Chapter 523 - Funeral

This was less a tomb and more a town for the living. The Ultramar style, carved from rough stone, rose in staggered layers, forming a mountain of white stone engraved with the Emperor's past deeds. It waited silently for the mourners to enter. One could even say it was a meticulously designed theater—overseen by Guilliman, with design input from Sanguinius, Mortarion, and Perturabo.

Sanguinius, the most emotional, had carved the Emperor's lifelong achievements, failures, honors, and shames onto the town, every design appearing to mourn the Emperor's soul. Perturabo, the most rational, had designed the town as a fortress; hidden beneath Sanguinius's aesthetics were bunkers, minefields, bombardment points, firing slits, and orbital strike beacons. However, this fortress was not built to keep enemies out, but to contain whatever was inside... or rather, whatever was about to be buried in the vault.

The entire town was bisected by a straight road, seventy-seven meters wide and thirty-three kilometers long, paved entirely with pale stones. Every brick was etched with complex sequences of numbers. Even under the bright sky, it exuded a scent of decay, like a damp basement after rain. Walking on it made one feel as if the path led straight to death.

This road was Mortarion's design. He claimed it was a masterpiece of numerology; stepping onto it was equivalent to embarking on the cycle of birth, corruption, and death. At the end of the road was the Emperor's vault—an inverted pyramid carved out of the mountain.

Ten thousand steps descended from the four cardinal directions, symbolizing the ten thousand years the Emperor sat upon the Golden Throne. At the end of the steps was the burial chamber, a rectangular niche barely larger than a sarcophagus. Once the coffin was placed inside and covered with a heavy stone slab, the burial would be complete. It was almost jarringly simple.

After all, if he were buried too deep, in a place where no one could see, what if the Emperor secretly came back to life inside? Furthermore, if they needed to dig up the grave later to retrieve the Emperor's Shield, the Armor of Fate, or the Emperor's Sword, it wouldn't be easy if the tomb was too complex.

The form of this mausoleum naturally did not follow any past conventions, nor did it conform to the "Rites of Alex" that Alexander had previously mentioned offhandedly. After all, the funeral couldn't truly be conducted according to ancient Terran rites.

According to the Rites of Alex, one must perform the "Resurrection Rite"—summoning the soul of the deceased back to the world of the living. If they strictly followed that and actually summoned something back, it wouldn't be them eating the Emperor's funeral feast; it would be the Emperor eating them.

Consequently, many funeral styles involving prayers for return, resurrection, or reincarnation were excluded. For safety, this newly created funeral format and tomb structure were far more appropriate.

The old woman from Baal parked her truck near this newly built city. As the crowd surged, it became difficult to drive further. She climbed down, patted the front of the truck, and whispered to it in Low Gothic mixed with heavy Baal dialect. The truck vibrated slightly as if telling her it could take care of itself and would be safe parked there.

The other passengers, aside from Alexander's group, were stunned, their eyes filled with a trace of fear, wondering if the old woman was performing some kind of witchcraft.

"This truck is a hundred years old. My father salvaged the scrap and assembled it with his own hands; it already has a Machine Spirit," the old woman said with pride. She wanted to tell them that this vehicle had carried Saint Doraemon twice, but she understood Alexander was hiding his identity and restrained herself.

Hearing about the Machine Spirit, the passengers felt a surge of respect and honor. With the spread of the Church of Saint Doraemon, the cult of machines and spirits had become widespread across the Imperium.

Alexander looked up as the rain fell on his face like an artist's chisel. Under the distant sunlight, the rain shimmered with gold. There were no dark clouds over the city of rough grey stone, as if the entire world, nature, and reality itself were paying respects to the deceased.

The old woman looked worriedly at the crowd stretching to the horizon, wondering if the city could hold them all or if she could find a seat. Reyna wore a similar expression—could one city truly contain this many people?

Alexander gave Reyna a reassuring pat on the back of her head, gesturing for her to follow the flow. He also signaled to the old woman that she need not worry. This city would definitely accommodate everyone. If Alexander wished, he could create a telephone booth in the galaxy large enough to hold the entire galaxy—bigger on the inside. However, the situation in this city was even more complex...

Reyna stepped through the rain as if passing through a curtain into the funeral city. The moment she entered, she felt a hazy sense of displacement. Reality felt fleeting and unstable. The Warp became incredibly clear; she felt her psychic power surging as if she were literally soaking in the Sea of Souls.

