Chapter 450 – Alienation Is Not Birth, It Is Transformation! Entrusting the Imperial Regency!
"Horus, you look so different… what exactly has happened to you?"
Guilliman could hardly imagine what kind of ordeal his brother had gone through during this period. Could it be that some Warp god had manipulated his darker impulses, twisting him into this state?
This was Horus—the Primarch known for his upright and noble character, the one most widely respected by his brothers, and the son most favored by the Emperor himself.
How was it that after only a short time as Regent of the Imperium, he had become so grim, brooding, and harsh?
Guilliman could not even picture how those High Lords had sparred with Horus to push his brother into such a state.
"My brother, I am truly grateful you came back," Horus rasped, his voice hoarse. "As you can see, every day I drown in Infinity affairs of state, Infinityly wrangling with nobles and High Lords."
"This task is a hundred times more difficult than I ever imagined."
Alarmed, Guilliman pressed on quickly: "If you summoned me back to Terra so urgently, then it must be something serious. Has a Warp entity appeared?"
Before the Emperor and Malcador departed, all the Primarchs had received a sealed message.
In it, the Emperor warned them to remain on guard. In his absence, humanity could at any time face large-scale assaults from Warp entities.
Even with The Megacorp's armies, they could not be everywhere at once. Each Primarch had to be ready to deal with crises on their own.
"No, nothing like that," Horus said. "No Warp entity has appeared. What you see in me now is only the weight of countless setbacks and hardships these past days."
As he spoke, his mind drifted back to the day he first became Regent. Back then he had been so full of ambition—determined to purge corruption and cleanse the Imperium of every parasite.
But it hadn't taken long for him to realize how deep the rot went. Corruption was woven into the very marrow of the Imperium. The entrenched elites had long since fused into a single immovable wall.
From the factions and patronage networks of the High Lords, to the private industries of his Primarch brothers, to the shadow trade, and down to the countless petty officials feeding on bribes—every figure was a fixed piece in the web of interests.
Strike at any one of them, and the consequences would be catastrophic.
Depose the High Lords? The bureaucracy would collapse within minutes, leaving Horus buried beneath Infinity documents—either to die of exhaustion or see the Imperium itself collapse.
Move against his brothers' shadow Megacorps? Then a lifetime of carefully nurtured bonds among the Primarchs would unravel overnight.
Show kindness, and others might soon forget.
Show cruelty, and they would remember forever.
If Horus dared make an example of even one Primarch, his prestige and influence among his brothers would plummet. Soon he would face universal hostility—perhaps even outright betrayal.
So that road was blocked.
As for cleansing the ranks of the lower bureaucracy, that was an even worse return on investment.
The Imperium already lacked capable administrators. Even if he purged every last corrupt official, their replacements would just flock to Malcador's faction, choosing their patron for one simple reason: Horus was only a temporary Regent.
Who could guarantee how long he would hold this office?
If they tied their future to Horus and then the Emperor and Malcador returned—restoring Malcador as Chancellor and Regent—Horus would step down, returning to the role of Warmaster.
Those who had bet on him would be cast aside, crushed, and left with no chance of rising again.
No one would gamble their future so recklessly. The only people joining Horus's cabinet were those with no hope of advancement—desperate gamblers with nothing to lose.
And compared to the deeply entrenched, calculating High Lords, these men were laughably lacking in both ability and subtlety.
Looking at these three dead-end paths, Horus saw the truth: what he had inherited was not a throne, but a festering cesspit.
Corruption was a venomous serpent that had burrowed into the Imperium's very organs, replacing its healthy veins and sinews with poison. It was slowly rotting the state from within.
The Imperium's true enemy was not the xenos beyond the stars, nor the daemons of the Warp, but the bloodsucking bureaucrats and the dozen self-serving Primarchs who were both founders and potential destroyers of the realm.
The real threat of collapse would not come suddenly, like a child birthed into the world, but gradually—through a creeping transformation, born of corruption.
Horus was quick to grasp the lesson. At last, he understood his father's burden. He saw the Imperium for what it was: a crumbling, unfinished edifice, riddled with flaws.
If even the Emperor dared not risk a sweeping purge, how could Horus? Did he think The Megacorp would cover his risks? Even they could not carry such a weight.
"Damn Malcador—" Horus's hatred surged higher than ever. "That old fox set me up from the start! And I walked straight into his trap!"
Only now did Horus realize: Malcador had long wished to step away from the machinery of government, and he had chosen Horus to be the scapegoat.
