"Am I not done yet? Why isn't there a hint that the task is complete?"
Datch ran around the pyramid, face full of confusion and frustration. He'd used the golden hammer to fix every marked node, and the machine now ran smoother and more efficiently than when first built.
He checked the minimap again—still, a red exclamation mark floated above the pyramid icon.
"Damn, is there a bug or something?"
He muttered, examining his hammer for flaws and once again surveying the pyramid's base.
"Do they want me to dismantle the whole base and check every part before repair? That's way too much work!!"
Datch frowned, feeling trapped by the task. He even considered summoning Skarbrand or the Changeling to vent his frustration.
His gaze unconsciously settled on the Golden Throne and the broken body atop it. An absurd but rational thought flashed through his mind like a spark.
The Golden Throne was an integrated system. Its stasis field froze time, keeping the badly wounded Emperor forever between life and death, while also channeling his psychic might to battle the Warp and seal the network's breaches. The Emperor himself was the throne's power source and control core—its most essential element.
This realization stopped Datch from his endless cycle. He recalled a phrase glimpsed in the background: the world believed the Throne kept the Emperor alive, but in truth, it was the Emperor who kept the Throne functioning.
Adamara Rassilo had made it clear: the Emperor was the Throne's only chance. It was the Emperor who forcibly stabilized the out-of-control Throne, preventing the Warp from destroying Terra. The Throne imprisoned the Master of Mankind within the throne room, forever trapped between life and death, never truly dying or reviving.
Datch struck a classic Conan pose:
"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how absurd, must be the truth."
"In other words, the Golden Throne is the Emperor's pendant."
Datch's eyes fixed on the Throne—he could clearly see the Emperor's corpse, still bearing the horrific wounds from the final battle with Horus: a shattered skull, torn throat, ruptured chest. These wounds never healed, frozen in time the moment the Emperor took the throne.
Datch drew his golden hammer, climbed to the pyramid's top, and strode toward the Golden Throne. His actions instantly provoked the Custodes guarding the throne—some instinctively raised their halberds, energy fields humming, explosive rounds loaded, ready to stop anyone approaching the Emperor's body.
"Stand down."
Chief Trajann's voice rang through the Custodes' comms, halting their actions. Trajann stood beneath the throne's base, raising his hand to signal restraint. He gazed at Datch and the golden hammer, his eyes sharp with suspicion, then finally desperate resolve. Reports from Navradaran and Heracleon flashed through his mind—the hammer could drive out warp corruption and heal broken limbs… perhaps it might perform a miracle on the Emperor's wounds, which even the Mechanicum's most advanced medicine could not heal.
Datch ascended the pyramid platform and walked straight to the Golden Throne, staring directly at the remains that bore all humanity's hopes and sorrows.
"Fight for the mission."
He took a deep breath, raised the golden mallet, and gently tapped the shattered breastplate.
Bonk—
A deep, distant chime rang out—like the sigh of an ancient being from the end of time.
A miracle unfolded before everyone's eyes.
First, the broken golden armor began to glow, growing back as quickly as if it were living flesh. Ancient mechanisms within swiftly reorganized, humming in harmony. Scorch marks and damage vanished, cracks filled as if time reversed, and dim golden light seeped through. The shattered laurel crown reassembled itself in the air, finally settling on the Emperor's head, each leaf shining like a star.
Simultaneously, the corpse underwent an astounding transformation. Bone fragments squirmed and fused, the skull mending at visible speed. The throat, torn by Horus, reknitted muscle and vessels as if woven by a master loom, skin growing to cover it. The massive chest wound closed as necrotic tissue fell away, fresh flesh and blood surging in to fill the void. A strong heartbeat pulsed beneath new ribs, leaving only a faint scar.
As the Emperor's body recovered, billions of voices cried out in praise, echoing through the throne room. Golden light filled the air, growing ever brighter.
After a while, a man in golden armor caught Datch's eye—his figure majestic as a mountain, sitting silently on the throne. His black hair fell to his shoulders, ends still sparkling faintly with psychic power. His granite features held the deep sorrow of all humankind. His eyes remained closed, a trace of pain still between his brows, a pain ten millennia old. But his face was no longer withered—his skin glowed with life and strength.
At this moment, Datch finally saw the mission complete notification:
[Mission complete—Congratulations on successfully aiding in the restoration of the Emperor's Golden Throne!]