She could clearly perceive emotions in the air as if they were scents or colors. The most prominent feelings were fear and grievance.

"Wah! Run! That bullying, violent woman has broken in!"

"I can shatter Slaanesh's soul in three punches; I'm just a bystander, officer!"

"Are you interested in a part-time job as a psychic fitness coach at the Crystal Gym? Competitive salary, full benefits, nine days on, two days off."

Reyna's mouth opened and closed in silence.

"The Gods are gathered here, the Emperor is to be buried here, and reality has grown thin. Time, space, and causality have become blurred," Alexander's voice whispered in Reyna's ear. He leaned in close. "Every person who steps onto Macragge has the possibility of entering this funeral city, and the city itself is where all possibilities converge. All possibilities exist here simultaneously, which is why everyone can fit."

Reyna remained dazed. Alexander sighed. "Besides, do you know your reputation in the Warp? Many weak little daemons have run to the gates of my domain to complain about you."

Reyna's eyes shifted. "They're daemons, they're not good things. They're harmful to humans. What's the harm in a few punches?"

"Many aren't even daemons; they're just stray fragments of will," Alexander explained. "One of them was born from the emotion of 'a human turning back to look after using the toilet.' What harm does that do? At most, it makes a person look twice instead of once."

Reyna looked even more embarrassed and scratched her head. "Let's go. It's time to find a seat and eat the Emperor's feast," Alexander said, gesturing toward the road into town.

"Eat the Emperor's feast..." Reyna was bewildered. She hadn't expected a meal. She thought the funeral would be more solemn and tragic.

"The Emperor lived for forty or fifty thousand years and suffered for over ten thousand. His death is a 'Happy Funeral'—he's gone to enjoy his life. How can we not have a meal?"

Alexander led them into the buildings. A figure dressed as an Ultramar waiter, looking somewhat ethereal, approached. He wasn't a real human, but a Warp daemon in disguise. The daemon froze the moment he noticed Alexander. When he saw Reyna, he instinctively stepped back, and seeing Joan made him tremble with terror.

However, these daemons were different from the "outsourced" ones outside. These were personally trained by Guilliman. They were the "inner circle," integrated into Guilliman's storm of Order. In a sense, they were Guilliman's daemons. Their professional training allowed them to suppress their fear and react correctly: "One gentleman, two ladies. Table 2022. This way, please."

The daemon led them to the second floor of a building along Mortarion's grand avenue. They were seated at stone tables, many of which were already occupied. Reyna blinked and noticed the people around her changed instantly. She blinked again, and a third group appeared. Every time she focused, the surroundings shifted. She began to understand what Alexander meant about all possibilities existing simultaneously.

The daemon waiter served three plates of buns.

"...Are we really eating?" Reyna asked.

"Why wouldn't we?" Alexander stuffed a piece into his mouth. The exotic aroma of coconut and the scent of wheat bloomed on his tongue. "Eating is the privilege of the living. Only the living eat, so eating is the way to distinguish the living from the dead."

Among all the domains Alexander controlled, the domain of "Eating"—contained within Greedy Dissolution—was the one the Dark King could almost never corrupt. All interests of the living are centered on reproduction and consumption. Reproduction is because one might die tomorrow; consumption is because one wants to keep living tomorrow.

Eating at a funeral serves to separate the living from the dead. Every human sitting here could potentially be a medium for the Dark King's power, but the act of eating itself acts as a barrier against death.

The first course was served before the formal ceremony: wheat bread crumbs sprinkled on flatbread, glazed with honey and olive oil. The crumbs were mixed with cumin seeds, and coriander was sprinkled on top. Alexander, who had only had some wine, felt his appetite surge. The sweetness of the honey and the unique spices stimulated his hunger. After all, he was the God of Greedy Dissolution, the Lord of Hunger.

This dish had special significance; it originated from Anatolia on Ancient Terra—the Emperor's homeland—based on a Hittite recipe for sacrificing to the Storm God. It symbolized the Emperor's birth and childhood.

The second course arrived quickly: hot mutton stew in a ceramic pot, exuding a pungent and spicy aroma. The meat was leg of lamb mixed with lamb fat. The broth was made of primitive ale brewed from barley malt, water, and salt, with onions, coriander, cumin, beets, and crushed Egyptian leeks and garlic.

