Kevin had been the God-Emperor of Mankind for approximately four months, two weeks, and three days when he first became aware that someone was trying to repair the Golden Throne.
This was, on the surface, excellent news.
The Golden Throne was failing—Kevin knew this intimately, could feel it in the way certain systems required more effort to maintain, in the way pain spikes occurred with increasing frequency, in the way the ancient mechanisms groaned under the weight of keeping him alive and keeping the Astronomican burning and keeping the Webway breach sealed.
The original Emperor had known the Throne was failing too, had spent millennia aware that each passing century brought the final collapse closer, had watched helplessly as the Adeptus Mechanicus performed their maintenance rituals with less and less effectiveness as the technology degraded beyond their ability to comprehend.
So the idea that someone was finally, finally trying to do something about this existential threat to humanity's survival should have been cause for celebration.
Should have been.
The problem was that the someone in question was the Adeptus Mechanicus.
And Kevin had spent enough time observing the Adeptus Mechanicus to develop what might charitably be called "serious concerns" about their approach to technology in general and the Golden Throne in particular.
The awareness came gradually, as most of Kevin's awarenesses did, filtering through the constant static of psychic perception that had become his primary means of interacting with the universe.
He felt the presence of Tech-Priests in the deeper levels of the Sanctum Imperialis, areas that were normally off-limits to everyone except the most senior members of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Custodes who guarded every inch of the Imperial Palace.
He felt the activation of ancient systems that had lain dormant for centuries, machines whose purposes had been forgotten but whose power signatures were now flickering to life.
He felt the prayers.
So many prayers.
The Tech-Priests were praying to every aspect of the Machine God they could think of, beseeching the Omnissiah for guidance, reciting binary catechisms that had been passed down through generations of priests without any understanding of what they actually meant.
And somewhere in the midst of all this prayer and ritual and activation of ancient systems, Kevin perceived something that made his metaphorical heart sink.
They were going to try to fix the Golden Throne.
They were going to try to fix the Golden Throne without actually understanding how the Golden Throne worked.
This was going to end badly.
The leader of the repair effort was a Magos named Hieronymus Cawl-Inferior, a name that Kevin found deeply unfortunate for reasons that the Magos probably didn't appreciate.
Cawl-Inferior was, as his name suggested, a lesser creation of the legendary Belisarius Cawl, one of the many "children" that the ancient Archmagos had spawned over his ten-thousand-year existence—fragments of consciousness and knowledge that had been copied into new bodies to serve as extensions of Cawl's will and expertise.
This particular fragment had been tasked with the study of the Golden Throne, a responsibility that Cawl-Inferior approached with the kind of enthusiasm that Kevin found deeply concerning in someone who was about to poke at the machinery keeping the entire Imperium alive.
Kevin watched as Cawl-Inferior made his way through the labyrinthine corridors that surrounded the Sanctum Imperialis, followed by a retinue of lesser Tech-Priests and servitors carrying equipment that looked both incredibly advanced and incredibly old at the same time.
The Magos moved with the kind of confident purpose that suggested he believed he knew exactly what he was doing.
Kevin could perceive, with terrible clarity, that Cawl-Inferior did not, in fact, know what he was doing.
Please don't, Kevin thought, even though he knew the thought would never reach its intended target. Please, for the love of everything, don't try to fix something you don't understand. Just leave it alone. Just let it keep barely functioning. Barely functioning is better than catastrophically broken.
But of course, the Mechanicus never just left things alone.
That wasn't their way.
Their way was to poke and prod and pray and apply sacred oils and recite litanies and hope that the Machine God would guide their hands to the correct solution.
Their way was, in Kevin's increasingly desperate opinion, completely insane.
The first day of the repair effort was, all things considered, relatively uneventful.
Cawl-Inferior and his team spent most of their time conducting what they called "sacred diagnostics"—a process that involved connecting various scanning devices to the external components of the Golden Throne while reciting prayers that seemed to be about fifty percent genuine religious devotion and fifty percent corrupted technical documentation.
Kevin watched as streams of data flowed through the Mechanicus equipment, data that he could perceive with perfect clarity thanks to his psychic connection to basically everything in the Sanctum Imperialis.
The data was accurate.
The data showed exactly what was wrong with the Golden Throne—the failing power conduits, the degraded psychic amplifiers, the biological decay that was slowly consuming what remained of his physical body, the countless other problems that had accumulated over ten millennia of continuous operation without proper maintenance.
