As time passed, more and more high-ranking figures stopped buying Dawn City's assets.
They chose to wait and see—to watch for what came next.
A new consensus was forming.
If everyone believed the Savior would compromise and cut prices, then anyone who bought high would be the fool.
So… why not keep waiting?
Sanctum of the Savior, convalescent palace.
Eden, in sunglasses and beach shorts, lay sunning himself on the cloud-soft turf while a holo-report floated in the air.
It was a breakdown of Dawn City's commercial revenue.
He curled a faint smile.
"So, that fellow grew a brain after all. Already rallying the others to pressure me again, this fast.
"And it would seem there's nothing I can do about them."
After all, the high nobles hadn't said they'd refuse to invest; they were merely observing. He couldn't force them to commit.
That would violate Dawn City's commercial ethos.
It was precisely why the nobles dared to be so brazen.
Even after slaughter and punishment, for profit's sake, they would still test his limits.
Eden understood. Back on his homeworld, the Ming founder Zhu would behead and even flay corrupt officials—and they still dared to embezzle.
All the more so for interests as vast as the Webway.
"Forget it. Tarko and the others will handle it. No need for me to fuss."
He muttered, cut the comm-feed, and settled back.
In such comfort, he should stay easy and drowsy. If only this bliss could last forever.
His thoughts drifted; his eyes slipped shut; even the plants nearby shifted and curled—as if falling asleep with him.
…
The calm broke quickly.
"Those rotten parasites still haven't put any capital in…"
Guilliman arrived—features firm and severe, as if chiseled from the hardest stone.
Justice incarnate: "They use power and wealth to feed their appetites, wallowing in decadent pleasures, forgetting loyalty and duty.
"They're unworthy of the name noble, and undeserving of any honor."
Eden opened his eyes and listened to the righteous litany.
He knew the man was denouncing the high nobility, yet he couldn't help feeling a touch… personally indicted.
Not long ago he'd even sent Old G some regional Lacas Sector specialties—catfolk attendants—only to be sternly refused and warned not to drown in pleasure.
And now he'd come—likely to prod the progress of the Redemption Crusade.
"Old G, don't stay wound like a bolter spring. Rest and recreation now and then are fine."
Eden sighed.
He suspected Old G was still keeping himself chaste. The proper Primarchs really were terrifyingly self-disciplined.
Of course, Eden and Fulgrim were the improper sort; Fulgrim even married once—presumably the only Primarch to take a spouse.
"Eden, something's off with you lately."
Guilliman fixed him with a bright, worried gaze. "Can you not feel yourself drifting toward nihilism and corruption?
"You were resolute—filled with conviction. You never bowed, never feared. You were the emblem of defiance in every Imperial warrior's heart."
He remembered Macragge—when the Savior first stood before him: defying daemons head-on, unflinching and unafraid.
He'd watched his brother ever since.
This brother who'd made the warp quail, executed Be'lakor—the Four's chosen—faced the Tyranid swarms alone, and bled an Exalted Bloodthirster.
He'd even stared down the Four themselves, enduring unthinkable corruption without so much as a frown.
The very image of mankind's unbroken will. The Empire's mightiest warrior.
Guilliman asked himself: in the same trial, could he have done what Eden did? He knew the answer: no.
His respect only grew.
Yet now, after his brother became Emperor, too many changes had crept in.
A tilt toward decadence.
"Old G, perhaps you misread me. Surprise—I'm simply showing you the real me."
Eden stayed sprawled, a corner of his lip twitching—quietly snarking to himself.
He also understood why.
His indulgence stayed inside the Sanctum, under absolute secrecy. In front of Imperial citizens, he appeared as a shining figure.
All positive energy.
And the propaganda arms—tens of millions strong—blazed nonstop: every medium, every art, sculpting the Savior's image.
Disciplined, merciful, unyielding, brave, hating evil, ready to give all for the Imperium—every human virtue crammed into one man.
In short: praise from every angle, showcasing only the most perfect face of the Savior.
Lately he'd spent more time with Guilliman—without the usual guardrails. The perfect filter had shattered.
Hence this awkwardness.
"Distance really does make the myth…"
Eden thought ruefully.
His halo, to Old G, had cracked. Awk-ward.
Guilliman regarded the silent Savior and spoke softly, "Brother, you've grown lax. How are you different from rulers who drown in pleasure?!"
"Hey, hey—don't slander me. I have been handling state matters between naps."