The Emperor might have intended to entrust the Imperium to The Megacorp, but since they had yet to act—offering only their promise to complete the new star routes—Horus had no choice but to hold the Regency in the meantime.
For how long? Months? Years? Decades? No one could say.
But here, amid Terra's swamp of power and ambition, Horus could not bear another day.
Until true institutional revolution and technological reform arrived, the Imperium would only continue its slow decay.
Perhaps one day a Warp god would stoke the desire of some Primarch, driving him to raise the banner of rebellion.
Or perhaps it would be the people themselves, crushed beneath the weight of misery, who would rise—slaughtering their governors and proclaiming their own petty kingdoms, only to descend into Infinity wars and ruin.
"Malcador, you wretched old fox, you've ruined me—!"
In his fury, Horus slammed a fist onto the desk. Only the alloy construction saved it from shattering beneath the blow.
At any other time, Horus would never have dared to vent his emotions so freely. But Terra was filled with anti-psyker wards, blunting the Warp's influence.
Otherwise, the sheer storm of resentment he had built up by now would have sent shockwaves through the Immaterium, drawing the gaze of the Dark Gods themselves.
Guilliman, however, was unconvinced. Hadn't it been Horus himself who had begged the Emperor to let him be Regent, even surrendering his title of Warmaster to take the post?
And now, in barely half a year, he regretted it? That reversal seemed far too quick.
Besides, Guilliman was no stranger to politics. He had seen too many men who cursed their burdens yet clung to their power all the same.
The taste of power was too intoxicating.
It could rouse the weary, make even the impotent feel like lords of destiny.
Guilliman could not tell if Horus truly wanted to step down, or if he was merely testing him—playing some game of truth or dare.
Words could fool others, but not oneself.
"Horus, if you are truly weary of the Regency, then write to Father and Malcador. Urge them to return. You are still the Warmaster."
It was meant as comfort, but to Horus the words were empty.
If summoning the Emperor and Malcador were that simple, then the throne would already be his.
The truth was, no one knew when they would return. And that was why he had called Guilliman here—whether to help him share the burden… or to take his place.
Horus saw the suspicion in Guilliman's eyes. He sighed heavily, lowering his voice:
"Guilliman, my dear brother, let me speak plainly. The reason I summoned you back to Terra is this: I need your help. I need your political wisdom to ease this crushing burden and share the load."
Horus knew that he couldn't just dump the entire Imperium into Guilliman's lap from the start. Doing so would make him seem reckless and irresponsible, and it would make Guilliman too wary to ever accept.
So he deliberately set a trap—first lowering Guilliman's guard, then slowly maneuvering to hand off the mess piece by piece.
The first step was to get Guilliman to agree to "help."
Among all the Primarchs, Horus trusted only Guilliman's political talents. Guilliman had the experience, the proven track record, and the steady hand. Of all of them, he was the one most suited to take up the position of Regent of the Imperium.
"You already have the High Lords and your cabinet assisting you with day-to-day affairs. You shouldn't need me. What difference can I possibly make? Even with one more man, it won't change the Imperium."
Guilliman shook his head firmly. He had no intention of being the scapegoat. He had Macragge and his own domain—why waste time drowning in Terra's quagmire?
Besides, Horus had already abandoned his anti-corruption crusade and halted his reforms. That meant he was only left with routine administrative work, hardly enough to crush him.
"Father entrusted the Imperium to me. I can't treat that casually. If all I have is myself and those useless leeches in the cabinet, nothing real will ever get done."
Horus pleaded with him, urging Guilliman to stay a while, to help him for just a day, to see Terra's political landscape for himself.
"I am not Regent. If I did that, I'd be overstepping."
At those words, Horus seized on the opening, his voice ringing with solemn weight:
"You could be Regent."
"…What do you mean?" Guilliman frowned, confused.
The next instant, Horus dropped the pretense. He tore the Regent's robe from his shoulders and cast it to the floor.
Behind him, the Luna Wolves officers shifted in unison, as though on cue. They turned to face Guilliman, hands clasped behind their backs, gazes hard and unflinching.
It was clearly a setup—an orchestrated show of force meant to box Guilliman in.
"From this moment, I return to being Warmaster of the Imperium. You will succeed me as Regent. Together, brother, we will safeguard Father's Imperium!"
That was Horus's true aim. He knew his Luna Wolves longed to return to their old ways. He, too, desperately wanted an escape.
After countless sleepless nights, he realized Guilliman was his only hope of getting out.
