The Black Throne's domain.
Archmagos Kaul led his tech-priests in frantic repair of the damaged machinery. His mechadendrites lashed so quickly that they blurred like spectral after-images.
He barked in agitation:
"You idiots, work faster! Do you want to suffer the Savior's punishment?!"
According to the Savior's orders, if they failed to repair every structure within ten days, their punishment would be severance from the sacred network.
And that meant at least ten years.
For the cogboys, that was worse than death.
Even more terrifying was that the Savior could easily enforce such a punishment. With a single command, the Machine God would revoke their Noospheric privileges—wiping their cherished accounts and holy posts clean.
Such cruelty drove the priests of the Urth Mechanicus to work in trembling fear.
Especially Kaul, the net-addicted high priest, who sweated so profusely that his organic face shone slick.
Not even when he had faced the tides of Chaos or the seduction of Tzeentch had he been so nervous.
He hadn't even had time to sip his beloved fuel-brew.
This alone proved how urgent the Savior truly was. He placed supreme importance on restoring the Black Throne.
And indeed, there was no choice.
The gods of Chaos pressed ever harder, Commorragh's webway reeling in instability thanks to Asdrubael Vect's ascension gambit. They had to restore the Black Throne at once—
—to fashion a new barrier of protection.
Otherwise, when Chaos renewed their assault, there would be no defense left.
"Two hundred thousand tech-priests and ample materials… surely they can finish according to schedule?"
Eden gazed at the frantic cogboys, his heart laced with worry—and even a tinge of regret.
In his earlier battle with Ka'Bandha, he had shattered more than a few structures himself.
But in such a battle of intensity, there was no room to hold back.
At least he had won, and denied the daemons their prize.
Commorragh's webway had to be held. If it fell, all the investments would be wasted, and even the Emperor Himself could not bear the blow.
"Fa… Father?!"
Before the Black Throne's holo-link, Imperial Regent Roboute Guilliman froze, his pupils quaking, his voice stammering.
He was excited—yet also afraid.
The Regent had been traveling the Imperium, spearheading reform across its shattered realm.
Every day he rushed through webways or warp routes, attending festivals, holding councils, granting audiences, occasionally lopping off the heads of traitors.
Amidst it all, he kept close watch on Eden's war.
Just now, he had opened communication with the Hope Primarch, hoping to ask about certain matters.
But when the holo-projector flickered to life, what he saw upon the Black Throne was a golden giant—so much like the Emperor—that he nearly lost his words.
Behind Guilliman, Chapter Master Calgar of the Ultramarines and Chapter Master Mordren of the Angels of Absolution also saw.
"Emperor!"
They dropped to one knee with a thunderous crash that nearly cracked the deck.
"You mistake me. I am not the Emperor, but the Hope Primarch."
Eden coughed awkwardly, lifting his head.
He had almost forgotten—he was still wearing the Emperor's cloned flesh. Misunderstandings like this were inevitable.
Vmmm—
He controlled the psychic energies, dimming the liquid radiance that always bled from his form. His own features surfaced beneath the glow.
If he did not consciously restrain it, he was like a golden lighthouse—effects maxed out at all times, radiating majesty and divinity.
Eden explained the situation to Guilliman, recounting the battle with Chaos and the dangers yet to come.
"Alas… we cannot reach you in time."
Guilliman's voice carried regret.
He was now near the Eye of Terror. Even using the webway, it would take far too long to reach Commorragh.
There was no chance to join this war.
"That was expected. Your task is vital as well. Besides, I am not without allies—new reinforcements are on their way."
Eden had never counted on Guilliman's direct help.
The Indomitus Crusade was still grinding to its end, and the Regent could not spare large forces.
As for Guilliman himself—strong as he was—in a war of this scale, a single warrior was of little weight.
Better to keep him safe.
Even with the Emperor's clone-body at his disposal, Eden could not withstand the entire tide of Chaos forever. The only real solution was to use the Throne to raise a barrier.
It was the only known method in the galaxy.
From Guilliman he also learned that his alien confidante, Yvraine, had led the Ynnari into the webway as well.
Perhaps they too would be drawn into this war.
Guilliman promised to send her a message, urging the Reborn's leader to join the Savior in resisting the daemons.
"Old G, then I truly owe you thanks."
Eden smiled faintly.
The enemy of Chaos was a friend. The more armies came to Commorragh, the longer they might hold.
Whether Ynnead—the nascent Aeldari god of death—could resist Slaanesh was another matter.
By prophecy, when fully born, he would slay She Who Thirsts.
But the price would be most of the Aeldari race itself.
Eden could not fathom the logic.
The Aeldari fought for survival—yet their great hope for vengeance required almost their entire species to perish.
That contradiction was fatal.
