The day of the gathering arrived with all the pomp and ceremony that the Imperium could muster, which was to say, an absolutely ridiculous amount of pomp and ceremony that made Kevin deeply uncomfortable even before anyone had actually entered the Sanctum Imperialis.
Kevin had spent the preceding week in a state of anticipation that oscillated wildly between desperate hope and absolute terror, sometimes changing from one to the other multiple times within a single minute as he contemplated the implications of what was about to happen.
On the hope side: this was his chance.
For the first time since his reincarnation, multiple powerful individuals were going to focus their attention on him simultaneously, actively trying to perceive something from him, deliberately opening themselves to whatever communication he might be able to provide.
If there was ever going to be a moment when Kevin could break through the barriers that had kept him isolated, this was it.
On the terror side: this was his chance.
And if he screwed it up—if he sent the wrong message, if they misinterpreted whatever he managed to communicate, if the whole thing went sideways the way everything else in this galaxy seemed to go sideways—the consequences would be catastrophic.
The last time someone had perceived something from him, Celestine had concluded that the Emperor had been reborn and sparked a religious civil war that had killed millions.
What would happen if he accidentally convinced the gathered leaders of the Imperium of something even more wrong?
What if they decided he was a daemon?
What if they decided the Golden Throne had been corrupted?
What if they decided the only safe option was to destroy the Throne and everything connected to it, consequences be damned?
Kevin didn't know.
He couldn't know.
All he could do was wait, and hope, and try to figure out what he was going to say when the moment finally came.
Hi, I'm Kevin from Ohio. I died choking on a Dorito and woke up in the Emperor's body. I'm not actually a god, I just play one on the Golden Throne. Please don't kill me.
Yeah.
That was probably not going to work.
The preparations for the gathering were extensive.
Kevin watched through his psychic senses as the Sanctum Imperialis was prepared for visitors, a process that apparently required three days of ritual purification, sacred incense burning, and the application of enough holy oils to lubricate every machine in the Imperium twice over.
Tech-Priests scurried through the chamber, checking and rechecking systems that Kevin knew they didn't actually understand, performing maintenance rituals that were probably doing more harm than good but that at least made everyone feel like something productive was happening.
Custodes took up positions throughout the space, their golden armor gleaming with fresh polish, their guardian spears held at precisely the correct angle as specified by ten thousand years of tradition.
Ecclesiarchy officials arrived to bless the chamber, performing ceremonies that involved a lot of chanting and incense and the occasional sacrifice of small animals that Kevin really wished he didn't have to perceive in such vivid psychic detail.
And through it all, Kevin sat on the Golden Throne, watching and waiting and trying not to think about how badly this could go.
It's going to be fine, he told himself. You just need to project something simple. Something clear. Something that can't possibly be misinterpreted.
Like what?
Like... "I am not who you think I am."
That could be interpreted as the Emperor denying his divinity, which the Ecclesiarchy would consider heresy.
Okay, how about "Something has changed"?
Celestine already told them that. It didn't help.
How about "Please help me"?
They'll interpret that as the Emperor asking for their devotion and sacrifice. More wars will start.
How about—
Kevin stopped.
There was no message he could think of that couldn't be twisted, misinterpreted, filtered through faith into something completely different from what he intended.
The Imperium was built on ten thousand years of religious devotion to the God-Emperor.
Everything Kevin said would be interpreted through that lens.
Everything he tried to communicate would be transformed by the recipients' existing beliefs into something that confirmed what they already thought.
He was going to fail.
He was going to fail, and it was going to make everything worse, and there was nothing he could do about it.
No, Kevin thought, forcing himself to reject the despair that was creeping through his consciousness. No, I am not going to give up before I even try. I have to at least try. Even if the odds are terrible. Even if failure is likely. I have to try.
Because if I don't try, I'm just going to sit here forever, watching everything fall apart, knowing I had a chance and didn't take it.
