Although his face remained expressionless and calm, Magnus's words struck at one of the Emperor's deepest concerns.
Is the Emperor a god?
Whether he was or wasn't a god no longer mattered.
What mattered was that ever since the Emperor took his place on the Golden Throne, he had become a "god" in the hearts of everyone within the Imperium.
Over ten thousand years, this concept had been reinforced to the point that it was deeply ingrained in the beliefs of nearly every citizen of the Imperium. The Emperor knew that, after all this time, the faith in the God-Emperor had not only become the emotional foundation and unifying force for the entire Imperium but also the very basis for its continued existence.
The Emperor's original teachings had long been discarded by most, but this was not difficult to understand. The Emperor once established the Imperial Truth—a philosophy based on rationality, science, and secular progress—to guide humanity and prove the legitimacy of mankind's rule over all things.
However, for ordinary people, the Imperial Truth had been nothing more than a pragmatic lie, designed to guide humanity scientifically and protect them from the corrupting influence of Chaos until the Emperor's Webway project was completed.
But a lie is still a lie. Once mortals discovered that worshipping Chaos could grant them eternal life and anything they desired, many quickly abandoned the Imperial Truth.
Moreover, the Imperial Truth was too difficult for most people to comprehend. It wasn't that individuals like the Emperor, the Primarchs such as Magnus, the Custodes, or the Space Marines couldn't understand it. Even the High Lords of Terra, the Inquisition, and the Imperial generals could grasp the Emperor's intentions if properly guided.
The real challenge was in making the common people of the Imperium understand the Imperial Truth.
The masses are often ignorant. Compared to painstakingly educating them, it was far easier to spread the faith in the God-Emperor, demand blind obedience and sacrifice, and promote superstition and dogma through the Imperial Cult. This was far more effective in uniting the masses and turning them into fervent believers.
The ignorant populace was told that only faith in the God-Emperor could protect them. And it was this religious devotion to the Emperor that strengthened his psychic presence in the Warp, allowing him to resist the destructive influence of Chaos and empower his followers with the psychic strength to combat demons, xenos, and heretics.
Thus, as the Emperor could no longer speak or issue commands from the Golden Throne, it was inevitable that the Imperial Cult replaced the Imperial Truth.
Today, the faith in the Emperor not only provided spiritual solace to all humanity but also served as a practical means of fighting the growing power of Chaos.
The Emperor now found himself trapped in this impossible dilemma. After ten thousand years, this wasn't something a single decree from him could change. Even if the Emperor were truly a god capable of challenging the Chaos Gods, he could do nothing. If he dared to disrupt this system, it would shatter the fragile foundation of the Imperium, pushing it into civil war and ultimate destruction.
This was not the outcome the Emperor desired. He knew the terrible consequences that awaited if humanity continued down the path of blind worship.
Put simply, if the Emperor admitted to being a god, the Imperium of Man was doomed to collapse eventually.
But if the Emperor publicly declared he was not a god, the Imperium would fall apart immediately.
Magnus, too, understood this all too well. Despite his carefree demeanor, the Red Son was a well-educated Primarch who grasped the gravity of the situation. He was just waiting to see how things would unfold.
At this thought, the Master of Mankind furrowed his brows. After the violent conflict between Guilliman and Logar, the Emperor had urgently recalled Logar, deciding never to let that fool leave Terra again. At the same time, the Emperor sent his Custodes to deliver his personal weapon—the Emperor's Sword—to Guilliman at the front. This action sent a clear message: the Emperor trusted his Lord Regent completely. Furthermore, he commanded Saint Celestine and the Ecclesiarchy to explain that Guilliman's actions stemmed from his deep respect and love for the Emperor as a father, not as a god.
"Oh, I see. So that's how it is," thought Matthieu, the priest assigned by the Ecclesiarchy to accompany Guilliman's crusade. "Our esteemed Lord Regent simply hasn't yet realized his own divinity."
Yet, from beginning to end, the Emperor never directly answered whether he was a god.
The power of the Emperor's Sword defied description. By affirming his trust in Guilliman, the Emperor granted him full command authority, including the right to command the Custodes. With renewed resolve, Guilliman continued his Indomitus Crusade.
