Chapter 41: The Death of the Primarch
Alpharius muttered under his breath, but since neither of them could publicly announce their positions, he kept his complaints wordless.
Still, knowing that Omega endorsed the Imperial cause and remained committed to fighting for humanity brought him relief. Watching Omega work through complex physics formulas, Alpharius thought his own burden felt heavier.
The next day, feeling the oppressive atmosphere that Alpharius had brought, Omega decided to walk through the public corridors. He watched blue-armored Ultramarines and Imperial Fist warriors pass by on patrol.
He stood on a high balcony overlooking the fortress grounds. The Imperial Fist warriors on guard nearby glanced at him occasionally, but Omega paid them little attention.
Then something unexpected caught his eye in the massive passageway below.
A pale-faced warrior appeared, clutching a twisted scythe. His heavy power armor was painted yellow-green. Behind him, Typhon and several Death Guard company commanders walked.
Mortarion's voice echoed through the corridor, loud, bitter, and utterly unrestrained.
He complained about his sacrifices and victories on the battlefield, insisting that the Emperor had not provided him with sufficient warships and weapon supplies.
As he passed a squadron of Ultramarines, his voice grew louder. He grumbled that Roboute Guilliman constantly received ample resources, and that the Ultramarines were so numerous yet still favored so highly by the Emperor, with vast material wealth.
While all the Astartes Legions were secretly deliberating over the Eleventh Primarch situation, Mortarion loudly proclaimed his own lack of recognition.
As he traveled, Mortarion expressed skepticism about the Imperium's governmental institutions, arguing that their corruption had prevented his legions from receiving adequate armaments and achieving greater victories.
Omega watched in astonishment. This Primarch, Mortarion, who drew attention wherever he went, seemed truly odd among his peers.
The Imperial Fist warrior nearby suddenly spoke. "Brother, that's simply Lord Mortarion's daily routine. Every Primarch has their peculiarities. Don't take it too seriously."
Omega nodded. "Understood...I'm quite accustomed to...unusual personalities among the Astartes."
Yet something about it still felt wrong. A Primarch, a commander of millions, publicly voicing complaints and doubts about the Imperium's systems seemed deeply inappropriate.
Other Legions occasionally passed through the corridor, but with everyone in full power armor, it was impossible to distinguish individual faces.
After the Imperial Fist warriors had observed the Alpha Legion warrior for about an hour, a new figure appeared.
An elderly man in religious vestments, wearing power armor, strolled forward, clutching a scepter. Behind him marched a squad of Word Bearers in crimson armor.
As Omega tried to determine the old man's purpose, the figure approached him, studying him intently. Then he raised his hand in a gesture of religious devotion.
"Soldier, you appear troubled. Have you begun to question your faith in the Emperor? Ah, what a poor, lost child!"
Omega turned to the Imperial Fist warriors. "Is he addressing me?"
The Imperial Fist warriors exchanged glances. One responded, "Our loyalty to the Emperor is unwavering and beyond all question, brother. Was that old man speaking to you?"
Omega replied quietly. "My loyalty to the Emperor is unwavering."
The old man, a Word Bearer chaplain, watched Omega and the Imperial Fists with unsettling calm. He withdrew a book from within his robes and opened it as if it were sacred scripture.
The old man chanted, his voice taking on a religious cadence. "The Emperor is great and holy. He is a miracle worker, all-knowing and all-powerful, a true god. We are all the Emperor's angels!"
"If you are truly loyal to the Emperor, you should embrace faith in the Emperor. Dedicate yourselves entirely to his divine will!"
The Imperial Fist warriors exchanged confused glances.
The words made a certain sense, yet something felt wrong about them. The shift from absolute loyalty to religious faith seemed minor, yet it felt like a significant transformation.
Omega remained speechless. These zealots were openly proclaiming the Emperor as a literal god.
As the chaplain's preaching intensified, the Imperial Fist warriors grew wary. They raised their bolt pistols slightly, fingers tensing near the triggers. Omega spoke up.
"The Emperor teaches us the Imperial Truth, but he does not require us to worship him as a god. Do you have the Emperor's explicit permission to proselytize to his soldiers?"
The old chaplain's eyes flashed with intensity. "You dare question whether the Emperor is divine? Is your loyalty and faith in the Emperor so fragile, so easily shaken? Poor child, the divine will save you yet!"
He launched into an impassioned tirade against Omega, his religious fervor mounting with each word.
The Imperial Fist warriors hesitated. Omega found himself thinking that this old man possessed a gift for rhetoric; he was damn skilled at persuasion.
'Oh, now I remember how annoying those damn missionaries and preachers were. Sighh~~I'm in the future, and I still have to deal with this shit.'