Eden frowned, impatience showing.
"My brother—do you know how long you have remained in this palace?"
"How long?"
"Sixty Holy Terra days."
"…What?"
Eden stared.
He bolted upright. "Impossible. I've been here that long?!"
He'd planned three days at most. Sixty? In one stretch?
Worse, he scarcely felt it.
"It's sixty," Guilliman said gravely, projecting a string of records.
"These days, you've screened nearly all comms—even refused reports from the Urth Ministry of the Interior.
"I came three times—and was denied each time."
The Emperor of Mankind—the Savior—vanished from governance for almost two months.
That was terrifying—chaos could have followed.
When Guilliman was Regent, he never dared slack—no matter how exhausted.
He knew that if he relaxed, disorder would bloom, danger would multiply.
Even now, he still carves out time every day for the work in his hands.
He's never stopped.
Fearing something was wrong, he ignored the Thunder Wardens at the door and barged in.
"…That does sound familiar."
Eden patted his head.
In a flash he remembered how much fun he'd been having. He had declined a lot of calls. Clearly not normal.
"Brother, you grow more like our father—the Emperor."
Guilliman looked into Eden's face. "I sense the warp on you—faith is pushing you toward damnation!"
It hurt him.
He didn't want his brother to share the Emperor's fate—to become a prisoner of the warp—much less to cross blades someday.
The Emperor already leans toward fell apotheosis. If the Savior follows… what hope remains for mankind?
"I will not be a prisoner of the warp—and I will not become a god."
Eden's tone was flint and steel. He rejected the very premise.
He could feel the warp-tang on himself—but it came from him, not from any Chaos god or malign entity.
Likely the religious reform had surged belief into his little sun—his core—and side effects followed.
Some negative tendencies deep within—laziness, pleasure—had been amplified.
So he'd drifted in the palace far too long without noticing.
A dangerous sign.
Eden wrestled the churning faith within the solar core, damping its influence on flesh and mind.
He understood a fact: he could not avoid drawing nearer to godhood.
Like the Old Man Emperor—on the same one-way road, foot jammed on the throttle.
"Fortunately I planned for this. The countermeasures are already in motion—quietly curbing any path to my apotheosis…"
Eden never ignored risk.
He knew what becoming a god would mean, and he had prepared—silently—for the crisis to come.
"Then you're lucid again," Guilliman exhaled, relieved.
At least this brother hadn't fallen like other Primarchs.
He could not imagine facing the Savior as an enemy, should corruption claim him.
"By the way—I've been gone this long. Any trouble in the departments? In Dawn City's build?"
Eden's eyes narrowed with a hint of concern.
Guilliman paused before answering:
"N… no."
The Savior had been absent from governance for nearly two months. Yet the ministries and Dawn City's construction had not suffered; harmony had, if anything, improved.
Which meant his brother's system of rule and management surpassed Guilliman's own regency by far.
Comparison is the thief of joy.
Guilliman felt dazed—had all his back-breaking effort been the futility of a trapped beast?
"No issues, then I'm at ease."
Eden relaxed.
Seeing Old G sprint in, he'd expected calamity.
Chances are, without his "guidance" these days, the ministries were happier.
Their systems were now robust; even without the Savior's hand, nothing faltered.
Such is the superiority of institutions.
Of course, a year or so is fine. Disappear for centuries and you'll get some small disturbances.
But not catastrophe.
Bayev and the other stewards still stand, ready to shoulder power in the Savior's absence.
They'll keep walking the road of human renaissance the Savior laid down.
"Construction in Dawn City is steady," Guilliman admitted. "But those high nobles still sit on the fence. It's hurting our preparations for the Redemption Crusade."
His eyes were cold. Such men never cared for humanity—only bled the Empire dry—and yet the Empire still needed them.
"Perhaps… we adjust prices, push the plan forward," he offered.
Even Guilliman felt the assets seemed dear; for the Crusade's sake, a compromise could be justified.
"No. We cannot yield. That would devalue Dawn City's assets and inflate their arrogance."
Eden shook his head.
Old G had awakened to a world of compromise—and grown used to it.
But the Savior does not compromise. Others compromise with him.
"Time's about right."
Eden's brow hitched; a chill smile. "Watch. They'll regret this until their last breath.
"Once we finish this harvest, we'll have the resources to march!"
The Redemption Crusade is not only about cleansing. It's about rebuilding. Mountains of materiel must flow on time.
"How?" Guilliman frowned.
