"There is no true god in this universe, and no will can override the will of mankind. Only when the last stone of the last church falls upon the last priest will humanity be free—free to realize its destiny as the greatest race to rule the galaxy!"
Within the immaterial realm, where shattered dreams drifted like dust, an Emperor warred against an Emperor. Thousands of wills clashed in an esoteric struggle beyond even the comprehension of the Primarchs.
It was only when the golden-clad figure toppled the final divine throne with his shield, and when the girl wielding the great golden sword spoke their shared oath, that the battle—waged for ten millennia within the Emperor's consciousness—was at last decided. Humanity had claimed its first true victory.
Three Primarchs bore witness to this momentous event.
Each, in their own way, had contributed to this triumph of the Emperor's will.
The Lion observed in contemplative silence, as if grasping some greater truth beyond words.
Guilliman, ever pragmatic, found himself lost in uncertainty. He turned to his brothers, seeking clarity.
"Dukel, I still cannot fully grasp what we are witnessing. What does all this mean?"
"This? This is the warp," Dukel replied. "A battle of the Emperor's own psyche—a war of ideals and concepts. What we see is merely the form our minds can perceive."
"Yet it was more than a battle of will. You drove a sword into our father's chest," Guilliman insisted, his voice laced with disbelief.
Before Dukel could respond, the Lion spoke.
"His Majesty's state is unlike before. Ten thousand years of the Imperial Creed and the zealous devotion of mortals have only strengthened his divine aspect. A force was needed to break through that false divinity. That was Dukel's role. The Emperor planned for this long in advance, and we each played our part."
The Lion studied Dukel carefully. When the latter gave a faint nod of confirmation, the First Primarch's expression softened—relief, perhaps, or a long-buried tension finally eased.
"You knew all this?" Guilliman's voice carried a note of disbelief. "How much have you kept from me, my brothers?"
"Before such events unfold, all is mere speculation." The Lion gestured vaguely, his tone almost weary. "We have lived in a galaxy without His direct guidance, left to interpret His will as best we could. In such uncertainty, who among us could claim absolute truth?"
Guilliman turned his gaze to Dukel, his mind grappling with the enormity of what had just transpired. "And yet, on mere speculation, you dared to strike down the Emperor?"
"It was not mere speculation," Dukel corrected, his voice steady. "It was not witchcraft. It was will—pure, unyielding. The very fabric of the immaterial realm, shaped by intent."
Dukel's words fell on inattentive ears. The Lion averted his gaze with measured calm, while Guilliman, overwhelmed, felt himself adrift in the currents of history.
Had he truly played a part in an event of such magnitude… and emerged victorious?
For the first time in years, he longed for the familiar halls of Macragge.
Then, a voice spoke, deep and resonant.
"You have done well, my sons."
The figure in golden armor, the embodiment of the Emperor's emotional will, materialized before them. His gaze, warm yet piercing, swept over his sons, and his words carried unrestrained praise.
He had seen their actions—seen them rise as the Empire's greatest warriors, the pillars upon which mankind's future now rested.
The girl, the idealized aspect of the Emperor's vision, lingered behind him, her curious eyes studying the three Primarchs.
"It was our duty, Father," the Lion answered formally. Ever the eldest, ever the silent sentinel, he sought no reward beyond loyalty itself.
Dukel, in contrast, was far less reserved. "Old man, it's time to leave that damn throne behind. The Imperium has suffered in your absence. Wars rage on every front. I have returned Magnus—you are needed now more than ever."
Guilliman, emboldened, nodded. "Too much has been lost. Betrayers twist your ideals to justify their tyranny, and in battles that decide the fate of our race, countless mortals bleed. We need your guidance, Your Majesty."
A flicker of sadness passed through Guilliman's eyes. The burden of stewardship, the weight of an empire in decline—it had crushed him. He had borne it, but he had never truly believed he could restore what had been lost.
Only the Emperor could.
"Hope never dies," the Emperor said, his gaze settling on Guilliman. "Humanity has weathered darker times and endured. We are not broken."
Then, his expression shifted as he looked to Dukel, something like regret within his gaze. "The Webway Project has failed utterly. For now, mankind cannot sever its dependence on the Warp. A guardian must remain to hold back the darkness."
Dukel met his father's gaze without hesitation. "I will do what must be done."
The Emperor nodded. "And you, Dukel—you have your own path. Go forth. Stand as Warmaster once more, under the eyes of humanity. Finish what was begun ten thousand years ago."
His next words resonated through the immaterial realm like a warhorn.
"And I shall declare war against the false gods of the Warp!"
"Together, we shall begin the Second Great Crusade. We shall shatter this dark age, wage war in both reality and the immaterial, and see our vision fulfilled. Until every foe is vanquished. Until mankind ascends to its rightful place as the lords of the galaxy!"
The Lion inhaled slowly, but there was no resentment in his heart. He had never coveted the title of Warmaster, only the Emperor's approval.
And as the Emperor spoke his final words, the warp around them began to dissolve.
In the final moment before the vision faded, the Lion saw his father's eyes upon him—filled not with command, but with something far rarer: trust.
Realspace. The Throne Room.
At the precipice of the psychic storm, Waldo stood vigil despite his grievous injuries. He could not look away from the unfolding atrocity.
The Primarchs had stood motionless, their hands upon the cloak of the Second Primarch. And then—
They moved.
Guilliman and the Lion withdrew their hands as they returned to awareness. And then, to Waldo's horror, he saw Dukel draw his sword from the Emperor's chest.
A wound unlike any other. Golden flame, thick as blood, poured forth. The psychic energy was so overwhelming it could have obliterated Terra itself.
