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Chapter 37: The Price of Empathy
"That offer sounds remarkably generous," the Raven observed, his tone carefully neutral. "We could claim this world without spilling a single drop of blood."
"Generous?" The Emperor's thoughts carried the weight of divine indignation.
'Why would I permit him to trade My possessions with Me?'
The Raven fell silent for a moment, then tilted his head with sardonic curiosity. "Did you extend the same courtesy to the Four when you visited their realm?"
"No. I simply took what was required."
The Raven's obsidian eyes widened as understanding dawned.
 The Ruinous Powers had been content in their eternal games when the Emperor had simply... arrived. Uninvited, Unannounced, and proceeded to steal fragments of their very essence.
'No wonder they united against you, the Raven mused. You didn't just rob themâyou planned to obliterate their entire realm. Even gods have limits to their tolerance.'
Constantin Valdor stepped forward, his voice carrying the absolute authority of the Throne. "Your proposition holds no merit whatsoever."
"I am the rightful owner of this entire world," Citizen 13145209527 protested, his holographic form flickering with indignation.
Valdor's expression remained carved from marble, though disdain leaked through like poison from a cracked vial.
 "For my Master, the only treasure of value upon this world walks on two legs and breathes with human lungs."
"As for the resources and technologies you claimâwhether you consent or not, they shall serve the Imperium. Why should the Master of Mankind permit you to trade His rightful inheritance back to Him?"
The corporate oligarch's face contorted with rage. "Everything I possess was acquired through lawful commerce! How dare you claim ownership through naked aggression?"
"All our actions conform to established law," Valdor replied with glacial calm.
"According to the Imperial Constitution, we possess absolute authority to chastise those who would obstruct humanity's rightful ascension."
"Surrender your holdings unconditionally, or the Imperium shall claim them by force."
The local citizen who had initially approached them burst into delighted laughter. "Truly a satisfying conclusion! Justice at last!"
Citizen 13145209527 trembled with impotent fury. "You accursed pirates! You invade my domain and then declare me a criminal?"
"The Human Imperium is are no mere raiders," the local man interjected with obvious satisfaction.
"We welcome their arrival and pray for humanity's renewed glory under their guidance."
"Observe," Valdor continued with merciless logic. "Every soul upon this world save yourself embraces Imperial rule willingly."
"I shall never yield to brigands!" The oligarch's fists clenched as he turned to the local citizen.
"They steal from me through violenceâwhat prevents them from robbing you by the same means? Your sympathy for thieves defies comprehension!"
The man's grin widened with malicious satisfaction. "They demonstrate perfect fairnessâmuch like your beloved enforcement machines. We merely choose superior management."
"The Imperium offers greater benefits than your regime. Why should we not embrace them? Your losses are irrelevant to our prosperity."
His voice took on a mocking tone that dripped with years of accumulated resentment. "If you cannot adapt to changing circumstances, it merely proves insufficient effort on your part. Personal responsibility, as you've always preached. Have you forgotten your own teachings?"
The corporate magnate shook with volcanic rage. "Bandits! All of you! I shall never surrender my patrimony. If you desire war, then war you shall have!"
"The Imperium remains indifferent to your choice," Valdor pronounced each word like a funeral bell. "Regardless of your decision, this world shall serve the Golden Throne."
The transmission severed abruptly as Citizen 13145209527 terminated the connection.
Immediately, the distinctive whine of repulsor engines filled the air from every direction.
 Thousands of enforcement units emerged from concealed positions throughout the city, converging on the Imperial party with mechanical precision.
The Custodian Guard activated their gene-enhanced physiology, superhuman reflexes and strength flooding their transhuman frames as they entered combat protocols.
Carnage erupted across the pristine cityscape.
The order for general engagement reached the fleet maintaining low orbit above Arctis III.
It cascaded through the command structure to Astartes Legion commanders and auxiliary force leaders who had maintained combat readiness since planetfall.
Imperial warships opened their gun decks, unleashing torrents of las-fire, plasma charges, and macro-cannon shells upon the planet's orbital defense network. Torpedo salvoes and missile barrages followed in devastating waves.
Within eleven minutes, the orbital fortifications were reduced to drifting debris fields.
Then came the real assault.
Drop pods screamed through the atmosphere like avenging meteors, their ceramite hulls glowing cherry-red from atmospheric friction.
 Each impact crater marked the arrival of Astartes warriors, gene-forged angels of death armed with bolt and blade.
Their primary objective was the planetary AI control nexusâthe mechanical brain that governed the enforcement systems.
The battle lasted precisely twenty-three hours and fourteen minutesâless than a single Terran rotation.
Arctis III was declared fully compliant with Imperial doctrine.
Citizen 13145209527 was dragged before the Emperor in adamantine shackles, courtesy of First Legion veterans including the decorated Astelan.
 Despite his apparent middle age, deep scans revealed extensive genetic manipulation throughout his cellular structure.
 His enhanced physiology granted him a potential lifespan exceeding two millennia.
"Criminals! Pirates! Bandits!" he shrieked, spittle flying from his lips as rage consumed what remained of his composure.
"Who truly deserves such titles?" Valdor stood over the fallen oligarch like an avenging statue. "You attempted to steal Imperial property and resisted lawful Imperial authority."
"Shameless! Utterly shameless!" The magnate's voice cracked with hysteria.
"By unanimous planetary referendum, Arctis III has declared absolute loyalty to the Golden Throne," Valdor continued implacably.
"Imperial law now supersedes all local statutes. Therefore, you are the criminal."
The local citizen who had aided them throughout the crisis stepped forward, brandishing a data-slate displaying voting results.
The planetary population had endorsed Imperial rule by 99.999% marginâthe sole dissenting voice belonging to the man now chained before them.
