Outskirts of the Eternity Gate.
A regiment of the Astra Militarum stood guard at a corridor checkpoint—though the passage had long since lost its strategic importance and was largely ignored.
They gazed toward the Eternity Gate, expressions tinged with complicated emotion.
"So envious... I wonder if we'll ever be part of such a pilgrimage," murmured Sergeant Major Holmes of the Solar Auxilia as he listened to the distant hymn praising the Holy Sun, a look of yearning in his eyes.
Once upon a time, under the rule of the Solar Lords, the Solar Auxilia basked in unparalleled glory.
During the Great Crusade and Horus Heresy, they were among the most elite forces of the Imperium.
Their combat effectiveness rivaled that of the Space Marine Legions, and they vastly outnumbered them—accounting for 20 to 25 percent of the entire Imperial military.
A terrifying proportion, making them the true backbone of the Empire.
A ten-man Solar Auxilia fireteam could go toe-to-toe with a single Space Marine.
Their individual combat prowess was unmatched.
In addition to infantry training, they mastered void warfare, battlefield engineering, planetary exploration, and survival in death worlds.
Every soldier was equipped with Solar-pattern Void Combat Armor.
This all-environment powered shell incorporated full life-support systems and could adapt to almost any battlefield.
Their arsenal was also top-tier—high-grade las-weapons superior to standard-issue, plus flamers, combustors, plasma weapons, and melta guns.
They even had their own auxiliary forces—Ogryns Charonite—to support infantry operations.
Beyond that, the Solar Auxilia fielded a complete range of super-heavy vehicles, including fighter aircraft for aerial support.
In space, they employed Great Shark boarding ships for assault landings.
Yes—boarding actions weren't exclusive to Space Marines. The Solar Auxilia had once been equally capable!
"Pity that's all ancient glory now…" Holmes sighed deeply.
His family had served in the Solar Auxilia for generations—he knew the history well.
After the Horus Heresy, the Imperium was devastated, plunged into the Long Night.
Its economy could no longer sustain the enormous costs of maintaining the Solar Auxilia, and much of their manufacturing knowledge was lost.
The entire force declined, its structure shrank, and its situation worsened over time.
There was simply no other option. The Imperium couldn't afford them anymore. Feeding the Guard and giving them "flashlights" and a few anti-tank grenades was already considered generous.
Naturally, those who held the purse strings funneled resources to their own forces.
The Astra Militarum was on the edge of power. Even its most elite—Storm Troopers—were just a downsized shadow of what the Solar Auxilia once were.
Today, the Solar Auxilia retained its name and a fragment of its organization thanks only to its historic prestige. But it rarely saw combat.
Instead, it garrisoned the Sol System or guarded key worlds—a symbolic gesture.
Even that honor was hard to maintain. Entangled in political turf wars, they were pushed to irrelevant defense lines.
And forgotten in the margins of history.
BZZT—
Sparks burst from Holmes' suit. His Solar-pattern Void Armor glitched and temporarily shut down.
"Emperor damn it, the machine spirit's acting up again!"
He slammed his fist against the casing. It quieted down. A loose part popped out; he stuffed it back in.
His adjutant snorted, "Boss, that antique should've been scrapped ages ago. Why're you still wearing it?"
Holmes shot him a look.
"You're wearing one too, you old bastard. Why don't you go tell High Command we need a new batch?"
That "old bastard" was also clad in Void Armor—passed down through who-knows-how-many generations. Its internals were completely dead. It was just a shiny shell now.
But he still polished it daily.
Truthfully, Holmes could get a new commander-model carapace armor if he bit the bullet.
But then he wouldn't be Solar Auxilia anymore.
It wasn't the armor he clung to—it was the sigil it bore.
The badge forged of angular motifs, a skull, and angelic wings—the mark of the Solar Auxilia.
Holmes knew more than most. He no longer hoped for a resupply. Even if the Departmento Munitorum were feeling generous, the fabrication technologies no longer existed. Forget building new suits—no one could even repair the old ones.
