Throne Palace, great hall.
Eden's consciousness returned from the Warp to realspace, his brows knit.
"Brother, did you find the Lion?"
Guilliman stepped forward, wanting the specifics of the Lion's situation—and fearing bad news.
The Khan also looked over.
If the Imperium lost another loyal Primarch, it would be a grievous blow.
"I found him," Eden met the two Primarchs' eyes and said, a little regretfully. "The Lion should already have awakened.
"Sadly, before I could tell him about the Imperium's condition, I lost his trail."
He could feel that, in the instant the Lion came to, a pulse shook the Warp—and the man vanished from where he'd been, by some means.
Without a trace.
"He lives!"
At that, both Guilliman and the Khan couldn't help showing a brief smile.
After ten thousand years, news that another of their brothers yet survived—indeed a joy.
Only, what Eden said next made them a bit uneasy.
All knew: losing contact with the Lion would surely affect the follow-on phases of the Redemption Crusade.
Eden's gaze rose toward the high throne. "If the Emperor—the old man—could act again, He might be able to reach that guy."
His own "little sun" essence had grown powerful, but he still couldn't contact a corporeal being across star-sectors.
Otherwise he'd already be like the Emperor—nigh omniscient, nigh omnipotent.
Eden glanced at the sleeping Emperor and the grey-robed elder upon the throne, then gave up on the notion of slapping Him awake with a big psychic smack.
His condition wasn't stable. Disturbing Him rashly could trigger unknown consequences.
Better to be conservative.
"Our crusade plan continues. The Lion's awake anyway; he should sense the darkness coiling over the sector and move to halt its spread."
Eden looked to Guilliman and the Khan as he said it.
The Lion was the First Primarch—among the very peak of their brotherhood.
Once awake, he'd surely leverage his vast prestige and natural command to re-marshal a great Imperial host.
As for them, they'd just press on by the book—at most quicken the pace, drive into the Gloaming Sector's central hub as fast as possible.
"The Lion can withstand that darkness."
Guilliman nodded, tone utterly firm.
He had always believed in the Lion's abilities. That man was among the most gifted organizers and leaders of the Primarchs.
On par with himself.
Of course, the Sixteenth Primarch—the Warmaster Horus—had been a formidable leader as well.
But he'd been stripped of Primarch's rank and no longer belonged to the Imperium, so he didn't count.
As for that "Savior" Primarch… that brother merely had more resources, more armies, more talent, a stronger Warp-borne essence.
In other respects, he was slightly inferior.
The Primarch of the Ultramarines did not think further—lest it sour his mood.
Bzz—
The Primarchs' comm-beads chimed in turn.
Eden glanced down at the message and smiled.
"The Departmento Munitorum just reported in: the Redemption Crusade fleet is fully assembled. We can depart at the latest the day after tomorrow."
"How I've missed this. After ten thousand years, the eagles of Chogoris will again spread their wings—to join a grand crusade!"
"The Imperium's domains in the Gloaming Sector will see a complete liberation."
Guilliman read the appended situation reports with care, anticipation in his eyes.
The Indomitus Crusade he'd organized before had been vast, but once divided among many sectors, it was still too few in aggregate.
It could at most open lanes through key regions of the Imperium, and block the enemy from pushing through Imperium Sanctus to strike Holy Terra.
Simply put, the Indomitus Crusade was to get the Imperium into the ICU—to prevent sudden death.
This Redemption Crusade, however, was full-spectrum treatment—restoring its vitality.
The Gloaming Sector was merely Phase One. After that, the push would expand to all Imperial sectors, breaking every war-zone at any cost.
Those included the vast Silent Dead Zones, the Ork megadominions, and Tyranid-ravaged space.
"Victory!"
The three Primarchs clasped hands. Behind them, the Throne's radiance shone—
Their silhouettes blazed.
After the Great Crusade, the Imperium's loyal Primarchs gathered once more—and set forth upon a new crusade.
