After a brief few seconds of eye contact, Eden took the opportunity to look away.
Thankfully, Saint Celestine made no further move, as though none of this had happened. Powerful individuals tend to be highly aware when someone is watching them—especially that silver-haired angel.
Eden sensed a faint connection to her, something he couldn't quite name. He quietly eased himself farther away from Saint Celestine, thinking, Better to keep a low profile.
I'm still too green. I ought to learn from His Eminence Tis—stay cautious and keep my head down.
Eden told himself. If his identity were revealed in a setting like this, there'd be no escape, especially with Guilliman so close. No question they'd lock me up on the spot.
He melted into the group to minimize his presence.
Meanwhile at the head of the procession, Guilliman suppressed his weariness and did his best to greet the roaring crowd with a serene smile.
Emotions swirled in his chest like a maelstrom. It had been ten thousand years since he'd last stood on Terra. Back then, Terra had still gleamed with ambition and drive. Now that spirit seemed utterly gone—replaced by bizarre, hyper-opulent architecture, warped industrial installations, and shockingly morbid religious iconography.
Escorted by the Custodes, the Primarch's party walked through the throngs. The changes distressed him deeply, and his sense of isolation amid these people intensified.
Before long, Guilliman and his retinue boarded a descending platform. Passing through the Internal Affairs Department's bleak, cavernous halls, they traversed what served as residential districts. On either side of the route, jammed platforms overflowed with Terra's common populace—filthy, tired, nothing like the nobles or officials who had greeted him earlier.
Barrier lines forced them to keep their distance. None dared come close for fear of lethal repercussions. At best, they could watch the Primarch's party from afar. Yet as Guilliman passed, these citizens erupted into thunderous cheers, tears streaming unabashedly down their faces. The rigid class walls of ten millennia might have stifled them, but perhaps their descendants' fate would be changed by the Primarch's arrival.
Layer upon layer of architecture loomed like a never-ending labyrinth. Then, after passing several grotesque and imposing edifices and arches, the view widened. Guilliman realized he now stood at a vast plaza.
He abruptly glared skyward at some twisted, flying constructs, nearly springing into action out of reflex—only to hold himself back, forcing a polite smile. His mind told him these creatures were the so-called "cherubs," widely used in the Imperium nowadays.
He stared at the childlike, eerie manufactured beings: pale torsos riddled with mech-cables, pairs of clumsy wings, faces like wretched caricatures. Simply looking at them hurt.
"What a hateful creation from a hateful era," Guilliman all but roared in his thoughts. But he couldn't show it; he needed allies here, not enemies. Already, he sensed that the Imperium's upper echelons were wary of him.
Eden, still in the procession, noticed Guilliman's reaction. "Looks like Guilliman hates those things. And I can't blame him," he muttered internally. He himself disliked cherubs—enough that, once he'd become an Emperor in his own territory, he'd had them thoroughly redesigned to align with more normal aesthetics.
Sighing at Guilliman's stifled expression, Eden thought, He's having a rough time, and this is only the beginning. It'll get worse from here.
That's precisely why Eden wanted nothing to do with the Imperium's core power structure. The corruption and perversions of high nobles and bureaucrats would make any sane person want to purge them all.
Worse yet, their rot was so deeply rooted that the Imperium couldn't function without them. Guilliman had neither the time nor the opportunity for a complete reset, so he had to pinch his nose and patch things as best he could—trying to preserve the Empire his Father left him.
Eden wondered how the emotional Primarch would handle his meeting with the Emperor—bawling out his grief? Or angrily pointing a finger at the Emperor's throne in fury? After all, though Guilliman did call the Emperor "Father," he had less of a personal bond than some other primarchs might.
Following the group, Eden soon caught sight of a towering stained-glass wall, kilometers high, depicting multiple primarchs. He looked up:
—Sanguinius, the angelic figure perched atop a mountain of mutant corpses, wings outstretched.
—Then a plainsman-like primarch, the Khan, commanding a hawk soaring among the stars.
—Then Vulkan of the Salamanders, grasping an absurdly massive forging hammer over a planet-sized anvil.
And at last, the figure Eden knew best: the Master of the Ultramarines rendered in somewhat distorted proportions, bathed in holy light. One hand held the Codex Astartes, the other held the head of a horned daemon. Angels floated around him in reverence.
Suddenly, the procession halted. Eden looked ahead to see Guilliman standing there, seemingly transfixed by his own image. He appeared…on guard.
He must be wary of how people worship him. Faith can be both power and poison for a being of such might.
Eden himself depended on faith for strength, gathering as many believers as he could, yet he constantly guarded himself from the corrosive effects of their devotion.
He tried everything to maintain a normal human mentality, never allowing himself to slip into delusional arrogance. To him, "playing God" was like roleplay—he was an impostor, not a true deity.
So far, his efforts to resist had worked decently well; he still felt only minor spiritual erosion. Eden could at least claim he was still human. The Emperor, on the other hand, was far beyond this point—and likely could only "deny" godhood in word alone.
