The blazing sun hung high, its merciless light searing the skies above the Throne World. Under that brilliant illumination, the bomb-scarred landing platform lay riddled with craters, each dark hollow filled with the echoes of the dead, whispering and wailing like restless souls.
"You say that, under the orders of Her Majesty and the Emperor, you cooperated with Chagatai in cleansing Terra's High Lords, noble houses, and political factions?"
The voice echoed deeply across the vast landing platform, mingling with the hissing roar of plasma engines as the massive landing craft of the Imperial Evangelist settled upon the ancient marble platform.
Surrounded by numerous statues of warriors—some shattered, some still intact—stood Lion El'Jonson. His form was encased in pitch-black armor, faintly lined with dark green accents.
Expressionless, he gazed at the Thousand Sons' Grand Captain and the representative of the Terran Custodians standing before him.
His face was sharply defined, as though carved from stone, each feature weathered by countless storms of worry. Among his brothers, his hair alone bore streaks of silver, with only faint glints of gold lingering among the long locks. Elsewhere, it had turned ashen gray.
Between the thick beard that covered the lower half of his face, only his lips were visible—a mouth shaped by suspicion, more prone to tighten in doubt than ever to smile.
Clank... Clank... came the sound of metal boots striking the marble.
"Yes, my lord."
The Thousand Sons officer before him, marked by the Legion's white sun-ring emblem and the 'XV' double-headed eagle insignia, showed little sign of reverence.
Hiss—
He removed his ornate helmet, its filigreed crest gleaming faintly in the sunlight, revealing eyes that burned with a violet-red glow. With a simple nod, he gestured politely for Jonson to follow, offering no further explanation.
The First Primarch, the Emperor's eldest son, the Great Warden, took in a slow breath.
The faint fragrance of incense lingered in the air, mingled with the metallic tang of blood and the stench of death—a reminder that mere minutes ago, this place had been a killing field.
He felt his question had been evaded.
Worse still, the markings upon the Thousand Sons' armor and banners were symbols of betrayal in his memory. From the sorcerer's eyes, he sensed not humility but a faintly mocking scrutiny—a weighing comparison.
The Thousand Sons' crimson gaze gleamed like a frosted blade, its edge brushing the skin of his thoughts.
"..."
The Grand Captain of the Thousand Sons said nothing, continuing his silent gesture of invitation. Fearlessly, he met the eyes of the supposed First among Primarchs—the highest scion of the Emperor's blood.
The atmosphere grew stiflingly heavy.
Those who had come to greet the returning sons of the Emperor—nobles and dignitaries clad in ceremonial robes—hesitated at the edge of the platform, unsure whether to advance or retreat.
To step forward was to risk being drawn into the volatile politics of Terra's regime change—a single misstep could doom entire bloodlines. To withdraw, however, risked the crime of discourtesy. Yet to linger indecisively might invite disaster should tempers flare.
"Ah..."
Descending the ramp of another landing craft, Roboute Guilliman sighed quietly. He had just been engaged in pleasant conversation with Lorgar Aurelian, the High Priest of the Imperial Evangelists.
You want details of the purge? Then ask directly. Why stare him down?
Your gaze won't make him talk. He isn't your Legion's Primarch. His loyalty lies elsewhere.
After speaking with Lorgar for so long, Guilliman considered himself the one who understood the Primarchs of the Sacred Selene Empire best—or so he believed. He knew Selene commanded her own Dark Angels Legion, though their commander bore the name Alex.
From Lorgar's account, Alex was a forthright military leader with an open, cheerful personality.
Jonson, on the other hand... was anything but cheerful.
Guilliman's elder brother was noble and valiant, embodying the very ideal of a knightly lord. Yet his methods were often brutally direct, his manner taciturn, and his stubbornness infamous.
Empathy and social grace were, frankly, not his strengths.
Almost as bad as Dorn, Guilliman mused, glancing sideways at his seventh brother beside him—earning a puzzled frown in return, as if to say, Why are you looking at me?
Suppressing a sigh, Guilliman mustered his most diplomatic smile and strode forward to meet them.
He could sense it clearly—the allegiance of the Imperium of Man had changed. The Emperor's chosen intermediary, Her Majesty Selene, was now on Terra herself. Before the situation worsened, it was best to put an end to Jonson's stubborn temperament.
At that moment, the Thousand Sons officer stepped past him.
