden figure about to ascend on the screen, a self-deprecating curve hooking the corner of his mouth.
"It turns out... we were all wrong."
"We've been using 'human' standards to judge an existence that... simply isn't human."
"It's like asking a storm to understand the wilting of a flower, or asking a star to empathize with the coldness felt by an ant."
"He isn't cold; he's just... from a different dimension."
This sentiment quickly resonated among the Primarch.
"Indeed."
Chagatai, the eagle of the plains, was currently sitting cross-legged on the ground, playing with his tulwar.
His eyes were bright, possessing the clarity of a hunter who had seen through his prey's disguise.
"I always found it strange. When he found me on Chogoris, I didn't see a father reunited with a long-lost son, but a conqueror evaluating a tool."
"That look had no warmth, only calculation."
The Khan laughed, a laugh that was incredibly hearty.
"I once felt angry about it, thinking he was a hypocritical tyrant."
"But now?"
"Ha!"
"If he is an ancient god trying to squeeze himself into a human skin... then he's actually worked very hard at his performance."
"We can't expect a creature capable of arm-wrestling Loki to remember our birthdays or care about our moods."
"It's not fair, brothers."
The Khan's words were like a breeze, blowing away the haze in many Primarch' hearts.
If you treated Father as a "human," he was a total bastard, a failed father, and a cold-blooded tyrant.
But if you treated him as a "god," or some kind of "higher-dimensional entity" wearing human skin to protect humanity... then everything he did instantly became reasonable, even... merciful.
"So..."
Mortarion's voice came from beneath his respirator, still raspy, but that venomous resentment had dissipated quite a bit, replaced by a complex sense of realization.
"He didn't steal my victory with sorcery."
"He himself is the greatest sorcery. I've been fighting against a... concept?"
Mortarion looked at the screen, a flash of confusion in his eyes.
He had dedicated his life to eliminating tyrants and sorcerers, only to find that the object of his loyalty was the ultimate amalgamation of both.
But this instead gave him a sense of absurd relief.
"At least, losing to something like that... isn't shameful."
Even Angron, the gladiator who was always on the verge of fury, had quieted down.
The Butcher's Nails were still stimulating his nerves, but as he looked at that golden figure, he let out a low snort.
"An immortal monster... Heh. No wonder he didn't care about my pain. No wonder he left my brothers and sisters to die on Nuceria."
Red light flickered in Angron's eyes, but this time, it wasn't hatred directed at his father, but a scrutiny of a peer.
"Because in his eyes, Death probably has no meaning at all."
"He himself has been jumping back and forth between life and Death for ten thousand years."
"He's not a slave master... he's just a gladiator who is crazier and stronger than me."
This "dehumanizing" interpretation caused the Primarch' many grievances against the Emperor to instantly lose their footing.
You can't hate an earthquake, nor can you hate a giant who steps on a few ants while trying to protect the colony.
However, amidst this atmosphere of relief, one person fell into unprecedented chaos.
Robert Guilliman.
This Primarch of the Ultramarines, the embodiment of logic, was currently staring fixedly at the screen, his face as pale as paper.
His brain, that supercomputer capable of handling the affairs of hundreds of Planets simultaneously, was now screaming frantically on the verge of overload.
"No... this isn't right... this isn't logical..."
Guilliman stood up and paced back and forth in the Throne Room, his steps disorganized, completely losing his usual elegance and composure.
"Father... he taught us to believe in science! To believe in reason! He destroyed all religions!"
"He told us the Warp was just a dimension filled with xenos energy! He established the Imperial Truth and declared there are no gods in the Universe!"
Guilliman turned abruptly and looked at Dorn, his eyes full of a desperate need for confirmation, like a drowning man clutching at a straw.
"Rogal! Think about it! If he himself is... is this kind of thing!"
"Then what was everything he promoted? A two-hundred-year-long joke?"
"A massive lie to cover up his own identity?"
"He's just a powerful human Psyker! That's the basis of all calculations!"
"If this foundation is wrong... then what is the Imperial Truth? What was our crusade? And what... are we?"
Guilliman felt a wave of dizziness. If Father was a god, then were they, the Primarch... the demigods of myth?