The Tech-Priests wouldn't even give them the time of day.
"No replacements? Fine by me. I'd probably feel weird if I wasn't wearing this old thing."
His adjutant tried to comfort himself, "Still, I'd love to wear it into battle one last time. Take out a couple of traitors, y'know?"
It was a common dream among the Auxilia.
Their families had served for centuries—they couldn't stomach rotting away in obscurity under this once-proud banner.
They still trained by the old Solar Doctrine, hoping they'd one day be called back to service, not just man pointless defense lines.
But that was just wishful thinking.
"Maybe we'll…"
Holmes hesitated, lips moving slightly, but ultimately fell silent.
He'd caught wind of troubling news—the Departmento Munitorum and the Adeptus Arbites wanted to disband the Solar Auxilia, calling it a waste of resources.
They would replace the gap with Arbites forces.
After all, the Arbites already handled law enforcement on Terra and other key worlds.
Their forces were well-equipped, backed tax enforcement, and even had their own cruiser fleets.
Holmes feared the Astra Militarum's High Command would cave to the pressure and finally dissolve the honored structure of the Solar Auxilia.
He looked at his troops, worry deepening in his eyes.
They'd lose the honors passed down through generations—and everything else with it.
And then what? Most would be absorbed into other units… or worse, become destitute citizens of Holy Terra.
The Solar Auxilia would vanish into the shadows of history.
From the direction of the Eternity Gate, the celebratory songs only grew louder… but the Auxilia's stomachs growled in protest.
"Have those bastards cut our rations again? How the hell are we supposed to train like this?!"
The adjutant grumbled.
Training had dwindled due to hunger—mostly reduced to theoretical drills now.
Still, thanks to the discipline ingrained in them, some of that old fire remained.
Sadly, the Imperium no longer needed them.
Holmes watched his men grumble, his heart sinking further.
And there was nothing he could do.
Maybe the disbandment had already begun—supply cuts were likely the first step. Over a million Solar Auxilia on Terra might soon be disbanded!
Gradually, seeing their commander hang his head, the troops fell silent.
The whole outpost grew grim and quiet—a stark contrast to the celebrations on Terra.
Suddenly, Holmes' communicator crackled to life.
He instinctively answered.
"By the Emperor's light, this is Sergeant Major Holmes of the 13th Infantry Company, Viletalis Storm Regiment, Solar Auxilia. Go ahead…"
Then he realized—
It was a message on the entire Solar Auxilia's public channel. And the voice? None other than Commander-in-Chief of the Astra Militarum—and de facto head of the Solar Auxilia—Lord-General Moor!
He had never issued any orders to the Solar Auxilia. Apart from a ceremonial inauguration, he hadn't even appeared before them in years.
And now, he was speaking?
"Is… is this it? The official order to dissolve us?!"
Holmes' heart clenched. He could barely listen.
And he wasn't alone. Commanders across the force held their breath. The channel was dead silent—only Lord-General Moor's voice rang out.
Holmes forced himself to calm down, straining to hear every word.
And then—
A calm yet commanding voice echoed through the channel:
"Warriors of the Solar Auxilia, I am the Primarch of Hope, the Savior—Eden Grant. You are a noble force, the most loyal warriors to the Emperor.
In these times of dire peril, the Imperium, the Emperor, and Holy Terra need warriors like you to turn the tide.
But I must ask—can you still bear this honor?"
It was a recorded message. The Savior himself, Eden Grant, speaking directly to the Auxilia.
When the broadcast ended, orders began flowing down through Lord-General Moor and his generals, reaching every rank.
"Emperor above…"
Holmes trembled as he listened, tears welling in his eyes.
"We can still fight…"
He received his orders, and with a raspy but booming voice, declared:
"YES, LOYALTY!!"
"Boss?"
His adjutant and squad leaders looked over, confused.
"You okay? Did we finally get orders?"
They were holding their breath.
The Solar Auxilia hadn't received real orders in years.
Holmes ended the transmission, still shaken.
