Malcador calmed his breathing and sat back down at the enormous desk. With terrifying efficiency he compiled the Imperium's tax reports, armory inventories, population statistics, grain yields, fleet deployments, and the overall state of the galaxy. When all that data was cross-referenced, the root causes of the Imperium's slow decay became painfully clear.
Besides the ever-present threat of Chaos, the Imperium's own systems were riddled with fatal flaws. The greatest of them was the grotesque imbalance in resource distribution.
Everyone knew the Imperium ran on the tithe, yet planetary governance was almost entirely hands-off. So long as a world did not openly side with Chaos or the xenos and continued to pay its taxes on time, the central authorities rarely interfered. The result was predictable: the lower classes were ruthlessly exploited by the upper classes, crushed under crushing tax burdens, and left with nothing but blind faith to dull the pain of their existence.
Meanwhile the elites wallowed in luxury and vice. The moment any real trouble appeared, they were the first to betray the Imperium.
The core worlds, hive worlds, and industrial planets held the vast majority of the Imperium's wealth and population. Yet deep inside those same worlds, in lightless underhive pits where sunlight had never reached, hundreds of millions of people scraped for food among mountains of refuse. They ate nutrient blocks made from corpse-starch. They drank water that had been recycled for millennia. They breathed air thick with toxins. They survived in slums that could collapse at any moment.
On the frontier, on agri-worlds and mining worlds, the last drops of blood and sweat were being wrung out. Food was taken. Ores were taken. Young men were taken for the Guard. Only the old, the children, and desolation remained.
In some agricultural regions the sky had turned permanently gray from chemical fertilizers; the air stank of sewage. Industrial runoff had turned rivers strange colors, their surfaces choked with floating fish carcasses.
The Ecclesiarchy was a willing accomplice. It hoarded wealth without shame and preached guilt to the masses, demanding that suffering and the surrender of property were the only ways to atone.
Under such conditions, cults found fertile ground. Rebellions broke out constantly, and every year the Imperium had to divert enormous military resources just to stamp them out.
Then there was the matter of equipment. The standard kit of an Astra Militarum infantry regiment in the current Imperium could only be called pathetic. Laser guns handed down for generations, flak vests patched and re-patched until they were little more than rags, bayonets, and a handful of grenades — that was everything the average soldier owned. The heavy armor had seen no meaningful upgrades or replacements in ten thousand years.
Chimeras. Leman Russ battle tanks. Venomblade super-heavy tanks. These machines had received no fundamental improvements in millennia, yet they were still expected to fight.
Some Guard regiments still fielded veterans who had been serving for over a thousand years. The thought alone was suffocating. Tanks that old — could they even fire their guns anymore?
It had been different during the Great Crusade. Each Primarch's auxiliary forces had been equipped according to his own preferences. The Ultramarines' support regiments had been the most lavishly outfitted: every soldier wore advanced personal combat armor, logistics were comprehensive, and firepower was dense and overlapping. Even the poorest regiments of that era carried proper heavy weapons. Human firepower had been so overwhelming that even Astartes had to respect it. Attacking a well-prepared position without multiple companies working together was suicide.
By comparison, the modern Astra Militarum was pitifully equipped.
Many Astartes chapters were little better off. The so-called "Space Sharks" — the Carcharodons chapter — had to repair and patch their power armor again and again. Even after the patches, they still wore it. During the Great Crusade such poverty would have been unthinkable.
Every time Malcador read the reports his blood pressure spiked. It was a miracle the Imperium had survived this long.
These were soldiers who fought and died for the Imperium, yet they lived in abject poverty. Veterans receiving no pension was commonplace. Common Guardsmen were sent to fight daemons with inferior weapons and forced to hold back Tyranid swarms and green-skinned xenos with nothing but flesh and blood. They died for the Emperor and received no proper grave — only a cold notification and a token compensation for their families.
Meanwhile, a tiny class of nobles and merchant princes controlled staggering wealth.
Malcador possessed a classified report, jointly prepared by the Officio Assassinorum and the Inquisition, that detailed exactly how that wealth was distributed. The numbers made his blood pressure climb even higher.
Some families owned hundreds, even thousands of star systems. Those systems contained agri-worlds that could feed the entire Imperium, mining worlds that supplied the ores for weapons, industrial worlds that produced every resource the Imperium needed, and hive worlds housing hundreds of millions of souls. The overwhelming majority of the wealth generated flowed straight into the pockets of those families.