This completely shattered the secular, rational, and rule-of-law worldview he had constructed.
The perfect administrative system he took pride in seemed so pale and powerless in a Universe where "gods exist and interfere with reality."
"Robert, calm down."
Dorn's voice remained steady, like a rock. But his knuckles were white as he gripped Storm's Teeth.
"Definitions are not important. Function is what matters."
Dorn looked at the screen, his gaze unwavering, showing only the grimness of an engineer facing a stress test beyond specifications.
"Regardless of what his essence is, his goal is to protect humanity."
"This is logical. If he didn't turn himself into that... form, he wouldn't be able to oppose the other four. It's a strategic necessity."
Dorn paused and said something that made Guilliman even more desperate:
"And, Robert, admit it."
"You've actually suspected it for a long time."
"A human could not oppose the Chaos Gods in the Webway."
"A human could not light up half the galaxy by will alone. We've been deceiving ourselves because that truth... is too terrifying."
Guilliman sat down dejectedly, head in his hands. The collapse of reason was more thorough than the collapse of emotion.
He discovered that the edifice of logic he took pride in had always been built upon the shifting sands of "Father is human."
And upon the ruins of this reason, a diametrically opposite emotion was erupting.
An ecstasy.
A divine ecstasy that had been suppressed for decades, finally finding vent, confirmation, and sublimation.
"I knew it..."
A trembling voice rang out.
Lorgar, the Primarch of the Word Bearers, was currently kneeling on the ground.
But he wasn't repenting, nor was he in fear.
He was on... a pilgrimage.
He looked at "the dark king" on the screen, consuming everything.
Looking at that figure who still radiated endless brilliance even while sitting on the throne of remains, tears flowed freely down his cheeks, which were covered in tattooed scriptures.
Those were not tears of sadness; they were the sweet dew of weeping with joy.
"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!!!"
Lorgar's voice rose from a whisper to a roar. He stood up abruptly, arms outstretched as if to embrace that dark future.
"Look! My brothers! You blind people!"
"You who mocked me, humiliated me, and burned my Perfect City! Open your eyes and look!"
He pointed at the screen, his fingers spasming from extreme excitement.
"That is a God! A true God!"
"Not some Psyker, not some warlord, that is the God of Humanity!"
"The destination of our souls! The manifestation of the ultimate truth of the Universe!"
Lorgar turned to Guilliman, his eyes burning with a fire called "faith," a flame that almost threatened to consume Guilliman.
"Robert! You destroyed my Perfect City!"
"You forced me to kneel! You told me God doesn't exist!"
"And now?"
"What do you have to say for yourself now?!"
"Father lied to us! Yes, he lied to us!"
"But he didn't lie because he wasn't a god; he lied because he was too divine and didn't want us to be scorched by his light!"
Lorgar was trembling all over with excitement. If the current occasion didn't forbid it...
If Malcador's cold psychic gaze weren't fixed on him, he would have loved to have all the Word Bearers' sons charge into the hall and begin chanting the "Hymn to the God-Emperor" he had suppressed for so long.
"He is the dark king... what a divine name!"
"To protect us, he bore all the darkness!"
"Is this not the greatest mercy of a god? Does this not deserve all our worship, all our blood, all our souls?"
Lorgar looked toward the throne. In his gaze, there was no longer any of the previous resentment or confusion, only an unshakeable fanaticism after finding the ultimate truth.
"Father... no, God-Emperor."
"You were wrong. You don't need to deny yourself."
"You don't need to establish any truth."
"You only need to... let us worship you."
"That is enough. That can save everything."
"Because faith... is the only antidote in this mad Universe."
The Primarch looked at the frantic Lorgar, some frowning, some with disgust, others lost in thought.
But no one refuted him.
Because the images on the screen, that forming fifth Chaos God, that conceptual entity with the "Emperor" as its vessel, were supporting Lorgar's seemingly mad theory with irrefutable facts.
In this moment, the Throne Room split into three Worlds:
The relieved majority, the collapsed rationalists, and... the ecstatic believers.
And the source of all this, the old man sitting on the Golden Throne, remained silent.
Perhaps, as Corax said, for an existence destined to become a "God," the love and hatred of these mortals (even Primarch) were truly... too insignificant.