The data showed all of this.
And the Tech-Priests completely misinterpreted it.
"The sacred machine's spirit is troubled," Cawl-Inferior announced to his team, studying the readouts with what Kevin assumed was supposed to be profound contemplation. "The anima of the Throne cries out for succor. We must soothe its distress with appropriate rituals before we can attempt more direct intervention."
That's not what the data says, Kevin thought desperately. The data says the power conduits are failing because they've been running at maximum capacity for ten thousand years without replacement. The data says the psychic amplifiers are degraded because nobody knows how to manufacture new ones. The data says I'm literally rotting and the life support systems can barely keep up with the decay. None of this has anything to do with the machine's "spirit" being "troubled."
But Cawl-Inferior couldn't hear him.
No one could hear him.
And so the Magos and his team began their rituals, chanting prayers and applying sacred oils and burning incense that made Kevin's already-tortured senses even more uncomfortable, all in an effort to soothe a "machine spirit" that didn't exist in the way they thought it did.
The first day ended with no actual repairs attempted and no actual progress made.
Kevin tried to tell himself that this was fine.
At least they hadn't made anything worse.
Yet.
The second day was when things started to go wrong.
Cawl-Inferior, apparently satisfied that the Golden Throne's "spirit" had been sufficiently soothed, decided to move on to what he called "minor adjustments to the sacred power flow matrices."
Kevin, who could perceive exactly what these "minor adjustments" would actually do to the delicate balance of systems that kept him alive, felt something approaching panic.
No, he thought. No no no no no. Don't touch that. Don't adjust that. That's not a "power flow matrix," that's a psychic feedback dampener, and if you adjust it wrong—
Cawl-Inferior touched it.
Cawl-Inferior adjusted it.
And Kevin screamed.
Not physically, of course—he still couldn't produce any physical sound—but psychically, a burst of agony that radiated through the Warp and was felt by psykers across the entire Sol System.
The "minor adjustment" had disrupted the careful balance that kept Kevin's psychic output at sustainable levels, causing a feedback loop that amplified his pain approximately tenfold for approximately seven seconds before the Golden Throne's automatic systems compensated and restored something approaching the previous equilibrium.
Seven seconds.
It didn't sound like much.
But when you were already in constant agony, and that agony suddenly became ten times worse, seven seconds felt like an eternity of suffering that made Kevin seriously consider whether it might be better to just let the Throne fail and end everything.
Across the Sol System, seventeen astropaths died instantly from the psychic backlash.
Another forty-three were permanently brain-damaged.
The Astronomican flickered in a way that sent three Warp-traveling vessels off course, one of which would not be heard from again for another six years.
And Cawl-Inferior, completely oblivious to the devastation his "minor adjustment" had caused, nodded in satisfaction at the readings on his diagnostic equipment.
"The power flow has been optimized," he announced to his team. "The Omnissiah guides our hands."
THE OMNISSIAH WANTS YOU TO STOP TOUCHING THINGS, Kevin thought furiously. I AM THE OMNISSIAH, TECHNICALLY, AND I AM TELLING YOU TO STOP TOUCHING THINGS.
But of course, Cawl-Inferior couldn't hear him.
The work continued.
Day three brought what Cawl-Inferior called "reconsecration of the primary nutrient delivery systems."
This was, Kevin realized with dawning horror, Tech-Priest-speak for "adjusting the feeding tubes."
The Golden Throne kept Kevin's body alive through a complex system of nutrient delivery that had been designed by the original Emperor himself, a system that provided exactly the right combination of sustenance to maintain his decaying flesh in something approaching functionality.
Cawl-Inferior decided this system needed to be improved.
It doesn't need to be improved, Kevin thought desperately. It's working. It's barely working, but it's working. Please just leave it alone. Please—
The Magos began his adjustments.
Kevin felt the nutrient flow change.
The balance of chemicals entering his body shifted, some components increasing while others decreased, the careful formula that the original Emperor had devised being replaced by something that Cawl-Inferior apparently thought was better.
It was not better.
Kevin's body began to react to the change almost immediately.
The decay accelerated.
Tissues that had been barely stable began to break down more rapidly.
Systems that had been barely functional began to fail.