This was an old Mesopotamian recipe. During funeral preparations, Alexander had joked that this was "Oll Persson's Mutton Stew." It was delicious and savory, though the meat was a bit chewy, providing quite a workout for the jaw.

As the second course was served, the temporary temple at the start of the avenue was dismantled by the Ultramarines. It revealed a heavy stone sarcophagus, ten meters long and rectangular. The lid was carved with the image of the Emperor slaying a dragon with a spear—identical to the Eternity Gate on Terra. The Emperor's eyes were hollowed out, allowing one to see the Armor of Fate, the Emperor's Sword, and the Emperor's Shield inside.

The Emperor's physical remains were gone, lost to the black sun; here were only his vestments. However, at that moment, a faint light seeped from the armor, sword, and shield, weaving together like threads to form the hazy silhouette of a man. His face remained blurred and indistinct...

A chorus of wails, laments, and gasps erupted from all directions. Every eye was fixed on the flickering silhouette manifesting within the sarcophagus. The psychic energy remaining in the Emperor's Sword, the Emperor's Shield, and the Armor of Fate—fueled by the desperate hopes of the gathered masses—seeped out to form this hazy, ethereal phantom.

Guilliman stood up abruptly, his eyes burning like fire as he stared at the swaying psychic image. Lion El'Jonson's expression grew grim, his gaze wavering. Sanguinius remained still, that faint, sweet smile still lingering on his lips. Perturabo swallowed hard and instinctively took a step back. Corax breathed heavily, his hand twitching toward the weapon at his waist. Alpharius's expression was inscrutable—partly eerie, partly indifferent. Constantin Valdor remained silent, his hand drifting toward the weapon hidden beneath his robes.

Everyone held their breath in the heavy silence, as if waiting for fate to deliver its final judgment.

Only Mortarion remained indifferent, rattling the dice in his hand. With a sudden flick of his wrist, four dice slammed into the stone table before him: six, seven, eight, and nine.

"He won't live," Mortarion's voice whispered like a chilling wind, carrying a sense of stagnant rot that drifted into the minds of everyone present.

Yet, this did not dampen the yearning and hope in the hearts of the people. This collective desire converged into a powerful tide of thought, surging from Macragge into the deepest depths of the Warp.

It struck the black, dead sun hanging in the Sea of Souls and fell upon the remnants of Terra—the shattered Golden Throne. There, the withered husk shrouded in black fire shivered. The crown of the King of Ages flashed for a fleeting second; the instinct for revival was awakened. Residual neural signals within the dead corpse surged, and scorching flames erupted from the dead sun, piercing through the Warp to strike at Macragge.

"It's coming," Alexander finished the last drop of the mutton stew. The spicy dregs at the bottom made his tongue tingle, yet he still felt hungry—or rather, as the Lord of Greedy Dissolution, it would be strange if he weren't hungry. He had simply used various means to limit this hunger to a level that could be called "gluttony."

Beside him, Reyna looked up in panic. Gifted with strong psychic sensitivity, she felt the shift in the Warp. Her eyes reflected scenes from the Empyrean.

"Relax," Alexander said, patting her hand to reassure her. Reyna's forehead broke into a cold sweat; while Alexander's comfort calmed her slightly, the roars and wails echoing from the Warp still made it difficult to find peace.

"Are you going to drink that?" Alexander asked, pointing to Reyna's nearly untouched stew. Before she could react, Alexander had finished her portion and turned with a smile toward Joan. Joan silently reached out and gripped her bowl tighter.

As Reyna's eyes reflected the black fire of the dead sun descending upon Macragge, she saw four winds rise in the Empyrean. Four beasts emerged from the Soul Sea.

One resembled a fly with stag antlers and a worm's body, its oily wings carrying a rusted brass bell—a creature of rot, both living and dead. Another was like a serpent with a bull's face and sea-eel slime, shimmering with purple scales that revealed lust, beauty, and depravity.

The third was like an eagle with azure wings of shifting fire, murmuring spells of change and hope. The last was like a hound with brass fangs and the scent of sulfur, its maw filled with crushed skulls, radiating slaughter and rage.

Tides of time, space, emotion, and energy flowed from these four great beasts. Upon them, a vivid contract manifested. Reyna saw the names and contents of these four contracts:

The Chaos Gods' Application Form to Attend the Funeral on Macragge.