The heads of those families — governors and high nobility — lived in palaces of marble and gold, wore clothing woven from rare materials, dined on delicacies shipped across dozens of light-years, and were attended by thousands of servants. Their children were born into obscene privilege, and that privilege passed down through generations.
Certain merchant dynasties had monopolized entire star systems' worth of trade and accumulated fortunes that could sustain their descendants for centuries.
The gap between rich and poor had reached grotesque extremes.
These people had even dared to oppose Guilliman's New Deal reforms. They kept insisting they had served the Imperium faithfully, that the Imperium had been built by their ancestors, so what was wrong with enjoying a little luxury?
Malcador set the documents down, closed his eyes, and made his decision.
He would use the iron fist. He would impose crushing taxes. The powerful and wealthy controlled the majority of the Imperium's resources; that money had to be taken from them and redirected to rebuilding the military and improving the lives of the common citizen.
The Imperium needed funds everywhere: to modernize equipment, to construct fortresses, to lift the poorest out of misery, and — most of all — to build proper education and healthcare systems.
All of it would come from those who currently hoarded power and wealth.
He opened his eyes and activated another hololithic projector. Guilliman's latest reform edicts appeared.
The Thirteenth Primarch had genuinely worked hard to reform the tax code, strengthen central authority, and curb the power of local elites. But in Malcador's eyes the measures were far too soft.
Guilliman's highest tax bracket was only sixty percent, and it was riddled with loopholes. The rich and powerful evaded taxes by moving assets between worlds, claiming endless deductions, or simply failing to file returns at all. Worse still, some families and corporate cartels used their monopolies to push the actual tax burden onto the lower classes while simultaneously inciting the common people to resist the new laws. "As long as we keep collecting," they said, "the citizens will ultimately pay." And they controlled the markets completely.
Malcador shook his head.
"Thirteenth son… you are far too gentle. In times like these, harsh medicine is required. I will teach those blood-sucking parasites a lesson with an iron fist."
"My tax laws have withstood forty thousand years of testing. Let's see if those fools can understand them."
His fingers danced across the data-slate. He began rewriting Guilliman's tax reforms.
First: a universal property tax. Any real estate, no matter which world it was moved to or in what legal form it existed, would be taxed. Families that owned hundreds of star systems would pay enormous sums every single year. Those who tried to evade would have their property confiscated. Those fit only to be aircraft mechanics would become aircraft mechanics. Those fit only to be cannon fodder would become cannon fodder. It was best if they kept their dignity. If they could not, there were plenty of ways to help them find it.
Second: value-added tax. Every good and service would be taxed at every stage from production to final sale. Luxury goods — especially civilian voidships — would carry tax rates high enough that eighty percent of the price went to the Throne.
Third: inheritance tax. If you wished to inherit your parents' property, that was your right. But even if you inherited a hundred million thrones, what you actually kept after tax would be far less. Want to lie down and do nothing for the rest of your life? Sorry. No such option exists. No matter who you are, as long as you draw breath you will work for the Emperor.
Fourth: personal income tax. A steeply progressive system. The higher the income, the higher the rate — up to ninety-five percent for the wealthiest. Low-income workers and farmers would pay almost nothing and would even receive subsidies.
Malcador's fingers flew. New tax codes and enforcement regulations poured out. He did not merely raise rates; he closed every possible loophole. Every property transfer had to be registered. Every source of income had to be declared. Any attempt at evasion was now a crime.
He also massively increased spending on both the military and civilian welfare. Active-duty soldiers would receive higher stipends. Every Guardsman fighting on the front lines deserved fair pay and decent treatment. Veterans' pensions would rise. Those who had bled for the Imperium would not starve in old age. Death benefits for the fallen would increase. Their sacrifice merited the Imperium's respect and gratitude.
Tax revenue would also fund a true safety net for the poorest. A universal healthcare system would ensure every citizen — rich or poor — received basic medical care. A universal education system would guarantee every child in the Imperium could learn, regardless of birth. Social security programs would support those who could no longer work, the elderly, the infirm, and anyone else in genuine need.
After careful thought, Malcador also strengthened protections for genuine innovation. Commercial enterprises or organizations that developed technology truly beneficial to the Imperium would receive meaningful tax credits or exemptions. Those who simply sat on monopolies and waited for death would pay the maximum rate and be left to rot.
Malcador had wanted to do all of this for a very long time. He had planned these policies as far back as the Great Crusade. But back then the Emperor had wanted every resource poured into building the great network that would carry humanity into the future. Malcador had been forced to bury his ideals and wait.
Who could have foreseen the Horus Heresy that would destroy everything?
