The Senatorum Imperialis.
Irthu Snodevien, draped in his formal robes, sat in his primary seat. His face remained void of unnecessary expression, projecting the image of a man with deep, unfathomable schemes. At this moment, he only glanced at the other High Lords out of the corner of his eye.
As the Master of the Adeptus Administratum, Snodevien was one of the thirteen most powerful individuals in the Imperium. His power was derived from the Lex Imperialis. He controlled the entire Administratum—a galaxy-spanning bureaucratic engine so vast it defied imagination, primarily responsible for the assessment and collection of the Imperial Tithe and the distribution of all Imperial resources.
The operation of this organization relied on simple, rigid procedures, precedents, and calculations. It never considered whether its actions were appropriate, nor did it care if its movements were rendered ineffective by its own calcified rigidity. This also made his political stance clear: he was a staunch traditionalist.
At this moment, however, Snodevien's thoughts drifted unusually far. For the high-and-mighty Master of the Administratum, today was an exceptionally special day.
To the High Lords of the Imperium, the Primarchs had long been distant historical symbols. Nearly ten thousand years had passed since the last Primarch vanished from the Imperium's sight. For ten millennia, it was mortals—these High Lords—who had stumbled through managing this galaxy-spanning behemoth. They had painfully maintained its existence amidst the scars left by the rebellions of the Primarchs and their sons, which had nearly torn the Imperium asunder, operating it to this day in a dark galaxy surrounded by wolves.
In Snodevien's view, did this not prove their path was correct? Did it not prove the effectiveness of those ten-thousand-year-old Imperial decrees that brooked no change?
And today, a Primarch had suddenly returned. Was he to snatch this hard-won power dynamic from the hands of mortals? Even if he were the author of the very acts that granted the High Lords their authority, it was absolutely unacceptable.
Therefore, upon receiving news of the Primarch's return, Snodevien had already begun to move. He secretly contacted representatives of several key Imperial departments, seeking and receiving a fair amount of "understanding and support." Although Chancellor Tieron, a reformist seeking to improve the Imperium, had refused a formal alliance, Snodevien was confident that the Chancellor would sooner or later recognize the situation once reality taught him a lesson. He believed that even a legendary Primarch could achieve nothing without the cooperation of the numerous Imperial departments.
Snodevien was filled with such confidence.
Just then, the gilded doors symbolizing the entrance to the Imperium's supreme core of power slowly opened. The eyes of every High Lord snapped toward the doorway. Then, their breath hitched collectively. Even the self-proclaimed well-traveled Master of the Administratum couldn't help but freeze.
Granted, he had seen the Primarch from afar in the welcoming party when Roboute Guilliman's shuttle landed on Terra. But the feeling of him being inches away now was worlds apart.
At this moment, the figure stepped inside, appearing like a titan-sized statue that had awakened in an ancient temple and stepped off its pedestal. The invisible pressure radiating from him instantly seized the hearts of everyone in the hall, making the very air feel heavy.
This was... a Primarch. A living legend, a walking god.
So much so that the "ordinary-looking" mortal standing beside him was momentarily ignored by almost every High Lord. But they quickly recovered. No one dared to underestimate the Living Saint who had personally stepped into the Throneroom and received the grace of the Emperor's miracle.
Snodevien even knew that sharp-nosed Ecclesiarchy priests had already begun spreading Lord Adam's holy name. The fact that all the anomalies vanished right after he revealed his miracle was interpreted by them as a sign of the Saint's humility—withdrawing his glory so as not to burn the eyes of the faithful, the better to walk among them.
Tieron hurried toward his seat. As his slightly bloated frame sat down, his face maintained its usual calm, but a deep worry flickered in his heart. For a reformist like the Chancellor who hoped for improvements, a violent conflict between the returned Primarch and the High Lords was the last thing he wanted to see.
Under the gaze of everyone, Guilliman chose not to walk toward the seat reserved for him. Instead, he walked straight forward and turned to face all the High Lords. He offered no pleasantries, no preamble. His sonorous and powerful voice echoed directly beneath the dome, like a bell announcing change.
He began his speech with a solemn face.
"...In this galaxy shrouded in darkness, the Imperium has been sinking for nearly ten thousand years. It no longer resembles the great era of hope and progress I witnessed ten millennia ago!"
He had begun. Like the most eloquent orator, he laid out his points one by one.
