Chapter 301: The God-Emperor
Hades smiled politely, though what lay behind that smile was mostly helplessness.
He had originally assumed that the Emperor… at the very least… would maintain a certain distance.
Or perhaps a sense of mystique.
Just like in that letter he had once received.
In Hades' expectations, the Emperor would act more like a monarch, not… well… this.
Judging from the Emperor's smooth, almost conversational social maneuvers just moments ago, a troubling thought suddenly crept into Hades' mind.
The Emperor—Neoth—really did seem to just want to talk to him.
Not as a ruler to a subject, but in a manner almost equal (though Hades didn't dare say entirely equal).
From the way he kept correcting Hades' form of address, to his insistence on honesty—it truly seemed that the Emperor wanted a genuine exchange.
Hades blinked slowly, a little heavier this time.
Until now, his respect and admiration for the Master of Mankind had been the kind one reserved for a distant, divine sovereign—not the way he interacted with Primarchs.
But now…
Hades took a deep breath and spoke first:
"Neoth… I offer you my loyalty and honesty. Then… may I ask, why me? Why do you trust me?"
The Emperor smiled, as though this was exactly the question he had been waiting for.
"And why do you trust me?"
Hades swallowed. Time to test the waters.
"We just agreed to be honest, Neoth. But because of my limited literary education, I have some difficulty understanding rhetorical questions, metaphors, similes, parallelism, allusions… and other figures of speech that require high-level comprehension."
The Emperor's smile deepened.
"I appreciate your sense of humor."
Hades nodded gravely.
"Thank you for the compliment. I also think topic-shifting is unnecessary."
The Emperor's smile froze for a heartbeat. He hesitated—clearly unaccustomed to that kind of directness—but still continued.
"I chose you because I know you would choose humanity. Just as you know—I, too, would only ever choose humanity."
"Beyond mankind, beyond the Imperium, we can accept nothing else… nor can we tolerate anything else."
As painful as his arrival in the grim darkness of Warhammer had been, Hades couldn't deny it—and so he affirmed the Emperor's words with silence.
The Emperor went on, clearly thinking carefully about his phrasing—avoiding figurative language as though it were a personal challenge. It required more explanation, more effort.
"You were not part of my original design. But your growth and your abilities proved themselves. And so, I changed my plan."
Hades fixed his gaze on the Emperor, speaking softly:
"What was your original plan?"
"The Webway. The Imperial Truth."
The Emperor spoke calmly, his expression now turning solemn again.
"And now?"
"The Webway. The Imperial Cult."
Even though Hades had already prepared himself mentally with Malcador, hearing it spoken aloud—hearing this middle-aged man, the Emperor himself, say "Imperial Cult"—sent a chill crawling down his spine.
Carefully choosing his words, Hades asked:
"Then… this journey to the Perfect City—you intend to establish the Imperial Cult?"
"Yes and no."
The Emperor replied naturally.
"The Cult has always been among our many contingency plans, but for various reasons, we set it aside."
"And now you've reactivated it—because of me? Why?"
The Emperor paused. Then he rose from the far end of the conference table, walked to sit directly across from Hades, and folded his hands together.
His eyes burned with an intensity that could have scorched steel. The golden olive crown in his black hair shimmered as he leaned forward.
"I envy you, outlander. In your world, physical law is the foundation of existence."
"But here, in my home, the Warp and the material universe are intertwined—their union birthed all life."
"The Imperial Truth confuses you because it resembles your old world's habits, doesn't it?"
Hades coughed—an act he shouldn't even be capable of, given his modifications.
He wasn't sure whether it was because the Emperor had hit a nerve or because the Emperor had just violated their agreement by using a rhetorical question.
By his usual oratorical rhythm, the Emperor should have continued speaking—not paused.
"The Great Crusade carried with it a vast weight of negative emotion," he said at last. "Those emotions tore constantly at the Veil, accelerating the Warp's corrosion of the material world."
"The Imperial Truth, however, slowed that process—buying the Crusade the last few grains of sand left in the hourglass."
"Do you understand, Hades?"
This time Hades did not cough, so the Emperor mentally filed the earlier incident under Category One Hypothesis—that Hades coughed because he'd hit a nerve—and further classified Hades as "one of those imprecise types."
"I understand," Hades replied, voice low.
"So long as the Crusade gathered enough resources to construct the Webway, humanity would gain at least a temporary refuge from the Warp's intrusion."
"But if my memories are accurate, Neoth… along the road of the Imperial Truth and the Webway, you failed."
The Emperor chuckled lightly and shook his head. Behind him, the twin-headed eagle on the wall seemed to shine even brighter.
