Guilliman stared wide-eyed at Datch, who had taken off his helmet and was waving to the crowd with pure, unburdened excitement, as if he were the main star of the celebration. Guilliman truly couldn't understand how this man had earned his place by his own strength!
But then, thinking of all Datch's deeds—curing the Weeping Plague, rescuing the pilgrim, thwarting Magnus' schemes, and restarting the Astronomican—any one of those achievements would be enough for an ordinary man to leave a mark on Imperial history. Datch's party had accomplished all that and more.
Guilliman turned away, reflecting on what he himself had accomplished since awakening. In that instant, he lost the courage to question Datch and quietly yielded half his position to him. A competent primarch needed to know how to read the times.
Celestine, Grafax, and the others wore similarly confused expressions. This celebration was meant to honor Roboute Guilliman, who should have been the star. Why was that man still crowding the stage, even though he'd come late?
But, seeing Guilliman's tacit acceptance, they could only suppress their confusion for now.
Tobris approached Navradaran of the Custodes.
"Are your Custodes really so arrogant? Even taking the primarch's spot?"
Navradaran's face darkened. The honor of the Custodes had not been preserved after all.
"He isn't a Custodian. He came to Terra with the Primarch's body. I don't know what means he used to become part of the Custodes."
"So, you weren't planning to swap out the Primarch after all?" Tobris muttered, making Navradaran's face even darker.
But the Custodian did not explain further, nor did he try to stop the nameless one. The man could repair the Golden Throne and was blessed by the Emperor. He was only a minor Custodian, not brave enough to challenge such a figure.
…
Datch himself cared nothing for the thoughts of the NPCs around him, instead immersing himself in the excitement. Seeing the endless sea of people, hearing the deafening cheers, seeing the eyes full of passion and hope—what fourth-wall breaking disaster could resist such an immersive experience?
Datch followed the Primarch through the ecstatic crowd, took the elevator down, and walked through the gloomy, empty corridors of the Council of Terra. Along the way, the streets were packed with visitors. Black-armored enforcers used thick isolation cables and railings to keep the crowd back, but when Guilliman in his blue-gold armor appeared, cheers exploded like a tidal wave. Every face, young or old, male or female, was filled with devotion and admiration, with hot tears streaming down weathered and youthful cheeks alike.
Generations had hardened into class divides, an invisible wall separating them from the returned demigod. Yet Guilliman's return might rewrite the fates of their children and grandchildren.
Terra's buildings stretched upward in endless layers. Each time they passed through a door, a new wave of cheers greeted them, arms waving like a forest.
Datch followed the Primarch, waving to the people and basking in their welcome. After ten minutes' walk, they passed beneath a magnificent arch decorated with the Imperial Aquila and olive branches, and their eyes widened—a vast, unparalleled open square appeared, packed with an excited crowd stretching to the far side.
Around the square, stained-glass walls soared kilometers high, each adorned with grand portraits of the original primarchs. Guilliman saw Saint Giles as a great angel standing atop a mountain of enemy corpses, sword and spear in hand, wings spread. He saw Jaghatai riding a war hawk, chasing a comet shaped like a human skull among the stars. Vulkan, Lord of Fire, wielded a massive forging hammer above an anvil atop a world of magma and fire. Leman Russ stood with tomahawk on a smoke-shrouded battlefield, flanked by two giant frost wolves.
...
Passing the portraits of his loyal brothers, Guilliman finally saw his own: the Lord of Ultramar in exaggerated proportions, glowing with holy light, the Codex Astartes in one hand, a horned daemon's head in the other.
They passed through the square, boarded ceremonial transports, and traveled along predetermined routes through the endless cityscape of High Lord's settlements. First came the stately Avenue of Honor, lined with dense crowds and flying banners. As the convoy advanced, the once-glorious settlements gradually gave way to slums made of scrap metal, plastic sheets, and broken masonry—a honeycomb of poverty.
From dim windows and narrow alleys, ragged figures peered out. As the primarch passed, they shouted with fanaticism for the Emperor and his son to improve their lives. Billions of eyes, whether fanatic, hopeful, numb, or curious, watched the procession.
The convoy crossed waves of cheers and silence, passing through a metropolis where magnificent temples and fearsome ghettos coexisted. At last, the palace silhouette appeared on the horizon—a sprawling artificial complex of spires, domes, fortresses, and walls, covering the entire plateau, symbolizing the power and faith of the Imperium.