"Why?" Waldo roared, his voice raw with fury and anguish. "Why would you wound your own father?!"
But the Primarchs did not answer.
Guilliman, staring at the wound, finally found his voice. "Dukel… can this be healed?"
Dukel withdrew his blade, its weight more profound than ever, and turned to a veiled figure.
"Isha," he said. "Begin the restoration."
"Alien, remove your filthy claws from His Majesty's body!" Dukel's voice rang out, sharp with authority.
Lion's gaze snapped back to the xenos fingers touching the Emperor's skin. Rage surged through him.
"Are you sure you want to interfere?" Isha countered, unfazed. "Doing so might mean the Emperor's final death."
Lion fell silent.
"Your Highness, which protocol should I initiate?" Isha turned to Dukel.
"Twenty-two."
A flicker of surprise crossed Isha's face. Among all the contingency plans, Protocol 22 was the ideal scenario—the one with the highest chance of complete success. It meant that the Emperor of Mankind had a real possibility of full recovery. Humanity, and all life in the galaxy, would no longer have to fear His wrathful return should He awaken in agony.
At that moment, Dukel wrenched the enormous sword from the Emperor's wound.
The psychic storm howling through the chamber abruptly dissipated.
Then, before the gathered warriors, a true miracle began to unfold.
A flood of radiant energy poured into the Emperor's broken form. Torn flesh knit itself back together, ghastly wounds closing as though time itself was reversing.
Boom.
A faint heartbeat echoed from the Emperor's shriveled husk.
None present could mistake it. Even Constantin Valdor, ancient and peerless among the Custodian Guard, heard it as clearly as if the heavens themselves had spoken. It was a thunderclap in their ears, a revelation so overwhelming that thought ceased for a moment.
The rhythm of life quickened. The beat of a pulse. The rush of blood through atrophied veins. The stirring of muscle and sinew.
Each sound resonated like the purest melody in the galaxy, captured by the enhanced senses of the transhuman warriors gathered around Him.
The anger in Valdor's heart dissolved, replaced by something ineffable. Awe.
Before their eyes, the Emperor's withered scalp darkened as thick, golden hair once again crowned His head. His emaciated body filled out, muscle and vitality returning as the power of life itself surged through Him.
All the scars of ancient conquests, all the wounds sustained across millennia, vanished. The Golden Throne shone like a beacon, bathed in the radiance of His restoration.
And then, with a final surge of incandescent light, the resurrection was complete.
The Emperor of Mankind sat upon His throne once more, whole.
Dukel observed in silence, a tumult of emotions roiling within him.
The Emperor had always possessed the means to free Himself from this throne—a prison designed to sustain, but also to torment. And yet, He had endured it willingly, for the survival of humanity. For ten thousand years, He had suffered without complaint, waging endless war in the immaterium against the Dark Gods.
His very existence had been the currency used to purchase humanity's future.
And the Emperor Himself had been the highest denomination of all.
A thought crossed Dukel's mind: Perhaps the Golden Throne should be fitted with a speaker?
It would not lessen the agony, but at least it would allow the Emperor to speak freely, unshackled from the silence imposed by His own suffering.
Deep within the vaults of the Imperial Palace, the prototype for such a device existed. And if it did not, Dukel could craft one himself. With his knowledge and accumulated power, creating a functioning vox-relay for the Emperor was a trivial matter.
His musings were interrupted by a sudden collapse.
Isha crumpled beside the Golden Throne, utterly spent. The toll of restoring the Emperor was a heavy one—perhaps even greater than the grievous wound Dukel himself had once endured. She would require time to recover.
Dukel stepped forward, lifting her effortlessly onto his shoulder.
"My role here is finished. I will return to the Inner Fire. Terra's Administratum is still processing my fleet."
The Emperor was healed. The greatest danger to the Imperium—the prospect of His slow, agonizing descent into wrath—was averted. For the first time in what felt like an age, Dukel allowed himself a brief smile.
He turned to leave, but a voice called out behind him.
"Wait, Dukel." Guilliman's voice was firm.
The Primarch of the Ultramarines stood near the throne, his expression unreadable. "Shall we hold the ceremony for your ascension to Warmaster one Terran month from today?"
Dukel barely gave it a thought. "Fine."
"And until then?" Guilliman pressed.
"Do not announce it yet," Dukel replied.
Guilliman immediately understood. Dukel intended to cleanse the Imperium's corrupt elite before his official ascension. If news of his promotion spread too soon, the parasites entrenched in power would hide their misdeeds, growing even harder to root out.
Power, after all, was ultimately determined by force. The Imperium's ruling class may have been filled with wretches, but they were no fools.
Guilliman sighed. "Brother, I believe your ascension should take precedence. The start of the Second Great Crusade will bring hope to mankind. The eradication of a few petty bureaucrats is insignificant by comparison."
Dukel shrugged. "The celebration will proceed as planned. The purge won't take long."
"And how long do you expect it to take?" Guilliman asked, narrowing his eyes.
"They are mere insects," Dukel said flatly. "It will take days at most. Do you really believe a cabal of mortals can match wits with me?"
Without another word, Dukel strode past Valdor and toward the exit.
Guilliman watched him go. "I hope you are right, brother."
With that, Guilliman and the Lion turned, marching past the Custodes who had arrived in the aftermath of the Emperor's restoration.
Valdor remained rooted in place, alone in the grand chamber.
What just happened?
The Second Primarch had stabbed the Emperor—an act of treason without equal.
And yet, not only had he not been punished, he was to be promoted?
Successor to the Warmaster… next month?
Valdor's mind reeled as he struggled to comprehend it all.