"Channels of communication are blocked and inefficient; bloated and redundant bureaucratic structures are layered upon each other; the processing of state affairs is trapped by endless precedents and rigid procedures, unable to purge the aristocratic parasites living off the Imperium's body. The vast majority of people on the lower worlds struggle to survive in ignorance and darkness, and the fanatical faith preached by the Ecclesiarchy is strangling the last sparks of reason. Any innovative thought can be branded as heresy..."
Guilliman's words grew heavier with each sentence. Every point he listed was like a dagger stabbing into the corners of the High Lords' hearts that they were unwilling to acknowledge. His gaze was like a physical weight, sweeping across every face present.
"And what saddens me most is that in this Imperium, the vast majority of people—including many in high positions—have, through ten thousand years of cruelty and numbness, failed to even realize what a colossally disgusting environment they are living in!"
Witnessing the stagnation and decay of the current Imperium, even though Guilliman had seen a rare spark of hope in the mysterious figure of Adam, the pain deep in his heart remained intense. He saw clearly that among those seated, only a few showed genuine concern or reflection at his words. Most were indifferent, even dismissive.
And some, like the Master of the Administratum, Snodevien, had the fire of offended anger burning deep in their eyes. Had they not been facing a Primarch, they likely would have shouted out in protest.
This filled Guilliman with a profound sadness. One must remember that ten thousand years ago, it was Guilliman who had sincerely hoped that the heroes among mortals would lead this Imperium. To be honest, they had indeed done something, but it was "only" something.
"For this reason," Guilliman's voice suddenly rose, sharp and decisive, "by the Emperor's decree, I formally assume the position of Lord Regent of the Imperium, with command over all its forces!"
"I shall lead a Great Crusade—a crusade aimed at purging the galaxy and allowing this decaying Imperium to be reborn from its ashes! To ensure the success of this crusade, the inefficient administrative system of the Imperium must undergo fundamental reform."
Guilliman paused, his eyes blazing like torches, as he clearly stated a proposal that made almost every High Lord's heart stop:
"Therefore, I shall establish a brand new Imperial department—the 'Logistics Department.' It shall exist independently of the current bureaucratic system, aimed at coordinating all resources required for the crusade in the most efficient manner and improving related administrative efficiency. The personnel for this department will be drawn from the existing various departments of the Imperium."
What?!
All the High Lords' eyes widened instantly. They could hardly believe it. Was this a move to establish a "Second Council of High Lords"?
"Forgive my bluntness, Lord Regent, but this is absolutely impossible!" Snodevien stood up almost by reflex, his voice rising slightly due to shock and anger. His eyes were full of bewilderment.
This isn't right! This isn't how the political game is played! You are supposed to spend months or even years in delicate political negotiations with us, testing each other and compromising, making certain concessions, and finally reaching a specific consensus at a point of balance that all parties can barely accept.
How can you just flip the table the moment you arrive?
Feeling the physical pressure of Guilliman's gaze, Snodevien quickly organized his thoughts. He attempted to argue.
"First, I believe this is an extremely inappropriate proposal. The establishment of any major Imperial department must undergo full discussion within the Council of High Lords; this is a predetermined procedure that cannot be changed. Secondly, the existing Administratum and Departmento Munitorum are fully capable of supporting any military action. Setting up another department will only cause further administrative chaos..."
Snodevien was just short of shouting: The laws of the ancestors cannot be changed! Even if the ancestor himself shows up, it won't work!
Adam listened quietly from the side, shaking his head slightly in his heart. In the original timeline, the Master of the Administratum wouldn't have dared to oppose so directly. Because of the Battle of Lion's Gate following the opening of the Great Rift, Guilliman gained unparalleled prestige and political capital by saving the Imperium from disaster. Combined with the urgent crisis brought by the Rift, he held immense political resources, allowing him to easily appoint his preferred High Lords or even dissolve the Council.
But now, the Chaos Powers behind the veil seemed to be holding back some big move, delaying their actions. It was peaceful, which left Guilliman lacking the momentum to crush all opposing voices, making it difficult to push his work forward.
Is this also part of your plan, Tzeentch? Adam wondered privately.
Facing Snodevien's arguments, Guilliman's expression did not waver in the slightest. Seeing this, Snodevien's heart settled slightly, and his gaze immediately shifted to several allies he had contacted beforehand.
His eyes first landed on Fabricator-General Gastaph Lasky—that massive body composed of machinery and metal. However, Lasky's head, covered in precision sensors, merely turned slightly toward Guilliman and spoke steadily.