That would be worse than failing.
Probably.
Maybe.
I hope.
The gathering began at what Kevin had arbitrarily designated as noon, though the actual time was meaningless in a chamber that had no windows and no natural light, only the eternal golden glow of the Emperor's psychic radiance and the flickering illumination of countless candles and sacred lamps.
They entered in order of precedence, a procession that reflected the complex hierarchy of the Imperium and the even more complex political maneuvering that had determined who would be allowed to participate in this unprecedented event.
First came the Custodes, Trajann Valoris leading a contingent of his golden warriors who took up positions around the perimeter of the chamber, their presence a reminder that whatever happened here, the Emperor's guardians would be watching.
Then came the representatives of the Adeptus Mechanicus, a delegation of Magi whose mechanical bodies clicked and whirred as they moved, their optical sensors immediately focusing on the Golden Throne with the kind of intensity that made Kevin nervous about what "observations" they might be planning.
Then came the Ecclesiarchy, Ecclesiarch Decius XXIII in his elaborate vestments leading a procession of Cardinals and Confessors, each one carrying sacred relics and holy texts that they apparently believed would help them perceive the Emperor's will.
Then came the Inquisition, represented by the same three Inquisitor Lords who had attended Guilliman's council, each one still barely tolerating the presence of the others, each one clearly hoping that this gathering would vindicate their particular faction's interpretation of events.
Then came Celestine, the Living Saint whose revelation had started this whole crisis, her wings folded behind her back, her expression serene despite the weight of expectation that rested on her shoulders.
And finally, last of all, came Roboute Guilliman.
The Primarch entered the Sanctum Imperialis with the kind of presence that made everyone else in the room seem small by comparison, his massive form somehow filling the space in a way that went beyond mere physical size.
Kevin felt Guilliman's attention focus on the Golden Throne—on him—and immediately sensed the same thing he had sensed during their first meeting months ago.
Suspicion.
Not overt, not conscious, but present nonetheless.
Guilliman knew something was different.
Guilliman had known since their first encounter.
And this time, surrounded by witnesses, supported by the collective focus of the Imperium's most powerful beings, Guilliman was not going to dismiss that knowing.
Here we go, Kevin thought. Either this is the moment everything changes, or this is the moment everything gets much, much worse.
Probably both, knowing my luck.
The ceremony began with prayers.
Of course it began with prayers.
Everything in the Imperium began with prayers.
Ecclesiarch Decius led the assembled leaders in a recitation of the Litany of Divine Communion, a prayer that Kevin had never heard before and that was apparently designed specifically for occasions when the faithful sought direct perception of the Emperor's will.
The words washed over Kevin like waves against a shore, familiar in their structure even though he had never encountered this specific prayer—the same patterns of devotion and supplication and desperate hope that characterized all Imperial religious practice.
God-Emperor of Mankind, Master of the Imperium, Lord of All Humanity, we Your faithful servants gather before Your Golden Throne to seek Your guidance...
Kevin tried to focus.
He tried to gather his thoughts, to prepare whatever message he was going to attempt to send, to organize his consciousness into something that might be perceivable by the beings kneeling before him.
It was harder than he expected.
The Golden Throne's connection to the Warp was flooding him with information, as always—the psychic noise of a galaxy at war, the endless suffering and hope and fear of trillions of souls, the pressure of Chaos against his mental barriers.
And now, on top of all that, he had the focused attention of dozens of powerful beings, each one projecting their own expectations and beliefs and desires toward him, each one hoping to perceive something that confirmed their particular interpretation of events.
It was like trying to give a speech in the middle of a hurricane while a crowd of people shouted different questions at him simultaneously.
Focus, Kevin told himself. Focus on what you want to say. Focus on making them understand.
But what did he want to say?
What could he say that wouldn't be twisted into something unrecognizable?
The truth, something whispered in the back of his mind. Tell them the truth. All of it. Let them make of it what they will.