Names: Nurgle (Illiterate, Chaos), Slaanesh (Eldari Drama Academy Graduate), Tzeentch (All-knowing, Crystal Gym Owner), and Khorne (Kill, Kill, Kill...).

These complex forms stacked together, creating a sense of order that encompassed the four beasts. It was a complete order—a new administrative system, a new worldview, new morals, and new laws. It was a "New Reality" attempting to replace the old.

This was the order of Ultramar, the reality of Ultramar, the possibility of Ultramar. Its name was Roboute Guilliman. Its enemy was the order of Terra, the reality of Terra—the Emperor.

To overwhelm its enemy, the order of Ultramar began to dredge up an unrealized possibility from the cracks of time and space. The four Chaos Gods provided boundless power to cultivate this "possibility" into reality.

In this alternate history, the 30th Millennium took a different turn. It wasn't just Terra that launched a Great Crusade; the Lord of Ultramar launched his own.

This young monarch mastered Warp travel through the Pharos Lighthouse and established his own empire long before the Emperor arrived. He found his brothers—a psychic Primarch on Nuceria, a hunter beneath the skies, the Angel of Baal, the Builder of Olympia...

Ultimately, the Lord of Ultramar and the Emperor of Terra became rivals and collaborators, each ruling half the galaxy until war broke out. In this "Apocrypha," the one who emerged victorious, the one who became the representative of all human will, was the Lord of Ultramar.

Reyna saw a throne. Upon it sat the Master of Ultramar, his ultramarine armor as steady as the mountains of Macragge, his hair like fine gold, and his crown a laurel made of billions of human souls. He raised his sword, and the four beasts ignited its blade. Millions served him in the material world, and billions followed him in the heavens.

As the Lord of Ultramar unsheathed his blade to clash with the fire of the dead sun, the Dark King found himself powerless within the order covering Macragge. The black flames were instantly crushed, and the hazy, unformed silhouette of the alternate Guilliman vanished back into the Empyrean.

Reyna couldn't comprehend what she had seen, but reality mirrored it. The flickering figure in the sarcophagus shuddered and shattered, dissolving into points of light.

A high-pitched, wailing music tore through the sky—a cry of blood-soaked sorrow. Cegorach, his face painted like a crescent moon with a painted tear, flew over the town playing a lyre.

Thousands of Harlequins leaped onto rooftops, playing strange instruments and singing dirges. The intense sorrow washed over the crowd. Their hope vanished as quickly as it had come; they had to believe it now: the Master of Mankind was truly dead and would not return.

Sanguinius took flight, scattering yellow and white joss paper that burned as it fell onto the coffin and the Spirit Road.

Roboute Guilliman, clad in the Ultramarine Armor of Fate, stood before the sarcophagus. His face bore a perfect mask of grief. "Citizens from across the stars, in whose veins flows the blood of Terra, I announce this tragic news to you."

"My Father, the former Master of Mankind, the Great Emperor, has reached the end of His long life in the 42nd Millennium."

"His virtue was glorious, His deeds were holy. Radiant as the sun, He stabilized the four corners. His martial might quelled disasters; His civil rule established order. He is the Spirit who communicates with gods; He is the Ghost among the divine; He is the God whose life cannot be named by the people."

"Therefore, His posthumous title shall be:Imperator Radiāns, Sanctus et Martialis, Pius, Aeternō Spiritū et Divinā Virtūte Corōnātus."

Guilliman felt a bit awkward after reciting the long title. But as those words left his mouth, the air went silent. Each word seemed to nail down a part of the Emperor's life, like thirteen nails sealing the corpse.

Almost immediately, Guilliman felt something expanding within him, desperately wanting to be born. A voice inside him questioned why he didn't simply take the throne for himself. The onlookers felt it too—as if the crown of the Master of Mankind, their collective will, was transferring to Guilliman. But Guilliman wasn't becoming the Emperor; he was replacing him. A new order was superseding the old.

Alexander watched in silence. In this universe, the Dark King's power was nearly irresistible. But what about from an "unreal" universe? Tzeentch had snatched a thread of an impossible possibility, Nurgle gave it life, Slaanesh gave it desire, and Khorne gave it the meaning of war. Finally, Alexander "grafted" this "Apocrypha" onto Guilliman's essence, allowing the order of Ultramar to overlap with the true reality. It was a temporary anchor against the Dark King.