Finally, the ceremonial transport halted before the palace gates, painted with gigantic murals of angels and demons locked in battle. Vehicles could go no further; the rest of the way was on foot.
Entering the palace gates, they walked down roads wide enough for giants, flanked by immense statues that silently watched every visitor. After a long journey, they finally reached the doors of the Emperor's throne room. Beyond that door, they would meet the lord of humanity.
Chief Custodian Trajann Valoris of the Custodes was already waiting with his men before the throne room, awaiting the pilgrims' arrival. The throne room was a towering sanctuary, at the center of a network of roads. Every passage and open space was packed with pilgrims and believers from across the galaxy.
As Guilliman passed through the crowd, suppressed excitement erupted into deafening shouts and prayers. Sicarius, Voldus, Celestine, and others followed like stars around a moon. Further back, countless battle-scarred Astartes moved in orderly ranks, their steady steps and resonant power sweeping away the hardships and exhaustion of the crusade.
Guilliman approached Valoris, stopped, and reported his name and intent according to ancient protocol.
"Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar, comes to meet the Lord of Mankind."
The Custodes guarding the Golden Throne sized up the pilgrims for threats, while millions watched, awaiting the outcome. After more than ten minutes, a Custodian Wardens stood up to announce the final decision.
"In the name of the Emperor and the throne, Roboute Guilliman and the Nameless One are granted entry to the palace. All others will wait here."
At this, many bystanders who didn't know the truth erupted in commotion. The primarch being allowed in was no surprise—he was, after all, the Emperor's son. But the nameless one being allowed in as well was truly strange. Countless curious, surprised, or even harsh gazes fell upon Datch, wondering what made this man so special in the Custodes' eyes.
Datch, for his part, felt nothing.
Nonsense!
The whole universe exists for the player—how could they not let him in?
Cypher's expression shifted, his figure stiffening for a moment, then his hand slipped nonchalantly to his holstered gun. Guilliman had anticipated all this and already made his plans.
"Take him," Guilliman ordered.
The Custodes and many Astartes moved in, surrounding Cypher and his group. Seeing the tide turn and resistance become futile, Cypher surrendered, raising his hands and allowing himself to be escorted out.
Datch and Guilliman approached the throne room doors.
"Bell—!"
"Bell—!!"
"Bell—!!!"
Heavy bells tolled in the distance, spreading through the cathedral like a soul-purifying wave.
Amid the bell's echoes, under millions of watching eyes, the majestic throne room doors slowly swung inward. Fanatical believers craned their necks, hoping for a glimpse of the Golden Throne through the widening gap. But all they saw was darkness and swirling mist.
Datch and Guilliman entered through the open doors, which then slowly closed, sealing off the inside.
Beyond the doors was not the throne itself, but a long corridor guarded by gigantic Custodes. Any intruder would be shattered by their heavy firepower. Passing through, they reached the entrance hall of the throne room—a space of exaggerated size with many magnificent chambers. Some were vast and spark-filled, flickering like a heart; others cold as a crypt, filled with crystalline fusion leaves. Most were empty, echoing only with the regular humming of automated machines. Occasionally, red-robed Mechanicus sages could be seen, busy with maintenance or directing silent servitors in delicate tasks.
After passing through these chambers, they reached the Throne room, the Warp Gate. Thicker and more imposing than the outer doors, its mottled surface of dark terracotta steel absorbed the light. In the center, a huge, blurred, pained face was engraved, shrouded in shadow.
The golden-armored and black-robed Custodes opened the last door for Datch and Guilliman. As the heavy doors slowly opened, Datch was stunned by the sight.
Neatly aligned columns wrapped in massive cables stretched into the misty depths. Each was a giant power regulator, the matrix pillars glowing brightly. Magnificent machinery shone with golden light and mist—impossible to imagine if not seen, like the dawn of eternity itself. At the deepest part of this mysterious mechanical world stood a vast, stepped pyramid. At its summit was the legendary Golden Throne.
Upon the throne sat a mutilated corpse, clad in tattered golden armor, its flesh covered in shocking wounds. The head drooped weakly to one side, the skull clearly cracked and dented. The face was shriveled, the skin withered to the bone, eye sockets sunken. By all appearances, it was a corpse.
But as Guilliman walked toward the pyramid, gazing up at the throne in the golden light, his feelings mixed and complex, Datch saw the corpse's ribcage—thin and worn—faintly undulating, like an old bellows.
"Huh? Old Emperor is faking his death!".
...
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