Then a company commander from the Imperial Fists approached with obvious anger. "Get lost, you Word Bearers. Don't cause trouble here, or I'll be dragging your zealot body down to the cellars!"
The chaplain raised his hands in benediction despite the commander's hostile glare. "You are all lost children, and you will eventually return to the Emperor's embrace. Our faith remains unwavering. Farewell!"
He led his Word Bearers squad away in formal procession, performing sacred ceremonies as they departed.
Watching the Word Bearers disappear down the corridor, Omega unconsciously clenched his fist on the balcony. The tension produced an audible snapping sound that jolted the Imperial Fist warriors back to alertness.
The company commander approached Omega and spoke earnestly. "That was Kor Phaeron, the adoptive father of Lord Lorgar, Primarch of the Word Bearers. Before joining the Astartes, he served as a cult bishop. Now he's nothing but a charlatan among the Space Marines."
The commander shook his head. "We believe in the Imperial Truth. That religious nonsense represents only his own delusions."
Omega nodded. "I'm returning to my quarters."
He already knew that the Word Bearers had been spreading religious beliefs throughout the campaign territories, but he hadn't expected them to bring such propaganda directly to Terra itself.
They were actively attempting to recruit followers.
The Imperial Fist commander watched Omega depart and shook his head with a weary sigh. "Strange ideologies keep surfacing lately. If Lorgar continues to promote these ideas, it could cause serious problems."
When Omega returned to the Alpha Legion fortress, he could sense multiple conflicting ideologies circulating through the ranks. Not every warrior possessed the discipline to maintain rational thought. When faith wavered, minds became vulnerable.
Mortarion had seized this opportunity to publicly attack the Imperium's systems, constantly complaining about how the Emperor and the imperial government had wronged him. He showed no fear of the consequences.
Additionally, some Astartes warriors had begun propagating the idea that Space Marines represented an evolved species superior to ordinary humans. This argument gained traction because most Space Marine Legions held the Imperial Guard in disdain.
Amid this chaos of competing ideologies, Omega simply immersed himself in his research of physical theories and space technology. Undistracted and focused, his progress accelerated.
Days passed. The complex thoughts and spreading rumors among the Astartes Legions caused genuine concern among the Primarchs. The atmosphere within the Space Marine forces thoroughly permeated the Astra Militarum's morale.
Facing this deteriorating situation, the Emperor finally made his decision regarding the Eleventh Primarch's imprisonment.
Even as rumors proclaimed the Eleventh Primarch a traitor, an alternative theory had emerged from among the researchers attempting to restore the Eleventh Legion: perhaps the Eleventh Primarch had been misled by rumors and false information, and had committed his transgression in ignorance rather than willful rebellion.
Within the secluded chambers of the imperial palace, Malcador stood shrouded in his grey robes. He stood in complete darkness, observing the Eleventh Primarch within.
The handsome, serene blond man remained in meditation. The Eleventh Primarch seemed to sense his presence. He opened his eyes slowly and gazed upward toward the faint light filtering from above, speaking quietly.
"This is my own choice. My destiny remains in my own hands."
The chamber door opened with a sharp click. Malcador entered, bearing a greatsword in both hands, a blade white as jade and shimmering with barely contained power. This was the Emperor's own sword, brought from the throne room itself.
He had been observing the Primarch's expression throughout his imprisonment and had recognized a terrible truth: the Eleventh Primarch had long ago resigned himself to death.
Malcador gently placed the greatsword upon the table before the Primarch. Watching him gaze silently at the weapon, Malcador spoke with deep regret.
"You have one final opportunity. You could learn and grow again, as a child does, starting anew from the foundation. Your brothers have always longed for your return. They are willing to fight for humanity and serve the Emperor loyally. Can't you do the same?"
The Eleventh Primarch chuckled softly, a sound without humor.
"If I erase all my memories and identity, I will cease to be myself. I will become nothing more than a soulless puppet. I believe the Emperor is not so cruel as to ask for that."
Malcador sighed deeply. "What a tragedy."
He understood the truth: the Randan aliens had possessed advanced psychological manipulation technology. The Primarch would have known immediately what Malcador was truly offering, not redemption, but the systematic erasure of his consciousness and identity.
Yet even facing that knowledge, the Primarch did not hesitate. He wanted only to die. His calmness and perfect clarity of mind even caused Malcador to doubt his own certainty.
His resolve now hardened, Malcador did not linger. He left the chamber and walked into the dark corridor to await the inevitable outcome.
Not long after, light flickered from the chamber into the corridor, then a blood-red luminescence appeared. The sound of a body collapsing to the ground echoed out, followed by the metallic ring of a greatsword striking solid stone.
The crimson light illuminated the simple, desolate space within, casting long shadows across the threshold.
[End of Chapter]