The orbital relay platform above the Macragge system sat at the eye of a political hurricane. Cheers thundered across every deck and hab-block. Countless citizens shouted themselves hoarse at the return of the legendary hero, Malcador. The moment the news spread, every faction in the Imperium moved. They scrambled for position, each desperate to seize the advantage in the coming storm.
Deep beneath the relay station — in hidden chambers that existed on no blueprint — the liaisons of the Officio Assassinorum never slept. Twenty-four hours a day they sifted through data streams from every corner of the galaxy. When the report of Malcador's return arrived, the officer on duty froze for three full seconds. Then he marked it PRIORITY ALPHA and slammed the alarm.
The entire department erupted into motion. Multiple verification channels lit up. Thirty minutes later, three Grand Inquisitors stepped onto the platform and formally requested an audience with the returned Sigillite.
Behind them, ordinary-looking men and women melted into the crowd — Assassins of the Officio, already shadowing their target. They would learn the truth of this "Malcador." If he was a fraud, they would erase him without mercy. If he was genuine, they would kneel and swear the ancient oath their order had kept for ten thousand years.
Ten millennia ago, Malcador himself had walked beside the first masters of the Assassin temples. Together they had forged the creed that still bound every operative: Walk in shadow, serve the light. When the true Malcador returned, the Assassins would keep that vow. They would serve him as they had always served the Emperor's will.
…
Elsewhere, another group reacted with equal fervor — though they had received the news later. They came in glittering processions, clad in silks and jewels, aboard private voidships that burned through the void on precise stellar courses. They were the high nobility of the Imperium: senators of the Terran Council, envoys of ancient houses that ruled hundreds or thousands of worlds, representatives of the great trading cartels that spanned the stars.
Guilliman's reforms had grown ever more radical. They struck at the very roots of noble privilege and corporate profit. The Primarch was an idealist — he wished to tear down laws that had stood for thousands of years and remake the Imperium from the ground up. To the powerful, this was nothing short of madness. The lower orders existed to serve their betters; that was the Emperor's natural order. Yet Guilliman gave them rights, education, hope. It was obscene.
The nobles had gritted their teeth and endured — until now. With Malcador's return, the old order could be restored. The Prime Minister would never tolerate Guilliman's reckless experiments. He would stand with the ancient bloodlines and crush this dangerous dream of equality.
The return of Malcador had plunged the Imperium into chaos. A political tempest of unimaginable scale was already gathering.
…
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods fell silent.
The endless revels in Slaanesh's palace ceased. The Prince of Pleasure sat upon the throne, face twisted with conflicting emotions. The daemons that had been rutting in endless ecstasy now cowered, terrified of drawing their master's wrath. The once-lush gardens of excess had withered to dust.
Nurgle no longer stirred his cauldrons with glee; the Plague God sulked in foul temper.
Inside the Crystal Labyrinth, Tzeentch stared at the Great Tapestry. Threads that should never have existed had suddenly appeared, violently disrupting every destiny the Changer of Ways had woven. Malcador was dead — utterly destroyed on the Golden Throne! How can he walk again? This is not the fate we decreed!
In the Brass Citadel, Khorne sat motionless upon his throne of skulls. Even the Blood God's rage had cooled into something colder and more dangerous. His daemons did not dare approach.
They all remembered. They had all been there when Malcador sat upon the Golden Throne and was obliterated. And now the Nameless One had simply… brought him back. The Chaos Gods had played by the rules of the Great Game for millennia. This violation was unforgivable.
…
Aboard the Vengeful Spirit, Abaddon the Despoiler stood before the strategic hololith, studying the Nacmund Sector — the narrow artery that kept the Imperium's two halves connected. If it was severed, the Empire would split into two isolated fragments, each doomed to wither.
His finger traced the critical junction — the Vigilant Star. One precise strike and the entire corridor would collapse into anarchy. The Chaos fleets would pour through the gap and finish the work.
The Warmaster smiled. Guilliman, Sanguinius, and Lion would be apoplectic.
"My masterpiece will annihilate those fools and erase the false Emperor's realm forever."
His Chaos Lords murmured eager agreement.
Before he could continue, the bridge doors burst open. Zaraphiston, Abaddon's chief sorcerer, staggered in, face the color of ash.
"Warmaster… terrible news…"
"Speak."
"Malcador… the Prime Minister… has returned."
The bridge fell into a silence so absolute it felt like death. Every smile vanished. These were men who had stared into the abyss and laughed — yet the name of Malcador still struck them like a blade to the heart.