The Imperium's power could never be handed to the High Lords or the sycophants of his cabinet. This empire, won by the blood and genius of the Primarchs, had to remain under their own watch.
"No. Why would I covet your Regency? That position was given to you by Father himself. If you hand it to me, what will the others think?"
Guilliman still couldn't make sense of Horus's game. Until he knew for certain, it was safer to stay cautious.
But Horus grew desperate. He seized Guilliman's hand, his eyes blazing.
"My brother, listen—I am not saying this out of modesty!"
"You saw the changes in the Luna Wolves on your way here. We do not belong in this role. I do not belong as Regent."
"Even if I burn myself to ash, the best I can do is keep the Imperium from collapsing too quickly. I cannot set it on the right path."
"If I let this go on, how could I ever face Father?"
His voice rang with conviction. And every word pressed on Guilliman's conscience, invoking the Emperor's trust as a weapon. Horus was painting this as duty, not personal weakness—as an act of necessity for the greater good.
Whether or not the excuse was true, Guilliman was being cornered into believing it.
"The Imperium is not only Father's life's work—it is ours. Do you want to see it lie in ruins?"
Horus's pressure never relented. His face twisted with anguish, his words heavy with righteous grief.
"I once dismissed the worth of Imperial officials. I thought little of their contributions. That was my error. Every man and woman has their value."
"But value only shines when it's set to its proper task. My Luna Wolves and I are soldiers. We fight, we bleed—we do not govern."
"Guilliman, your gift is governance. Your talent belongs on Terra, blazing like a star—not buried in tiny Macragge."
Horus's torrent of flattery had Guilliman's pride swelling despite himself.
Say what you will about Horus, but his charisma was undeniable.
He spoke of Imperial destiny, of the Emperor's will, of their personal strengths and weaknesses—always drawing a contrast that left Guilliman appearing as the only true answer. He couched it as both duty and recognition of Guilliman's worth.
It was smooth, layered, and relentless—impossible to refute without sounding small-minded.
Even Guilliman began to waver, a part of him admitting, if only to himself, that he might indeed be suited to hold the Regency.
"My dear brother, Guilliman—!"
Seizing the momentum, Horus struck while the iron was hot, cutting off any chance for Guilliman to recover his footing:
"My shallow virtue and poor talents shame me before the Emperor. I can no longer shoulder the Regency."
"I hereby appoint you Acting Regent of the Imperium. I return to my post as Warmaster, and my Luna Wolves will stand behind you, defending your rule."
"Together, we will command the Imperium's armies and its statecraft!"
As he finished, Horus locked eyes with Guilliman, unblinking, waiting—not for an answer, but for capitulation.
Because he had no material bribe to offer, no tangible boon to sweeten the deal. All he could do was throw himself and his pride on the floor, appealing to brotherhood and duty.
The Regent of the Imperium, Primarch of the Luna Wolves, personally humbling himself with his closest officers at his back—this was a favor Guilliman could hardly refuse.
After days of bitter reflection, Horus had finally seen the truth of Terra's politics.
The Imperium's mess was beyond his control. His makeshift cabinet was only ever a stopgap, doomed to be torn down by the High Lords in time.
If he stayed, he would only be ground to exhaustion, broken down by their Infinity games. Better to cut his losses now, while he still could.
As for whether the Emperor would punish him later—that was a problem for tomorrow. He wasn't staying another day longer than he had to.
Looking at the once-proud, untouchable Horus, and the Luna Wolves officers standing stiff and "loyal" behind him, Guilliman's pupils dilated with shock.
On the journey to Terra, he had considered a thousand possibilities—but never this.
Horus, the man who had always dreamed of the Regency, who had yearned for it even more than the Warmaster's mantle, was offering to throw it away.
The Regent's seat had been Horus's obsession. During the Great Crusade, while he fought for the Warmaster's title, every Primarch knew what he truly desired was power in Terra's halls.
Direct rule intoxicated him far more than military command ever could.
He had complained often enough about Father's edict barring the Primarchs from Imperial politics. The very fact that he couldn't have it only sharpened his hunger.
And now, after finally tasting the dream he had craved, he was willing to surrender it?
"Horus… you must be exhausted beyond reason. To say something so absurd—Regency is not a toy to be passed around. This is no game for children."
Guilliman didn't yet know why Horus had shifted so violently. But he knew one thing—no prize this tempting ever came without a hidden price.
And if Horus was so eager to be rid of it… then the Regency was surely poisoned.
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