And even if they sought to awaken Ynnead, they needed five Croneswords.
Four they had gathered. The last lay in Slaanesh's own palace—inside the Dark Prince's very gut, if the tales were true.
Thus another paradox:
To gather the weapons needed to defeat the Dark Prince, they must first march into the Dark Prince's realm and succeed.
But if they had the power to storm Slaanesh's domain and steal from her, why would they need Ynnead at all?
Even the Emperor Himself would find such a feat daunting. Theft in the Warp was far harder than mere battle.
Slaanesh would never leave such a prize unguarded in reach.
Perhaps indeed, as legend claimed, the final blade was hidden within the Dark Prince's belly.
"Pitiful. The Aeldari are finished…"
Eden sighed inwardly. Millennia of struggle for nothing.
Their grand work had borne almost no fruit.
Compared to them, he had done better—his Asurmen-heir guise had sheltered a host of Dark Eldar, saving them from the Dark Prince's corruption.
The cultists of Ynnead, meanwhile, seemed more like zealots driving a broken vehicle into the abyss, hoping to drag their enemy down with them.
He even suspected it all to be Tzeentch's scheme.
"Savior—"
Chapter Master Mordren of the Angels of Absolution, after receiving the Regent's nod, stepped forward to bow.
"I am Mordren, scion of the Lion of Caliban.
It is said you wield the Eye of Prophecy, that you can glean the truth of futures from the shards of warp and reality. We have a question only you can answer…"
"…What? The All-Seeing Eye?"
Eden froze for a moment at those words, a puzzled look flashing across his face.
Which Imperial bard or chronicler added that nonsense to my legend?
The truth was simple—he knew some things because he had foreknowledge of the broad strokes of the timeline.
But now it was the 42nd Millennium. Beyond this point, even he didn't know much. Who could tell what tricks Games Workshop would play in the future?
Still… carrying a title like "All-Seeing Eye" wasn't the worst thing.
With it, he didn't need to explain anything.
Ask him something? The answer was prophecy.
And if the Angels of Absolution—the sons of the Lion—wished to consult him, then he could offer guidance within the limits of what he knew.
"That's fine. Lion's cub, speak your doubt."
Eden raised his gaze to Mordren, golden irises glowing in layered halos, his voice calm yet tinged with an unfathomable distance.
He looked every inch the prophet.
He couldn't help it—his psychic aura was too strong, always trailing divine special effects.
And this was after restraining it. Otherwise he'd have glowing halos sprouting over his head, blinding those who looked at him.
Mordren bowed deeper before the Hope Primarch, reverence filling his eyes.
"Lord Regent once spoke of interrogating a daemon and receiving Tzeentch's reply. The Changer of Ways declared that our gene-father will awaken soon. We wish to know—was this truth?"
For Lion El'Jonson, the Emperor's firstborn son, Primarch of the First Legion, lay in slumber deep within the Dark Angels' Rock. He had slept for ten millennia.
No one knew if he would awaken—or remain forever still.
The Dark Angels and all of the Lion's loyal descendants longed for their father's return.
"Brother Eden," Guilliman added softly, "I remember you too said that the Lion would rise again. The same words as the Changer of Ways."
Though Guilliman and the Lion had quarreled often, their bond was not unkind. He hoped his brother would return to the Imperium soon.
Eden glanced sidelong at Guilliman's eager face, lips quirking.
If the Lion comes back, he and Guilliman will probably be at each other's throats again. Those two together without an argument? Impossible.
Still, he gave his answer.
"The prophecy is true. The Lion of Caliban will return. He will awaken within the forests of Caliban…"
"Savior, do you know the exact place?"
Mordren's voice shook with excitement at the news of their gene-sire's return.
Eden shook his head, answering with patience:
"It is not the true forests of Caliban, but a realm between reality and dream. There the Lion will rise, bearing new strength. Perhaps you should return to Caliban and await him."
He looked at Mordren with a tinge of sympathy.
"When the Lion comes, perhaps the stain of false treachery will be cleansed. During Caliban's fall, too many were misunderstood, and the loyal were driven into exile…"
"The Lion's sons have never forsaken their loyalty."
Mordren's eyes glistened with unshed tears.
The Angels of Absolution were once branded as Fallen Angels—traitors in the eyes of their brothers and the Imperium.
Yet in truth they had remained loyal, and slowly, painfully, they returned to the Emperor's light.
Eden said nothing further.
This was not his matter to resolve. Only Lion El'Jonson's return could untangle those ancient wounds.
Once, the Lion had been a hot-blooded youth, rash in judgment. But ten thousand years had passed. Surely he had matured.
With his answer given, Eden turned his mind back to the present war. He had no luxury to dwell on Caliban's fate.