The truth will get me killed, Kevin thought back.
You're already dying, the whisper replied. The Throne is failing. You have maybe seven hundred years left, and that's if the Mechanicus doesn't "help" again. What do you have to lose?
Kevin considered this.
It was a good point.
A terrifying point, but a good one.
He was already trapped.
He was already suffering.
He was already watching everything fall apart.
What was the worst that could happen if he told the truth?
They would kill him?
Part of Kevin—a larger part than he wanted to admit—thought that might actually be a relief.
Okay, he thought. Okay. The truth. All of it. Let's see what happens.
The prayers ended.
Silence fell over the Sanctum Imperialis, a silence so complete that Kevin could hear the faint whirring of the Mechanicus representatives' internal mechanisms and the soft crackle of the candles that illuminated the space.
And then Guilliman spoke.
"We have gathered here," the Primarch said, his voice carrying through the chamber with the kind of authority that only a demigod could command, "to seek understanding. The Living Saint has perceived that something has changed in the Emperor's presence. Some have interpreted this as divine rebirth. Others have interpreted it as corruption or decay. We are here to discern the truth."
He paused, looking around at the assembled leaders.
"I ask that each of you open yourselves to whatever perception may come. Do not filter what you sense through your existing beliefs. Do not interpret before you understand. Simply... perceive."
Kevin felt the attention of the gathered beings intensify.
Dozens of minds, focusing on him simultaneously, trying to perceive whatever he might project.
Psykers among the Inquisition representatives opened their third eyes, their warp-sight turning toward the Golden Throne.
Tech-Priests activated specialized sensors, trying to measure psychic emanations with their sacred instruments.
Celestine's wings spread slightly, her own connection to the Emperor's power strengthening as she prepared to receive whatever vision might come.
And Guilliman...
Guilliman simply looked at the Golden Throne.
Looked at Kevin.
With eyes that saw more than mortal eyes could see, with senses that perceived more than mortal senses could perceive, with a mind that had been designed to understand things that lesser beings could never grasp.
The Primarch was waiting.
They were all waiting.
And Kevin realized that the moment had come.
Now or never, he thought. Truth or silence. Life or... whatever this is.
He reached for his power.
He reached for the connection that bound him to the Warp, to the Astronomican, to the very fabric of reality itself.
And he began to project.
Kevin had never tried to communicate this directly before.
He had pushed against the Golden Throne's limits, had strained to send messages, had desperately attempted to make himself understood.
But he had never simply opened himself up to perception, had never deliberately made his consciousness available for others to examine.
It was terrifying.
It felt like stripping naked in front of a crowd, like opening a diary for strangers to read, like exposing every vulnerability and fear and secret to beings who might use that knowledge to destroy him.
But he did it anyway.
He let them see.
He let them see Kevin.
Not the Emperor.
Not the God of Mankind.
Not the Master of the Imperium or the Lord of Humanity or any of the other titles that had been heaped upon the corpse he now inhabited.
Just Kevin.
Kevin Chen, thirty-four years old, former resident of Ohio, former IT support specialist, owner of a cat named Mr. Whiskers who had probably eaten his face by now, collector of Warhammer 40k miniatures who had never finished painting his Custodes army, guy who had died choking on a Cool Ranch Dorito while arguing about Primarchs on Reddit.
He showed them his life.
His ordinary, boring, wonderful life.
He showed them his death.
The Dorito.
The choking.
The undignified end that had somehow led to this cosmic joke of an afterlife.
He showed them his awakening.
The confusion.
The horror.
The slow realization of where and what he had become.
He showed them his suffering.
The endless pain.
The constant awareness.
The desperate attempts to communicate that had failed again and again and again.
He showed them everything.
Every hope.
Every fear.
Every moment of despair.
Every terrible joke he had made to himself to keep from going completely insane.
He held nothing back.
He let them see the truth.
All of it.
And then he waited to see what they would do with it.