As for Logar, he was summoned back to Terra, where he received a severe scolding and was placed under house arrest.
The Throne Room returned to silence, and the Emperor pondered whether his decisions were wise. But there was no doubt that, compared to Logar, Guilliman was far more valuable. The Imperium's future and the ongoing crusade depended on him. He was the only Primarch with administrative capabilities approaching those of the Emperor, and he could fully understand the Emperor's will.
"Father? Are you listening?" Magnus couldn't hide his delight at seeing the Emperor troubled. With a mischievous tone, he added, "Oh, Father, you've shown Guilliman such trust and honor. You even gave him your sword! How biased! Be careful, though—someone who dreams of becoming Warmaster won't be too happy about this!"
"Shut your mouth, Magnus, or I will shut it for you!" the Emperor snapped, knowing exactly whom Magnus was referring to.
If the Emperor wasn't around, Jonson might indeed move against Guilliman. But with the Emperor still present, there was no need to worry about that—at least for now.
Seeing that his father wasn't swayed, Magnus picked up a book and began to read mockingly from its pages: "I suppose your decree would go something like this: 'I hereby bestow upon you the title of Lord Regent, appoint you Prince of Virtue, King of Loyalty, Lord of Honor, Duke of Wisdom, Keeper of the Crown, and Grantor of Justice. I give you the Emperor's Sword, to strike down corrupt kings and treacherous ministers, ensuring that none in the High Lords of Terra or the Inquisition dare defy you. You are my wise regent, ruling in my stead!'"
"..."
The Emperor remained silent, refusing to take the bait.
Undeterred, Magnus picked up another book and read aloud, "To Jonson, Prince of Order, I say: Even though you command vast armies and hold great power, remember that it is the Primarchs who govern, and changes must be made with their consent. By acting alone, you're treating us as if we're your subordinates. What's next? You want to become our father, the Emperor?"
The next moment, a massive fist made of the Emperor's radiant energy slammed into Magnus's face, shattering his nose and teeth, and dislocating his jaw.
The Emperor's fist, glowing with golden light and immeasurable power, crushed Magnus's face into a bloody mess. The golden flames emanating from the punch made the Sorcerer Primarch tremble with fear.
"Mmph mmph," Magnus groaned, blood pouring from his mouth, his tongue too mangled to form words.
The Emperor retracted his fist, already focused on his next task.
It was time to visit Ryan.
The creation of the Grey Knights was complete.
—And now, a line called Friendship is Magic, Magnus—
Imperial Year 2513, early January, Blackwater Bay, off the coast of the Principality of Miragliano, at the flagship Landuin of the Kingdom of Bretonnia.
The expedition army was sailing home, escorted by the Seagod Fleet and the ironclads of Sea Gate Pass. Many of the ships were heavily laden, and on the high seas, everyone was on high alert. The expedition's victory at Eight Peaks Mountain had become widely known throughout the Old World, and the knights dared not delay at Sea Gate Pass. They set sail for Bretonnia without pause.
The waters of Blackwater Bay were relatively calm, with sunlight shimmering on the steel-gray surface. The bone-chilling sea breeze whistled across the deck, carrying with it the mysterious vitality of the cold lands to the north, evoking a sense of something profound and beyond nature.
Ryan stood on the deck of the Landuin, feeling quite content. The success of the expedition, combined with the wealth they had acquired, gave him the resources he needed to truly unify his kingdom. Dressed in regal attire, the Lady of the Lake's chosen champion leaned against the ship's railing, enjoying the biting wind. The sailors and knights moved about the deck, but no one disturbed him, which only added to his satisfaction.
Ryan beckoned behind him.
His personal maid, Olica, stood nearby. The Dark Elf also seemed to be in high spirits today. She was dressed in a black lace corset gown, adorned with delicate camellia embroidery, and wore a silk cloak lined with blue floral patterns. Her long, slender legs, wrapped in black velvet stockings, peeked through the slit in her skirt, her feet graced by high-heeled shoes. For over a decade, Olica had been by Ryan's side, and without realizing it, Ryan had come to see her as an inseparable part of his life.