Abaddon's eyes widened. For a long moment he stood frozen. Then, in a voice like grinding stone:
"…This is a lie. Tell me it is a lie."
"It is the work of the Nameless One. He revived Malcador."
Abaddon closed his eyes. When he opened them again, all emotion had drained away.
"Leave. All of you."
The moment the last guard departed, the Warmaster of Chaos collapsed to his knees. The man who had once brought the galaxy to the brink of annihilation now looked… small.
"Why…? Why is this happening?!"
His roar echoed through the empty bridge — a howl of pure despair.
…
On a world once loyal to the Emperor, now fallen to Chaos, Lorgar Aurelian stood before an altar of corpses.
The Word Bearers had done their work well. The cathedral of the Ecclesiarchy burned behind him, its sacred icons melting in the flames. Before him rose a mountain of the dead — soldiers, priests, civilians who had dared to resist. At its peak burned the eight-pointed star of Chaos Undivided.
Lorgar smiled with quiet satisfaction. After ten thousand years, he had finally stepped beyond the borders of Sicarus. All because of his brother — the accursed Raven Lord, Corax.
Since the Heresy, Corax had hunted him relentlessly. When Lorgar first ascended to daemonhood, he had believed himself invincible. One humiliating defeat later, he had fled to the hidden world of West Carolus, nursing his wounds while Corax circled like a patient predator.
Only when the Great Rift opened and Corax was forced to abandon the hunt had Lorgar finally escaped his prison. Now nothing stood between him and the conquest of the entire galaxy in the name of the Dark Gods.
He raised a hand. Word Bearers surged forward, dragging a screaming survivor to the altar. Runes flared. A dagger flashed. Blood sprayed across the sigil.
At that exact moment, a sorcerer covered in prayer tattoos approached and whispered urgent news into Lorgar's ear.
The Primarch's smile died.
Guilliman, Sanguinius, and Lion — all three had returned. Sanguinius, slain by Horus himself, body shattered beyond repair, yet alive again. And now Malcador walked once more.
Lorgar felt the foundations of his faith crack.
Are the Gods of the Warp… false? Is the Nameless One the true divinity of this universe?
He remembered Guilliman's plan to raise a new state religion on Macragge, to pen a "New Covenant." The parallels to his own past were grotesque.
Father… you swore to burn away superstition and tyranny. Yet your own son now builds a new church in your name.
Lorgar's face twisted with something between rage and nausea.
He had chosen the wrong side.
…
Across the galaxy, other Primarchs received the same tidings.
In his iron fortress, Perturabo's hand slipped. A long black line scored across the siege engine schematic he had just finished. The Lord of Iron said nothing. He simply stared into the void.
Fulgrim's wine glass shattered on marble floors. Purple liquid spread like blood. The Phoenician's beautiful face contorted with fury.
"Damn it… the old man is back."
Magnus the Red felt his psychic empire tremble. The Crimson King's single eye blazed with hatred.
"This was not how fate was written!"
…
In the temporary office aboard Macragge's central platform, Malcador stood at the viewport, watching the cheering crowds below.
Ten thousand years. The Imperium still endured — against every plan he and the Emperor had made. The Webway project had been sabotaged. The Heresy had happened. The Ecclesiarchy had turned the Emperor into a corpse-god and used His name to enslave billions.
Malcador's hands trembled as he read the reports. The poor were ground to dust beneath the twin yokes of Church and bureaucracy. They were told their suffering was loyalty. Their deaths were loyalty. Their chains were loyalty.
He wanted to summon every Assassin in the Imperium and purge the parasites one by one.
A green rift opened behind him.
The Nameless One — Datch — stepped through, three fist-sized crystals floating beside him. Each pulsed with impossible knowledge.
Dark Matter Collection. Hyperspace Engine. Hydroponic Agriculture.
Malcador touched the first crystal. Knowledge flooded his mind — clean, limitless energy that would revolutionize the Imperium. He touched the second — faster-than-light travel without the Warp, free from daemonic corruption. The third — farms that could feed entire sectors without dedicated agri-worlds.
When the final notification chimed in Datch's system, 18,000 points appeared.
Datch grinned, summoned his teleport gun, and vanished without a word.
Malcador stood alone in the empty office, crystals in hand.
"…Rude little bastard. At least show the Emperor's Regent some respect next time."
He carefully secured the crystals.
First order of business upon returning to Terra: burn out every parasite feeding on the Imperium's corpse. Guilliman was a good boy — too good, too rule-bound. These vermin had sucked the Empire's blood for ten millennia. They were no longer ordinary parasites.
They required total extermination.
…
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