The fire was burning. A pitch-black eye hung where the Motherworld of Mankind once resided, twisting, squirming, and staring out at the entire galaxy.
With just a single glance at that star, Reyna felt her legs tremble. As a psyker, she often saw twisted visions in the Warp during her midnight dreams—things she could not understand, but which filled her with dread. Yet that fear seemed utterly insignificant compared to the obsidian eye now looming where Earth used to be.
Beyond the terror, however, she felt a summons. The searing black flames felt strangely warm, calling to her, tugging at her soul, beckoning her to step inside. For a moment, Reyna was entranced. Her body leaned forward, and she felt her soul begin to slip from her physical form, dragged toward the void.
+No.+
A gentle, kind voice resonated in front of Reyna. It felt warm, like leaning against a mother's knee in childhood—distant yet tender. A hand was placed lightly on Reyna's chest, giving her a gentle shove backward. Simultaneously, Joan reached out and grabbed Reyna's wrist, pulling her back.
Reyna gasped, dizzy and terrified. "What was that? It felt like it was calling me..."
Joan looked at Reyna with a strange expression. "Is this the first time you've felt the corruption of the Warp?"
"Isn't Warp corruption supposed to be voices whispering things you can't understand?" Reyna asked, shrinking back.
Joan remained silent for a moment before speaking slowly: "He is the Master of Mankind, the Lord of Ages, the collective of all humanity. He is also the Dark King, the Destroyer of All Life."
"His corruption is rooted in the soul of every human, summoning them to drown in death and destruction. I imagine that right now, every human looking up at the sky, regardless of where they are in the galaxy, sees that black eye watching them. Even when they sail through the Warp, that eye will shine like a beacon, but it guides them only toward death and fire."
"Warp travel is no longer safe; even gazing at the stars has become perilous. We who hold faith in Saint Doraemon are faring better, but those who still stubbornly believe only in the Emperor... their souls have no protection. They are exposed directly to the gaze of the Dark King, standing on the precipice of ruin."
As Joan spoke, the black eye writhed and shuddered. Obsidian flames spread out like tentacles in all directions, reaching toward the nearest celestial body: the Moon. The Moon, shimmering like a dying tear of Terra, flickered in the void as the black flames leaped across space to seize it.
But halfway there, the flames began to twitch and stall, as if fighting against themselves.
"Look... He hasn't fallen yet. The Master of Mankind has not yet succumbed to the Dark King."
Bathed in fire, the Custodes stood tall beside the Master of Mankind. They died in the flames without regret, guarding their Lord as an army of the dead. They flickered like sparks of radiant gold. These burning souls provided strength to the Emperor, keeping the flame of hope alive in His heart.
As the radiance of the Custodes illuminated the Emperor's surroundings, other souls who had not yet despaired found their place. From mortals who clung to hope to Astartes who sacrificed themselves for humanity—from Macharius to Tieron, from Hill to Archer—every burning soul that died without despair gathered at the Master's side.
Even a headless, massive figure wielding a warhammer stood by the Emperor. And beside them was another giant—a hazy, blurred silhouette whose original form was almost unrecognizable. He was one of the two erased Primarchs.
In the Warp, which is the dimension of will, self-perception and the perception of others define one's form. To completely erase the memory of a person is a form of absolute murder in the Warp. Thus, the two erased Primarchs existed as indistinct blurs, yet one of them still chose to maintain hope for humanity and the galaxy, standing against the will of the Dark King.
The self-destructive will pressed down upon the Master of Mankind, while golden hope resisted the encroachment. The aspect of the "God-Emperor" was the first to fall to the impulse of self-destruction. He had heard too much—the prayers of billions that no longer asked for a better life, but only for death and revenge.
+They are in too much pain. I always tried to give them hope, to make them endure, but it only resulted in more suffering.+
+Sometimes I wonder if I was wrong. If humanity was destined for destruction, why not let them perish in the Old Night? At least then they wouldn't have had to bear ten thousand years of agony with me.+
Thus, the God-Emperor embraced the Dark King. He acted out of a twisted mercy, wishing no longer for His children to suffer the pain of broken hope. The golden fire weakened, and those souls who held hope through their faith in the God-Emperor fell into the fire with Him.
The aspect of the "Scholar" fell next. He was the incarnation of the Master's rationality, the collective of all His knowledge. The Primarchs were born from His wisdom; the faith of the Omnissiah-Emperor was directed at Him; the Imperial Truth was His creation.
+The more one knows, the deeper the despair. The more rational the thought, the clearer it becomes that our hope is infinitesimal.+
+Does the 22nd Century truly exist? What is the probability of Alexander's plan succeeding? Is it truly necessary to torture the entire galaxy for such a slim possibility?+
He gave up. The Dark King embraced Him. Knowledge, logic, and wisdom could not solve the current deadlock. Many souls from the Adeptus Mechanicus despaired with Him and were consumed by the flames.