"Break the basin!" Guilliman's voice rang out, pulling Alexander's thoughts back to the present.

Lion El'Jonson, clad in dark green power armor covered by a grey-white cowl, stood before the Emperor's sarcophagus. He held a ceramic basin high with both hands; inside, yellow and white joss paper tumbled like waves amidst rolling black smoke, partially obscuring the Lion's cold and fierce visage.

At Guilliman's command, Lion El'Jonson slammed the basin onto a specifically reserved stone brick. With a sharp crack, the basin shattered into a thousand shards. The burning paper spiraled upward with the wind, the orange flames instantly turning a terrifying black. The onlookers let out cries of horror and awe, but the flames struggled for a moment before abruptly snapping out.

"Raise the banners!" As the basin shattered, Guilliman shouted again. Mortarion held a funeral banner made of pale linen that fluttered in the wind. On the ribbons flanking the banner was a couplet: The fierce hound leads the way, riding the eagle to the west; the jade maiden escorts to high heaven, riding the deer in leisure.

Mortarion stood slightly ahead of the sarcophagus. On either side of the coffin, seven Deathshroud bodyguards also held banners. Unlike the white banner in Mortarion's hand, the Deathshrouds held "variegated banners" woven from red, blue, purple, and green.

Mortarion had studied funeral customs meticulously. He knew that if the deceased had children, the children carried white banners; if there were grandchildren, they carried variegated ones. In Mortarion's view, as he was the Emperor's son, his own warriors were the Emperor's "grandchildren," thus he carried the white while they carried the colors.

"Father, you had twenty-one sons and so many grandsons. You could say you were blessed in this life." Mortarion stared at the coffin, his mood turning inexplicably melancholy. The word "father" was distant to him. The xenos overlord who adopted him didn't count, and the Emperor had never shared a true bond of father and son with him. As for the "Grandfather" Nurgle... naturally, that wasn't a father either.

He only truly understood the word when he became a father himself, though he didn't consider himself a good one. He thought of Typhon, Garro, and his sons who wailed when infected by the plague. Perhaps because he lacked a father figure, he couldn't play the role well.

His fingers brushed the stone coffin. Father, in the next life, don't be an Emperor. Let's just go farm together. In the next life, we won't have to fight for anything, and no one will force us to. Mortarion had a mountain of words buried in his heart, but in the end, he only let out a soft sigh.

Suddenly, Mortarion caught something out of the corner of his eye. His gaze shifted to the other side of the coffin, where a slender, tall woman stood. An... Aeldari? Mortarion's gaze lingered on Yvraine. She was dressed in mourning clothes, holding a porcelain "food-pinching jar" filled with dorayaki, chestnut manju, and roasted sweet potatoes. This was the food offered at the altar the night before.

Mortarion knew that this jar was traditionally carried by the daughter-in-law of the deceased. A flash of realization crossed the Death Guard Primarch's eyes; he knew the relationship between the ambitious Guilliman and this xenos woman wasn't simple.

His heart grew even more sorrowful. Father, in the next life, let's leave all this mess to Guilliman and his Aeldari woman. We'll go back to the village and farm; we won't bother with them. Mortarion truly disliked Guilliman; he had noticed that every time he got close to his brother, his workload increased and things became tedious.

Guilliman's eyelid twitched as he looked at Yvraine. This had been Alexander's suggestion. "The ability to eat is the firmest boundary between life and death. The fact that the food in the jar remains uneaten is the best proof of the Emperor's death," Alexander had explained.

The third and fourth courses of the feast were tributes to Guilliman, featuring Ultramar specialties. One was a thick porridge made of emmer wheat, sea salt, eggs, and unripe cheese, garnished with fresh olives, cured bacon, and sea-urchin-like creatures from the coast. It was smooth and savory, earning praise from Alexander and the girls.

The fourth course, however, was polarizing: a fat lobster from Macragge's oceans. The issue wasn't the steamed lobster itself, but the "garum" sauce slathered over it. Made from fermented fish blood, guts, and meat with heavy salt, it had an indescribable, pungent odor.

It was so strong that even those from hive cities who had eaten "sewer creatures" found it hard to accept. If one had to describe the smell, the lobster now smelled a bit like Mortarion. Alexander liked it, but since Joan and Reyna couldn't stand it, he ate all three portions.