This was fine. Now he no longer had to worry about the network. He could focus entirely on the work at hand.
Would the powerful resist? Would someone betray them over this?
A cold smile touched Malcador's lips. Where exactly did those fools think they could run? Become slaves of Chaos and be tormented by daemons until their souls dissolved? Be torn apart by greenskins and turned into trophies? Be devoured by Tyranids and reduced to biomass?
Staying inside the Imperium still offered a sliver of hope. Pay your taxes and you could keep part of your wealth and live in relative stability. Run elsewhere and you would find only dead ends.
Even if they rebelled tomorrow, they still owed taxes today.
We will take the money from these parasites and redistribute it. The Imperium needs this wealth to survive, to fight its wars, and to improve the lives of its people.
You don't want to pay? Then go speak with my Inquisition and my Officio Assassinorum. The hidden blades in the shadows will teach you what the Emperor's will truly means.
Malcador set the documents down and looked at the new tax code he had just finished drafting. A satisfied smile crossed his face.
In this life he would not repeat the mistakes of the past. There was no point negotiating with insects.
The Horus Heresy — when nearly half the Imperium's worlds had chosen rebellion — had taught him one lesson above all others: never believe that cutting off your own flesh will satisfy jackals. They are greedy and shameless. They will always demand more.
If you give them ten percent today, tomorrow they will want twenty. The day after, fifty. Eventually they will want everything.
It was better to solve the problem with one decisive blow than to waste time bargaining.
With the tax reforms complete, Malcador turned to the report on the Adeptus Mechanicus. These oil-obsessed priests were another problem.
They controlled most of the Imperium's technology yet treated it as personal property and refused to share. Rival forge worlds actively sabotaged one another, causing countless technologies to be lost and making any real increase in productivity nearly impossible.
After careful consideration, Malcador began drafting a new strategy for the Adeptus Mechanicus.
First, Macragge would host a neutral exchange platform where forge worlds could trade technology and resources. The platform would be independent of Mars and firmly under Imperial authority. The priests on Mars were gluttons reborn — they consumed everything and returned nothing.
Because of this, some tech-priests had begun hiding valuable STCs rather than handing them over to Mars.
Once the platform existed, the Imperium would use controlled technology, rare minerals, and strategic materials as leverage to draw the Mechanicus in and extract their secrets. Those who cooperated would be rewarded and supported. Those who refused would see their quotas cut and their resource shipments restricted.
He also intended to create a dedicated Imperial agency to collect, catalog, and disseminate new technologies. Precious knowledge hidden away on forge worlds, inventions that had never been widely shared for one reason or another — all of it would be recovered and applied across the Imperium.
Teams would also be sent to extract individuals persecuted by the Mechanicus for pursuing genuine innovation.
Time was short. Malcador had no patience for slow negotiations with oil enthusiasts. They needed to understand that the Imperium could advance technologically even without them.
...
Several days later, a three-hundred-page tax bill was transmitted from Macragge to the Senatorum Imperialis.
Inside the Senate chamber the gathered lords sat stiffly, chests puffed with anticipation as they waited for the reading to begin. Many believed the respected Imperial Chancellor would oppose Guilliman's radical reforms and protect the ancient privileges of the nobility.
As the clerk began reading the document page by page, their expressions shifted from expectation to confusion, then to shock, and finally to naked terror.
Violeta Roskavler sat in the front row. Appointed Master of Administratum by Guilliman himself, she was a committed reformer. As she listened, her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She was utterly stunned.
Guilliman's own reforms had set the top rate at only sixty percent, yet even those had contained loopholes and had already provoked fierce resistance from vested interests. Malcador's new code raised the top rate to ninety-five percent and systematically eliminated every avenue of evasion. All property transfers had to be registered or they were illegal. All income sources had to be declared or they were tax evasion. Every form of evasion was now a crime punishable by fines, imprisonment, or worse.
Most terrifying of all was the new enforcement apparatus: a joint task force involving the Navy, the courts, the Master of Administratum, and law enforcement. Any Imperial department could open an investigation into suspected tax evaders.
Tax evasion had long been one of the Imperium's most common crimes, second only to outright treason. In Malcador's new order, refusing to pay taxes was no longer a financial matter — it was disloyalty. It was rebellion.
Violeta's hands trembled. She understood exactly what this meant. The powerful were about to lose their minds.
When the reading reached the halfway mark the entire Senate erupted. Lords leapt to their feet, shouting in grief and fury.
"This is all Guilliman's conspiracy!"
"How could the Chancellor do this?!"