Then came the "General."
+Our conquest is over. We are centaurs with broken legs, with only one arrow and one bow left. Rather than choosing a phantom hope, I crave to use this last arrow for final revenge.+
Many Astartes and members of the Astra Militarum left the Emperor's side, casting themselves into the unceasing fire. One by one, the identities of the Master of Mankind were stripped away by the Dark King, eroding the very core of His being.
The aspect of the "Father" was torn away with ease. He was a failed father, a despairing father. He had told himself repeatedly that the Primarchs were merely tools; he had tried to feign coldness and even cruelty toward his offspring.
But in the end, he discovered with horror that he still felt paternal love for some of them—only to destroy them one by one for the sake of duty. Intense guilt, self-reproach, and contradiction corroded his heart. As a father, he despaired and fell into the Dark King.
The Master of Mankind wept as he saw a fragmented, bald figure being dragged into the darkness. Horus... my son...
A blade pierced the Master's chest. A soul that occupied a vital place in His life betrayed Him. Ebony skin reflected in His eyes; her figure was tall and beautiful, draped in flowing robes.
With scythes, threads, withered fingers, blades, and the Chains of Heaven, she pierced His body with many things at once. The aspect of the "Lover" perished in the embrace of the Dark King. The Master of Mankind stared at her, saying nothing.
She seemed to take His silence as condemnation and began to explain in a panicked tone: "This is for the totality of humanity! You are too arrogant, too stubborn! Your actions only cause people to suffer. Let it end here. Do not continue to make mistakes. Everything I have done is out of mercy."
"You have no mercy," the Master of Mankind finally spoke. "I once thought you had true compassion, but you only fantasize about having it. You are like a mother who claims everything is for her children, when in reality, everything you do is to satisfy your own desires. You say it is for the children, for me, for our race—but you never consider what they truly need. You act purely on your own whims, and thus every act is a total betrayal."
The Master of Mankind reached out and cupped her slender face. She screamed as she began to burn.
"You can't, Neoth! Have you forgotten your love for me?"
"I will always love you, Erda, even if that love was a mistake from the very beginning."
The fire roared, and the woman's soul vanished into ash.
But the Dark King continued His march. Next was "Justice." The Master of Mankind smiled bitterly; He had betrayed justice so many times for the sake of reality. His sense of justice was fragile and easily consumed...
But then, the scent of a rainy night in an alleyway arose. A flash of lightning pierced the darkness. The Lord of Night stood before Justice. Lightning claws named Mercy and Forgiveness thrust forward. Konrad Curze himself became a bolt of lightning, laughing maniacally as he stabbed into the shell of the Dark King, deep into the heart of the Black Sun.
That pale lightning was not consumed by despair. The lightning of a rainy night is terrifying, yet it is the only light that illuminates the dark. Light is light, even if it is momentary and frightening. Curze's sacrifice pierced the Black Sun, the despair, and the self-destruction. That sliver of justice was hideous and blinding, yet noble. The Dark King's encroachment stopped; He was wounded. Simple, raw justice halted the erosion.
Then, the pale lightning vanished, leaving only the mad laughter of the Night Haunter. Konrad Curze met his absolute death—the moment he had waited for so long.
Curze's sacrifice bought time, but the Master of Mankind knew it was only temporary. As the Eternal Dragon drew closer to birth, the Dark King would only grow stronger. The momentum of birth had reached an unimaginable level.
Endless, deep shadows wrapped around Alexander—heavy, viscous, and inescapable.
"Hungry," a voice whispered in his ear.
"Hungry," a thousand voices echoed.
"Hungry," millions, then billions of voices cried out.
Alexander saw the haggard lives, souls, and emotions within the shadows. They were all ravenous. Billions of beings longed to eat—they wanted to consume Alexander, and they wanted Alexander to consume them.
"Eat, eat, eat," they urged him. He had only two choices: they would eat him to become the Eternal Dragon, or he would eat them to become the Eternal Dragon. It made no difference; Alexander would carry the weight of their hunger. Every living thing's hunger would be his burden, just as the Omnissiah bore the inspiration and drive of all life.
Alexander knew the danger. Whether he ate or was eaten, he would cease to be himself, leaving only pure hunger. This would result in a fragmented divinity more insane than the Chaos Gods, ravaging the stars as a storm of extreme emotion. But he had no choice. The sequence of ascension demanded it: Malicious Craft, Greedy Dissolution, and finally, Erosive Destruction.
Fortunately, Alexander had already found another way to bear the domain of Greedy Dissolution. It wasn't a calculated plan, but a result of a small kindness from long ago.
"Can you carry our hunger?" the billions of beings asked.
Alexander looked at them. He did not say yes or no.
"No one should have to go hungry. Everyone has the right to be full."