Perhaps when the battle for Commorragh's webway was over, he might seek the vital artifact hidden upon Caliban itself.
But all depended first on surviving here.
Afterward, he and Guilliman spoke of the Imperium's possible futures and looming crises.
"…Can you hold out?"
Guilliman frowned as he looked upon the Savior enthroned upon the Black Throne.
The image brought back too many memories—of the Emperor, bound to the Golden Throne, His body wasting away.
The Regent feared his brother might share the same fate.
Eden smiled warmly, confident on the surface:
"Of course. Have you ever known me to attempt the impossible?"
"Then, brother, we await your triumph."
Guilliman nodded, then turned toward the figure beside him—the returned White Scar Primarch.
"Jaghatai, I leave our brother's safety in your hands."
He clearly already knew of the Khan's return; they had spoken once before, though without warmth.
The two had never been close.
The Khan only nodded. He disliked Guilliman's imperious tone and habit of giving orders.
The call ended.
As the vox died, Eden's smile collapsed. The confidence vanished from his face.
He saw the Khan's uneasy look—and knew instantly that his odds of ending up shackled to the Black Throne's "toilet seat" had risen again.
Eden swallowed hard.
"Old Khan… my heart's not strong enough for shocks. Could you tell me—gently—how bad Commorragh really is? How many rifts? Where are they?"
The White Scars had deployed scout units across Commorragh's webways, watching every passage.
The Khan wiped sweat from his brow. The reports had shaken even him.
"Perhaps you should ask instead… where the rifts haven't opened."
"Hhsssss~"
Eden nearly blacked out.
He forced his breath steady and asked, slowly, "Then… where is still safe? Where has no rift appeared?"
The Khan looked down at the data-slate in his hand. His silence was louder than cannon-fire.
"…I see."
Eden's breath grew ragged, as if seated atop a volcano about to erupt.
"Still time to run, maybe?" he muttered under his breath.
The Khan shut down the slate, his tone awkward:
"A few minutes ago, there were still safe zones. Now? They're gone.
Everywhere in Commorragh, rifts to the warp are opening. And they're growing larger."
Almost at once, Eden's command staff relayed their own emergency report.
Predictions confirmed: rifts had torn open across the entire Dark City.
The scope of Chaos incursion was incalculable.
His mortal armies in the webway were nothing—barely crumbs before the storm.
The only small mercy: the rifts were unstable. They could not yet sustain a full daemon tide. Perhaps a single week remained to prepare.
"…So the gods had a backup plan after all. We are in deep trouble."
Eden sighed heavily.
This outbreak dwarfed even the rift beneath Holy Terra. Perhaps it was greater still.
The daemons pouring through could drown whole sectors, unstoppable by any conventional army.
Think of the Tyranid swarms that darkened suns.
Chaos was worse—pouring in from every angle, ignoring barriers, corrupting minds.
Eden leaned back against the Black Throne, eyes closing.
"Then we must evacuate early. Seal and even destroy the webway entrances, while there's still time."
Switching guises, he set aside the Emperor's clone-body, though the Savior's soul aura lingered bound to the Throne.
Escape was impossible. The Black Throne held him fast.
…
Commorragh.
The sky was veiled in baleful mist. Beyond it yawned vast wounds of red.
The Dark City's veil had been torn. The rifts spread endlessly. From them crept whispers and horrors uncountable.
They were too many.
A chorus of endless wails, tolling like cathedral bells from blood-soaked rooftops.
Abominations of the warp spilled into the Dark City—through flesh-work forges, dungeons, spires, and bridges—screaming as they merged with the pain around them, weaving it into a symphony of terror.
Cannon-fire roared. Blades flashed. Blood splattered upon obsidian walls. Undying daemons tore and slaughtered.
The spires of the city collapsed in clouds of blackened dust. The Dark Eldar felt the quake of doom racing toward them.
Everything was breaking apart.
They screamed in panic and fear.
"No… Commorragh is doomed! The Thirsting Lady will devour all our souls!"
A Dark Eldar merchant, Bayron, clutched his child, kneeling amidst corpses, tears of terror streaming down his face.
He stared at the daemonic horror that approached, dripping with the stench of hell, despair crushing his spirit.
But in the pit of that despair, he seized upon a single straw of hope—
"All hail the Asurmen's heir! Savior of the Aeldari, Black Sun of Commorragh! Save your pitiful children!"
The monster's talon fell—
—and the shadows beneath Bayron twisted. From them surged a nightmare, blades raised, intercepting the killing blow.
Vmmm—
Bayron lifted his tear-blurred eyes in awe and gratitude.
High above, the colossal phantom of the Asurmen's Heir loomed, gazing down upon the lives below…
(End of Chapter)
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