The effect was immediate and dramatic.
Three of the Ecclesiarchy Cardinals collapsed, their minds unable to process what they were perceiving.
Two of the Inquisition's psykers began screaming, their warp-sight overloaded by the sheer alien wrongness of what Kevin was showing them.
The Tech-Priests' sensors went haywire, their instruments recording data that made no sense, readings that contradicted everything they thought they knew about the Emperor's psychic signature.
Celestine gasped, her wings flaring wide, her face showing an expression of profound confusion that was completely at odds with her usual serene certainty.
And Guilliman...
Guilliman stood absolutely still.
The Primarch's face was unreadable.
His body showed no reaction at all.
But his eyes...
His eyes were fixed on the Golden Throne with an intensity that Kevin had never seen before, an intensity that suggested the Primarch was processing something that challenged everything he thought he knew.
He sees it, Kevin thought. He sees the truth. He understands.
But what would Guilliman do with that understanding?
What would any of them do?
Kevin had shown them everything.
He had told them the truth.
Now he could only wait to see how they would interpret it.
The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.
Kevin watched the assembled leaders of the Imperium struggle with what they had perceived, their faces showing various expressions of shock and confusion and disbelief.
The Cardinals who had collapsed were being attended to by their subordinates, their unconscious forms carried to the edges of the chamber.
The screaming psykers had been sedated by their Inquisitor Lords, their minds apparently unable to handle the cognitive dissonance of what they had witnessed.
The Tech-Priests were conferring in rapid bursts of binary, their mechanical voices clicking and chirping as they tried to make sense of data that defied their understanding.
And still, Guilliman stood motionless, staring at the Golden Throne.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, the Primarch spoke.
"Everyone out."
His voice was quiet, but it carried an authority that no one in the chamber dared to question.
"Lord Commander—" Ecclesiarch Decius began.
"Out. Now. All of you."
The Ecclesiarch opened his mouth to protest further, then apparently thought better of it.
The Primarch's expression did not invite argument.
Slowly, reluctantly, the gathered leaders of the Imperium began to file out of the Sanctum Imperialis.
The Cardinals were carried by their subordinates.
The Inquisitor Lords departed with their sedated psykers.
The Tech-Priests clicked and whirred their way toward the exit, still conferring in urgent binary.
Celestine paused at the door, looking back at the Golden Throne with an expression that Kevin couldn't quite read.
But even she, eventually, departed.
Only the Custodes remained, taking up their positions around the perimeter of the chamber, their golden forms as still and silent as statues.
And Guilliman.
The Primarch stood alone before the Golden Throne, looking up at Kevin with eyes that seemed to pierce through flesh and metal and psychic barriers to the consciousness trapped within.
"Leave us," Guilliman said to the Custodes.
Trajann Valoris stepped forward. "Lord Commander, we cannot—"
"Leave. Us."
The Captain-General hesitated for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he bowed his head.
"As you command, Lord Commander. But we will remain just outside the doors."
"Acceptable."
The Custodes filed out, their golden armor gleaming in the eternal light of the Sanctum.
The doors closed behind them.
And Kevin was alone with the Primarch.
Guilliman stood in silence for a long time, still staring at the Golden Throne.
Kevin watched him, trying to read the Primarch's expression, trying to anticipate what was about to happen.
He had shown them everything.
He had told them the truth.
Guilliman had to understand now.
He had to know that Kevin was not the Emperor.
That the being on the Golden Throne was an imposter.
That everything the Imperium believed about its God was built on a lie.
He's going to kill me, Kevin thought. He's going to decide I'm a daemon or a xenos parasite or some kind of Chaos corruption, and he's going to kill me. And honestly, that might be okay. At least it would be over.
But Guilliman didn't move to attack.
Instead, the Primarch did something that Kevin did not expect.
He knelt.
The Lord Commander of the Imperium, the Avenging Son, the greatest of the loyal Primarchs, knelt before the Golden Throne with the same reverence that every other visitor had shown.