[Mission rewards: 5,000 XP, 5,000 points, Reputation +1,500, Emperor's Image Transformation Card ×10]
"Yes!"
Datch put away the golden hammer with satisfaction, ignoring the ever-louder echoes in his ears.
But soon, he could ignore it no longer. As the hymns reached their peak, the Golden Throne's efficiency instantly surpassed the theoretical limit the Emperor had designed—reaching a state even its creators never imagined.
The next moment—
BOOM!!!
A pure psychic storm erupted without warning, centered on the throne room. Golden energy surged outward in a sphere, a massive shockwave! The nearby Custodes were struck as if by an invisible hammer, their armor groaning as they were thrown against walls and machinery. Trajann and Heracleon reacted quickly, crouching and bracing their halberds to stand firm against the storm.
Guilliman awoke, instinctively roaring, arms crossed, one foot braced, golden power armor shuddering in the storm.
The impact was unimaginable. The energy raced along conduits linking the Throne to Terra, surging through the psychic ducts to the Astronomican, sweeping through the palace and all sacred Terra like a superquake.
Countless advanced devices overloaded and exploded in sparks. Ancient murals gathered dust. Weak corridors and halls cracked. In orbit, the Astronomican's lights flickered, some areas plunged into brief darkness. On the surface, sensitive psykers clutched their heads and howled, while ordinary people felt inexplicable palpitations and dizziness.
And then—the restored Astronomican, the sacred beacon guiding humanity—its light multiplied thousands of times in a split second, no longer a thin pillar but a magnificent spear of pure energy piercing the heavens. All Terra was bathed in holy white fire, even the stars paling before it.
This brilliance transcended physics, surging through the Warp, sending countless daemons screaming. Rogue trader fleets at the edge of the Imperium saw the dim Astronomican suddenly flare like a supernova, so bright and clear they wondered if their eyes were faulty. Across the galaxy, even the vast, hungry Tyranid Hive Mind was drawn to the now-blazing beacon.
Above Terra, the Grey Knights—camped for the first time on the planet in response to the Custodes' summons—noticed the anomaly. Their devices shrieked in alarm.
"The veil of reality has suddenly dropped!"
"Psychic leakage index has exceeded critical value!"
The Grey Knights' faces grew grim as reports came in. They immediately alerted all Terra's defenses, preparing for invasion. The Emperor's overcharged psychic energy, still uncontrolled, scorched the boundary between reality and the Warp. Fortunately, this dangerous wave lasted less than thirty seconds. As the Emperor began to restrain his power, the storm and the blinding light quickly contracted and subsided. The fabric of reality slowly recovered to normal.
As Datch was about to clap his hands and leave, the Emperor's voice echoed in his mind, tinged with surprise:
"The Golden Throne's operational efficiency and psychic output now far exceed my original redundancy limits. The response is too fast, the power too great. Any minor fluctuation or active power release could trigger a psychic wave far beyond this scale."
There was a trace of nervousness in the Emperor's tone. The current situation was like an old car taking two minutes to reach 100 mph, compared to a high-performance sports car doing it in one second—utterly unmanageable. Whatever he did, he could now trigger a psychic storm that weakened the barrier between reality and the Warp. Even Terra's old sanctuaries were no longer safe; any attempt to act would cause a psychic overflow. If things worsened, Terra itself could become a realm of the gods like Tzeentch's labyrinth or Nurgle's garden.
In other words, since the founding of the Imperium, Terra had never been so vulnerable. Even at the end of the Horus Heresy, the Emperor's power had protected Terra—now, only a handful of merchants held it back.
To avoid dooming Terra, the Emperor would have to restrain his power as much as possible.
Knowing the truth, Datch curled his lips, steadfast as ever, but wanting to laugh a little. The mission rewards were in hand, his experience and reputation increased, and the transformation cards stowed in his backpack. His work was done, and the process complete. The NPC—no matter how powerful—could destroy Terra at any time, but what did that have to do with him, the player? He had nothing to do with it, nor would he allow himself to be tricked. If anyone tried, he'd just stuff the Emperor in a purple gold gourd and kick the Eye of Terror for good measure.
...
Bonus chapter at 100 PS
Read advanced chapters at patreon.com/AbsoluteCode