"That damned Primarch must have forced Lord Malcador!" another voice cried.
"We must see the Chancellor at once! If he was coerced we will stand with him!"
...
A large delegation of senators and magnates left Terra, gathered supporters, and made for Macragge. They intended to back the "upright Chancellor" and overthrow Guilliman's so-called dictatorship.
Malcador's reply shattered every illusion.
"This tax code was written by my own hand. For the future of humanity. For the Emperor's dream."
The officer stared at him in horror. Ninety-five percent.
This old man was even more ruthless than Guilliman.
"Lord Malcador, this tax… it is too high!" one noble protested.
"My family has served the Imperium for generations. We may not have achieved great deeds, but we have labored faithfully!"
"Labored?" Malcador's voice was cold. "Loyalty to the Emperor means giving everything to the Imperium. Your wealth belongs where it is needed most. Or are you saying you refuse to let it go?"
"But… but the rate is simply too high…" the old man stammered.
"Too high?" Malcador's psychic presence pressed down on the room like a physical weight. "Do you know how poorly equipped our frontline soldiers are? Do you know how wretchedly our veterans live? Do you know how many citizens at the very bottom of society are forced to eat corpse-starch just to survive?"
He let the pressure build.
"His Majesty the Emperor requires more warships, better-armed soldiers, and better-educated citizens. What? Does no one here want that anymore?"
"Or are you all traitors ready to rebel against the Emperor and betray the Imperium?"
The assembled lords and magnates shook with fear and hurriedly declared their loyalty.
When they left Malcador's presence they were broken men. It was clear the old Sigillite truly intended to bleed them dry.
...
With Malcador immovable, the great houses and merchant princes turned once more to Guilliman. At least the Primarch's earlier reforms had left them some room to breathe. If Malcador continued unchecked they would not be enjoying spoils — they would be serving the Imperium like livestock.
"There is no choice left. We must beg Lord Guilliman to return and take command!"
"In the end, the Regent was the truly merciful one…"
When a large delegation of powerful figures jointly petitioned Guilliman to restrain the "madman" Malcador, several families announced their secession from the Imperium. They no longer recognized Imperial authority.
That same night the Officio Assassinorum acted.
Entire families — men, women, children — were killed in their beds, throats cut while they slept. Their palaces were seized, their names struck from every record.
By the next morning new governors had arrived on those worlds and taken control of all military and defense forces. The entire operation took less than twelve hours.
The remaining great houses watched in silence. They abandoned any thought of independence.
Malcador's methods were far crueler than Guilliman's. At least Guilliman had never used assassins to murder entire bloodlines in their sleep.
Their last hope was that Guilliman would oppose the new tax code and preserve at least some of the earlier, gentler reforms.
...
The mighty Queen-class battleship Macragge's Honour hung in orbit above a loyal world. Its grand reception hall was crowded with representatives from dozens of planets and powerful factions. They wore their finest clothes and heaviest jewels, clustered together and whispering nervously while glancing toward the sealed doors.
When would the Regent finally see them?
"That Malcador has gone insane. He'll destroy the Imperium's economy."
"Lord Guilliman will surely side with us. He is of noble blood, after all…"
The heavy doors opened. Roboute Guilliman entered, followed by ceremonial guards wearing laurel wreaths. The moment the Primarch took his seat the representatives surged forward, voices rising in complaint.
"My Lord, you must stop Malcador's madness!"
"Taxes this high will paralyze all commerce!"
"How are we supposed to function under a ninety-five percent rate? This is nothing but robbery!"
"My Lord, we beg you for justice!"
Guilliman listened in silence, his face expressionless. Inside, he was fighting not to laugh.
He had never imagined he would gain the support of these people in this manner.
Not long ago they had spread vicious rumors about him across the entire Imperium: that he broke the laws of their ancestors, that he was an ambitious usurper, that he wanted to turn the Imperium into his personal fiefdom.
Now they came to him weeping, begging him to take command, to maintain the reforms, and — above all — to stop Malcador from enforcing the new tax code.
They really did deserve what was coming.
Guilliman drew a slow breath and kept his voice grave.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I can only offer my deepest apologies regarding this matter."
The representatives stared in shock.
"Malcador was appointed Imperial Chancellor by the Emperor Himself. He has every right to act as he sees fit. I have no authority to overrule him."
"But, Lord Regent—" someone began.
"Furthermore," Guilliman continued, cutting him off, "while I serve as Regent, my primary responsibility is military affairs. Internal governance and taxation fall outside my remit. Malcador, as Chancellor, is the highest authority on these matters. It would be improper for me to interfere."