"I have an idea."
Eden cut a glance at the figure upon the Throne, a bit furtive.
"The Emperor's cache of wine is still pretty big. Let's have ourselves a proper drink right here."
Previously he'd procured quite a lot of top-shelf vintages for the Emperor. They were stored in compartments within the Black Throne—the Black Mechanicum archmagos had packed the Throne with far too many functional bays.
More importantly, those bottles had been blessed up close by the Throne's holy light. Divine flavor.
And likely the old man wouldn't have many chances to drink them again—so the brothers could do Him the favor.
"Not a bad suggestion!"
The Savior's words made both Primarchs' hearts stir—and feel a naughty thrill.
They'd never before entertained such a way of "offending" Father. Dangerous things done among men always quickened the blood.
The three got to it at once—skulking up onto the Throne, quietly lifting every last bottle from its storage. Then they drank to their hearts' content in one go.
Once the wine was gone, they slipped out of the Throne Palace at speed and headed for the marshalling void-docks.
In the firmament, the Imperial armadas blotted out the sky, awe-inspiring in their might.
A vast, morale-stoking ceremony was held.
Then, amid the blooming fire of fireworks, the immense fleet made sail—entering the Webway toward the Gloaming Sector.
"&%*#, where's my wine?"
No one knew how much time passed before a Warp-tinged curse echoed through the quiet Throne Palace…
—
Gloaming Sector, rim.
In the void, a glittering white ring stretched wide, glimmering beneath the light of a red giant.
A vast belt of icy asteroids—nature's fortress, enough to check most void bodies and fleets.
Even a hive fleet would struggle to pass with ease.
But a black shadow rolled over it, blotting out the red giant's light—dimming it.
And then the region erupted in a light far brighter.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—
A deluge of macro-cannons and lance beams hammered every crystalline boulder ahead, concentrating fire on the larger masses.
After that, the immense fleet drove straight through—like a voidborne icebreaker.
Brazen to the point of arrogance, they simply crushed this natural barrier at any cost.
Aboard the Dreamweaver, under the observation dome.
Ehhhhm…
Guilliman stared in silence.
He had only just finished explaining the danger of this natural barrier and proposed detouring—then the fleet rolled forward without hesitation.
Smashing through at maximum speed—brutal to the core.
"Brother… this is a bit wasteful on the ammunition. It's also dangerous.
"Those boulders are hard as hell on the surface—there's every chance they'll slam and damage the prows' armor."
Guilliman paused to salvage some face.
Eden had melted into the beanbag lounger before the observation dome, none of the martial grandeur he'd shown at embarkation.
In private, he always went with whatever was comfortable.
He took a long pull of ice-cold cola, then handed a can to his good brother.
"Relax. The van ships are all fitted with relic-grade heavy plating. Never mind these rocks—ramming an enemy cruiser wouldn't blow them.
"As for 'wasteful ammo,' I've got to chide you."
Eden's eyes turned serious. "We can't pinch every shell. That invites problems. Munitions are made to be fired. Sitting in a magazine does nothing.
"Besides, our armories are practically overflowing with fresh production. If we don't shoot it off, it's going to expire!"
The Savior's words nearly choked Guilliman.
Expire?
The Imperium had been poor for so long there was no such thing as "expired" ammunition.
Even stock that had sat for centuries—if it still detonated, it was good.
As long as it didn't detonate aboard ship.
But Eden's dominions were different.
With forge worlds in leapfrog expansion, weapons and munitions output had long surpassed demand—but idling production lines cost even more.
So they could only keep producing.
Thus a new rule for the Savior's armories: no stock older than thirty years. At term, it must be expended.
Whether sold, used in war, or hauled out for live-fire.
Hence a common sight in the Savior's realms: some unit or task force receiving an urgent order to process "expired" munitions.
Main method—haul them out and shoot targets.
