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It was a bitter question. Ten thousand years was far too long, and Ignis could not judge whether the Imperium now was better or worse than the Imperium of the past.
Rather than answer Gotthardt's question immediately, the Salamander decided to let Grace step aside first. There were things here that shouldn't be known by an outsider.
"Miss Grace, we have some private matters to discuss. I need you to step outside for a moment." He remained as polite as possible. After all, sharing the Imperium's history with an outsider wasn't exactly enjoyable.
The Steel Witch understood well. Two individuals separated by ten thousand years exchanging information was no place for an outsider to listen in.
Grace nodded, bid farewell to the old warrior, lingered for a long moment, and finally left.
"That woman—your subordinate?" Gotthardt asked as he watched her walk away.
"More like an acquaintance. I've worked with her construction company a few times." Ignis shrugged.
"Construction companies? I thought you people preferred forges."
"They found you at one of their sites. She dismantled all the damaged components—your reactor included. She prepared an entire restoration plan for you, including replacing your power unit with something safer and more reliable."
Ignis' explanation made the Wrath of Terra pilot's expression twist slightly. The structure of a Leviathan Dreadnought was notoriously difficult to handle; even many Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus had headaches maintaining one.
But that little girl didn't even look like someone from the Mechanicus—no red robes, no visible augmentics. Those red-robes usually loved strapping on flexible mechadendrites and extra servo-skulls. Had they gone back to a more "organic" aesthetic ten thousand years later?
"So the Adeptus Mechanicus dresses differently now," he muttered. "Back then they couldn't wait to turn every inch of themselves into metal."
"No. She's not one of the Adeptus Mechanicus. She's just the chief mechanical engineer of a construction company," the Salamander explained. "She's one of the top mechanical designers in this region."
"What? She's a civilian? After ten thousand years, even a Leviathan can be serviced by civilian hands?" Gotthardt's heartbeat quickened. That damned war machine used to be top-secret equipment—how could a civilian workshop take it apart? How much had technology advanced over ten millennia?
"Honored veteran, there's something I need to tell you. Please try not to get too agitated." Ignis decided he needed to explain the situation clearly.
"Is it that the war is over?" Gotthardt asked, voice full of hope. Maybe his long service had finally ended. Maybe he could finally live the retirement he once imagined before the Great Crusade began.
Ignis took a deep breath, his red eyes locking onto the old warrior's blue ones. The excitement and hope in those eyes made him hesitate.
"We're not in our old universe anymore. I don't know where exactly we are—but this isn't the cosmos we knew."
What? What does that even mean?
Gotthardt froze. He couldn't process the words.
"This city is called New Eridu. You and I are the only two Space Marines here," the Salamander sighed. "Before you appeared, it was just me."
"Ah?"
Gotthardt Stalgrief—pilot of the Wrath of Terra, a proud son of Terra—went completely blank.
The two stood in silence for a long while. Gotthardt searched Ignis' eyes and found no deceit. He knew these dark-skinned, warm-hearted giants rarely lied. Which meant it was all true.
"You're saying I'm in another world? One without the Imperium… without Space Marines… without the Legions… without the Great Crusade… without the Horus Heresy?" His voice trembled. "Then… what of the Emperor? He once walked among us. Does He still exist?"
Ignis called upon the Emperor's lingering blessing once more. Golden light curled around his hand. He reached toward Gotthardt's chest, letting that light unfurl into delicate threads that wrapped around the warrior's torso and head.
The warm radiance felt like a soothing bath. Old, unseen wounds eased. The dull ache in his skull faded.
He felt as if he'd returned to the past—when the Emperor reviewed their ranks, and His gaze fell upon him, bringing the same sense of clarity and warmth.
The Emperor still existed. Even outside that war-torn universe, He had not abandoned him. Was this… His reward?
Within the golden brilliance, Gotthardt seemed to see the Emperor as He once walked among them—unchanged across millennia, long hair unforgettable, voice unwavering.
Ignis didn't know what the old warrior saw, but judging from his expression, the old man on the Golden Throne had clearly contacted him. What was that ancient fossil planning by sending such a venerable warrior here? Surely not to give him a retirement vacation?
I still haven't dealt with the Chaos presence here. Retirement isn't exactly on the table.
Wait… don't tell me He sent him here to raise the difficulty level for me?
Ignis kept channeling the blessing until his mental reserves were exhausted, and he finally had to stop. Gotthardt looked disappointed.
"I understand now. The Emperor told me a few things," Gotthardt said with a faint smile—a rare expression for him. "He sent me to assist you. He said you might need reinforcements."
Of course He did… Ignis felt his head throb. Emperor, Father… did You really have to send reinforcements this strong? A Terran veteran from the Great Crusade, with a Leviathan Dreadnought? Just what kind of Chaos threat is coming? A Greater Daemon?
"Construction sites…" Gotthardt looked toward the reconstruction project in the distance. "You know… before I set out on the Great Crusade, I imagined that when it ended—when the galaxy returned to Imperial rule—we Space Marines would one day retire. I wanted to travel to worlds scarred by war and rebuild new civilizations from their ruins."
"The Emperor hopes I'll stay here and do what I enjoy. I'm not sure if that young woman's construction company needs my help, though."
Grace would be thrilled—but her supervisors might be overwhelmed. Still, the Imperial Fists were masters of defensive fortifications. Civil engineering would be trivial. And Gotthardt was a hardened warrior who had fought from the Great Crusade to the Horus Heresy; a few simple structures would be child's play. Belobog Heavy Industries' capabilities would skyrocket.