And the pain—the constant, background pain that Kevin had almost become accustomed to—spiked to new levels as his body began to die slightly faster than it had been dying before.
Put it back, Kevin screamed into the void. Put it back put it back PUT IT BACK—
But Cawl-Inferior was already moving on to the next adjustment, apparently satisfied with his work on the nutrient systems, completely unaware that he had just shortened the Golden Throne's remaining operational lifespan by approximately fifty years.
Fifty years.
That might not sound like much in the context of a ten-thousand-year imprisonment, but the Throne had been estimated to have perhaps a thousand years of functionality remaining.
Cawl-Inferior had just reduced that to nine hundred and fifty.
With a single "improvement."
And he wasn't done "improving" yet.
Day four was when the Custodes finally noticed that something was wrong.
Kevin had been trying, with increasing desperation, to get their attention since day two—pushing against the limits of the Golden Throne, straining to send some kind of signal that might alert the Emperor's guardians to the fact that the Tech-Priests were actively making things worse.
It hadn't worked.
The Custodes were aware that maintenance was being performed on the Golden Throne.
They were aware that Cawl-Inferior was a representative of Belisarius Cawl, one of the few members of the Mechanicus who had demonstrated genuine competence in technical matters.
They assumed, as the Custodes always assumed, that the experts knew what they were doing and that the Emperor's needs were being attended to.
They were wrong.
But on day four, something happened that finally got their attention.
The Golden Throne hiccuped.
There was no other word for it.
One moment, everything was functioning at its usual barely-adequate level.
The next moment, the entire apparatus shuddered, the Astronomican flickered wildly, the wards around Terra wavered in a way that made every psyker on the planet suddenly very nervous, and Kevin experienced a brief moment of absolute terror as he felt the mechanisms that kept him alive sputter and struggle and almost—almost—fail completely.
And then the moment passed.
The Throne stabilized.
The Astronomican steadied.
The wards firmed up.
And Kevin was left with the psychic equivalent of a racing heart and the absolute certainty that if Cawl-Inferior continued his "repairs," the next hiccup might be the last one.
The Custodes, finally, took notice.
Captain-General Trajann Valoris arrived in the maintenance section approximately three hours after the hiccup, his golden armor gleaming with the kind of perfection that suggested he had taken the time to have it polished before confronting the Tech-Priests, which was either a power move or a sign that Custodes had unusual priorities.
Kevin watched the confrontation with something approaching hope.
Surely Valoris would recognize that something was wrong.
Surely the Captain-General would order Cawl-Inferior to stop his "repairs" before he killed the Emperor and doomed humanity.
Surely someone would finally, finally, put a stop to this madness.
"Magos Cawl-Inferior," Valoris said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, "explain what just happened."
Cawl-Inferior turned to face the Captain-General, his mechadendrites twitching with what might have been nervousness or might have been some kind of involuntary motor function—it was hard to tell with Tech-Priests.
"A minor fluctuation in the sacred systems," Cawl-Inferior replied, his vocalizer producing the words with perfect calm that completely failed to match the severity of the situation. "The Machine God tests us. He challenges us to prove our devotion through perseverance. We have already identified the cause and implemented corrections."
That's not true, Kevin thought. That's absolutely not true. You have no idea what caused the fluctuation. You have no idea how to prevent it from happening again. You're just making things up because you don't want to admit that your "repairs" are breaking everything.
But Valoris, for all his ten thousand years of experience and all his genetically enhanced capabilities, could not perceive Kevin's desperate attempts at communication.
All the Captain-General could perceive was a Tech-Priest who spoke with confidence and claimed to have the situation under control.
"The Emperor's well-being is paramount," Valoris said, his tone making it clear that this was not a statement open to debate. "If there is any further disruption to the Golden Throne's functions, this repair effort will be terminated immediately."
"Of course, Captain-General," Cawl-Inferior replied. "The Omnissiah would expect nothing less. I assure you, the sacred work proceeds according to the will of the Machine God."
It doesn't, Kevin thought miserably. It really, really doesn't.
Valoris studied the Tech-Priest for a long moment, his enhanced senses presumably searching for any sign of deception or incompetence.
But Cawl-Inferior believed what he was saying.
Cawl-Inferior was completely, utterly, absolutely convinced that his work was proceeding according to plan and that the Golden Throne was being improved by his ministrations.