But his eyes were different.
His eyes were wet.
"Father," Guilliman whispered. "You're back."
What?
Kevin's metaphorical heart stopped.
What?
"I felt it," Guilliman continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I felt what you showed us. The confusion. The disorientation. The sense of waking up in a place you didn't recognize, in a body you didn't understand."
No, Kevin thought frantically. No, that's not what I was showing you. I was showing you that I'm NOT your father. I'm someone else entirely. I'm—
"You died," Guilliman said. "On the Vengeful Spirit, when you faced Horus. Some part of you died. And for ten thousand years, you've been... gone. Just a shell. Just a mechanism keeping the Throne running."
That's not—
"But now you're back." Tears were flowing freely down the Primarch's face now, the sight so incongruous with everything Kevin knew about Space Marines and their superhuman emotional control that he didn't know how to process it. "Something happened. Some miracle. And you've returned to us."
No. No no no no no.
"I felt your confusion," Guilliman continued. "Your fear. Your sense of being in a strange place, in a strange time, surrounded by things you don't understand. Of course you would feel that way. Ten thousand years have passed. Everything has changed. The Imperium you built is gone, replaced by something you would barely recognize."
Please stop, Kevin thought desperately. Please stop interpreting everything I showed you through the lens of what you want to believe. I'm not your father. I'm not the Emperor. I'm Kevin Chen from Ohio. I WORKED IN IT SUPPORT.
"I understand now," Guilliman said, and his voice carried a conviction that made Kevin want to scream. "I understand why you seemed different when I visited before. Why I sensed something had changed. It wasn't corruption. It wasn't decay. It was you. Waking up. Coming back to us."
The Primarch rose to his feet, and his expression had transformed from grief to something approaching joy—a joy that was terrible to behold because it was based on a complete misunderstanding of reality.
"I don't know how long it will take," Guilliman said. "I don't know if you can hear me, truly hear me, or if you're still too disoriented to understand. But I want you to know that I'm here. Your son is here. And I will not fail you again."
You're not failing me, Kevin thought miserably. You're just... wrong. You're so completely, utterly wrong, and I can't figure out how to make you understand.
"I will tell the others that the Emperor is recovering," Guilliman continued, apparently planning out loud now. "That the change Celestine perceived was not rebirth, but... reawakening. The return of consciousness after ten millennia of absence. It will take time for Him to fully recover, to regain His faculties, to understand the current state of the Imperium. But He is coming back to us."
That's not what's happening, Kevin protested silently. That's the exact opposite of what's happening. I'm not the Emperor coming back. I'm someone else entirely. I'm—
"The wars will stop," Guilliman said, and there was hope in his voice now, genuine hope that made Kevin feel like the worst person in the galaxy. "When they understand that this is not heresy or corruption but recovery, the factions will have no reason to fight. The crisis will end. And we can focus on what matters—protecting humanity, defeating our enemies, building a future worth living."
The wars won't stop, Kevin thought. They'll just change. People will fight over what my "recovery" means, just like they fought over what Celestine's "revelation" meant. Nothing will get better. Everything will just get worse in new and different ways.
But Kevin couldn't say any of this.
He couldn't say anything.
He could only sit on the Golden Throne and watch as Guilliman constructed an elaborate interpretation of events that was completely divorced from reality but that made the Primarch happier than Kevin had ever perceived him being.
And Kevin realized, with a sinking feeling that went beyond mere despair, that he couldn't correct this.
Not because he physically couldn't.
He had just demonstrated that he could project complex information directly into the minds of those who sought to perceive him.
He could, theoretically, project the truth again.
He could try harder to make Guilliman understand.
He could show the Primarch, over and over, that he was Kevin Chen from Ohio and not the returning Emperor of Mankind.
But look at what that would do.
Look at Guilliman's face right now.