Despite her mysterious origins, Ryan never doubted Olica's loyalty. The power of the soul-mark binding her was absolute, and beyond that, it seemed Olica had even earned some form of recognition from the Emperor himself
.
Strange... so far, only Sulia and Olica have been acknowledged by the Emperor. I feel like Lilith might cry about this, Ryan mused.
Seeing him wave her over, Olica obediently walked to his side and allowed herself to be embraced. The Dark Elf leaned against him, sharing the view of the ocean.
As for Veronica? The Garland Witch was still fast asleep in the king's luxurious cabin, utterly exhausted in every sense.
"What are you thinking about, my lord?" Olica asked quietly, snuggling into his embrace. "Whenever you get this thoughtful look, you're always deep in contemplation. If you're thinking about something, why not share it with me? I might be able to give you some advice."
"I'm wondering what more I can do for this country and for this world," Ryan replied softly. "The great expedition to Eight Peaks Mountain is over, and now I feel like I've lost my short-term goal."
"You still have much to do, my lord. You cannot rest yet," Olica said in a low voice, her sweet scent filling Ryan's senses as he kissed her a few times. "Though, in truth, even if you wanted to start something now, after all the battles, the armies of the Knightly Kingdom are exhausted. There won't be any more major wars for years."
"What you need to focus on now, my lord, is consolidating the kingdom's strength," Olica continued. "In the coming years, large-scale conflicts should be avoided. Even in Naggaroth, if the Dark Elves suffer too many losses, the Witch King orders a halt to raids on Ulthuan—except, of course, for that madwoman, Hellebron. She's always eager for the bloodletting in Har Ganeth, thirsting for the art of slaughter and sacrifices to the Bloody-Handed God. Luckily, Har Ganeth is on the northern frontlines, facing Chaos and barbarian invasions. Her bloodlust is easily sated, and most of the year, she's just a decrepit old hag, her power waning."
Ryan nodded slightly, accustomed to the peculiarities of the Dark Elves.
The relationship between the Dark Elves and the northern barbarians was indeed... interesting. To defend against the northern tribes, the Dark Elves had built a series of permanent fortresses along the border, yet the threat of Chaos never ceased. Every year, the barbarian tribes, blessed by the Dark Gods, suffered great losses in their attempts to breach Naggaroth. According to Olica, the Dark Elf slave city of Karond Kar sourced most of its slaves from these northern tribes.
Many in the south had a false impression that the northern barbarians were unbeatable warriors, while the southern men were weak. But this wasn't true. The average Norscan or barbarian raider was only slightly stronger than an Imperial provincial soldier, and a bit tougher than Bretonnian peasants.
This myth arose because the southern nations, like the Empire and Bretonnia, provided for the weak and elderly, ensuring that even those unfit for battle had a place in society. In the north, only the strong survived, and only the strong invaded the south. Thus, southern men rarely saw the weak barbarians. In fact, the Nordlanders and Kislevites were no less fierce than the northern tribes.
However, the Dark Elves were the true embodiment of martial strength, launching raids on the northern tribes to capture slaves whenever they pleased.
What baffled Ryan was that, occasionally, under the leadership of Morathi, the Dark Elves would ally with the northern tribes to raid Ulthuan or the Old World.
Yet the Dark Elves and Chaos tribes were alike in some ways: neither side held grudges or cared much about losses. If they didn't get along, they fought; if they did, they joined forces to raid others. According to Olica, Morathi had a pact with the Dark Gods, and her pleasure cult was quietly spreading Chaos corruption.
The two of them stood by the rail, talking for a while longer. Olica leaned affectionately against Ryan, feeling that time with him was so blissful she wished it could last forever.
"Your Majesty," a servant approached after a while, breaking the peace. "There's something that requires your attention."
"What is it?" Ryan gently released Olica.
"Captain Belial of the Ugol Horse Archers has something to report. He hopes to expand the size of the horse archer corps and has a few proposals he wishes to discuss with you."
"Very well. Have him meet me in the hall."
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