He looked at them, barely holding back tears, and choked out:
"The Primarch of Hope, Savior Eden Grant, along with Commander Moor, have officially reinstated the Solar Auxilia!
We're going to war—to defend Holy Terra against the traitors!"
Soon, the rest of the unit understood.
Heretics hidden within Terra sought to plunge the Imperium into chaos.
In response, the Savior, the Commander-in-Chief, the Ecclesiarch, Living Saints, and even the Lord Regent had joined forces to crush the threat.
And only the Solar Auxilia, the most loyal of all, could be trusted for the task.
They were the Imperium's last hope—assigned a mission of extreme importance.
(Yes, the Savior had sent similar messages to several forces—Sisters of Battle, Grey Knights, and others. But each message praised their loyalty.)
Still, the trust placed in them filled Holmes and his men with elation and gratitude.
But a hint of concern remained.
"Our gear…"
The adjutant looked down at his rusting armor shell. "Can we really handle a mission this critical?"
The Solar Auxilia didn't even have functioning carapace armor anymore. Their weapons were ancient relics.
All they had left… was their skill and spirit.
"Reinforcements are inbound," Holmes said with conviction. "The Savior promised—our force will be rearmed. The glory of old will return!"
At that moment, the hymns from the Eternity Gate reached a triumphant crescendo.
But amid the celebration, unrest stirred in the crowd. Hive districts grew chaotic. Private armies and forces gathered in secret.
The tide of rebellion against the Savior had begun.
Eternity Gate Pilgrimage Site.
"By the Emperor… is that really the Savior?"
Naresen stood amid the crowd, eyes dazed as she watched the marching Space Marines, armored convoys, and the holographic projection of the Primarch of Hope.
She had finally seen that benevolent figure… but strangely, didn't feel happy.
After returning from her department's void-station with the other civil staff, they'd discovered a startling truth:
The Battle of Baal had ended twenty years ago.
Meaning the entire department—its personnel, resources, and work—had been wasting their time for two decades on a project with zero relevance.
Their reports and calculations had contributed nothing.
They were completely adrift.
Her department—along with their supervising office—had no one to report to. The last assigned official had died two years ago, leaving no successor, and no replacement had been sent.
Their accounting operation hadn't been part of any ministry's plan for a long time.
Now, their department head was desperately trying to find a new assignment just to keep the department running.
If they failed, they planned to return to the same office after the ceremony—
And continue their accounting work.
Even if it was completely meaningless.
Everyone needed their jobs to keep themselves and their families alive.
Only by staying at their post would the logistics subroutines release basic food rations to the civil servants and their dependents—enough to stave off hunger.
Naresen's convictions were nearly shattered, but she accepted this cruel reality.
Even if her work was utterly meaningless, she had to continue calculating figures in that office—for the sake of her family's survival.
If not, the logistics department would repossess their cramped living quarters, and they would lose everything… reduced to nothing more than beggars.
Living in the slums of Terra.
In those dangerous, disease-ridden warrens, death was part of daily life.
For a family of civil servants like hers, there was no surviving such conditions.
Yet a rumor was spreading across the administrative departments:
That the Primarch of Hope, the Savior himself, was attempting to seize absolute power—bringing about a dark era of tyranny. That he intended to implement sweeping reforms across Holy Terra.
And when that happened, it was predicted that over 80% of departments would be deemed obsolete and disbanded. Millions would lose their hereditary positions.
They would have nothing.
This affected hundreds of billions of civil servants.
That rumor shattered the last illusion Naresen had been clinging to.
She didn't understand what a "dark dictatorship" was, nor could she grasp the nature of these "reforms."
All she knew—after a lifetime of tireless service—was that with the Savior's arrival, she would lose the position passed down by generations.
And she and her family would go hungry. Maybe even die.
"…Savior, must you really do this?"
Naresen clutched an image of the Savior, staring at his projected smile with disbelief.
That gentle expression… felt like a lie.
Maybe he really was a bad person.
Just like Vandire had once been—a tyrant who brought death to countless people.
Such thoughts clouded Naresen's mind.
