The fleet continued closing in on the core world of the human Imperium.
When the sphere of Holy Terra fully filled the ship's main viewport, Osiris stood before the bridge observation window, silently watching.
This was not his first time seeing Terra, but each sight of it still stirred a complex surge of data streams deep within his processing core—patterns he could never completely decipher.
The world before him was almost entirely covered.
Gargantuan hive cities spread like metallic moss, clinging to every usable inch of the planet's surface, stretching all the way to the polar ice caps—if any ice caps remained at all.
The atmosphere was thick and murky, a sickly brown-yellow haze flickering with the constant lights of the endless cities and the reflections of orbital structures.
Regions once called oceans had been reduced to scattered, filthy dark patches, carved up and hemmed in by colossal dam-like structures and reclaimed land.
His data vault summoned images from before the Age of Strife—images belonging to that planet in his distant memories.
A blue jewel veiled by vast oceans and swirling white clouds… and the world now before him, wrapped in metal, concrete, and pollution to the point of suffocation. They shared the same name, yet they were no longer the same.
He also recalled other dimensions he had seen—living, vibrant Earth-like planets, their waters still clear.
An emotion not belonging to machines, something born from the human essence at his core, surfaced quietly.
It was not anger, nor disgust, but a calm, profound sorrow.
Sorrow for the weight of civilization that had nearly crushed this world… and sorrow for the blue that represented life and nature, once familiar to him, now nearly extinct here.
Sigismund's voice sounded beside him, breaking the silence. "Prepare yourself, Magos. We are about to land."
Osiris withdrew his gaze. The crimson lenses of his optical sensors shifted away from Terra.
The brief emotional fluctuation was quickly suppressed and stored.
He replied simply, his tone steady as always.
"Understood."
In the hangar, two cargo units had already been loaded onto a Thunderhawk gunship. Once Osiris, Sigismund, and a squad of Black Templars boarded, the craft lifted off, escorted by several mortal-piloted fighters, and flew toward Holy Terra.
The Thunderhawk pierced Terra's heavy, polluted atmosphere and descended toward the region known as the heart of the Imperium, protected closely by Custodian aircraft rising from the surface.
Through the gunship's windows, the Imperial Palace came into view. It was not a beautiful structure, but a vast accumulation of layered fortresses and defenses—expanded, rebuilt, and reinforced across millennia of war, forming a titan beyond ordinary comprehension.
The gunship finally touched down smoothly in a designated zone.
The hatch opened. Osiris' mechanical steps and Sigismund's armored boots touched Terra's surface almost simultaneously.
The air carried the scent of ancient stone, incense, and the indescribably complex odor produced by an unimaginable density of humanity.
A Custodian squad stood waiting.
Clad in radiant golden armor, unmoving as mountains, they gripped guardian spears, the sensors beneath their helms sweeping the arrivals without emotion.
There was no verbal exchange. The leading Custodian Tribune gave Sigismund a slight nod, then turned and gestured for them to follow.
Every movement was concise, efficient, and authoritative beyond question.
At Osiris' signal, two Tech-Priests ordered their servitors to carefully lift the two specially sealed containers and follow behind.
Sigismund and Osiris walked side by side—the High Marshal of the Black Templars and a Magos Explorator escorted by golden giants—making their way deeper into the Imperial Palace.
Their route had clearly been chosen with care, taking them through remote yet heavily guarded corridors.
However, word traveled fast in the Imperial core.
As their group crossed a grand hall linking several fortress complexes, a retinue emerged briskly from a side archway.
These figures wore the ornate robes of High Lords' representatives, accompanied by scribes and finely dressed officials.
The leading elder bore a formal, ceremonial sternness. Raising a hand, he called out:
"Lord Sigismund, Magos Osiris! Please wait. The High Lords' Council requires full knowledge of what you have brought to Terra.
According to protocol, any technological matter that may affect the Imperium's governance must first undergo preliminary evaluation by the Council—"
His words were smooth—clearly rehearsed.
Yet neither Sigismund nor Osiris slowed, paused, or reacted.
And the Custodian escort ignored the speech entirely, as though the man had spoken to empty air.
The golden formation maintained its precise stride, advancing without hesitation, leaving the representatives behind.
The elder's raised hand froze midair, his stern expression shifting to shock, then to poorly concealed anger.
But he dared not obstruct a unit escorted by the Custodians. All he could do was watch as the dark-red machine form, black power armor, and golden guardians disappeared down the corridor.
"They—they dare ignore the Council's authority!" one official whispered.
The elder lowered his hand, glancing darkly at the passageway. After a moment, he muttered through gritted teeth:
"It is Dorn's will. And… the Emperor's Custodians."
He understood now: this matter lay far beyond the Council's usual jurisdiction.
Osiris was unsurprised.
Sigismund showed no expression at all, as though nothing had happened.
In the face of absolute power and higher authority, bureaucracy was meaningless.
Passing through several immense gateways requiring special access codes, feeling the pressure of the scanning arrays and hidden weapon systems, they finally reached their destination—the iconic, colossal main gate of the Imperial Palace.
Forged from unknown alloys and carved with the Imperium's history and myths, the massive doors stood closed, radiating an aura of timeless endurance.
The Custodian Tribune stopped and faced Sigismund and Osiris.
"The Primarch awaits you in the Hall of Audience," he said through his helm, voice steady. "You may bring the cargo inside. We will stand guard here."
Sigismund drew a steadying breath and looked at Osiris.
Osiris's mechanical face revealed no expression, but the faint flicker in his crimson optics signaled readiness.
From within the monumental doors came the deep rumble of ancient machinery. A thin line of light appeared between the massive panels as they slowly began to open.