"NO WORLD SHALL BE BEYOND MY RULE.
NO ENEMY SHALL BE BEYOND MY WRATH."
— The Emperor of Mankind
HOLY TERRAIMPERIAL PALACE
Deep within the bowels of the Imperial Palace—beyond locked gates, forgotten archives, and corridors sealed since the earliest days of the Imperium—lay a sanctum vast beyond mortal comprehension. A cathedral not built, but excavated from the very bones of Terra. It stretched wider than any hive city and soared higher than the tallest cathedrals of Ophelia VII. Here, beneath a ceiling lost to shadow, thousands of hooded figures knelt in absolute silence, draped in black robes, faces unseen, minds steeled for agony.
At the far end stood a titanic statue of the Emperor Himself—arms outstretched as if embracing the galaxy, eyes cast downward, not in mercy, but in judgment. Beneath His feet, a blackened podium burned with waxen flame and incense smoke. Torches lined the walls like silent sentinels. Upon the altar sat a massive slab of stone, carved into the shape of a tome. Its pages bore no words—only runes, understood not with the mind, but the soul.
Before the altar stood a solitary hooded figure, holding a staff crowned by the double-headed aquila, its wings outstretched like blades. Beside him, motionless and immense, stood a single Custodian—one of the Emperor's golden giants, radiant and terrifying.
In a voice like thunder whispered through silk, the figure intoned in High Gothic.
"It is time to pay the price of His mercy.
To bleed in honor of His grace.
To act not in His name, but at His will.
You are the Gatekeepers of Pain!
You are the Doors of Destruction!
You are the Burden-Bearers of the Throne!
And now, you are the Harbingers of Light.
He has guided you across millennia.
He shall guide you across millennia more.
The Lord upon the Golden Throne commands you.
Go forth ,and embrace your destinies.!" his voice echoed loudly in high gothic.
These were no ordinary men and women. They were psykers—drawn from a thousand worlds across the Imperium, selected by Inquisitorial mandate, molded by the Sisters of Silence, honed by the Scholastia Psykana. Bred, mutated, disciplined, broken and reforged. Brought here to serve.
And now, their purpose had reached its end.
No longer would they feed the Golden Throne.
No longer would they die one by one.
Their suffering had been preparation. Their torment, a crucible.
They were the trigger.
For ten thousand years, the Master of Mankind had suffered in silence.
Unmoving. Unseen. Undying.
All to preserve a race that was not yet ready to ascend.
And so, He did what only a man appointed God could do. He sacrificed, His freedom, His flesh—so that humanity could grow beneath the shadow of His suffering. For ten millennia, trillions of psykers were fed to the Golden Throne—not as fuel, but as anchors, keeping the god emperor from madness, from corruption. a hidden legion invisible to the eyes of Chaos itself. although false and deceitful, the torment was real. years behind the scenes, observing mankind, watching it fall to the bleakness. unable to interfere without ruinous forces noticing and therefore pressing further to eradicate his dream.
plotting in silence, waiting to pay the ultimate price for his freedom.
Now the Emperor was no longer bound.
He rose, His form no longer a burning corpse of golden pain, but a radiant storm of divine fury given flesh.
And yet...
He still sat.
IMPERIAL PALACE – SURFACE LEVEL
Across Terra, from hidden bastions and secret sanctums, the psykers were transported to the Imperial Palace—escorted by silent, unwavering detachments of Sisters of Silence. These were no longer men and women. They were weapons, unchained at last, walking willingly into a war older than humanity.
For ten thousand years, they had been experimented upon, molded, shaped—refined. A curse turned into a divine instrument. They were no longer the Emperor's burden. They were His answer to the enemies of mankind.
"In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.
And now, war wears skin.
It breathes.
Doom has a heartbeat."
The Astronomican blazed like a second sun.
Primarchs—once thought lost—marched from the edges of the galaxy, drawn home by a voice they had not heard in ten millennia.
Across the stars, Astartes stirred, the Codex Astartes was forgotten in a moment. Chapter divisions crumbled beneath the weight of the Emperor's call.
IMPERIAL PALACE – GRAND HALL
For the first time in ten thousand years, the great gates of the Imperial Palace opened to the High Lords of Terra. The upper echelons of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Ecclesiarchy, and Administratum descended in laced robes, smiling, bowing, uttering praises through gritted teeth.
But in their eyes? Terror.
The Ecclesiarchy feared the undoing of their power—of their false dogma and hollow pageantry.
The High Lords feared the revelation of their corruption—of ruling in His absence not with duty, but greed.
The Mechanicus , of forbidden techs they had dared to hoard.
They all feared one thing... Judgment.
They came offering loyalty—but in their hearts, many conspired. Seeking proximity, favor, survival. Hoping that the god they had forged in doctrine would remain silent. But deep down, they knew.
This was no god.
This was the Emperor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Outside the Palace, the streets of Holy Terra were choked with billions. The spires rang with hymns. The ground quaked with chant. Pilgrims wept. Guardsmen stood frozen in place, tears streaming, forgetting their orders. For many, it was like waking from a nightmare they didn't know if they were dreaming.
'He lives,'
'He walks again.'
'The Emperor has returned.'
SANCTUM IMPERIALIS – GOLDEN THRONE
Within the grand chamber of the Golden Throne, the machine-construct that should have once sustained His ravaged body had been torn away. No tubes. No pumps. No decay.
The Throne now gleamed untainted, wreathed in shimmering light.
The Three Hundred Companions of the Adeptus Custodes stood at full strength, crimson capes flowing, halberds in hand. Eyes ever forward. Statues made flesh. They did not kneel, but their posture bore reverence.
At the base of the stairs knelt the highest officials of the Imperium. Arch-Cardinals. Fabricators-General. Lords Militant. Silenced by awe. Paralyzed by truth.
Above them, seated in divine silence, sat the Emperor of Mankind—golden, terrible, unknowable. His eyes open. His gaze upon them.
He did not yet speak.
And the galaxy held its breath.
SOL SYSTEM – VOID OF SPACE
From the far edges of the void, the warp screamed open in colossal, yawning wounds.
Fleets emerged—ancient, immense, shining like knives in the dark.
Vessels not seen since the days of the Great Crusade.
Warships from numerous Segmentum.
Chapter fleets. Rogue Trader armadas. Mechanicus forgeships.
And at their head, Primarchs.