"Lord Lorgar!"
The instant he saw Lorgar, the resonance of Honkai power—and the unmistakable signature of a Legion commander—confirmed his identity beyond all doubt. The Thousand Sons Grand Captain held his helmet under one arm and strode briskly toward the Chief Imperial Preacher, saluting with solemn respect.
"What happened with Magnus? Wasn't it said that the Emperor of Mankind had reached an accord with Her Majesty Selene—that the transition of banners would be peaceful?"
...
While the Thousand Sons warrior was explaining the details of the Terran coup—the sequence of events and the motives behind it—Selene herself was already walking leisurely along the uppermost domes of Terra's megastructures.
Terra was, without question, the ultimate hive world—though more radiant and gilded than any other. Its vast architecture stacked endlessly upon itself, layer upon layer. Its natural resources had long been depleted, its oceans dried millennia ago. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the sprawling, endless urban sprawl.
Unmatched megastructures and statues pierced the polluted skies of the Throne World. The spires of orbital spaceports thrust up into the darkness of the void, guiding countless satellites, Ecclesiarchal broadcast stations, automated defense platforms, and the millions of administrative vessels that rose and fell across the heavens.
Holy Terra was anything but holy. To take a deep breath here was to inhale only toxic smog and suffocating leaden haze that could send even an Astartes to the infirmary.
"What a nest of pitiful, ignorant vermin..."
Selene's eyes flared with streams of blue-white data as she reviewed the blasphemous thoughts she had extracted from the minds of the captured High Lords, their families, and their faction leaders during the purges.
These arrogant wretches had plotted countless schemes to manipulate the Custodes and the Primarchs—to force Selene to abandon her decrees: the elevation of the Adeptus Astartes, the dissolution of the High Lords' Council, and the total reform of Terra's governance. They even demanded that she rescind her "reckless orders" immediately.
Some fools had even dared to imagine themselves as the true rulers of the Imperium.
"If the Primarchs and Custodes act quickly to restore order and uphold the authority of the High Lords' Council with sincerity, they may retain their lofty status, and we may consider granting the Astartes additional supplies and privileges."
What utter nonsense.
They had completely misunderstood their place in the hierarchy.
Setting aside the Custodes' silent, unseen service—without the Astartes, without the Primarchs, could the Imperium even exist?
Selene did not deny the valor and sacrifice of the countless mortal soldiers of the Imperial Guard, but the High Lords... they had the audacity to believe themselves the most vital, irreplaceable part of the Imperium.
"Publish their crimes. Announce their sentences. Execute them all—publicly."
With a faint tap of her right hand against the air, Selene dispersed the thick layers of chemical smog beneath her feet, gazing down at the figures being dragged in chains along the Eternal Causeway leading to the gates of the Imperial Palace.
The once-powerful High Lords now resembled mangy dogs, dragged through the sacred avenue by grim-faced Custodes. One after another, they were hauled from the prison transports like refuse.
Save for a few who had shown wisdom—those who sided with the Custodes rather than their blinded families and factions—the purge had been absolute.
Bolters roared amid smoke and fire. Explosive shells tore through the air, each detonation followed by anguished screams.
Blood splattered across the immaculate marble of the sacred avenue. Countless condemned souls watched in horror as the headless, hollowed corpses of their former peers slumped beside them—spines shattered, torsos torn open by mass-reactive rounds.
Entire families were executed. No mercy, no survivors. Not even a newborn was spared.
The Fifth Primarch—the Warhawk of Chogoris—stood silently at the center of the now-bloody causeway, the White Tiger Blade in hand. His face was solemn, his stance unwavering. In silence and poise, he conveyed his meaning to the roaring crowd.
Hundreds of Custodes stood in ranks along the avenue, weapons ready. Their banners fluttered high above them, golden cloth rippling in the poisonous wind—a wordless declaration that this was the Emperor's will.
No matter what excuses the High Lords might offer, the people cared little for politics. They had grown up hearing legends of the Custodes. To see them marching in formation meant only one thing—
The Emperor's will had descended upon Terra.
"There are heretics in the Inquisition, demons in the Daemonhunters, and schemers in the High Lords' Council. Believe it or not, had you not displayed any power upon your return, those same High Lords would have branded you a heretic for the sake of their own authority."
Resting her chin in her hand, Selene smirked slightly, watching the unfolding events with the air of someone attending a play. The deep poise and solemnity she had carried moments ago now gave way to a trace of teasing amusement.