Alexander noticed the subtle expressions on Mortarion and Guilliman's faces regarding Yvraine. In truth, this wasn't just Alexander's idea; it involved the Emperor. Alexander once asked the Emperor what he wanted for his funeral.

The Emperor had asked if he could have 169 lithe Aeldari girls dancing at his grave. He said that since he was dead and relieved of all responsibility, he wanted to reclaim a bit of the feeling of his youth.

This old man definitely didn't just go to Commorragh for "study" back in the day. Since glamorous Eldar dancers weren't available, Alexander settled for a glamorous Eldar daughter-in-law.

"Raise the tablet!" Guilliman shouted. Lion El'Jonson stepped to the front of the sarcophagus. The spirit tablet, inscribed with the Emperor's thirteen-word posthumous title, sat before the coffin. The Lion knelt on one knee and raised the tablet—but the wooden object felt extraordinarily heavy. Even with a Primarch's strength, it took considerable effort to lift it to his chest.

"Lift the coffin!"

Constantin Valdor, Perturabo, Corax, and Alpharius took their positions at the corners. A Captain-General and three Primarchs should have easily lifted a ten-meter coffin containing only armor, a shield, and a sword.

Yet, Alpharius's face turned beet red, muscles bulging. Valdor swayed, nearly collapsing. Corax's face was dark and cold, blood beginning to seep from his arms under the pressure. Perturabo's mechanical augments began to spark and scream.

Guilliman grew worried. Alexander had originally said eight people would carry the coffin, but now there were only four. Before the funeral, Alexander had told him not to worry, saying "destined people" would come to help lift it.

"Lift the coffin!" Guilliman shouted again, his voice carrying an unquestionable sense of Order that washed over everyone.

Mortarion raised the funeral banner, chanting: "The lyre sounds, joss paper flies, the Emperor is escorted to his ancestral home. The grace of upbringing, the love of a son; descendants shall meet again in the next life. Great is the strength of the pallbearers, heavy is the tablet of grace. Do not yearn for the world of men; suffer no more in the mortal realm."

As he chanted, Mortarion took a step forward. Beside him, the Lion followed, holding the tablet high. Valdor and the three Primarchs took deep breaths and surged forward.

Perturabo couldn't understand why the coffin was so heavy. He had carved it himself from stone he personally selected—he didn't trust Guilliman or the Lion with the task, and he found Sanguinius's taste too flamboyant. He knew the weight to six decimal places. It shouldn't be this heavy. He wanted to complain about his father being burdensome, but then realized his father was now lighter than he had ever been.

Blood seeped from Perturabo's shoulders, leaving a red trail as he walked. A burning pain eroded his body, and he felt a wave of confusion. Why was he here? Why was he enduring this bitterness? Hadn't he always said the Emperor treated him poorly?

He suddenly remembered his last night on Terra, meeting the Emperor at the top of the tower. He had wondered if he was being tested. But the Emperor only said Perturabo would be his hammer.

The Emperor had apologized—not just to Perturabo, but for all the things destroyed and yet to be destroyed. He spoke of a new world—a beautiful, rational, warm world they would build together once the blood stopped flowing.

Perturabo realized then that the Emperor had been seeking understanding. Forced to be a destroyer, and forcing Perturabo to be one as well, the Master of Mankind had craved empathy.

Memories long suppressed surged back. He remembered his father sighing and looking out the window when Perturabo refused to understand. Between his father's fingertips was a small gold ring—something the Emperor had intended to give him.

"I can no longer see our path or the outcome," his father had said. Those sorrowful golden eyes became clear in his mind. Perturabo realized he was here because he was drawn to that sincerity. Stripping away all self-deception, he admitted it: he loved his father.

As he let out a pained lament, Perturabo felt his footsteps grow light. The people around him vanished into darkness. He felt a searing heat and light... and heard a voice.

"Sons." The voice called out.

Corax wept tears of crimson as light scorched his skin. His mutated sons stood before him. "Father," they said.

Valdor stared at a woman in the light. "You stole my children," the woman said. "Because you stole the water," Valdor replied. The woman laughed: "But that is nothing compared to your sin, Custodian."

Alpharius shielded his eyes from the heat. "I thought I'd see my dead brothers or father. I didn't expect the Dark King to send you to stop me. Is He sick?" He looked at the white-haired old man holding the Eagle Scepter. "No... you are a false spirit pieced together from memory. You are an avatar of the Dark King. You are not him."