Their sightseeing at this site concluded. Eden and the rest boarded some ostentatious, hideously styled heavy transport barges that wove through the endless street nets and transport lines. Great avenues and their cheering throngs flashed by. As the grand cathedrals and noble wards faded from view, slums gradually took their place.
Hungry, ailing people stared at the passing craft with desperate eyes. They struggled across squalid hovels. Their plight reminded Eden of worms festering in a wound.
Even in the Imperium's grand capital, Holy Terra itself, life could be that miserable. The aristocracy and bureaucracy showed no mercy, refusing to share even crumbs.
They preferred to exploit rather than uplift, which was hardly news. Surely some Planetary Governors might demonstrate a bit of kindness, like Eden's nominal "father," the previous governor of Urth, who used to distribute scraps of wood-fiber bread. But such cases were rare.
Where extremity, poverty, and suffering flourished, Chaos had fertile ground—perhaps one big reason the Ruinous Powers grew so rampant over the millennia. Humanity nourished the Emperor's power while simultaneously feeding extreme emotions to the Dark Gods, expanding their influence in realspace.
As the transport barges crawled forward, the poor lurched after them, proclaiming their faith with every ounce of strength until some collapsed. Still, they clung to belief, hoping for salvation. And if that hope died out, some among them would inevitably become cultists unleashing violence and destruction, only intensifying the misery.
Eden watched in silent reflection. It resembled his early memories, decades ago when he had first toured the underhive of his domain.
The scene had been much the same. Thankfully, his own planet Urth had eliminated absolute poverty five years earlier. In fact, the entire Urth sector was steadily advancing broad anti-poverty and literacy campaigns for new vitality.
If he had the power, he'd help these souls too—but he had neither the authority nor the capacity on Terra. His domain was all he could manage for now.
Maybe when his realm grew larger and his own influence stronger, he could spread the Savior's radiance to more places. For now, there was nothing to do here but finish what he'd come for—help secure the merchant credentials for Shahim—and then go home to develop his territory. Holy Terra's issues were none of his concern.
Time passed.
Suddenly, the sky brightened overhead. Eden looked up and saw a blazing beam that pierced the clouds—that was the Astronomican's sacred light.
Under its radiance, the palatial shape nestled among the mountains came fully into view: the Imperial Palace. The pilgrimage was nearing its end.
Before them towered the enormous main gate, soaring into the sky, carved with motifs of angels battling daemons. Flanking it were statues of a dozen saints, staring down at all who entered. Eden raised his gaze and saw the sunset beyond, illuminating the Palace's silhouette.
The barge ground to a stop. Everyone was informed they would have to proceed on foot.
Eden stuck with the party, passing countless corridors of magnificence and wonders until at last they reached a final portal: the Throne Room. That vast nexus was linked to innumerable passageways, often jammed with pilgrim foot traffic. Only a fortunate few were allowed inside.
Stained-glass windows around the colossal hall depicted the Emperor's heroic deeds. An impossible number of votive candles burned in silence, shrouding the space in soft, dreamlike haze.
Incense filled the air. Bells tolled from the pulpit, and choirs sang hymns to the Master of Mankind. On a high altar, a fervent priest sermonized in a rousing voice.
Off in dim corners, Tech-Priests gathered, bodies swaying as they chanted binary prayers under their breath. Along the hall's flanks, officers from the Imperial Navy and Astra Militarum huddled in small clusters, pointing at datapads held by servo-skulls.
From cages suspended overhead, disgraced nobles—pronounced guilty of crimes—called out in frantic desperation, trying to proclaim their innocence to the patrolling Custodes below.
At length, the procession halted again. Eden glanced up to see a grand ebony staircase. At its top stood twelve Custodes. Their leader wore a feathered helm and a cloak of ermine draped over gilded armor.
Behind them rose an enormous arch. Everyone knew that beyond that arch lay the Golden Throne itself, where the Master of Mankind, the mightiest being in the Imperium, had long slumbered.
In Eden's view, Guilliman now strode through the gathered throngs. Each time he passed, excited pilgrims and penitents reached out trembling hands to touch his armor. Among them, Eden spotted many who had been on the "Devout Pilgrim" vessel, those Urth faithful who had been arrested.
After Urth Ecclesiarchy was officially recognized, Eden guessed they'd be freed and compensated. Sure enough, here they were, not only free but inside the Imperial Palace, touching a Primarch. They'd be bragging about this for the rest of their lives.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
When Guilliman reached the foot of the stairs, the Custodes Captain at the top rapped his guardian spear thrice upon the stone. In flawless High Gothic, he declared, "I am Kalim Varrano, Custodian of the Emperor's Eagles. State your name and purpose!"
In a similarly formal High Gothic, Guilliman's herald responded—reciting a grand string of titles for the leader of the Terran Pilgrimage Force.
Eden heard Shahim's name in there, too. Good. Their efforts had paid off.
After the lengthy, archaic rites concluded, the Primarch finally announced his desire to see his Father, the Emperor of Mankind. Hundreds of thousands of people held their breath. The vast throne room fell silent.