Commanders and troops alike groaned under such orders—because there was just too much ammo. They fired till they gagged.
Some soldiers had to throw a dozen crates of grenades in a row—till their shoulders dislocated.
Astartes burned out one bolter after another; muzzles never stopped spitting fire.
Certain starships had logged hundreds of consecutive salvos on a single drill. Crew and officers alike reeled from the pounding vibrations.
In time, they got used to it.
And the intense live-fire honed every unit till the motions were instinct—feeding skill with oceans of rounds and boosting combat power.
Not a bad outcome.
In short, Eden had come to the Gloaming Sector to make it rain.
Crush every enemy of the Imperium with the fiercest barrages, then stuff its suffering citizens with a surfeit of supplies.
"Old G, you've got to adapt to the New Imperium's style. Don't be so stingy anymore."
Eden looked at Guilliman, earnest. "I've prepped a few hundred warehouses' worth for you. Try to expend the lot before the next resupply comes in!"
The New Imperium's logistics were built on surplus—enormous supply convoys and service platforms followed the fleets.
Running out of shells wasn't a concern—the only worry was that you couldn't shoot fast enough.
Not just weapons and ammo—every other class of stores was the same. The transport flotillas numbered about ten times the fighting fleet.
And they all had basic combat capability.
They just didn't join the fighting.
"I… I'll try."
Guilliman swallowed, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Yet for a commander, nothing in war was more exquisite than abundant munitions.
He'd gotten used to penny-pinching—down to ordering individual batteries to conserve shells.
Anything to keep a crusade operating in hard times—longer.
Frazzled, harried, cut to the bone.
Perhaps recalling those hardships, a barely seen sheen wet his eyes.
Suddenly he was told to fight rich—he really wasn't used to it!
After discussing the Gloaming Sector's situation and logistics in detail with Eden, he teleported back to his flagship—the Radiance of Macragge.
Upon arrival in the sector, the three Primarchs would split and operate on three axes—then regroup at the next nodal hub to refit.
Cycle that rhythm—until the Gloaming Sector was freed.
By now, the White Scars' Primarch was approaching the sector by another route, and soon the Ultramarine would split from the Savior to take his own front.
It wasn't long before the joint fleet broke the ice-belt and formally entered the Gloaming Sector.
There the armada divided in two and advanced on separate vectors.
"Tch. Pure transit is so damned boring. Where did that guy the Lion run off to…"
Eden lay back in the beanbag and changed position, staring out at the endless stars.
Unlike Guilliman or the Khan, he didn't need to personally helm the fleet—nor was that his craft, and it was tiring.
So absent major ground warfare or boarding actions—
This Savior—Imperial Emperor—at most could scroll the psy-net and skim the war reports. There wasn't much to do.
"Hm? Finally, a planet?"
Eeden's eyes brightened at the newest bulletin.
A green world named "Kamas"—roughly light-industrial in development.
Per fleet survey—
The civilization had been ravaged by Chaos. A massive Chaos keep had been raised, and the natives had fled or were hiding in the deep jungles.
With little in the way of orbital defense, the world was beneath the Redemption Crusade fleet's notice.
In high spirits, Eden helped guide the bombardment against the planetbound Chaos forces.
It was a clean sweep.
The crusade fleet didn't even close—Dreamweaver alone erased what pitiful orbital defenses the heretics had.
Then came the washing of fire: nearly a thousand ship-mounted heavy guns hammered at speed.
Dreamweaver's main battery flattened the enemy's primary Chaos fortress in a single shot—then dropped a Savior's icon, nearly a hundred meters tall, into the yawning crater.
The Chaos rabble hadn't even grasped what was happening—before they were annihilated.
Not only that, Eden airdropped caches of weapons throughout the jungle—to arm the people hiding there.
With that done—
Dreamweaver returned to the fleet and ghosted away—like a passing giant pausing to hose an anthill he despised.
Ending it.