Look at the hope, the joy, the relief that was transforming the Primarch's features from their usual mask of exhausted determination into something almost... peaceful.
Guilliman believed his father was coming back.
Guilliman believed that the crushing burden he had carried for centuries was finally going to be shared.
Guilliman believed that the nightmare was ending.
And Kevin...
Kevin couldn't take that away from him.
Didn't have the heart to take that away from him.
You absolute coward, Kevin thought to himself. You pathetic, weak, cowardly excuse for a God-Emperor. You're going to let him believe a lie because you can't stand to see him disappointed.
But even as he thought it, Kevin knew he wasn't going to change course.
He had tried to tell the truth.
He had shown them everything.
And they had interpreted it exactly the way they wanted to interpret it, filtered through millennia of faith and hope and desperation.
What was one more lie, in a galaxy built on lies?
What was one more misunderstanding, in an Imperium founded on misunderstandings?
At least this lie made Guilliman happy.
At least this misunderstanding gave someone hope.
That was more than Kevin had managed to do since arriving on the Golden Throne.
Fine, he thought. Fine. You want a returning Emperor? You want a father figure who's slowly recovering from ten thousand years of absence? I'll be that. I'll pretend. I'll let you believe what you need to believe.
It's not like I was doing anything useful anyway.
It's not like the truth was going to help anyone.
It's not like—
Kevin stopped.
He stopped because Guilliman was speaking again, and what the Primarch was saying demanded his attention.
"I know you probably can't respond yet," Guilliman said, his voice softer now, more intimate. "I know you're still recovering, still trying to make sense of where you are and what has happened. But I want to tell you something. Something I should have said ten thousand years ago."
The Primarch paused, and Kevin could see him struggling with emotions that he had apparently kept buried for a very, very long time.
"I was angry with you," Guilliman admitted. "Before the Heresy. Before everything fell apart. I was angry because you withdrew from us. Because you left us to fight your wars while you pursued your secret projects in the Palace. Because you never explained anything, never told us what you were doing or why."
That wasn't me, Kevin thought, but the protest felt hollow even in his own mind. That was the original Emperor. I wasn't even born yet. I was negative thirty-eight thousand years old when the Heresy happened.
"I thought you didn't trust us," Guilliman continued. "I thought you saw us as tools rather than sons. I thought you were using us and planning to discard us when we were no longer needed."
I mean, you might have been right about that, Kevin thought. The original Emperor's memories are pretty fragmented, but from what I can tell, he wasn't exactly winning any Father of the Year awards.
"But now... now I understand better. You were trying to protect us. Trying to prepare for threats we couldn't comprehend. Trying to build something that would outlast even the gods themselves."
Was he though? I honestly have no idea what he was trying to do. His memories are mostly just fragments of pain and duty and this really uncomfortable sense that something important was supposed to happen but never did.
"You sacrificed everything," Guilliman said. "Your plans. Your dreams. Your own life. You gave it all up to save us. And we repaid you by... by building this." He gestured at the Sanctum Imperialis, at the religious iconography, at the evidence of ten thousand years of worship. "We turned you into a god. The one thing you never wanted to be."
Okay, that part I actually know, Kevin thought. He definitely didn't want to be worshipped as a god. That's one of the clearest things in his memories. He was really, REALLY against the whole religion thing.
"I've tried to fix it," Guilliman continued. "I've tried to steer the Imperium back toward something resembling sanity. But it's like trying to turn a battleship by pushing against its hull. Everything is so massive, so entrenched, so resistant to change."
Yeah, tell me about it. I've been watching for four months and I'm pretty sure the Imperium would collapse if anyone actually tried to make logical improvements.
"But if you're coming back..." Guilliman's voice carried a weight of hope that made Kevin's metaphorical heart ache. "If you're truly returning to us... maybe there's a chance. Maybe, together, we can finally start to fix things."
