Chapter 7: The March of the God-Emperor
The Imperium of Man was no longer a fleeting dream or a mere empire. It was a creed. A divine calling that transcended war and politics, rooted in the unshakable belief that humanity's future rested in the hands of its God-Emperor.
Under the Emperor's rule, Terra was no longer a broken world of warring warlords and decaying technology. It had become a holy world, its cities rebuilt, its people united under one banner, and its faith centered on the one true being who would lead them into the future.
But the Emperor's vision extended beyond the cradle of mankind. His sons, the Primarchs, stood at his side, unscattered, unbroken, ready to take their place as the champions of his divine will.
A Gathering of Legends
Inside the Imperial Palace, in the grand hall of the Throne of Terra, the Emperor sat upon a throne of radiant gold. His sheer presence filled the chamber, his psychic light shining with an intensity that made even the mightiest warriors feel like insects before him.
Before him knelt his sons—the Primarchs, the twenty demigods he had crafted with his own hands. Each one was a being of impossible perfection, yet even they could not match the sheer divinity that radiated from their father.
Beside the Primarchs stood Malcador the Sigillite, ever-watchful, his loyalty as unshakable as the mountains of Terra. Further back, clad in sacred robes, stood Uriah, the last priest of the old faith, now reborn as the first High Priest of the Imperial Creed—the divine faith of the God-Emperor.
The Emperor's golden gaze swept over his gathered children, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice echoed with absolute authority.
"The time has come."
The Primarchs raised their heads, awaiting his decree.
"We stand at the dawn of a new era. The wars of unification have ended, and Terra stands whole once more. But we are not meant to rule one world. The stars call to us, waiting to be reclaimed in my name. The Imperium of Man shall rise, and we shall bring light to the galaxy."
The Primarchs did not cheer, for they were beyond such things. But in their hearts, they burned with righteous purpose.
Malcador stepped forward. "My lord, what would you have us do?"
The Emperor rose from his throne. His presence alone was overwhelming, a force of nature given human form.
"You, my sons, will take your legions and march to the stars. The Great Crusade begins now."
---
As the Primarchs departed to make ready their legions, the Emperor turned to a different matter—one long overdue.
Deep within the vast halls of the Imperial Vaults, beneath the great palace, lay the last remnants of his first warriors—the Thunder Warriors.
They had been the vanguard of his conquest, the blunt force that had crushed the tyrants of Terra beneath their heels. But they were flawed. Their bodies were unstable, their minds fraying at the edges. They had been created for war, and war alone, their lifespans cut brutally short by genetic degradation.
For years, they had lived knowing they were doomed. They had fought knowing that their creator would replace them, that their usefulness had ended. They had been abandoned.
Until now.
The Emperor entered the great chamber where the last of the Thunder Warriors resided. They knelt before him, broken yet unbowed, their armor battered but still gleaming with the blood of countless battles.
Their leader, a warrior named Arik Taranis, stepped forward, his voice weary but filled with defiance. "Have you come to end us at last?"
The Emperor gazed upon them, and for the first time in their lives, they saw something they never expected—compassion.
"No, my children. I have come to save you."
With a mere thought, his golden power washed over them, rewriting the very essence of their being. The instability in their genes vanished, replaced by perfection. Their bodies, once destined to rot, became immortal. Their minds, once fraying, were reforged into steel.
They gasped as they felt their newfound strength, their agony fading into nothing. They were no longer doomed relics of a bygone age.
They were reborn.
The Emperor spoke, his voice filled with divine finality. "You shall stand at my side as my first chosen, my immortal warriors. No longer will you be abandoned. No longer will you be forgotten. You will march beside me as my Custodians, the guardians of the God-Emperor."
The Thunder Warriors—no, the Legio Custodes—rose as one, their voices thundering across the chamber.
"Ave Imperator! Ave Deus-Emperor!"
---
Across Terra, the newly forged Adeptus Astartes, the Legio Custodes, and the Imperial Army prepared for war. The great fleets of the Imperium, spearheaded by the mighty Imperator Somnium, ignited their engines, ready to pierce the veil of the void.
At the head of it all stood the Emperor, his golden armor shining like the sun, his gaze set upon the endless stars.
Beside him, Malcador whispered, "And so it begins."
Uriah, now fully devoted to his God, knelt before the Emperor. "Your faith spreads, my lord. The people worship you, not as a man, but as the one true God of mankind."
The Emperor did not deny it.
For so long, he had resisted the idea of divinity, believing that humanity needed reason, not faith. But he had seen the truth.
Faith was power.
And in his name, humanity would rise to claim its place among the stars.
The Imperium would not just be an empire. It would be a holy empire.
A single thought echoed through the warp, shaking the very fabric of reality itself.
"I am the God-Emperor of Mankind. And in my name, the galaxy shall kneel."
The Great Crusade had begun.