Chapter 443 – Double Reversal! The Emperor's Fury! Abdicate the Throne!
When the words fell, Horus closed his eyes and tilted his head upward, taking on the posture of a man ready to be slaughtered. He made no move to offer excessive resistance.
After all, in the vast breadth of the Imperium of Man, there was no one who could rival the Emperor. If the Emperor truly wished to kill a Primarch like him, it would be a trivial matter.
As Horus waited in despair for his end to come, the Emperor finally spoke:
"Horus, you are the Primarch in whom I have placed my deepest hopes. You are the Warmaster I personally cultivated. How could I possibly kill you?"
The Emperor's voice was warm and rich with feeling. For the despairing Horus, it was like a faint ray of hope piercing the darkness. He opened his eyes in disbelief, only to see that the Emperor's cold expression had shifted to one of sorrow and pity—like a compassionate god gazing upon the suffering masses of humanity.
Horus was utterly bewildered.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go!
By his expectations, the next step should have been imprisonment, the forcible disarmament of the Luna Wolves, and a gradual purge of the Primarchs one by one.
How had it suddenly turned into… this reversal?
Lifting tear-streaked eyes, Horus stared fixedly at the Emperor's face, searching for the slightest trace of falseness beneath that look of mercy. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't tell.
Seated alone upon the high throne at the top of the long steps, the Emperor let out a deep sigh.
"Each of you Primarchs is my one and only child. I have never regarded you as tools to be discarded at will.
"It seems the long years of the Great Crusade have not only blurred the bond between father and son, but have bred misunderstanding and estrangement between us. That is my failing."
The Emperor's sudden confession left Horus stunned. He had braced himself for rage and rebuke—but instead, the Emperor had delivered this heartfelt speech, leaving him at a loss for words.
Meeting the Emperor's gaze, Horus felt a wave of shame wash over him. Could it be that he had truly misunderstood the Emperor's intentions all along…?
Watching silently, Malcador had maintained the demeanor of a spectator enjoying a play from the audience.
In truth, this was nothing more than a carefully scripted play, orchestrated by the Emperor himself.
As the Emperor's most trusted minister, Malcador knew perfectly well that the Primarchs were, in the Emperor's eyes, ultimately tools. If Malcador himself had not insisted that the Emperor seek them out, Horus would likely still be nothing more than a petty gang lord on Cthonia—certainly not the revered Warmaster he was today.
One had to admit, as a masterful politician, the Emperor's gift for performance was unparalleled. His measured displays of emotion were precisely timed and exquisitely controlled. Even Malcador had almost been taken in.
Horus, by contrast, was far less adept in political maneuvering. For all his talent, his political instincts were nothing compared to the Emperor's seasoned cunning.
With just a few words, the Emperor had broken through Horus's defenses and coaxed him into revealing his innermost thoughts—behavior unbecoming of a true political player.
If you were going to rebel, you should stand your ground to the bitter end. Since when did a single speech from your father make you soften your resolve? Was that the attitude a rebellious son should have?
"Do you… still love us? You haven't intended to erase our existence?"
Horus's bloodshot eyes were wide. If this truly was all a misunderstanding, then his earlier behavior now seemed nothing short of a pitiful tantrum.
"I have never sought to erase you. The information you've been given is not accurate. If you wish to know the details regarding the Second and Eleventh Primarchs, I will have Malcador take you to the records," the Emperor said solemnly.
"What you do not know is that those two had stumbled upon classified information concerning the Webway Project during the Great Crusade. In order to guarantee absolute secrecy, they voluntarily sacrificed themselves—choosing to vanish from all records—to prevent any leak that could shake the very foundations of the Imperium's rule.
"It was one of my few mistakes, and it remains the deepest sorrow in my heart. Now, I have decided to tell you the truth, so you might understand my intentions."
Of course, this was also because the New Warp Route Project had fully replaced the old Webway plans; the classified nature of that information no longer needed to be maintained.
Revealing certain secrets now would allow the public to recognize the sacrifices the Primarchs had made for the Imperium.
Upon hearing the truth, Horus's stance faltered. No wonder that, ever since the Great Crusade began, the Emperor had grown distant. He was carrying too many secrets—so many that it was better not to meet his "sons" at all.
Seeing Horus waver, the Emperor struck again while the iron was hot:
"You think that my placing the affairs of state in mortal hands is out of fear or disregard for you? Is that what you believe?"
From atop the steps, the Emperor looked down on him, making Horus shift uncomfortably. Shame gnawed at him, and when faced with the Emperor's pointed question, he could only mutter:
"…Yes."
No Primarch had any love for incompetent bureaucrats. They were forever finding excuses to delay logistics shipments, pulling petty tricks that only bred resentment.
Even the Luna Wolves had experienced shortages, or delays in resupply.