He was wrong, but he wasn't lying.
And Valoris, who could detect lies but apparently couldn't detect sincere incompetence, eventually nodded.
"Continue your work," the Captain-General said. "But know that you are being watched."
NO, Kevin thought. NO, DON'T LET HIM CONTINUE. STOP HIM. STOP HIM NOW BEFORE HE KILLS ME AND EVERYONE ELSE IN THE GALAXY—
But Valoris was already turning away, already walking out of the maintenance section, already returning to his other duties with the satisfaction of having addressed the situation.
And Cawl-Inferior was already turning back to the Golden Throne, already preparing his next round of "improvements," already setting up to make everything even worse.
Kevin would have wept if he could have wept.
Instead, he just sat there, trapped and helpless, watching the Mechanicus slowly kill him while trying to save him.
Day five was when Cawl-Inferior discovered the auxiliary psychic conduits.
These were, Kevin understood from the original Emperor's memories, emergency backup systems—redundant pathways for psychic energy that existed in case the primary conduits failed, providing a way to maintain essential functions even if parts of the Golden Throne were damaged.
They had been designed to be self-contained, self-regulating, and above all else, not to be touched under any circumstances.
Cawl-Inferior touched them.
Why, Kevin thought, watching the Magos examine the conduits with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. Why would you touch something you don't understand? Why would you interfere with systems that have been working perfectly fine for ten thousand years? What possible reason could you have for—
"These conduits appear to be operating at reduced efficiency," Cawl-Inferior announced to his team. "The sacred pathways have become occluded with spiritual residue. We must purify them to restore optimal function."
They're supposed to operate at reduced efficiency, Kevin thought frantically. That's how they were designed. They're backups. They're meant to sit there doing almost nothing until they're needed. If you "purify" them, you'll—
Cawl-Inferior began the purification.
The effect was immediate.
The auxiliary conduits, suddenly forced to operate at "optimal" capacity, began drawing psychic energy away from the primary systems.
The Golden Throne's power balance shifted.
The Astronomican dimmed.
The wards around Terra weakened.
And Kevin felt something give way in the complex web of machinery and psychic energy that kept him alive—something small, something that might have lasted another century if it had been left alone, but that was now breaking because a Tech-Priest had decided that "optimal efficiency" was more important than "not destroying everything."
Stop, Kevin pleaded into the void. Please stop. Please, please, please stop. You're killing me. You're killing everyone. Just STOP.
But Cawl-Inferior didn't stop.
Cawl-Inferior wouldn't stop.
Cawl-Inferior was convinced that the Machine God had called him to this sacred task, that his work was essential for the survival of the Imperium, that every adjustment he made was bringing the Golden Throne closer to its ideal state.
And nothing—not the failing systems, not the dimming Astronomican, not the psychic screams of the being he was supposedly trying to save—could convince him otherwise.
The Mechanicus worked for twelve more days.
Twelve more days of "improvements."
Twelve more days of "optimizations."
Twelve more days of Cawl-Inferior and his team slowly, methodically, enthusiastically making everything worse while absolutely convinced they were making everything better.
By the end of it, Kevin estimated that the Golden Throne had lost approximately two hundred years of remaining operational lifespan.
Two hundred years.
Gone.
Because the Adeptus Mechanicus had tried to help.
This is fine, Kevin thought, and the thought was so bitter that he was surprised it didn't poison his own consciousness. This is totally fine. I've only got about seven hundred and fifty years left before everything collapses and humanity is annihilated. Plenty of time. Plenty of time to figure out how to communicate. Plenty of time to fix everything. Plenty of time to—
He stopped thinking.
There was no point.
There was no hope.
There was only the endless suffering, the constant awareness of his own powerlessness, and the knowledge that the people trying to save him were actually killing him and there was nothing he could do about it.
Kevin Chen, former resident of Ohio, former IT support specialist, current God-Emperor of Mankind, sat on his throne of agony and tried very hard not to think about how much worse things could possibly get.
Things, as it turned out, could get quite a bit worse.
And they were about to.
The Living Saint arrived on the eighteenth day after Cawl-Inferior's departure, when Kevin had finally begun to recover from the stress of watching the Mechanicus damage his life support systems for two weeks straight.
Kevin felt her coming long before she reached the Sanctum Imperialis.