Regardless of what hardships Imperial governance might bring, none could exceed their current misery.
 At minimum, they could breathe freely without paying tribute for each lungful of air.
Following a brief military tribunal, Citizen 13145209527 received summary execution for crimes against humanity.
Arctis III immediately abolished its previous legal framework, establishing new constitutional principles.
 Natural resources would remain public property in perpetuity, forever beyond private appropriation.
"Rational thought possesses undeniable importance," the Raven observed, studying the oligarch's corpse swaying from the gallows.
"Yet human society encompasses complexities that pure logic cannot address. Rationality alone guarantees misery, not happiness."
"I find that observation personally offensive," Valdor murmured.
"No need to feel offenseâI intended it as such," the Raven replied cheerfully. "Though you needn't take umbrage, since my criticism encompasses you, the Emperor, and indeed most of our endeavor."
Both Valdor and the Emperor maintained diplomatic silence.
Nuceria
The Killing Fields
The gladiatorial arena announced indefinite closure following what officials termed "gladiator disturbances."
In reality, dozens of High Riders lay butchered in the arena's shadowed corridors, their advanced power armor rent and torn like parchment.
Crimson vitae pooled beneath their mangled corpses, staining the ancient stones with noble blood.
Nuceria had inherited substantial technology from humanity's golden age, including sophisticated augmentation techniques and weaponry.
 The planetary aristocracy's personal guards underwent extensive cybernetic enhancement and genetic modification, wielding weapons that could shatter ceramite with ease.
Yet before Angron's righteous fury, they had been torn apart like children's dolls.
"You should not have acted so rashly, my son," Oenomaus whispered, studying the fresh wounds that decorated Angron's scarred flesh with paternal concern.
"I had no alternative, Father!" Angron's knuckles whitened around his combat axe's haft. "They have stolen everything from us. I would not permit them to steal you as well."
"My child..." Tears traced silver paths down Oenomaus's weathered cheeks.
This man had survived countless death-matches, had witnessed horrors that would shatter lesser minds, had forged his heart into adamantine through necessity and pain.
Yet now he wept openly for the young giant before him.
He had watched Angron mature from wounded child to noble warrior, had witnessed the extraordinary compassion that burned within that transhuman frame.
The Primarch spoke with the dying, granting them peace in their final moments.
 His psychic gifts allowed him to commune with his fellow gladiators, offering solace to tortured minds. Each night, he drew their pain into himself so that they might find rest.
"How different your fate might have been," Oenomaus whispered through his grief, "had you fallen upon a world of peace instead of this blood-soaked hell."
In a kinder universe, Angron would have been humanity's greatest championâa protector of the innocent, an advocate for the downtrodden, a beacon of hope in darkness.
Instead, cruel fate had delivered him to Nuceria, where nobility was punished and compassion rewarded with brutality.
"Disobedient cur," a voice boomed through the arena's address system, dripping with aristocratic venom. "You shall rue this day's folly."
Immediately, thick anesthetic gases began flooding the gladiator pits through hidden vents.
The strongest fighters collapsed within seconds, their enhanced physiology no match for concentrated soporifics.
High Riders in full environmental armor entered the gas-filled arena, expecting to find Angron helpless and unconscious.
Instead, they discovered a primarch whose gene-forged constitution had metabolized the drugs almost instantly.
The battle that followed became legend among the arena staff. Angron carved through a full century of enhanced warriors, his axe rising and falling with metronomic precision until exhaustion finally claimed him.
Only when his superhuman endurance reached its absolute limits did the Primarch finally succumb, collapsing among the corpses of his would-be captors.
They dragged him away like a dying beast.
Later, after the carnage had been cleared, Lord Tarkus of the High Riders had Oenomaus awakened and brought before him.
The aristocrat gazed down at the old gladiator with undisguised satisfaction.
"This catastrophe stems from your misguided influence," Tarkus proclaimed with imperial disdain. "But soon, your precious Angron shall correct this error personally."
"When the Butcher's Nails bite into his brain and his hands drip with your blood, he will pass beyond all possibility of redemption."
"Once you perish by his hand, he shall descend into permanent damnationâthe greatest and most savage killer in arena history."
Oenomaus strained against his bonds with desperate fury, longing to tear the smirking noble limb from limb.
But iron chains held him fast, forcing him to watch helplessly as Lord Tarkus departed with mocking laughter.
"Angron..." The old warrior's voice broke with absolute despair.
He had witnessed gladiators controlled by the Butcher's Nailsâhad seen noble souls transformed into rabid animals by constant agony.
The thought of those accursed devices violating Angron's mind filled him with horror beyond description.
'Gods of Terra, do not permit such cruelty...'
The Void Between Stars
Reality twisted and contracted in the lightless depths between worlds, space-time bending like heated metal under impossible forces.
A whirlpool of unreality began forming, consuming photons and matter with indiscriminate hunger.
Ethereal flames of psychic fire erupted from nothingness, their spectral radiance burning holes in the fabric of existence itself.
Through the resulting tears, brilliant warp-light spilled forth like liquid starfire.
From this dimensional breach emerged a vessel of impossible grandeurâa battleship whose prow bore the golden aquila of the Imperium, its hull gleaming with the authority of the Throne itself.
"Translation complete. Target acquisition confirmed."
The ship's machine-spirit announced their arrival with mechanical precision while Custodian Guards in aureate battleplate assembled at the observation deck's armored viewports.
Their inhuman gazes fixed upon the distant world with predatory intensity, studying the planet that had claimed one of the Emperor's sons.
Three hours remained until they reached optimal insertion distance.
Three hours until Nuceria learned the price of torturing a Primarch.
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