Worse still, the Primarchs were expected to obey the orders of these High Lords—mortals who decided which worlds to attack and how many troops to send, leaving only a rare few Primarchs with genuine operational autonomy.
"You are wrong."
The Emperor's tone suddenly hardened.
"You think the fuel, food, and equipment in your supply chains fall from the sky? Let me tell you: every weapon, every meal you consume is supplied through the sweat and blood of uncountable ordinary men and women.
"In the hardest times, nine out of ten logistics officers I sent never returned—starving to death along the way—terrified they might fail to get the supplies to you.
"You bask in glory and honor, but behind every medal stands a trail of shattered families.
"It is they who pay crushing taxes, scraping food from their own mouths so you Astartes can fight with full bellies!
"And yet, you feast in excess, squandering without thought. Every grain you toss aside was grown with the blood and tears of the common folk!"
The Emperor's voice rang like thunder. Yes, the Great Crusade could not have succeeded without the Primarchs' valor, but it was the countless billions of ordinary humans who formed the foundation of that success.
Wars are always won or lost in the realm of logistics. This two-century-long crusade had been paid for with the toil of ten generations—generations whose names history would never remember, yet who made the Primarchs' glory possible.
Did they not deserve respect?
The Emperor's verbal barrage left Horus reeling. Looking back, he realized that in truth, the Luna Wolves had rarely suffered severe shortages.
More often than not, their supplies had arrived on time and in abundance—enough that they had held frequent feasts to lift morale.
Now, the tide in the grand hall had fully turned. Horus stood silent and ashamed, while the Emperor's relentless words pierced him to the core.
"Horus, do you think politics is nothing more than forming factions and bending the Imperium into your personal possession?"
The Emperor's gaze was filled with disappointment as he denounced Horus's elitist vision for governance.
"You want to be a High Lord? Fine—let me tell you what they do every single day!
"They worry about how to move supplies safely through the perils of the Warp and get them to your front lines on time.
"They think about how to turn barren wasteland into fertile fields.
"They agonize over how, with a meager budget, they can scrape together a paltry pension for the families of the dead—while still saving enough to fund your victory banquets!
"The worlds you obliterate without hesitation? The High Lords send people to rebuild them. The surviving civilians endure acrid smoke and choking clouds of sulphuric gas as they cobble together shelters.
"And no—the Imperium will not provide those 'insignificant' mortals with costly, high-grade respirators!"
The Emperor rattled off more than a dozen such bloody examples. Yes, the Primarchs' triumphs were magnificent—but the harm they inflicted upon the Imperium's people was no less real.
After all, quite a few of the Primarchs enjoyed harassing ordinary mortals, even committing senseless slaughter. The Emperor knew of these acts, yet in order not to damage troop morale, he had no choice but to turn a blind eye for the time being.
If the time ever came to settle accounts one by one, not a single Primarch would be spotless!
"Horus—between becoming a High Lord buried in paperwork, worn down by overwork, and serving as the Imperial Warmaster commanding all the armies, which do you truly want?"
The Emperor's question left Horus, already reeling with confusion, completely at a loss. Until now, he had always believed the High Lords to be corrupt, self-serving aristocrats—the lofty civilian bureaucrats of the Imperium.
And they, the Primarchs, were nothing more than hounds driven at will by these bureaucrats.
But now, it seemed that being a bureaucrat was not so easy after all.
The Emperor's pointed question also stirred a swell of emotion in Malcador, standing nearby.
Over the years, his contributions to the Imperium of Man were certainly no less than any Primarch's—yet how many common folk even knew of this Chancellor with the signet in hand?
If Horus truly wished to take his place and become Regent of the Imperium, Malcador would be more than happy to oblige.
The title of Regent sounded impressive, to be sure, but Malcador knew better than anyone the hardships and toil it entailed.
Ever since he had taken up the position of Regent and Chancellor, there had not been a single day when he dared slack off.
When the Primarchs won a battle, they could throw lavish banquets and indulge themselves for a night, but whenever he finished handling one thorny matter of state, there was always another waiting to be addressed.
Wars could pause; the machinery of governance could not. He had to keep it running without rest, year-round.
With the Great Crusade expanding the Imperium's territory ever further, the volume of state documents arriving in the capital on Terra only grew—countless matters each day required Malcador's seal and decision.
Even with his formidable psychic gifts enabling him to process large volumes of information at once, his stamina was finite. Lasting this long was sheer endurance.
If there was ever a chance to step away from his post, he would not let it slip by—and now, that chance had arrived!
If the Emperor was going to be a hands-off ruler, Malcador would not be left holding the bag.
Seeing Horus frozen in bewilderment, breathing heavily from the Emperor's challenge, Malcador spoke up at the right moment, giving him a nudge:
"Your Majesty, since Horus has the resolve to devote himself wholly to the Imperium, I am willing to step aside and yield my place!"