"The Forge World of Mars and the Adeptus Mechanicus support this proposal by the Son of the Omnissiah, Lord Roboute Guilliman."
The air went still. Snodevien almost thought he had misheard. He looked at that massive mechanical frame in disbelief. What the hell is this guy doing?
Was he not afraid that once Guilliman held absolute power, he would turn around and purge the Mechanicus' privileges, or even abolish the Treaty of Olympus that established the Mechanicus' independent status, integrating them into the Imperium's political system?
Is he joking? The Fabricator-General thought with disdain. The movement of Prometheus Labs had already formed an unignorable wave within Mars, and as Fabricator-General, he had long been swept into it. Initially, he might have had doubts, but after looking deeper, Lasky was convinced this was the true path of the Machine God. At this moment, in no way could he negate the will of the Omnissiah. Whichever one it was.
Damn it! Snodevien cursed inwardly. The Mechanicus' defection was unexpected.
But misfortunes never come alone.
On the other side, Trajann Valoris, the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes who sat like a golden statue, also reacted. He calmly raised his armored arm, palm up, and pressed it lightly onto the smooth tabletop. In the traditional voting gestures of the Council of High Lords, palm up signified "Affirmative."
Snodevien was breaking into a cold sweat. A chill rose from his spine. By now, as sharp as he was, how could he not know the Primarch had come prepared?
But how did he do it?! The political stance of the Custodes was well-known; they were arguably the only department in the entire Imperium that did not have to bow to a Primarch. And in the secret history Snodevien knew, the Custodes should have been wary of a Primarch. How could they...?
The Custodes' stance was like a giant boulder thrown into a calm lake. With the Mechanicus and the Custodes—two key powers of the Imperium—successively offering clear support for Guilliman, the power balance in the meeting shifted instantly. The High Lords of the Adeptus Arbites, the Imperial Navy, and the Astra Militarum, who might have originally held a wait-and-see or cautiously opposing attitude, all showed subtle changes in their expressions. Their gazes began to drift, looking at one another.
Next... which department will it be?
In this delicate silence, a slight cough rang out. "Ahem..."
Ecclesiarch Baldo Slyst cleared his throat and straightened his magnificent holy robes, appearing ready to speak. As the leader of the Ecclesiarchy, his attitude held unparalleled influence in the Imperium. His opposition might still save some ground.
However, before he could speak, he was interrupted by a relaxed but unquestionable voice.
"The Ecclesiarchy expresses its support."
Adam raised his hand with a calm smile on his face, as if merely stating the most natural fact. Then, he turned his gaze toward the Ecclesiarch, whose face had instantly frozen. The look in his eyes seemed to ask: What? Are you not convinced?
The Ecclesiarch's lips moved, but in the end, he couldn't voice any rebuttal. He fell into a difficult silence. The position of a Living Saint was indeed transcendent in the Ecclesiarchy's theological system. Even the most legendary Ecclesiarch, Sebastian Thor, was only canonized as a saint after his death. A Living Saint walking the earth, recognized by the Emperor, held authority that could completely override an Ecclesiarch.
The Ecclesiarchy could do without a specific Ecclesiarch, but it could never publicly deny a Living Saint—especially one standing with the returned Primarch and Lord Regent.
Under Adam's calm gaze, the Ecclesiarch finally gave a difficult nod, avoiding the nearly desperate, questioning look from Snodevien.
At this point, the tide had turned. The other High Lords, whether neutral like the Officio Assassinorum or supportive of the Regent's reforms like the Inquisition, could not withstand the combined pressure of the Ecclesiarchy, the Mechanicus, and the Custodes to contend with the Primarch. Their resolve wasn't that stubborn.
Guilliman's gaze fell back onto Irthu Snodevien. Now, this leader of the traditionalists was completely isolated.
"So, Master Snodevien," Guilliman's voice echoed in the silent hall, "do you have any other objections regarding the formation of the Logistics Department to coordinate the crusade?"
Snodevien's nails almost dug into his palms, but in the end, his deeply calculating face showed no other intense emotions. He merely sat back into his high-backed seat slowly and stiffly. Raising his eyes to meet Guilliman's, Snodevien's voice was as steady as if the fierce opposition just now had never happened.
"I... have no other objections." After a brief pause, Snodevien bowed his head slightly.
"Yes, Lord Regent."