Having the old warrior remain here was the best outcome. Belobog Heavy Industries could provide the maintenance he needed, and he'd have a job he genuinely loved. Ignis wasn't on bad terms with them either—if needed, they could easily airlift both the veteran and his Leviathan using their heavy transport helicopters.
"They'll be more than happy," Ignis said with a rare smile. "Grace is fascinated by every aspect of the Leviathan. They also need heavy construction machinery. Your Dreadnought can be repaired and maintained here, and your identity easily concealed. Just disguise the chassis as a construction unit with advanced AI."
"You mean an Abominable Intelligence? Never thought I'd see the day I had to disguise myself as one. Interesting."
Perhaps because he had technically died once, or because the Emperor had spoken to him, the old warrior seemed surprisingly calm. "And stop calling me sir all the time. No need for that. We're both warriors who fought for the Imperium's survival."
"By the way, you still haven't answered me. What became of the Imperium in the fortieth millennium?"
Gotthardt's question immediately made Ignis fall silent. He didn't know what to say.
Seeing the Salamander sink again into wordless hesitation, the old warrior could already guess the answer.
"It seems your era isn't any easier than ours," he said with a forced smile. "Look at your armor—thicker than ours ever was. And look at you—you're stronger than the battle-brothers of my time."
"The enemies you face must be even worse than the ones we fought. I'm sorry… we failed to end the war in our age, leaving you to inherit a galaxy still drowning in conflict."
Perhaps realizing the subject was too heavy, he changed the question. "How is my Legion? The Imperial Fists—do they still stand? What of Lord Rogal Dorn? Are my successors still as brave as we were?"
"Yes. The Imperial Fists have always been paragons among the Adeptus Astartes—resilient, brave, loyal."
Ignis tried not to let his expression collapse. "But the Legions… have been gone for a very long time. After the Horus Heresy, to prevent another mass rebellion, the Legions were broken into smaller Chapters of a thousand Marines. The Imperial Fists were split into many successor Chapters. Besides the one that inherited the original name, there are the Black Templars, the Exemplars, the Crimson Fists…"
"Rogal Dorn went missing in the thirty-first millennium, after the Second Founding, during a battle to stop a Chaos fleet from reaching Cadia."
"What?" Gotthardt's thoughts spun into chaos. "The Imperial Fists were broken apart? The Primarch went missing? Then what about the Imperial Fists Chapter now?"
"The Chapter was wiped out once—during the War of the Beast. An Ork invasion caught the Solar System by surprise, and the Fists fought to the very last man. They… died to a warrior, every last son of Dorn."
Hearing Ignis' account, Gotthardt felt dizzy. Was he truly the last surviving warrior of the original Legion?
"Later, the Exemplars Chapter reformed the Imperial Fists, merging their warriors into a newly constituted Chapter. That's how the name survived."
"So that means… I'm the last true Imperial Fist." Gotthardt frowned heavily. "The Emperor sent me here because I no longer have a place in that universe?"
"But the reborn Imperial Fists are still reliable. And the constant birth of new successor Chapters—well, the Fists have the most successors of any lineage. Even the Ultramarines don't have as many."
Ignis tried his best to comfort the old warrior. He knew only fragments, so he chose the parts that would hurt the least.
If he explained the full story of extinction, reformation, and political mess, the old brother might faint on the spot. For his safety, Ignis had no choice but to filter the truth.
"They're all heroes fighting for the Imperium and the Emperor…"
The old warrior sighed. "We once fought for the Imperial Truth. Tell me… is the Imperial Truth still being spread?"
Here it comes. The worst question possible.
Ignis' face turned ashen. After a long struggle, he finally whispered, "The Imperial Truth… it was… replaced by the Imperial Cult…"
"A cult? Religion?"
Gotthardt felt his blood pressure spike. "What do you mean, religion? The Word Bearers actually succeeded? Didn't we win the Heresy? Don't tell me the Chapters worship now?"
Ignis managed a heavy nod. "Mm."
Right now, he was profoundly grateful that Grace had dismantled the Dreadnought's reactor; otherwise Gotthardt would definitely be rampaging. If the old man could move, Ignis had no doubt he'd have stood up and slapped him twice for delivering such nonsense.
"Throne above, what happened while I slept? How did we win and somehow not win?"
"You're right. We won, but we didn't." Ignis nodded. "The Imperium hasn't fallen in ten thousand years, but it hasn't won anything either. The Chaos Gods interfere directly now, sending stronger and stronger enemies. After the fortieth millennia, the Tyranids invaded from beyond the galaxy, the Necrons woke up, and on the fringes a new race called the Tau began to rise."
"And the traitors never rested. They even destroyed Cadia, and the warp storms cut off half the Imperium."
The old warrior sighed heavily. "That sounds absolutely dreadful."
"It is. But we've never stopped fighting—just like you never did. Maybe hope doesn't exist, but giving up would mean hope truly dies."
Ignis continued, "But all of that barely concerns us now. The Emperor sent us here, far from that burning galaxy. He sent me to deal with the Chaos presence that's appeared in this world. As for you… I don't know His plan."
"He's a powerful psyker—if He sent us here, He has His reasons." Gotthardt reassured him. "Defending this world and destroying its enemies is still serving the Imperium and the Emperor. Just in a different place."
"Although the Ecclesiarchy calls Him the God-Emperor, He never thought of Himself as a god," Ignis said. "Even though everything He does may as well be divine. Crossing worlds… dragging us across a ten-thousand-year gap…"
"You're right. But the Emperor has always been a man. A very powerful psyker, yes—but still a man."
Gotthardt smiled. "I saw Him with my own eyes once. He inspected our ranks Himself."
If you had seen Him on the Golden Throne, you wouldn't be saying that…
Ignis thought—only to feel a phantom slap on the back of his head from afar.