She blazed through his psychic senses like a comet through the darkness of space, a concentration of faith and power and divine energy that was so different from everything else Kevin had perceived since his awakening that he couldn't help but focus on her approach.
She was, Kevin realized with a mixture of fascination and dread, one of the few beings in the Imperium who was genuinely connected to the power of the Emperor.
Not in the way that the Ecclesiarchy claimed everyone was connected.
Not in the metaphorical, theological sense that the Cardinals preached about.
Actually connected.
The Living Saint carried a fragment of the Emperor's power within her—or rather, a fragment of the power that had belonged to the original Emperor, power that somehow continued to exist and manifest through mortal vessels even while its source sat trapped and helpless on the Golden Throne.
Kevin had known, from his previous life's reading, that Living Saints existed.
He had known that they were supposed to be miraculous beings, holy warriors who could return from death and perform feats that defied explanation.
He had known that their power came from the Emperor.
What he hadn't known—what he was only now beginning to understand as the Living Saint drew closer—was that this power connection might work both ways.
If she could draw power from him...
Could she also perceive him?
Could she sense that something was different?
Could she, perhaps, be a way to finally communicate with someone, anyone, about his situation?
Kevin felt something that he hadn't felt in months.
Hope.
Dangerous, fragile, probably-going-to-be-crushed hope.
But hope nonetheless.
Her name was Celestine, and she was the most famous Living Saint in the Imperium.
Kevin recognized her the moment she entered the Sanctum Imperialis, her appearance matching the artwork and descriptions he had seen in his previous life—the golden armor, the magnificent wings, the halo of light that surrounded her like a visible manifestation of divine favor.
She was beautiful in the way that religious icons were beautiful, not quite human anymore but something more, something that had been touched by power beyond mortal comprehension and transformed into a symbol of faith made flesh.
She had come, Kevin understood from his psychic awareness of events throughout the Palace, to receive a blessing before leading a crusade to retake a system that had fallen to Chaos.
It was a routine visit, as much as anything involving a Living Saint could be routine.
She would kneel before the Golden Throne.
She would pray.
She would feel her connection to the Emperor strengthen, her power recharge, her purpose reaffirm.
And then she would leave, and Kevin would be alone again, and nothing would have changed.
Unless.
Unless she could sense what Kevin was desperately, frantically trying to project.
Unless the connection that gave her power also gave her perception.
Unless, for the first time since his reincarnation, Kevin might actually be able to communicate with another being.
Please, Kevin thought, focusing all of his attention on the approaching Saint. Please notice me. Please sense that something is different. Please understand that I need help.
Celestine entered the Sanctum Imperialis.
The Custodes stepped aside, as they always did for one who carried the Emperor's blessing.
The Living Saint approached the Golden Throne with the kind of reverence that Kevin had seen in countless visitors—the slow, deliberate steps, the bowed head, the posture of absolute devotion.
But as she drew closer, something changed.
Kevin saw it in the way her steps faltered, just slightly.
He saw it in the way her head tilted, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
He saw it in the way her eyes—her beautiful, inhuman, faith-filled eyes—widened with what looked almost like confusion.
She could sense it.
She could sense that something was different.
Kevin pushed harder, straining against the limits of the Golden Throne, trying to project something, anything, that might help her understand—
And Celestine stopped.
She stood before the Golden Throne, close enough that Kevin could perceive every detail of her expression, and she looked up at the withered corpse that was supposedly the God-Emperor of Mankind, and Kevin saw in her eyes a dawning realization that made his metaphorical heart soar.
She knew.
She could tell.
She understood that the being on the Golden Throne was not what everyone thought it was.
Yes, Kevin thought frantically. Yes, that's right. Something is different. Something has changed. I'm not him. I'm someone else. I need help. Please, please, please help me—
Celestine's expression shifted.
The confusion faded.
Understanding took its place.
And then, to Kevin's absolute horror, the Living Saint dropped to her knees and began to pray with an intensity that exceeded anything Kevin had witnessed since his arrival on the Golden Throne.
"God-Emperor," Celestine breathed, her voice trembling with emotion, "I understand now. I finally understand."
No, Kevin thought, a cold feeling of dread spreading through his consciousness. No, wait. What do you understand? What do you think you understand?
"You have been reborn," Celestine continued, tears streaming down her perfect face. "The ancient prophecies spoke of this day. The God-Emperor would die and rise again, transformed, renewed, more powerful than ever before. And now it has happened. You have shed your old self and become something new. Something greater."