But the Custodes only stood there in silence, gazing at Guilliman for a long while. Tension rose with each second. Was the Custodes Captain wondering if this was some elaborate hoax? Would he declare that the man before them was not truly Guilliman, or demand further proof of identity?
Eden yawned in secret. This sure is taking a while. If I'd known, I might've skipped the show. Truth be told, he felt nervous as well. He'd asked the Emperor to keep his identity private but never got a direct answer.
Maybe, once Father and Son were reunited, the Emperor might mention Eden or impose some demand—like compelling Eden to join Guilliman in Imperial service. Eden wanted none of that.
At last, the Custodes Captain rapped his spear again, stepping aside to open a path. The Primarch's request to see the Emperor had been granted. Guilliman ascended, halting before that massive arch. Next to it, he looked almost small.
Dong—
A solemn bell rang through the throne room. Under the collective gaze of countless onlookers, the huge arch parted without a sound.
Awe and fascination rippled through the crowd as they craned their necks, trying to glimpse something beyond—but they only saw dark depths and swirling mist. Snakelike coils of vapor curled around Guilliman, obscuring him from sight, while faint, mournful whispers echoed within.
Eden took a few curious glances but was largely unimpressed. After all, the Golden Sun of the Emperor hovered right beside Eden's Little Sun in the Warp, so Eden could effectively say hello at any time.
There was nothing to be excited about. Besides, Eden had personally had an up-close experience with the Golden Throne once—and the memory still gave him shivers.
In the crowd's view, Guilliman drew a deep breath and strode through the arch. The door sealed in the same silent way, and the Primarch vanished from sight. Hours passed with no sign of his return, leaving all to wait in anticipation.
While Eden was daydreaming, a sudden jolt struck his consciousness—an impulse from the Warp.
What the fu…? The Emperor's calling me in?
What does He want me there for? A father-son reunion, or to watch Guilliman get emotional? They're both a bit socially awkward, so it's not like there'll be much conversation. The Emperor's better at punching people than making small talk.
Yet Eden had no choice but to take a peek. Quickly, his consciousness slipped into the Warp and merged with the Little Sun. Once "online," he received a message from the Emperor—He wanted Eden to communicate with Guilliman and assured Eden that He hadn't revealed Eden's true identity.
"Good. At least He's not forcing me to help take on the Imperium's mess. That's Guilliman's job, apparently. The Emperor still loves me," Eden quipped inwardly.
He then directed his awareness toward the golden sun, sensing a mechanical interface just ahead. Through that device, he arrived at the Golden Throne. It was a strange experience.
He checked out the Golden Throne, so similar to his old Blackstone seat. The Emperor's skeletal remains perched there, bound to dozens of cables—a bleak sight. Eden sighed. Had he never abandoned the Blackstone Throne, he'd probably look the same by now.
"You're… a Daemonslayer?" Guilliman's startled voice echoed.
The moment he'd entered, a phantom shimmered on the Golden Throne—the Emperor's faint response, revealing the Father's condition. Seeing that had shocked and upset Guilliman, who at first resisted believing it was actually his Father.
Slowly he came to accept it. He vented about the Imperium's decay and his own crushing fatigue, even daring to rebuke his Father for leaving such a burden on him and not on his other brothers.
He simply couldn't handle it all.
But the Emperor hardly responded, leaving them both in an awkward standstill for hours. Guilliman sensed that His Father heard his words, even felt a flicker of guilt… Then the Emperor's golden sun flickered, and another, smaller sun appeared.
Immediately, Guilliman sensed that this was the essence of the "Daemonslayer," a being the Emperor evidently trusted. Soon, he felt that entity's consciousness arrive, and they began to communicate.
Eden's awareness swept over the Primarch in front of the Throne. Guilliman's face remained resolute, but faint blood vessels showed around his eyes. Presumably he'd been crying, or on the verge.
Hmm…
Caught in the moment, Eden was equally awkward. They were both rather socially anxious. After a while, Eden finally said to Guilliman: "Brother, keep at it. The future of the Imperium depends on you. I'll stand with you at the critical moment!"
Then, without waiting for Guilliman's reply, Eden abruptly logged off and fled.
That's best. If Guilliman tried to rope me in to rebuild the Imperium—especially in front of the Emperor—I'd be stuck. Now I can say I promised to help in a pinch. I just won't help in the same way he does.
…???
Guilliman stared, confused, as the Daemonslayer vanished after tossing out a single sentence. Brother? Since when do I have another brother? Maybe he's some other Primarch Father created, or a special variant?
Not long after the Daemonslayer disappeared, a fresh message, huge and complex, radiated from the Golden Throne. Part of the Emperor's plan, apparently. A psychic touch settled on Guilliman's shoulder like a comforting gesture.
Guilliman felt his heart tremble. "…Father."
...
Throne Room
Eden discreetly breathed a sigh of relief. Whew, got out of that one.
Hours later, as the morning prayers began again and the lumens blazed at full brightness, the arch reopened.
This time, a pale mist rolled out—chill and moonlike. From within that silver haze, the figure of the Ultramarines Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, emerged.
His face was stern and resolute, carrying a new, imposing gravitas.
(End of Chapter)
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