"The Imperium of Man must, in the end, be handed to the younger generation."
Sensing the timing was perfect, Malcador worked in concert with the Emperor, giving Horus an easy way to climb down. As long as Horus didn't vehemently refuse, the matter would be settled.
Let Horus take up the regency and see how he fared.
If he truly had the ability, all would be well and good. If not, he could hardly blame the Emperor for giving him the chance—especially if he squandered it himself.
Horus looked at Malcador in astonishment. He had always thought the man a petty sycophant clinging to the Emperor's side.
Who would have thought Malcador would, at the critical moment, cast his vote in Horus's favor? Could it be that he had truly misjudged the amiable and lovable Chancellor?
"Please, Your Majesty, grant this request."
Malcador bowed to the Emperor in earnest. Their eyes met, and all was conveyed without words. The set-up was complete; now it was just a matter of Horus walking into the snare.
The Emperor pretended to ponder for a moment, as though weighing the feasibility of the proposal. At last, he relented and asked Horus, "Horus, are you willing to take on this heavy burden?"
From the Emperor's point of view, no matter what Horus chose, he could not lose.
If Horus performed well as Regent, there was no reason he could not eventually take the Emperor's place.
Though, truth be told, the Emperor saw little sign of governing potential in him.
If Horus botched the political work and relied only on petty factionalism, a bout of firsthand experience might at least teach him that mortals, too, possessed wisdom.
Yes, there were corrupt and greedy officials among the common human administrators, but they had also accomplished much for the Imperium.
Politics, by its nature, was a matter of human relations. Without a sufficiently strong oversight system, there would inevitably be favors exchanged and gifts offered.
This was especially true given the Imperium's backward transportation and communications—further hampering the delivery of decrees from Terra to the colonies.
In far-flung territories, the Emperor was distant and the mountains high; local officials were kings in all but name, extorting at will.
Such was the objective reality—even the Emperor could only accept that it would happen on a wide scale.
Without solving the root causes, killing more mortal officials would be meaningless. This was why the Emperor was in such a hurry to build a new network of transit routes.
"I am will—"
Horus cut himself off mid-sentence. In those brief seconds, he weighed the relative importance of the Regency and the Warmaster's mantle.
The Regent, Chancellor of the Imperium—second only to the Emperor himself. In theory, even the Warmaster would be subject to his authority.
Now that the Great Crusade was over, the Warmaster's title was mostly ceremonial, its real power far less than that of the Regent.
If there was truly a choice, the Regent was the obvious pick.
"Father, I am willing to shoulder this burden."
Horus's gaze was resolute as he declared to the Emperor, "I wish to follow Chancellor Malcador's example, to take charge of the Imperium's governance, and share your burdens!"
Even after the Emperor had laid out all the hardships of ruling, Horus still wanted to try it for himself. He refused to believe he would do worse than those foolish mortals.
Standing at the side of the grand hall, Malcador kept a straight face, but inside he was delighted. If this brat wanted to make himself miserable, he could hardly be stopped.
After all, it wouldn't be long before the Imperium would be completely taken over by the Universal Megacorp. Even if Horus made a mess of things in the meantime, there was plenty of room for error.
"Are you truly certain?"
The Emperor asked once more, not wishing to see Horus come back in tears begging to be Warmaster again after a short while.
"The Imperium's affairs are complex and burdensome—can you truly promise to handle them?"
"I can promise!"
Horus vowed earnestly, "If I am entrusted with the governance of the Imperium, I will sweep away all corrupt officials and restore a clean political environment to the Empire."
"I will unite the Primarchs, keep each securely in his own realm, and drive out every enemy who dares invade!"
Horus had his own political ambitions. He was eager to reshape the Imperium into the image he desired and to succeed the Emperor in accomplishing his own grand design.
The Emperor and Malcador exchanged a glance. At last, the Emperor nodded, agreeing to Horus's plan.
"Horus, from this moment, you shall replace Malcador as the new Regent of the Imperium. The position of Warmaster will be set aside for now. I will have this decree sent to every corner of the Imperium."
"This mid-month, the formal investiture ceremony will be held on Terra. All the Primarchs and High Lords will attend to witness your coronation."
As the Emperor's words fell, Horus was still lost in the shock of being named Regent. This dream he had cherished for so long had actually come true.
Before coming to the Imperial Palace on Terra, he had entertained fantasies of becoming a member of the Imperial civil administration—perhaps even nabbing a seat on the High Lords' council.
He had never imagined that this trip would land him the Regency itself!
His great rival, the Chancellor just beneath the Emperor, had finally stepped down.
And he, Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Luna Wolves, was about to become the new political star of the Imperium, ready to make his mark in the new era after the Great Crusade.
Never had a beginning seemed so perfect!
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