Vandire's history was officially forbidden within the Imperium, but some had deliberately revived those stories to discredit the Savior's political vision.
With careful manipulation.
Soon, both Terra's citizens and bureaucrats began to see the Primarch of Hope as nothing more than a cold-hearted, tyrannical liar.
That sentiment was quietly spreading across more and more sectors.
At that moment, the Primarch of Hope, the Savior, was about to take the stage to speak to the crowd gathered for the pilgrimage.
But the crowd had already begun to stir.
Some led a vocal outcry, and many civil servants followed suit in a surge of righteous anger:
"Liar! Butcher! Tyrant—you've doomed us all!"
"You've betrayed the Emperor's faith!"
"We cannot allow a new Vandire to rise!"
"Get off Holy Terra!"
The growing wave of condemnation shocked the Imperium's high command seated at the viewing platform. Others simply sneered, already scheming their next move.
And quietly, they mobilized hidden troops… and assassins.
Under such circumstances, killing someone "who defied the Emperor and sought to impose a dark regime" would be praised by the people.
Edge of the ceremonial platform.
"…Looks like there are quite a few dissenters," Eden sighed softly.
He knew that public opinion could be manipulated.
Still, to be screamed at by so many citizens—it was… unsettling. He'd never experienced it before.
"Lord Savior is not that kind of person,"
Saint Celestine, the Living Saint and Holy Angel, spoke coldly but with grace—so different from her private demeanor.
She frowned slightly. "The faithful don't understand you. They've been misled."
She knew the Savior best. She had seen the nobility and warmth of his soul.
He was far too kind to be a tyrant.
Eden leaned in—so close his breath brushed against her ear.
"I'm glad you trust me. You might be the only one who still does.
Will you stand with me on that stage?"
In this moment, he needed someone revered and pure to stand at his side—someone beloved and trusted by the masses.
Only then could the Savior's name be preserved.
And no one was better suited than the Holy Angel.
Celestine's ears flushed slightly. She nearly faltered in her icy composure.
But her heart was moved:
"Lord Savior trusts me… in such a moment, I must be at his side."
"I will," she whispered.
And then she stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with the Primarch of Hope—so close, their arms nearly touched.
Eden and Celestine ascended the platform.
Below them stood the Lord-General of the Astra Militarum, the Ecclesiarch, Fabricator-General of the Mechanicus, Grey Knights, and more.
At this point, there was no need for pretense.
But Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Regent, was absent.
He had reportedly caught a rare cold during the parade and was confined to rest.
As Eden stepped onto the platform, the wave of anger surged.
The shouts now thundered through the entire site.
But as soon as the Holy Angel appeared—things shifted.
Many of the faithful hesitated. Their anger wavered. They grew uncertain.
After all, the Living Saint—champion of the Emperor—stood beside the Savior.
Perhaps the rumors were false.
And so they waited to hear what the Savior would say.
But many still cursed.
The procession square buzzed with hostility. The jeering undermined the Savior's authority—there was no longer any reverence.
BZZZZT.
A massive projection of the Savior, clad in golden armor, hovered above the crowd—his gaze sweeping across them.
Everyone waited for a response. Or an excuse. Anything.
But Eden said nothing.
He simply looked at them—quiet, composed.
Through his psychic senses, he felt something shift. His silence made some uncomfortable.
It was a strategy. A speech tactic.
He observed the crowd—listening to the fury, the murmurs.
Saying nothing.
As the silence dragged on, the chaos died down. A nervous tension grew.
It was as if the Savior was looking directly into each person's soul.
A wordless, growing pressure spread through the air.
Even his allies felt the strain. Everyone awaited the first words.
This was the outcome Eden wanted. It was a technique borrowed from a certain infamous orator:
"I learned to use silence—not fear it." — Little Moustache.
Eden inhaled deeply—then spoke with a voice that thundered across the plaza, reverberating through the very atmosphere:
"Citizens of the Imperium…
I understand your fear of the unknown.
I understand your hardship, your pain, your anger.
But I ask you—trust me."
