"I never thought I'd see such a sight again." Ferrus Manus stood outside the grand hall of the Imperial Palace, sighing in awe. "A palace still intact… It's nothing short of a miracle."
One of the architects of this miracle, Fujimaru Ritsuka, sat unceremoniously on the nearby steps, her expression troubled.
"Maybe so," she murmured.
Beyond their line of sight, the palace complex continued to expand. Closest to them were the lavish living quarters, no less magnificent than the grand hall they had just left, adorned with exquisite works of art that materialized in their proper places. Further out lay ceremonial halls, banquet kitchens, audience chambers, grand meeting rooms, and administrative offices. Beyond those stretched laboratories, logistics hubs, art galleries, and ecological gardens. And in the unseen depths, secret vaults and prison cells quietly took shape… Each structure was a masterpiece of human engineering, a testament to the pinnacle of human aesthetics and intellect, yet they were but insignificant fragments of the whole.
The Imperial Palace was undeniably humanity's crowning achievement in architecture—the largest single structure and complex ever built on Terra. Its sheer scale alone would have secured its place in history, but the palace's greatness did not end there. It was the dwelling of the greatest individual in human history, and thus, it had to embody that greatness in every aspect. Its vastness was merely the least remarkable facet of its glory. The most exquisite artworks of mankind were mere decorations here, the carvings and murals commemorating the Great Crusade all crafted by the finest masters. Then there were the intricate, hyper-efficient technological wonders designed by the Emperor Himself, even relics from the Dark Age of Technology…
Ritsuka closed her eyes, but as the caster who had invoked this magecraft, as the observer who had drawn forth this concept, she could not escape the flood of information about this palace plucked from history.
Objectively speaking, she could find no fault with the architecture itself. But what she saw was more than just buildings.
Even in the 30th Millennium—a time more rational, more vibrant, when everything seemed to be moving toward a brighter future—people had been prone to erupting into religious fervor for the Emperor. She did not want to calculate how many craftsmen had been buried beneath the foundations of such a grand project, nor tally how many brilliant artists had driven themselves to madness for the sake of an insignificant detail in the palace. She did not want to dredge up the countless schemes and intrigues that had unfolded within these gilded halls, all for the sake of "drawing closer to the Emperor"—a goal utterly devoid of practical meaning. Yet even though she had only extracted a single moment of the palace's existence, those memories flowed through her mind as clearly as flipping through the pages of a book and glimpsing its contents.
She did not like this place. Or rather, she disliked the implicit message these buildings conveyed—that all stars must revolve around a single moon. She disliked being the center of attention.
She should have been used to it by now, but she wasn't. Even after spending over a century in the Empire's illusion, adapting to its systems, leading a Legion from a position of prominence, she could only pretend to be accustomed to it.
Of course, she could never truly adjust. Her sense of self had stagnated long before arriving in the Empire. No matter how much time passed, she would always remain the Fujimaru Ritsuka who had faced the end.
—At least, for now, that seemed to be a good thing. She still had the luxury of thinking so optimistically.
"In the Warp, the concept of space is fluid, so this place can hold more than just a palace," she said, sitting on the steps, gripping her knees as she tilted her head back to gaze at the golden sky. "If the Emperor wills it, this construct can expand indefinitely so long as we supply it with ether. Given His psychic reserves, it would be trivial to complete this 'palace' as a 'whole planet'… Though I'd really rather we didn't manifest the Hollow Mountain."
Ferrus Manus looked down at her, puzzled. "Why not?"
Ritsuka shifted her gaze from the sky to Ferrus. "The Hollow Mountain is basically the Astronomican's generator, and right now, we're technically 'inside the Astronomican' in the Warp. You can't freeze a fridge inside itself—that'd create a massive paradox. At best, the Astronomican would blow up and take Terra with it, leaving behind a giant Warp rift. The worst-case scenario is beyond even my imagination."
"...That sounds far too dangerous. Is there no way to prevent or mitigate it?"
"There is. I actually asked the Emperor if He wanted to pull a Himalayas—that's what the Hollow Mountain was called in the second millennium—from another point in time and stitch it into the Hollow Mountain's place. But He refused." Ritsuka sighed. "He said that if the worst comes to pass, humanity needs a way to go down fighting. After I pointed this out, He decided it was a good contingency plan to keep in reserve."
Ferrus Manus considered this, then stopped questioning it and simply sat down on the steps as well. "I see. Father has His own considerations."
"Let's hope so." Ritsuka, who lacked the "necessary" reverence and blind faith in the Emperor, commented without much optimism—though the Emperor Himself seemed to appreciate her attitude.
Ferrus clearly had some objections, but before he could voice them, Ritsuka changed the subject. "By the way, do you know how the Storm Border is doing? I'd hate to exit the Warp only to find my ship dismantled for parts."