"..."
The Emperor remained silent, his expression carrying a shade of weary sorrow.
Ten thousand years of unchecked decay and arrogance—Terra and the Imperium's institutions had become everything he had once fought to prevent.
"Terra is yours now, my Majesty," he finally said. "You will bear the burden of restoring order—of guiding this bloated world back to its rightful path, leading suffering humanity toward—"
"Stop."
Selene frowned. "You've got some nerve, haven't you?"
There was something about his tone—a hint of sly satisfaction, as though he were secretly pleased. Was this some debt-ridden monarch pushing the burden onto the next fool to take the throne?
She had the strangest sense of déjà vu.
"I appoint you as provisional governor of the Terran Sector's directly administered territories," Selene declared curtly. "But that doesn't mean you can sit around waiting for my relief funds to arrive."
The Emperor replied with grave sincerity:
"For the ruler of all races, the Divine Empress, the Goddess of Finality—it is both the most practical and necessary duty. You love all living beings; you love mankind."
Flattery—from the Emperor?
Selene's eyes widened in disbelief.
"My Majesty... don't look at me like that. My past should not be hidden from your sight, should it? I have served as both subject and sovereign, as loyal minister and treacherous advisor alike. The Lord of Mankind is not all that I have ever been."
He even said it with a touch of humor.
Selene slapped her forehead, realizing her mistake.
Because of the Emperor's conduct over the last fifteen thousand years, she had fallen into the habit of seeing him through a narrow lens—forgetting that, for tens of millennia before that, he had wandered through humanity's history and its great turning points.
Foolish emperors' antics—he'd committed his fair share of those too.
This man truly cared little for his own reputation, for good or ill.
Still, it was hard not to feel a little irritated.
"I've dispatched supplies, stabilized the Astronomican, reestablished the warp routes for interstellar communication and navigation... I've even ordered the Imperial Bureau of Governance to send officials to fill the administrative gaps."
A faint vein appeared on her temple as Selene squinted, smiling faintly but dangerously.
"Tell me, then—what use are you to me?"
"Your Majesty is wise."
The Emperor nodded approvingly. Selene's sarcastic rebuke did not shake his calm composure.
"You will see soon enough," he said softly.
He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting toward the approaching procession—marching from beneath a strangely shaped archway onto the open plaza of the Pilgrims' Causeway.
"This will be my final proclamation in your honor," he said. "And my last gift."
"What are you plotting now?" Selene muttered.
...
As Rogal Dorn—the Lord of the Imperial Fists, clad in gleaming bronze and gold armor, draped in a crimson velvet cloak adorned with spread eagle wings, his bone-white hair cropped short and his face eternally solemn—
As Vulkan—the Lord of Nocturne, taller and broader than any other Primarch, his dark skin glowing faintly, crimson eyes alight beneath the emerald armor he had forged himself, the Draken Scale—
As Jonson stood scowling, Guilliman sighed helplessly, and Lorgar chattered on endlessly about his plans for Terra's reformation—
They all stepped together into the open plaza at the end of the Pilgrims' Causeway... and every one of them froze.
For four of them, it was because they saw their father.
For Lorgar, it was because he saw his Empress.
"My Sovereign, I offer my devotion!"
Before Guilliman could even react, Lorgar had already dropped to his knees in a blur, bowing low at Selene's feet.
"I am well," Selene replied, her voice cool yet rich with magnetism, sending a faint shiver through all who heard it.
Guilliman drew a deep breath. So this... this was Selene herself?
But there was no time to ponder her presence.
For his father—the Emperor—had left the Golden Throne.
He was walking upon the Pilgrims' Causeway.
He wore a robe of purest white, unadorned, simple as a Roman toga. Beneath it was the most perfect, powerful form any sculptor could imagine.
His bare feet stepped through the bloodstained marble that marked Terra's suffering—and yet not a speck clung to him.
A golden halo blazed behind his head. His expression was serene, even merciful. Then, before the eyes of all, he knelt.
"Praise be to the Emperor of All Races, the Divine Empress, the Goddess of Finality, the Lord of Mankind!"
He proclaimed.
"Father!" ×4
All the Primarchs—even Dorn and Jonson—cried out in disbelief.
—
—
40 Advanced Chapters Available on Patreon:
Patreon.com/DaoOfHeaven