We can't, Kevin wanted to say. I can't. I'm not your father. I don't have his wisdom or his plans or his understanding of what needs to be done. I'm just a guy from Ohio who happened to die at the wrong moment and ended up in the wrong body. I can't fix anything. I can barely understand what's happening most of the time.
But he didn't say any of that.
He couldn't say any of that.
So he just sat there, in silence, and let Guilliman believe whatever he needed to believe.
The Primarch talked for another three hours.
Three hours of confession and hope and plans for a future that Kevin knew he could never deliver.
Guilliman talked about his struggles to hold the Imperium together.
He talked about the Indomitus Crusade and the endless wars and the feeling that no matter how hard he fought, he was always losing ground.
He talked about his brothers—the loyal ones who had died or disappeared, the traitors who still plagued humanity from the Eye of Terror, the complicated feelings he had about all of them.
He talked about his mother, Konor Guilliman's wife, who had raised him on Macragge and who had died believing he would one day change the galaxy.
He talked about Yvraine, the Ynnari leader, and the complicated relationship he had with the alien woman who had helped bring him back from the dead.
He talked about his doubts, his fears, his moments of despair when he wondered if anything he did actually mattered.
And through it all, Kevin listened.
He couldn't respond.
He couldn't offer advice or comfort or reassurance.
But he could listen.
And somehow, that seemed to be enough.
Guilliman had been carrying these burdens alone for centuries.
He had been the Lord Commander of the Imperium, the last hope of humanity, the being upon whom trillions of lives depended.
He had not been allowed to be weak.
He had not been allowed to doubt.
He had not been allowed to be anything other than the perfect leader, the infallible Primarch, the son of the Emperor who would save them all.
But here, in the Sanctum Imperialis, before the Golden Throne, he could be something else.
He could be a son talking to his father.
He could be a man sharing his fears with someone he loved.
He could be vulnerable in a way he had never been allowed to be anywhere else.
And Kevin, despite knowing that the whole thing was based on a fundamental misunderstanding, couldn't bring himself to take that away.
I'm a fraud, Kevin thought. I'm the worst kind of fraud. I'm letting him pour out his heart to someone who doesn't even exist anymore.
But then he thought about what would happen if he told the truth.
Guilliman would be devastated.
The hope that was currently lighting up the Primarch's face would be crushed.
The emotional release that was clearly happening—the unburdening of centuries of suppressed feelings—would turn into something much darker.
And then what?
Would the Imperium be better off with a Guilliman who knew the truth?
With a Primarch who knew that his father was truly gone, replaced by some random guy from another universe?
Would that make anyone's life better?
Or would it just add one more tragedy to a galaxy that was already drowning in tragedies?
Kevin didn't know.
He didn't know anything.
He was just a guy from Ohio, pretending to be a god, listening to a demigod talk about his feelings.
This is my life now, Kevin thought. This is my existence. I'm going to sit on this throne forever, letting people project whatever they need onto me, being whatever they need me to be.
I'm not the Emperor.
I'm just... a mirror.
A mirror that shows people what they want to see.
It wasn't the worst fate Kevin could imagine.
But it wasn't great either.
Eventually, Guilliman ran out of words.
The Primarch had talked until his voice was hoarse, until the emotional reserves that he had kept locked away for so long were finally, blessedly empty.
He knelt before the Golden Throne one last time, his head bowed, his expression peaceful in a way that Kevin had never seen before.
"Thank you," Guilliman whispered. "Thank you for listening. Thank you for coming back. Thank you for... for being here."
I didn't do anything, Kevin thought. I just sat here. That's literally all I'm capable of doing.
But Guilliman didn't need to know that.
Guilliman needed to believe that his father was returning.
That hope was coming back to the Imperium.
That the endless darkness might finally, someday, give way to light.
It was a lie.
But it was a kind lie.
And in a galaxy as cruel as this one, maybe kind lies were the best anyone could hope for.
"I will return," Guilliman said, rising to his feet. "I will come back and talk to you again. As often as I can. As often as my duties allow."