That's not what happened, Kevin thought desperately. That's not what happened at all. I'm not a reborn version of the Emperor. I'm a completely different person. I'm from Ohio. I worked in IT support. I died choking on a Dorito. This is not a divine transformation, it's a cosmic accident—
But Celestine couldn't hear him.
Celestine could sense that something was different, but she couldn't perceive what that difference actually was.
And so she had filled in the gaps with the only explanation that made sense to someone raised in the absolute faith of the Imperial Creed—the God-Emperor had been reborn.
The prophecies were true.
A new age was dawning.
And Celestine was going to tell everyone.
No, Kevin thought. No no no no no. Please don't tell everyone. Please don't spread this around. This is going to make everything so much worse—
Celestine left the Sanctum Imperialis approximately forty-five minutes later, after completing a series of prayers that were apparently designed to celebrate the Emperor's divine rebirth and request guidance for the momentous times ahead.
Kevin had spent those forty-five minutes desperately trying to correct her misunderstanding, pushing against the limits of the Golden Throne, straining to project some message—any message—that might convey the truth of his situation.
None of it had worked.
The Living Saint had felt his efforts, Kevin knew.
She had perceived them as the God-Emperor's blessing, as confirmation of her revelation, as divine approval of her plan to share the good news with the entire Imperium.
Everything Kevin tried to communicate was filtered through her faith, translated into something that supported her existing beliefs, twisted into validation of the very thing he was trying to deny.
It was like arguing with someone on Reddit who was absolutely convinced they were right—except Reddit arguments didn't have cosmic consequences and this argument would probably result in religious upheaval across a million worlds.
This is bad, Kevin thought, watching Celestine depart. This is really, really bad. She's going to tell people that the Emperor has been reborn. The Ecclesiarchy is going to have opinions about that. The Inquisition is going to have opinions about that. Everyone is going to have opinions about that, and none of those opinions are going to be helpful, and all of them are probably going to result in people dying.
He was right.
The news of Celestine's "revelation" began to spread almost immediately.
The Ecclesiarchy's response to the news was, predictably, complicated.
On one hand, the idea that the God-Emperor had been reborn was theologically significant in ways that aligned with certain interpretations of the Imperial Creed, interpretations that suggested the Emperor would one day rise from the Golden Throne and lead humanity to a new golden age.
On the other hand, the idea that the God-Emperor had been reborn challenged certain other interpretations of the Imperial Creed, interpretations that suggested the Emperor's current state was permanent and that salvation could only come through unwavering faith in His eternal suffering.
On the third hand—and the Ecclesiarchy had many hands—the idea that a Living Saint had received this revelation raised questions about who had the authority to interpret the Emperor's will, questions that certain factions within the Church had very strong opinions about.
Kevin watched as the theological debates began to unfold across the Imperium, countless Cardinals and Confessors and Church officials arguing about the implications of Celestine's vision, each faction interpreting the news in whatever way best supported their existing positions.
Some proclaimed that the Emperor's rebirth validated their particular brand of devotion.
Others proclaimed that the Emperor's rebirth challenged their rivals' heresies.
Still others proclaimed that the entire revelation was false, that Celestine had been deceived by Chaos, that anyone who believed her claims was themselves a heretic who should be purged.
Wars started.
Actual wars.
On seventeen different worlds, Kevin watched as followers of different theological interpretations began fighting each other over the implications of a revelation that was itself based on a complete misunderstanding of what had actually happened.
Millions of people died.
Millions of faithful Imperial citizens, fighting and killing each other over whether the God-Emperor had been reborn or not, over what that rebirth meant for the Church's doctrines, over who had the authority to interpret the Living Saint's vision.
All because Kevin had tried to communicate.
All because he had pushed too hard, reached out too desperately, made Celestine aware that something was different without being able to explain what that difference actually was.
I did this, Kevin thought, watching another world descend into religious civil war. I tried to help, and I made everything worse. Just like the Mechanicus. Just like everyone who tries to fix things in this galaxy. Nothing ever gets better. It only gets worse.
The despair that washed over him was so complete, so overwhelming, that Kevin wondered if this was what it had been like for the original Emperor—if this was why the being who had once dreamed of guiding humanity to a bright future had eventually retreated into silence, letting the Imperium stumble forward without guidance because any attempt at guidance only made things worse.