The Redemption Crusade had bigger nuts to crack—no time to linger.
A relief fleet would arrive within a week at most—to scrub residual taint and begin reconstruction.
—
Not long before, in the forest.
Giant trees stood shouldering the sky, blotting out the sun. The ground was a tangle of undergrowth.
A brook threaded through, murmuring over stone.
"I… seem to have had a very long dream."
The Lion awakened.
He gazed at the water's reflection—the face of an old man, the black plate on his frame edged with green—and felt a little dazed.
He no longer remembered what had happened in the dream, nor who he was, nor why he was here.
He rose, following the brook—and a call so faint it might have been imagined.
In time the brook widened, merging into a little river.
Across it stood a city-crowned ancient castle—unknown, aloof, as though eternal.
At the river's center floated a small skiff.
An emaciated, hollow-cheeked old angler sat aboard—far more withered by time than the Lion. Black age-spots freckled his face; a broken crown perched upon his head.
The Lion strained to see—but could not make out the man's features.
He tried calling to him. "Hail. What is this place?"
But the elder acted as though deaf, offering no answer. Beneath the skiff, some shadow circled—coveting.
The Lion disliked being ignored. He stepped into the river to see for himself.
But he hadn't gone far when the stench of blood and rot reached him—and a sharp cry sounded behind.
"Danger—back to the bank!"
He turned—and found a small hooded figure in a dark-green robe.
A Watcher in the Dark—some alien thing.
Though he saw such a being for the first time, the thought bloomed fully-formed in his mind—as though he'd always known them.
The Lion sensed danger and returned to shore.
"That way is not your path."
The Watcher pointed at the river and waved warningly, then indicated a different tree-shaded trail. "Go there. Follow your instincts."
The Lion took the shaded path.
But not because he obeyed the little one—he'd scented a dense reek of decay.
Prey's smell.
He had not gone far before the river rang with the elder's curses.
He did not look back.
He sped along the shaded way, burst through a bright seam in the canopy, and came into the deep jungle.
The jungle's breath felt right in his lungs—as though he had been born to it. He was close to the prey.
ROAR—
Huge, dangerous, reptilian man-eaters with carrion breath bellowed. They had ringed a handful of ragged, mud-caked humans.
The Lion's hand moved by reflex—he drew the helmet from his belt and sealed it, bringing the autosenses online. Data spilled across his vision.
Ambient temperature, humidity, atmospheric composition, infrared, thermal overlays—and more.
Threats auto-tagged—these beasts, or rather, this prey.
"Die."
The giant warrior roared back—and sprang like a loosed blade. In a single shoulder-charge he hurled a two-ton predator away.
It slammed into a giant trunk—spine shattered—never to rise.
Then he drove an elbow like a piledriver, caving another abomination's malformed horned skull—brains spraying.
His blows were savage—like an enraged titan-beast.
When the Lion halted, the heavy-armor-rending predators lay dead to a one—no survivors.
He dropped from his grip the venomous scorpion-tail he'd just torn free and asked:
"What is this place?"
The natives stared at the three-meter giant who had appeared from nowhere—godlike in strength—their bodies shaking with fear.
Mouths half open, they were dumbstruck—no answers came.
The Lion realized they knew nothing. He ceased questioning—and tossed them his helmet, filthy with gore.
"Clean the helm. Then follow me."
He was used to giving orders—to leading. These people were now his followers.
There was no room for dissent. Only submission.
Along the way, the Lion rescued more hapless refugees—led them through jungle survival and desperate struggle—and promised he would save them.
That was what a leader did.
In the end, he reached a jungle settlement where people gathered—and learned this world held worse, unknown enemies.
He would go and deal with them.
With unmatched gravitas and native lordship, he became the tribe's chief without hindrance.
Seated upon a wooden throne, he asked an elder who spoke Low Gothic—and learned the world's name.
It was called—Kamas.
(End of Chapter)
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