Interfere? Ridiculous. Let Malcador string them up and beat them bloody. When Guilliman had first tried to reform the system these same people had screamed for his head. Now they could taste real ruthlessness.
Did they truly believe Malcador was some gentle soul? If he had been gentle he would never have become one of the three pillars of the Imperium alongside the Emperor and Constantin Valdor. The Emperor set the grand vision. Valdor handled the killing. Malcador cleaned up the aftermath. Anyone who betrayed the Emperor, rebelled against the Imperium, or thought themselves clever had been quietly removed by Malcador long ago.
Despair settled over the representatives.
They had assumed Guilliman would be their ally. He was a Primarch of noble blood; surely he needed the support of the great houses.
But now…
"My Lord," an elderly representative said carefully, "you truly will not reconsider?"
"If Malcador continues, the entire Imperial economy will collapse. We will not even have the resources to sustain the war effort…"
Guilliman gave him a thin, mocking smile.
If time had permitted, Guilliman would have implemented the ninety-five percent rate himself. He also knew that not every throne collected would go to soldiers or welfare. There was a deeper concern: soldiers who had known nothing but poverty their entire lives might lose their edge if suddenly surrounded by too much comfort.
In future campaigns the proper sequence was clear: bombard the enemy for ten to fifteen days until they were exhausted, then launch the decisive assault.
He kept those thoughts to himself.
"If you truly believe Malcador's policies will bankrupt the Imperium, then go speak with him directly."
The representatives looked at one another in horror. Who in their right mind would voluntarily debate tax policy with Malcador? The man would simply summon the Inquisition and the Assassins, dig up every skeleton in their closets, convict them, and seize everything they owned.
They left Guilliman's presence utterly defeated.
They had only wanted to expand their family businesses. Was that truly a crime? They had centuries of accumulated knowledge and privilege. How could some upstart overtake them in mere decades?
They were furious. Their ancestors had suffered. Did they not deserve comfortable lives?
At that moment a swirling green portal tore open in the air.
Under the stunned gaze of everyone present, Datch stepped through and vanished as quietly as he had arrived.
He had just finished two side quests and earned a satisfying number of points. His mood was excellent.
The representatives who had been about to leave froze. Complex emotions flickered across their faces.
They all knew the Nameless One had revived Malcador. That was why any of this was happening.
Resentment, rage, and naked malice filled their eyes.
Yet the Nameless One's status was now even higher than the original organizations.
All except one man.
He stood at the edge of the crowd, appearing to be in his forties, though the scars on his face betrayed extensive rejuvenat treatments. He wore expensive clothing and three heavy rings on each hand — clear marks of old money and power.
He glared at the spot where Datch had disappeared, malice burning in his gaze.
"Sooner or later," he thought, "I will kill you, you walking disaster."
Datch, who had been walking toward Guilliman, suddenly turned and looked directly at the man.
The man went rigid.
He had not spoken aloud. He had only thought it.
On Datch's minimap the man's name burned red.
Yellow names indicated low favorability. Only actively hostile NPCs appeared in red.
Chaos truly was everywhere.
"Traitor."
Datch vanished.
He reappeared directly behind the middle-aged man.
A spear wreathed in starlight materialized in his hand.
There was a wet, heavy sound as the blade punched through the man's back and erupted from his chest.
Bright arterial blood sprayed into the air like a blooming crimson flower.
The man looked down at the spearhead protruding from his torso, eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle emerged as blood flooded his lungs.
Datch withdrew the spear. The body collapsed. Blood pooled rapidly across the deck.
Screams erupted. Someone shouted that a man had been murdered.
The assembled magnates and representatives panicked, shoving one another in their rush to escape. Some fell. Others sprinted for the exits.
The doors were already sealed. Imperial Guard under Tribune Carken and Ultramarines under Captain Sicarius had taken up positions, weapons raised.
Faced with massed lasguns and active power weapons, the great lords dropped to their knees, begging for mercy.
Those who understood what had just happened shook so violently they could barely remain upright.
They had recognized the dead man. He was the heir to a powerful merchant dynasty — a man of real influence. They had spoken with him many times. He had always said that if his family fell, he would find a way to destroy the Imperium and kill the Nameless One.
They had assumed he was simply venting. None of them had believed he would actually act on it.
Yet the Nameless One had read the thought from his mind.
They trembled, barely able to stand.
Datch checked his minimap again. Several names that had been yellow were now green.
Cowardly NPCs.
Scare them and their favorability rises.
…
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