Chapter 300: The Emperor's Offline Unboxing
Hades sat idly in the reception room of the Ultramarines.
Two massive ships had met in the Warp and were now traveling together toward their destination.
Compared to the silent Black Ships, the Ultramarines seemed much busier—though Hades wasn't sure what they were actually busy with. To him, they seemed like men trying to stay occupied just to avoid thinking about things too painful to face.
Guilliman himself hadn't appeared. Instead, his 19th Company Captain, Steloc Aethon, had escorted Hades and Malcador aboard their fleet. Macragge's Honour wasn't among them—only the ships of the 19th Company.
True to the usual stereotypes about Ultramarines, Aethon was a serious and capable diplomat. But now he looked deeply troubled. Malcador noticed his unease, and the old man, ever perceptive, decided to comfort the noble warrior—leaving Hades to fend for himself in the reception room.
"Someone will come for you," Malcador had said curtly before disappearing.
…Time passed…
In the bright room, Hades sat dazed at the conference table, staring blankly ahead. The golden walls were adorned with the banner of the 19th Company—a proud, muscular white stallion rearing high, gazing right at him. The deep blue satin backdrop made the creature's fiery mane glow even brighter.
Hades' mind drifted back to his pleasant memories of returning to Mars and visiting the Techmarines. His Martian Handbook had already reached version 3.17, and the sheer number of geometric signatures from the Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists alone could have built the Fists another wall.
Technical updates were by far the most common—nearly every Legion had participated in this spiritually beneficial hobby. Miscellaneous discussions, however, were rarer, mostly contributed by the Emperor's Children and Word Bearers. To Hades' surprise, he had even found a travel poem written by a White Scar about touring the Martian wastes.
…Come to think of it, the White Scars didn't seem so bad after all.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, the door to the reception room suddenly opened.
A middle-aged man stepped in and casually pulled up a chair before sitting down.
He was dressed in dazzlingly ornate attire—a pearl-white silk jacket perfectly tailored to his frame, its every movement catching the light. The gold threads woven through it shimmered in shifting rainbows, and the dense gold and silver buttons that adorned it were left unfastened, revealing a richly embroidered shirt beneath.
The shirt, stitched in the same gold-silver motif, was meticulously buttoned all the way up. The buttons ran from the hem to the neck, disappearing beneath a pure white linen cravat—itself blindingly bright.
On his head sat a golden olive wreath, much like the one Hades had seen on Guilliman's head—though this one wasn't a mere imitation.
The shimmering fabrics looked tight, almost constricting. Hades thought of the kind of clothes that would rip at the slightest stretch. The high collar and over-buttoned shirt seemed suffocating—you could almost feel the fabric pressing against the throat.
Clearly, the designers had valued beauty over comfort.
And yet, amid the intertwining brilliance of gold and white, the man himself seemed… ordinary.
Black hair.
Light brown skin.
Dark eyes—though they caught flashes of gold, maybe reflecting the Ultramarines' gilded walls.
His outfit made Hades think of a newly rich planetary noble, but his demeanor reminded Hades of something else entirely—of a weary office worker crushed in a crowded subway, eating dry bread on a cold night, weighed down by debt, a laid-off wife, and a child to raise.
He didn't even have dark circles under his eyes, yet he exuded a profound, soul-deep exhaustion.
The man sat there calmly, naturally, watching Hades—as if waiting for something.
Hades blinked. From the moment the door had opened, his eyes had been fixed on the man—yet his mind was still somewhere far away, wandering the White Scars' endless grasslands.
Or, to put it another way, this man didn't possess any particularly strong or striking presence—which was why Hades didn't react right away.
Not until he realized that this face… looked somewhat like Mortarion's. Or Guilliman's.
—Huh?
Huh?!
HUH!!!
Hades nearly shot to his feet to salute or say something appropriate. In that instant, his mind flashed with memories of every awkward moment he'd ever had with superiors—the kind where the boss reaches across the table for a dish and you're too slow to spin the platter.
But the Emperor, of course, anticipated him. He raised a hand slightly, motioning for Hades to remain seated.
Hades swallowed hard and straightened his posture.
What was he supposed to say? No—wait—in that holographic message the Emperor had sent him earlier, he hadn't looked like this at all.
Did he… turn on some kind of psychic beauty filter?
But it seemed the Emperor didn't intend to start the conversation. He just sat there patiently, like some NPC in a game waiting for the player to trigger dialogue.
In his panic, Hades blurted out what, in a sense, became his first words to the Emperor in person:
"My Emperor… are you doing all right?"
The instant it left his mouth, Hades regretted it—but apparently, the Emperor was pleased by the question. He tried to smile… gave up halfway… and simply said:
"Actually, I'm doing terribly."
The Emperor said it with calm composure, yet speaking the truth seemed to bring him a faint kind of relief.
"There's always much to do—and you don't have to call me 'Emperor,' Hades."
Hades blinked thoughtfully. The tone and phrasing revealed a glimpse of the Emperor's personality—exactly the kind of clue Hades needed. Slim as the chance was, he didn't want to accidentally wander into the "False God" route.
He waited patiently for the Emperor to offer a proper name…
But the Emperor stayed silent.
…?
So what was he supposed to call him? Did the Emperor assume he already knew his real name?
Tentatively, Hades ventured:
"So… what should I call you, then?"
"Anything."
The Emperor said it casually.
Wait—anything? What kind of answer was that?!
Hades hadn't felt this exhausted since trying to have a conversation with the introverted Mortarion.
"Could you… be a bit more specific?"
The Emperor gave him a mildly surprised look.
"You may choose whichever name you like—Neoth, Moravec, Don Quixote, Aurelinoa, José… There's no need for honorifics. Such things have no meaning."
Hades felt a little dizzy.
What was he even doing?
What should he say?
Where was he?
Who was he?
He took a deep breath, schooled his expression, and decided to remain silent.
He looked at the Emperor—or Neoth, or Moravec—with a polite, questioning gaze.
The other man looked back, equally solemn.
After a silence that felt neither short nor long, the Emperor finally spoke—with all the gravity of one who commanded worlds, though there was a fleeting trace of hesitation in his tone that vanished as quickly as it came.
"Unlike other humans, your projection within the Warp is akin to a black hole."
Hades' eyes sharpened—was the Emperor about to reveal the truth to him?
"Because of that, I cannot perceive your emotions or thoughts through the Warp. It risks leading me to faulty decisions. I hope you will speak to me honestly—and reveal everything you have kept hidden."
The Emperor's calm gaze remained fixed on him.
"I ask for your loyalty and candor—just as I offer you my trust and honesty."
Hades replied slowly,
"Of course."
And the result of that mutual honesty was… another long silence.
After a while, the Emperor spoke again.
"If you fear choosing, you may call me Neoth."
Hades couldn't hold it in anymore—he spread his hands in a gesture halfway between surrender and exasperation.
"Thank you for deciding, Neoth. I do suffer from mild decision anxiety."
Upon hearing that, the Emperor smiled.
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