Okay, Kevin thought. I'll be here. It's not like I'm going anywhere.
"Rest now," the Primarch continued. "Recover. Take whatever time you need. I will hold the Imperium together until you're ready."
I'm never going to be ready, Kevin thought. I'm never going to be what you need me to be. But I'll pretend. For you. For however long this lasts.
Guilliman walked toward the doors of the Sanctum Imperialis.
He paused at the threshold, looking back one last time.
And Kevin could have sworn the Primarch smiled.
Actually smiled.
A genuine expression of happiness that seemed almost alien on a face that had worn nothing but determination and exhaustion for centuries.
"It's good to have you back, Father," Guilliman said.
And then he was gone.
The aftermath of the gathering was, predictably, complicated.
Guilliman announced to the assembled leaders that the Emperor was "recovering"—a carefully chosen word that implied improvement without promising anything specific.
The Ecclesiarchy immediately began composing new prayers to celebrate the Emperor's return to consciousness.
The Inquisition began investigating whether the "recovery" was genuine or some form of Chaos deception, which at least gave them something to do besides killing each other.
The Mechanicus began drafting new maintenance protocols based on the theory that the Emperor's returning consciousness might have different needs than His previous dormant state.
And Celestine...
Celestine came back to the Sanctum Imperialis two days after the gathering, alone, seeking her own audience with the being she had been the first to perceive as changed.
Kevin watched her enter, unsure what to expect.
The Living Saint approached the Golden Throne slowly, her wings folded, her expression contemplative.
"I felt what you showed us," she said quietly. "I felt the truth you tried to share."
You did? Kevin thought, hope surging again despite his best efforts to suppress it. You understood?
"You're not what we thought you were," Celestine continued. "Not entirely. Something is different. Something fundamental."
Yes! Yes, exactly! I'm not the Emperor. I'm someone else. I'm—
"But that doesn't matter."
Kevin's hope crashed again.
What?
"Whatever you are," Celestine said, "whatever you've become—you're here. You're real. You're keeping the light burning, holding back the darkness, doing everything the Emperor was doing. And that's what matters."
But I'm not HIM, Kevin protested silently. Doesn't that matter? Doesn't the truth matter?
"The galaxy doesn't need the truth," Celestine said, as if answering his unspoken question. "The galaxy needs hope. And you—whatever you are—you're giving people that."
She knelt before the Golden Throne, but her posture was different from how she had knelt before.
Less worshipful.
More... companionable.
"I don't know if you can understand me," she said. "I don't know if you're the Emperor, reborn and changed, or something else entirely. But I know that you're suffering. I could feel that in your projection. The pain. The loneliness. The desperation."
You could feel that?
"I want you to know that you're not alone," Celestine continued. "Whatever you are. Whoever you were. You're not alone. I'll come back. I'll talk to you. I'll be here."
She smiled, and it was a different kind of smile than the worshipful expressions that most visitors wore.
It was the smile of someone offering friendship.
Not to a god.
To a person.
"Hang in there," she said. "Whatever you are."
And she left.
And Kevin, for the first time since his reincarnation, felt something that wasn't pain or frustration or despair.
He felt... seen.
Not understood, exactly.
Celestine still didn't know the truth.
She still thought he was some version of the Emperor.
But she had perceived something real about him—the suffering, the loneliness, the desperate need for connection.
And she had responded not with worship, but with compassion.
It wasn't much.
In the grand scheme of things, it was almost nothing.
But it was something.
And in a galaxy as dark as this one, sometimes something was enough.
End of Chapter Five
Next Chapter: Kevin settles into his new role as the "recovering" Emperor, discovers that having regular visitors is both better and worse than he expected, watches helplessly as Guilliman's "recovery" narrative causes its own unique set of problems, and receives an unexpected visitor from the Warp who has a very different interpretation of what's happening—and a very unsettling proposal.