"You remember only one ending? I had assumed you knew there were many paths—and that each of them, at one point, was true."
"Even on the road you think of as failure, I once held the blade of victory in my hand."
Hades blinked, thinking.
Reflecting on those old possibilities felt oddly dull now—because both of them knew that the Imperium had already found a new, utterly different path forward.
"Neoth," Hades said softly, "if you knew the original plan could have succeeded, why change it?"
In the Emperor's dark eyes burned golden fire. He met Hades' black pupils unflinchingly.
"Because this path has a higher chance of success," the Emperor said simply.
"Nothing more, Hades."
At that moment, Hades finally understood why Malcador and the others followed the Emperor so willingly.
Whenever the Emperor spoke of mankind or the Imperium, he radiated such blazing confidence—the kind that made success sound inevitable.
If you added in the shimmer of his psychic aura, Hades couldn't imagine there existed a human in the galaxy capable of saying no to him.
Fortunately, Hades was immune to that aura… though he couldn't shake the feeling that these words sounded exactly like the kind of promises his bankrupt boss used to make right before skipping town.
He mentally updated his image of the Emperor—now picturing him as that same overworked, subway-riding boss.
Still, Hades thought, if this went on any longer he'd be listening to a speech—and he'd heard more than enough of those, the kind full of grand dreams and corporate "visions." So he decided to steer the conversation elsewhere, into specifics.
"I think I understand, Neoth. But I still want to know—why does your master plan involve burning the Perfect City?"
"And… why not simply talk to your son, Lorgar?"
To his quiet relief, Hades saw the Emperor's salesman-like fervor fade.
"The Word Bearers…"
The Emperor paused.
"They draw power from thought and faith, but that same faith also consumes them."
Hades pondered. He knew exactly what the Emperor meant.
"Their belief distorted you, didn't it, Neoth? They saw you as solemn and unfeeling, and so you began to grow cold."
"Faith gave you strength, but it also made you something other than yourself."
The Emperor nodded faintly.
"Not only that," he said, "Among the countless mortals under the Word Bearers, their faith twisted both Lorgar and his Legion. They began to forget the Legion's true purpose—losing themselves in their own religious world."
"The Perfect City, as the physical embodiment of that faith, must be burned. Otherwise, the Word Bearers, consumed by belief, would eventually have to be erased."
Hades blinked. His voice came out quiet, uncertain.
"Why not just remove the Word Bearers altogether?"
On an emotional level, if he were the one making the decision, Hades would have firmly believed that every potential traitor should be purged before the Heresy ever began—and if that wasn't possible, at least cut their numbers down.
Though, realistically, that probably would've just meant someone else would take their place.
The Emperor was silent for a long moment before finally speaking.
"I created Seventeenth for a reason. He was meant to be the most obedient of my Primarchs—the one intended for the Imperial Cult. In that now-vanished hypothetical, I believed he possessed the capacity for self-transformation. That he would be reborn from the ashes, laying the foundation for faith in the future."
"I always knew each Primarch carried the potential to fall. I could see the turbulence of the future, but I did not expect them to choose my most compliant son as their first. Strategically, the Four Chaos Gods had better options. The Word Bearers—and Lorgar—were not the ideal targets."
The Emperor's voice softened, almost fading.
"Looking back, it was nothing but cruel mockery."
He said it lightly, but even without psychic sight, he could sense that Hades had fallen into deep thought. The Emperor waited in silence until Hades' voice finally broke the stillness—more to ease the tension than because he'd found an answer.
"I didn't realize you… had that much emotion toward your sons."
The Emperor looked at him calmly, clearly disagreeing.
"I created the Primarchs first and foremost to ensure the Great Crusade's success. Beyond that, I merely permitted them to call me 'Father.'"
"Seventeenth—Lorgar—the Word Bearers: so long as they have not fallen fully into the abyss, I will use them. Even if that means they must be warned."
Hades thought this through carefully.
If he followed the Emperor's logic—and the current direction really was the Webway and the Cult—then that meant…
"The Perfect City won't be burned, then, Neoth?"
"No."
The Emperor shook his head.
"They still must be corrected. If Seventeenth remains blind to the truth, I will send the First Legion. Lion will fulfill his duty with absolute loyalty."
"I will show you the Imperium's current plan, Hades—and then your doubts will fade."
"Step one."
The Emperor turned his gaze away, lowering his eyes to the reflection in the polished surface of the desk.
His black hair fell forward as he stared down at the mirrored image—not of a god, not of a ruler, but of an ordinary middle-aged man.
"Upon the ashes of the Perfect City," he said quietly,"I will tell the Seventeenth… that I am a god."
Hades drew in a sharp, icy breath.
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