Eden only smiled.
Together they left the palace for the Commerce Ministry.
—
Dawn City, Grand Exchange Hall.
The hall teemed with high nobles and the Empire's new rich, all watching a massive argent screen.
It displayed the valuations of Dawn City's Webway Core Assets.
They were here because a major announcement was expected.
The great nobles wore thin, hopeful smiles.
They guessed the Savior would compromise—announce across-the-board valuation adjustments.
He was on the cusp of a massive crusade and needed oceans of resources. He couldn't delay forever.
The new rich, by contrast, were tense.
In recent days, many had backed the Savior unconditionally, buying a great deal of core assets at high prices.
Shops in the commercial zones, usage rights for industrial tracts.
Their coffers weren't those of the old lords. If the core assets plunged, the losses would be ruinous—
Some might go bankrupt.
"Yor… we might be done for…"
The one-eyed trader sweated, anxiety gnawing.
Not long ago, they had received the shop-buildings the Savior had promised—far beyond anything imagined.
They thought "shops" meant modest streetfronts. Instead, they were entire skyscrapers in vast plaza complexes.
Yor's allocation was largest—nearly twice the others'.
The Commerce Ministry, impressed by his loyalty, rewarded him further.
Those Webway commercial towers were a fortune in themselves, doubling their net worth overnight—saving them centuries of toil.
They were ecstatic—and more resolute in their support.
Then, at Yor's urging, they mortgaged the buildings and levered up to buy even more Webway assets.
Especially Yor.
His faith in the Savior was absolute. He piled on several layers of leverage—all in across multiple assets.
But soon, the winds shifted.
The Savior and the Commerce Ministry made no moves. Core valuations looked ready to slip.
More voices said the prices were too high—cuts were inevitable.
The new rich began to panic—afraid their family wealth would vanish.
"Friends, the good news we've waited for is almost here."
Amid the fear, Yor smiled. "His Majesty will not disappoint us. Think about where we're celebrating after."
From start to finish, the can-seller stood with the Savior—without a quiver of doubt.
Also… he was all in. No way back.
Either strike it rich—or take the long walk off a high roof.
There's a wisdom in that.
"By the Savior above—let it be good news. Please, no price cuts!"
Among the nobles, Drew Ovelia—the Lacas Sector's House Ovelia heir-apparent—blended into the crowd.
He kept a stately posture, but prayed hard.
He had betrayed his class—quietly going all in on Webway core assets. If prices were cut, he'd have to run.
Otherwise, his elders might kill him.
"Hahahaha! His Majesty will surely bring favorable news! Webway core assets will rise!"
A fat lord of House Tartaros shouted alone, trying to stiffen his own spine.
He'd been isolated—and saddled with a new nickname:
"The Savior's Lapdog."
He felt no shame—he wore it with pride.
He'd mortgaged multiple worlds and assets in the Armageddon Sector and openly bought heaps of core Webway assets, trumpeting bullish news.
Many nobles spat on the class-traitor, severed ties with his house, and plotted reprisals later.
Then the hall detonated—in silence, then uproar—as the announcement hit:
The Ministry of the Interior and numerous Imperial departments will soon relocate to Dawn City. This will become the new Imperial capital.
Holy Terra would, as a result, free more space—layered with new defenses—to shield the palace.
The capital transfer—kept black-box secret—had been held for this moment.
The crowd erupted.
After a stunned hush, the new rich cheered. This was bullish—Webway core assets had just become even more valuable.
Exactly as Eden intended.
The new rich had largely bought early. If prices surged now, the gap between their families and the old lords could shrink.
The high nobles looked stricken.
Their boycott had taken a grievous blow. They would have to pay far more to buy in.
Yet some clung to hope.
"Friends—now is the time we must unite. Keep calm—hold just a bit longer—and we can hold prices steady."
"Hold the line! We can hold—"
"It's up! It's up!"
Eyes swung back to the silver screen. Across the board, Webway core assets were climbing—30% on average in minutes.
Worse—the number of available core lots was shrinking. Someone was buying—quietly and fast.
"Which traitor is buying?! You're betraying us!"
"Damn it—no one buy! NO ONE!"
Panic.
Even as they shouted "unite," the nobles whipped out their slates and started punching orders.
Dawn City is the capital now. Core Webway estates are unique, scarce—the future of the Empire.
Miss this window and your house will be left behind.
So the feeding frenzy began—
A brutal price crush.
(End of Chapter)
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