Time in the Warp flowed like a river of sludge, thick and unpredictable. On the bridge of the Spear of Judgement, a new, grim routine had taken hold. Kasran and his men, stripped of their faith but not their Imperial discipline, operated the ship with a haunted efficiency. They no longer prayed to the God-Emperor for protection; they cast nervous glances at the silent monarch on the command throne, the being who had become their reality's sole anchor.
For his part, Jin-Woo sat enthroned, his consciousness merged with the vessel. He guided them through the psychic currents of the Empyrean, his destination the unwavering lighthouse that was the Astronomican. When not navigating, he was learning, delving into the assimilated memories, constructing a perfect model of his destination: Terra. He learned of the High Lords, the Adeptus Custodes, and the Golden Throne itself, a life-support engine, psychic amplifier, and prison, where the Master of Mankind had been slowly dying for ten millennia. He was not just a king; he was the keystone in a galaxy-spanning arch of human desperation.
The Monarch's nascent legion, composed of primitive Orks and unarmored humans, would be chaff against the defenders of the Throneworld. He required an elite. He required knights worthy of their monarch.
His attention turned to the five unconscious Astartes in the brig.
Accompanied by his First Knight, he descended to the ship's detention block. The four Ultramarines lay on steel slabs, ensnared in tendrils of solidified shadow. They were living weapons forged for one purpose. Their loyalty was their defining feature. He would not discard it; he would reforge it.
He approached the first warrior. Simply using Arise would create a powerful shadow, but it would be an echo. These were vessels of a higher quality. They required a new creation.
He placed his hand on the Ultramarine's chest plate. "You were made to serve," he said, his voice resonating in the quiet room. "Your service was to a corpse who cannot acknowledge your sacrifice. I will give you a new vow. A purpose that will not fade."
He channeled his power, not as a command to rise, but as a command to become. It was a process of meticulous, soul-level alchemy. He unraveled the warrior's being, separating spirit from gene-seed, flesh from memory. The body dissolved into a vortex of screaming, shadowy energy, the raw materials of a supersoldier's soul held in his grasp. Then, on the anvil of his will, he forged it anew.
The vortex collapsed, solidifying into a new form. He stood. He was the same height and breadth, but all color had been leached from him. His power armor was no longer cobalt blue, but a seamless expanse of abyssal black, marked with the faint, pulsing violet of the Monarch's own energy. His helmet was a featureless faceplate from which two violet lenses burned with cold, unwavering intelligence. He was not a mere shadow; he was an apotheosis of what he had been.
He dropped to one knee, his fist striking the deck plate in a salute of absolute fealty. A voice, deeper and more resonant than his original, spoke in the Monarch's mind.
The process was repeated three more times. The brig, once a prison, became a forge. When he was finished, four new knights stood behind his first, a silent, terrifying retinue of reborn demigods. His Royal Guard.
With his preparations complete, they returned to the bridge. The five Shadow-Knights took up positions around the command dais, their presence transforming the space into a true throne room.
Kasran approached, his face etched with strain. "Lord," he reported, his voice steady despite the five new abominations of his former faith standing behind him. "We are approaching the calculated Mandeville Point. The beacon... it's no longer distant. It's everywhere."
He was right. The psychic scream of the Emperor was no longer a point of light but an overwhelming, oppressive sun. They had arrived.
"Take us back to realspace," the Monarch commanded.
With a final, violent lurch, the Spear of Judgement tore itself from the Sea of Souls. The nauseating chaos on the view-port shattered, replaced by the silent black of the void.
Before them hung a world of blue, green, and white. Terra. Cradle of Mankind. The Throneworld.
It was not alone.
The view was almost entirely obscured by a fleet that beggared the imagination. A wall of steel and fire. Titanic battleships, flanked by squadrons of cruisers, floated in silent, menacing webs. It was not a defense fleet; it was the collected might of an entire Segmentum.
And they had appeared, unannounced, in their midst.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, the bridge was bathed in strobing red light as klaxons blared to life.
"Lord!" Kasran yelled over the noise. "We're being painted! Thousands of targeting solutions... from the entire fleet!"
On the view-port, the colossal forms of the Imperial warships began to turn, their movements slow and unstoppable. A thousand lances of brilliant energy were preparing to converge on their position.
They had arrived at the gates of the Imperium. And the gatekeepers were now awake.