Days blurred into a single, continuous act of creation. On the bridge, the Monarch stood in a state of deep concentration, his mind the loom upon which a new reality was being woven. In the main hangar, the gateway took form: a perfect, circular frame of solidified shadow, a ring of absolute blackness that bled the light from the air. Intricate, violet patterns of C'tan-derived geometric code pulsed along its surface. Within the frame, there was a true, conceptual nothingness, a hole in the fabric of the universe.
As he was weaving the final stabilizing equation into the gate's matrix, a soft chime broke his concentration. "Lord… a single vessel is approaching," Kasran's voice trembled over the vox. "An Aquila Lander, broadcasting the personal signet of the Lord Regent Guilliman. It… it is requesting permission to dock."
He considered refusing. But this being, this Primarch, was the only one in this universe who had commanded his respect. He deserved a final word.
"Grant it," he commanded.
A short time later, he stood in the hangar before his creation. The air hummed with contained power. From the lander's ramp emerged Roboute Guilliman, alone. He was not here as a general, but as a king coming to parley with another.
He stopped, his gaze fixed on the impossible structure. "So, it is true," he said. "You have built a doorway out of our cage."
"I have built a doorway home," the Monarch corrected him.
"I had to see it for myself," the Primarch continued, his eyes meeting the Monarch's. "And I had to ask, one last time. What are you?"
"I have told you. I am a king," Jin-Woo said. "My world was threatened by forces not unlike the ones you face. I rose to become its shield, its Monarch. And now, I am returning to my duty."
"And the chaos you leave in your wake?" Guilliman asked, a hint of fury in his tone. "The dead you raised, the faith you shattered, the literal god you have unleashed upon Mars… Was that all just… collateral damage?"
"Your galaxy is a pyre that has been burning for ten thousand years," the Monarch replied, his voice devoid of malice. "You are a people who scream prayers to a psychic wound, fueling the very chaos you profess to fight. The events on Mars were not my doing; they were the inevitable result of a secret your Imperium kept for its own gain. I did not start the fire, Regent. I merely revealed how flammable your house truly is."
Guilliman had no answer. He had come seeking answers, but perhaps what he truly sought was a sliver of hope, or a warning.
"This enemy you face," the Monarch offered, sensing his unspoken question. "This 'Chaos.' You fight it with passion, with faith, with the very emotional energy upon which it feeds. You hold up the blinding, agonizing light of your Emperor as a shield, but his light is a beacon for the moths you wish to repel. You cannot win a war against a concept by feeding it."
He took a step closer, the violet light from the gate's runes casting long shadows. "The only true victory over chaos is not faith, but order. Not a roaring fire, but a profound, unyielding silence. Your Imperium tries to shout down the storm. My kingdom is the silence that smothers the flame."
He had given him the last word, the final, chilling truth. It was not a gift of hope, but a terrible philosophical burden.
"My preparations are complete."
He turned his back on the Primarch and walked toward the gate.
[System Command: Activate Gate]
The perfect nothingness within the shadowy frame shimmered. The violet runes blazed. The view of the hangar wall dissolved, replaced not by the void of space, but by a scene from another reality.
It was the throne room of his own castle. A vast, gothic chamber of black stone. And stretching as far as the eye could see, were his soldiers. Hundreds of thousands of Shadow Elves, High Orcs, Naga, and the towering forms of his Dragons, all kneeling in perfect, silent unison. At the foot of the empty throne, his two most powerful Marshals, Bellion, Igris and Beru looked up, their loyalty a palpable force even across the dimensions. They were waiting. Their king was coming home.
"My kingdom awaits," he said without looking back.
Flanked by his five reborn knights, he stepped through the doorway. The alien air of this universe was replaced by the familiar, comfortable chill of his own domain.
He took one last look back at the Primarch, a giant of a forgotten age, left alone with his dying god and his eternal war.
Then the gate behind him shimmered, folded in on itself, and vanished with a whisper of silence, leaving nothing behind but a memory and a warning.
The Monarch was gone. And in the sudden, profound quiet of the hangar, Roboute Guilliman, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man, was left to contemplate the impossible truth of the last word he had been given.