Maybe silence was better.
Maybe helplessness was the only sane response to a galaxy that was determined to destroy itself.
Maybe Kevin should just accept his situation, stop trying to change anything, let events unfold however they were going to unfold.
The Inquisition's response to the theological crisis was, predictably, violent.
Inquisitors were dispatched to dozens of worlds, tasked with suppressing the "heresy" of the Emperor's rebirth—or, depending on which faction of the Inquisition had sent them, with promoting the "truth" of the Emperor's rebirth.
Kevin watched as Inquisitors fought other Inquisitors, as the organization that was supposed to protect the Imperium from its enemies tore itself apart over a question that Kevin could have answered in five seconds if anyone had been able to hear him.
No, the Emperor was not reborn. Yes, there is something different about the being on the Golden Throne. No, that difference is not a divine transformation. Yes, I am a guy from Ohio who died choking on a Dorito. No, I cannot explain how I ended up here. Yes, I would very much like it if everyone stopped killing each other over theological questions I could easily answer if anyone would just LISTEN TO ME.
But no one was listening.
No one could listen.
And the killing continued.
Celestine herself became a target.
Factions within the Ecclesiarchy that opposed her revelation denounced her as a false saint, a tool of Chaos, a heretic who had been corrupted by the very enemies she claimed to fight.
Assassination attempts were made.
Wars were fought in her name, both by those who believed her and those who sought to silence her.
The Living Saint, who had wanted nothing more than to share what she believed was wonderful news, found herself at the center of a storm that threatened to tear the Imperium apart.
Kevin watched her struggle with what was happening.
He could perceive her faith, still absolute, still unshaken—she knew what she had sensed in the Sanctum Imperialis, and no amount of opposition could make her doubt it.
But he could also perceive her pain as the revelation she had meant as a gift became a source of division and violence, as the truth she had tried to share became a catalyst for war.
I'm sorry, Kevin thought toward her, knowing she couldn't hear him but unable to stop himself. I'm sorry you got caught up in this. I'm sorry I dragged you into my mess. I was just trying to communicate. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.
But apologies couldn't undo the damage.
Nothing could undo the damage.
The Imperium continued to tear itself apart, fighting over a revelation that was itself a misinterpretation, killing each other over a truth that was actually a lie, all while the actual God-Emperor—the being who could have resolved everything with a single clear statement—sat trapped on his throne and watched in helpless despair.
Guilliman arrived on Terra approximately three weeks after Celestine's revelation, summoned from the front lines of his eternal war to address the crisis that was threatening to destabilize the Imperium from within.
Kevin watched the Primarch enter the Imperial Palace, felt the weight of Guilliman's exhaustion and frustration and barely-contained fury at being pulled away from essential military operations to deal with yet another internal conflict.
The Lord Commander of the Imperium was not happy.
And he was about to become even less happy.
Guilliman convened a council in the great audience chamber of the Palace, gathering the leaders of the major Imperial factions to discuss the crisis and determine a response.
The Custodes were represented by Trajann Valoris, whose golden armor gleamed with the perfection that Kevin had come to expect from the Emperor's guardians.
The Ecclesiarchy was represented by Ecclesiarch Decius XXIII, a man whose elaborate vestments and ornate headpiece suggested that he viewed the crisis primarily as an opportunity to advance his faction's positions within the Church.
The Inquisition was represented by three different Inquisitor Lords, each from different Ordos, each barely tolerating the presence of the others.
The Mechanicus was represented by a Magos whose name Kevin didn't recognize but whose presence made him tense instinctively after his recent experience with Cawl-Inferior.
And Celestine herself was there, standing apart from the others, her wings folded behind her back, her expression calm despite the storm that raged around her.
Kevin watched.
Kevin listened.
And Kevin waited to see how badly this meeting was going to go.
"The situation is untenable," Guilliman began, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the assembled leaders with the authority that only a Primarch could command. "The Imperium faces existential threats on every front. We cannot afford to have our forces fighting each other over theological interpretations."
"With respect, Lord Commander," Ecclesiarch Decius said, "this is not merely a matter of theological interpretation. The question of the Emperor's rebirth goes to the very heart of the Imperial faith. If the Living Saint's vision is true, it changes everything. If it is false, she is a heretic of the highest order."
