Tieron smiled at Trajann, his face—shriveled by old age—still sparkling with a pleasant shrewdness.
As the former Chancellor of the Estate and the Empire's former chief bureaucrat, Tieron had once climbed to the pinnacle of the Imperial hierarchy, high enough to sit on the Council of High Lords. He had welcomed the return of Saint Doraemon, Guilliman, and Sanguinius to Terra on the Moon.
He had assisted Alexander and the Primarchs in suppressing the conservative factions and reorganized the administrative power of Terra. Even Roboute Guilliman had recognized his political talent, inviting him to serve as an advisor for the Indomitus Crusade.
Yet, these were not the experiences that made Tieron a legend among Imperial bureaucrats. When they spoke of him, they would say with a hint of exaggeration that he was the first Imperial Chancellor in ten thousand years to actually retire.
In the Imperium, most positions are lifelong responsibilities; only death or a new duty can relieve one of them. Retirement is often a synonym for death. But Tieron retired peacefully. When Guilliman requested him as an advisor, he naturally stepped down as Chancellor, succeeded by his servant and assistant, Lady Jacqueline.
A clever maneuver followed: during a medical examination shortly after his resignation, a Tech-Priest determined that Tieron's body could no longer handle long-term void travel. His lifespan was at its limit, his health destroyed by long years of toil. Thus, he was judged unfit for the Crusade and retired before even boarding a ship, waiting for the "imminent death" predicted by the Mechanicus.
But he remained alive. Decades later, he was still alive and living remarkably well.
Trajann's gaze swept across the room. Rare artworks, cultural relics, and handicrafts were piled in this small villa—Tieron's collection from the past decades. This had always been his passion; he believed human creativity could offset the profound cruelty of the universe and felt an obligation to preserve these crystals of human civilization.
Trajann's eyes lingered on several artifacts on the table: two paintings—one of sunflowers rising like fire, vibrant as stars, and another of a woman with a mysterious smile. Beside them were manuscripts written in flowing Old English: "Long are the leaves, and grass is green... The hemlock-umbels tall and fair... And in the glade a light is shining..."
Trajann's erudition allowed him to identify these relics: "Sunflowers and the Mona Lisa by Vincent van Gogh and the Florentine genius, and the Song of Beren and Lúthien by the ancient British author Tolkien... Originals? They actually survived until now?"
Trajann was astonished. His senses told him they were real, but common sense told him it was impossible for them to have survived.
"The Harlequins sold them to me," Tieron said with a bitter laugh. "They claimed these were from Cegorach's collection, stolen from the Black Library at great risk. But recently, I prayed to Omnessiah Suneo for inspiration to appraise them.
They are fakes—forged by Cegorach himself. They are indistinguishable from the originals, except for a signature Cegorach left on the surface, composed of a few dozen atoms. To think the Laughing God would play such a trick on a frail, foolish old man... I could almost cry!"
"The nobles who lent you money and signed contracts with you are the ones who should be crying," Trajann remarked, shaking his head.
Many wondered how Tieron maintained such a lifestyle. Where did the funds for his collection come from? Some guessed a generous pension, but that was lower-noble thinking—there was no precedent for a Chancellor's pension.
According to the "Eyes of the Emperor," Tieron's corruption during his tenure was a matter of efficiency. He found that mobilizing resources through bribery and "corruption" was far faster than the Imperium's regular procedures. Almost all the money he "stole" was used to bribe officials to ensure decrees were carried out effectively. He actually saved very little for himself.
His current wealth came from two sources: first, he borrowed astronomical sums from nobles who believed he had massive hidden assets to "launder"; second, he signed agreements with high nobles for a lavish monthly stipend in exchange for the right to handle his remaining assets after his death. The only problem for the nobles was that Tieron lived much longer than they anticipated.
"Old friend, you didn't even visit on my two-hundredth birthday. Why come today?" Tieron asked.
"By the will of Saint Doraemon, everyone on Terra is to be evacuated," Trajann said calmly.
"Oh... and you? Why are the Custodes staying?" Tieron's shrewd eyes fixed on Trajann. "Are you planning to be buried with the God-Emperor?"
Trajann fell silent for a moment. "It is not an act of being buried alive; it is a sacrifice. The Emperor needs souls that have not despaired, souls without self-destructive tendencies."
"Sacrifice itself is a form of self-destruction," Tieron countered, shaking his head.
Trajann remained silent, but Tieron continued, pointing out that the Custodes' long self-isolation was its own form of self-destruction—a mourning for a future that never arrived. He had glimpsed the "Black Sun" above the Palace and guessed the truth: dying in despair strengthens the enemy, while accepting death with hope strengthens the Master.
"Let Jacqueline and me stay," Tieron said with a smile. "We have long been at peace with death. We are neither in despair nor pain; we are filled with hope."
Trajann tried to refuse, but Tieron and Jacqueline were resolute. "You are the Captain-General, the successor of Constantin Valdor," Tieron said. "And I am the chief bureaucrat, the successor of the hero Malcador. You may look down on us mortals, but the successors of Malcador never lack the courage to offer their final strength. Just as Malcador offered his last bit of psychic energy to the Emperor, we shall offer our souls."
Suddenly, Tieron looked toward the Golden Throne, and tears began to flow. "My Lord... is this what You have carried for ten thousand years? You made such a sacrifice for us..."
In Tieron's vision, the world was burning. Golden wheat fields turned to black ash under a Black Sun. He saw Alexander being pierced by infinite hunger, spiraling into the Eternal Dragon. He heard the Omnissiah's gears grinding, desperate to be born.
And at the front of it all was a Black Sun—the Emperor Himself. Trillions of dead souls roared within Him, whispering the name: The Dark King.
The power bit at Him like a serpent, pushing Him toward godhood and pulling Him into the abyss. The Emperor felt the despair and sorrow. He saw every suffering worker, every fallen soldier, every dead Astartes. He did not blame them; they were only asking Him for revenge—against the galaxy, against the Warp, and ultimately, against Himself.
+Please, Your Majesty, become the Dark King.+
The voices pleaded. The Emperor wept, and every tear turned into scorching black fire.
In reality, Terra erupted with a light brighter than the sun and darker than the void. From their ship, Joan and Reyna saw a black, burning scar swallow the world. The Motherworld of Mankind had fallen.