"I, Eden Grant—the Savior and Primarch of Hope—have witnessed true suffering.
Heretics once razed Urth, laid waste to its hives.
I myself nearly died from their assassins."
"But I did not break.
I stayed behind to hold the line, to keep people fed."
"I stood beside soldiers, civil servants, and underhive dwellers alike.
I saw their lives. I shared in their struggles."
"Together, we drove out the darkness and restored the light.
Urth rose again—stronger than ever."
As he spoke, holograms displayed before and after comparisons of Urth—dark ruins turned to glittering sanctuaries.
Eden's voice hardened:
"Trust the Primarch who understands you.
I bring salvation to all who suffer.
Simply put—I want everyone fed, clothed, and employed."
"That's why I came to Terra.
All of you will eat bread and drink milk…"
"LIAR!"
"You're just like Vandire—deceiving us!"
"Don't trust this fraud! Terra doesn't need this many workers after reform!"
The crowd roared again. Dissent surged in the hives.
But Eden had expected this.
He knew that words alone wouldn't change every heart—especially not the opposition, their cronies, or the entrenched elite.
They would resist him—no matter how noble his deeds.
Because his reforms would remove them. Streamline everything. Reassign those who were useless or inefficient.
It was a zero-sum fight. He didn't need everyone—just enough.
Even if they didn't believe, he needed a justification for what came next.
"I don't blame you for your mistrust," Eden's voice sharpened. "You've been deceived."
"From the moment I stepped on Holy Terra, I've been under constant assassination attempts.
Sent by traitors and heretics."
"Those same heretics—the ones responsible for your suffering—fear me.
They want to eliminate me, to stop Holy Terra from rising again."
"They are parasites—conspiring with xenos and heretics.
They have infiltrated the Palace itself. Even threatened the Golden Throne."
"They seek to destroy the very foundation of the Imperium."
Visuals of heretic assassins, alien invaders, and horrifying atrocities played across the sky—Imperial citizens slaughtered, worlds ravaged.
Footage sourced from the Custodes archives.
Didn't matter. He blamed it all on the opposition.
"LIES! Slander!"
The sudden accusation stunned Violetta and the opposition. It had just been a power struggle—how had this become treason?
Unbeknownst to them, they had been doing the same.
Eden had simply struck first—catching them off guard.
"Looks like today's celebration will be postponed…"
Eden summoned his psychic might. Golden wings unfurled. His body bathed in radiant light—divine and awe-inspiring.
Celestine radiated purity beside him.
He looked out, voice heavy with devotion:
"Our Imperium and Holy Terra stand at the edge of ruin—one step away from annihilation.
Citizens of the Imperium,
To protect Terra from the traitors,
To strike down those who harm our people,
For the future of mankind—
I, as the Primarch of Hope, the Savior, and in the name of the Emperor,
declare that Holy Terra is now under emergency martial law,
until every heretic is cleansed.
And in that cleansing—Terra shall rise in glory."
"For the Imperium! For Holy Terra!"
"I pledge all my loyalty to the Emperor!!"
"LOYALTY!!!"
The entirety of the procession army roared in unison, shaking the heavens.
At the same time, orbital command locked down Lion's Gate Spaceport. Defense bastions shifted into full alert.
Holy Terra was now under martial law.
"He's mad… he's truly mad…" Violetta screamed, incoherent. "He is Vandire!"
The opposition knew the battle had become a fight to the death.
They had tried to assassinate him. They should have seen this coming.
"We'll need to deploy everything we have…"
Violetta regained her composure, sending orders to her allies—preparing for the final war.
Truthfully, Eden hadn't lied.
The opposition still held military superiority. If they wanted to win, they had to strike now—eliminate Eden and his forces.
Label him the traitor.
Then stoke chaos, manufacture outrage, and pressure Guilliman and others to capitulate.
It was their only chance.
...
Outer Orbit, Holy Terra.
Wave after wave of ships arrived—massive convoys from the Savior's domain.
Inside these enormous transports were resources so vast… they could drown Holy Terra.
(End of Chapter)
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