"I am not a heretic," Celestine said, her voice quiet but unwavering. "I know what I sensed in the Sanctum Imperialis. The Emperor has changed. Something is different. I do not claim to understand the full nature of that change, but I will not deny what I perceived."
Thank you, Kevin thought. At least someone is willing to acknowledge that they don't have all the answers. If only you could understand what the actual answer is—
"Something being different does not mean the Emperor has been reborn," one of the Inquisitor Lords interjected. "It could mean Chaos corruption. It could mean psychic deterioration. It could mean any number of things that would have very different implications than the resurrection narrative that has spread across the Imperium."
"You dare suggest the God-Emperor has been corrupted?" Ecclesiarch Decius demanded, his voice rising in outrage. "That is heresy of the highest order!"
"I suggest nothing," the Inquisitor Lord replied coldly. "I merely point out that the Living Saint's interpretation is not the only possible explanation for what she sensed. We should investigate before declaring a new theological truth."
"Investigate the God-Emperor?" another Church official spluttered. "That itself is heresy!"
The meeting devolved into argument.
Kevin watched as the leaders of the Imperium shouted at each other, each defending their own faction's interpretation, each refusing to consider that they might be wrong.
It was like watching a particularly heated Reddit thread, except the participants had armies and the consequences of their disagreement were measured in billions of lives.
Guilliman let the argument continue for approximately three minutes before slamming his fist on the table hard enough to crack the ancient wood.
"ENOUGH."
Silence fell.
The Primarch looked around the table, his expression conveying the kind of exhausted frustration that Kevin had become very familiar with over the past few months.
"We will not resolve this through debate," Guilliman said. "The theological questions will take centuries to settle, and we do not have centuries. We must find a way to address the immediate crisis while allowing the larger questions to be examined over time."
"What do you propose?" Trajann Valoris asked, speaking for the first time since the meeting began.
Guilliman was silent for a long moment, clearly considering his options.
Then he looked up at the ceiling of the audience chamber, as if he could see through the stone and metal to the Sanctum Imperialis far above, where Kevin sat on his throne and watched and listened and desperately wished he could participate in this conversation.
"I propose," Guilliman said slowly, "that we go to the source. I propose that we consult the Emperor directly."
Kevin's metaphorical heart stopped.
What?
"The Emperor does not speak," Ecclesiarch Decius pointed out. "He has not spoken since the Heresy."
"No," Guilliman agreed. "But the Living Saint claims to have perceived something from Him. Perhaps, with sufficient focus and preparation, others might perceive something as well. Perhaps there is a way to discern the truth of what has changed, rather than fighting wars over speculation."
Yes, Kevin thought, hope surging through him again despite his best efforts to suppress it. Yes! Come to the Throne. Try to perceive me. Maybe if enough of you focus together, maybe if you really try to listen, I can make you understand—
The gathered leaders exchanged glances.
Some looked skeptical.
Others looked intrigued.
Celestine looked relieved, as if Guilliman's proposal might finally vindicate her.
And Trajann Valoris looked... concerned.
"Lord Commander," the Captain-General said slowly, "the Sanctum Imperialis is a sacred space. The number of beings who have been permitted to approach the Golden Throne in the past ten millennia can be counted on one hand. What you are proposing would be... unprecedented."
"These are unprecedented times," Guilliman replied. "The Imperium cannot survive if we continue fighting ourselves. If there is any chance that we can discern the Emperor's will directly, we must take it."
The debate continued, but Kevin could already see how it would end.
Guilliman was a Primarch.
His authority in military and political matters was essentially absolute.
And he had decided that the leaders of the Imperium were going to visit the Golden Throne and try to communicate with the Emperor.
With Kevin.
For the first time since his reincarnation, Kevin was going to have an audience—a real audience, multiple people focusing their attention on him at once, trying to perceive something from him.
This was his chance.
This was his opportunity to finally, finally, communicate with someone.
He just had to figure out how to do it without making everything worse.
Again.
End of Chapter Four
Next Chapter: Kevin faces the most important moment of his existence as the leaders of the Imperium gather before the Golden Throne to try to perceive his will, discovers that having an audience is actually terrifying when you can't control what they perceive, and learns that Guilliman's suspicious feeling from their first meeting has not gone away—and this time, the Primarch is not going to dismiss it.