The tactic of diverting the conversation with work didn't always work, but this time, it was enough. Ferrus Manus was far more interested in discussing a small starship loaded with lost technology than debating whether Ritsuka should show more respect to the Emperor. He immediately forgot his earlier displeasure and answered eagerly, "Your ship is small enough to be hidden in one of the palace's hangars in realspace. The Custodes are overseeing it."
"The Custodes are overseeing it," but Ritsuka would bet anything that Ferrus had found some way to secretly study the ship himself. His detailed knowledge of its modifications and inner workings went far beyond what a mere "glance from behind the curtains" could explain.
The technology of the second millennium was child's play for Ferrus, who had lived in the 30th Millennium, but the parts involving magecraft were another matter entirely. The underlying logic of "mystery" differed between their worlds. Many of the Storm Border's thaumaturgical structures and formulae had even left the Emperor—a master of psychic power—utterly baffled. Yet these things, which "shouldn't work" by the Emperor's understanding, functioned perfectly fine… The only explanation was that the Warp was strange, and even the Emperor could not unravel all its mysteries.
After all, Ritsuka's "conceptual magecraft"—where she imbued ether with the idea of an object to manifest it—sounded like complete nonsense to the Emperor. From a psychic perspective, every step of the process was an unsolved mystery. Though the Emperor had recently conjured a scepter from pure psychic energy, the underlying logic of the two phenomena was entirely different.
Moreover, magecraft was far more systematic and logical compared to psychic powers. At the very least, unlike the Warp, magecraft pretended to obey physical laws. Naturally, such things would capture the attention of the Iron Hands Primarch, who had spent the last ten thousand years doing little more than waging war. The conversation swiftly shifted from "only minor 'Imperial-standard' modifications have been made to the Storm Border due to its many unexplained systems and the short time in realspace" to the functionality and principles of the Triton Engine. Ritsuka soon found herself out of her depth—she had used a fridge for years, but that didn't mean she understood how refrigeration worked.
What about the people who did understand it?
It took Ferrus three beats too long to realize Ritsuka's mood had soured. Never one for subtlety, he asked bluntly, "Is something wrong?"
"No." The girl pulled her legs up onto the steps, hugging her knees. "Just feeling a little sentimental. That ship wasn't originally mine… I suddenly miss its old captain and crew. And there's this melancholy, like 'one general's achievement is built on ten thousand bones.'"
She waved a hand vaguely in the air. "You see, after a costly victory, history usually only remembers the commander's name—even if that commander never set foot on the battlefield. The real heroes are the nameless soldiers who died fighting, but unless you're part of their Legion or a dedicated chronicler, no one even cares if they existed."
"...What does this have to do with our conversation?"
"The only reason I could ride that ship to the Empire was because of its original captain and crew. I did nothing—I was just a passenger. But in the end, it became my ship, because I was the only survivor." She paused, then sighed, feeling foolish for explaining. Standing up, she met Ferrus' harsh, cold gaze head-on. "Never mind. Just treat this as the idle musings of a teenage girl with too much time on her hands. Don't pay it any attention."
Ferrus opened his mouth, his expression screaming "What nonsense," but before he could speak, rapid footsteps cut him off. Konrad Curze stormed over like a gust of wind, clutching a scepter forged of gold as if it were some cursed object, and unceremoniously flung it into Ritsuka's arms as she turned to face him.
He said nothing, but his desire to swear was palpable.
"What's wrong?" Ritsuka staggered slightly from the impact.
Konrad hesitated, visibly swallowing words unfit for a Primarch's dignity, then spoke. "He thinks your mission requires an unaffiliated Chapter. He told me to recruit."
This statement seemed to flip a switch in Ferrus Manus. His previously calm demeanor exploded—literally, given they were in the Warp, where emotions had tangible effects. Ritsuka instinctively pressed a hand to her skirt.
His faith in the Emperor kept him from saying anything outright disrespectful, but his warning was ground out between clenched teeth. "A second chance is rare. Do not squander it."
Konrad Curze shot his brother a deliberately exaggerated look of disdain. But before he could escalate the conflict, Ritsuka interjected:
"So, you're upset because you don't want to recruit?"
"Your insight is impeccable." The inky bat even gave her a mock salute.
Konrad's attitude toward Ritsuka was far less hostile—especially compared to how he'd just treated Ferrus. It was like night and day. The Iron Hands Primarch clearly had much to say about that, but in the next instant, he understood why:
"Then don't recruit." Ritsuka said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He wants a Chapter outside the usual structure to handle this mission. As long as we have the necessary military force, He won't care whether you actually recruited anyone."
Konrad considered this. "A fair point. But where would this 'unaffiliated Chapter' come from?"
To both his and Ferrus' surprise, Ritsuka seemed entirely confident.
"I have a plan for that."