"Perturabo." That voice called out to Perturabo.

Perturabo felt the world he knew peel away like a thin curtain. A bright, clean, warm light—the likes of which he had never seen—shone upon him. He looked down in astonishment; a slight dizziness made everything appear hazy.

He saw himself dressed in a pale cream robe, exposing a sturdy shoulder and an arm that looked as if carved from igneous rock. He wore soft leather sandals, standing upon the cleanest marble floor he had ever beheld.

The marks of time and life were gone; the filth added by Chaos had vanished. Even his mechanical implants were nowhere to be found. He stood there not as a warhammer, a general, or a destroyer, but as a hammer of construction, a leader of scholars—a creator. It was incredible.

Perturabo looked around. Such a strange environment should have felt dangerous, but there was only peace. The air was so fresh that a single breath calmed the soul. He hardly dared to exhale, fearing his breath might tarnish the crystalline air. He stood on a grand boulevard lined with sycamores, interspersed with magnificent, clean sculptures gilded by the sunset.

He walked along the avenue as if stepping through a fragile dream. In the distance, white snowcaps merged with the azure sky. Melted snow flowed into marble aqueducts, fueling a city built of the most beautiful, minimalist lines.

It was a place where plaster became sculpture, rough stone formed fountains, and galleries were adorned with art and music. This was the ultimate interpretation of beauty.

He saw the inhabitants he had always longed for: people with clean limbs, gentle faces, and smiles rooted in rationality and wisdom. They nodded to him with respect—neither rude nor fawning. They respected him not because of bloodline, violence, or power, but simply for his talent. He wasn't their tyrant or emperor; he was simply the best among citizens.

"Perturabo." The voice called again.

Perturabo followed the voice to a small park by a stream. Inside a pavilion sat the woman he had longed to see, watching him. "Is this what you wanted, Ape?" She sighed with a mix of sorrow and despair. "Then you truly are the greatest fool."

Blood was flowing. Corax watched the crimson liquid drip from his fingertips. He felt swallowed by shadows, walking through a realm of absolute darkness. Was this an attack? he wondered. Konrad Curze?

Only the Night Haunter could strike so silently. But here, the shadows felt different. Shadows hated Curze; they rejected him. Curze's stealth was born of fear—sound, light, and even shadow shrunk away from him.

But these shadows were friendly. To Corax, shadow was family, a partner, a lover. He breathed deeply, feeling the warmth within the dark and the faint sound of machinery. He was in a factory.

He paced through the industrial silhouettes, practiced and light. The shadow was good; it protected the weak. In the darkness, only those born and raised within it knew every filament, every trap, and every comrade.

Corax sensed he was not alone. He moved toward a gathering of his progeny. He leaped over lathes and bypassed assembly lines, the shadows pushing him forward like flowing water.

The workers hidden in the dark silently guided him. He was getting closer to his sons. He stopped. He could feel his progeny hiding from him, afraid to show their faces to their father. Only the shadows allowed them to exist, yet the shadows they trusted had also been their executioners.

Blood flowed from Corax's fingertips; crimson tears fell from his eyes. Deformed raven claws emerged from the dark to wipe his tears. Distorted vocal cords whispered comforts: "Father, it was not your fault. It was not our fault either. The world could not allow our existence. Only the shadow... only the shadow embraced us warmly."

As they spoke, Corax saw it: the cold, black sun hanging within the darkness. It promised the shadow to Corax and his sons—an equal, all-accepting shadow. Its name was Death.

"You stole my child."

On the scorched earth of Terra, under the moody glow of Luna, Constantin Valdor walked beside a small woman. "You stole my child," she repeated. "Simply because I was a water thief."

Valdor looked at the woman: Koja Zu, Minister of the Annhulate Basin. Her people praised her wisdom, but at the start of the Great Crusade, Valdor had been ordered to execute her for her crimes and take her four-year-old son.

"Yes, Minister Koja," Valdor admitted with his usual stoicism. "You committed many crimes. You slaughtered other races, traded in forbidden flesh-craft, stored dangerous gene-engineering samples, and hid an army to resist the Emperor."

"The Master of Mankind has done all those things as well," Koja sneered.

"For his people," Valdor replied.

"And I did the same for mine, and for my son," she continued. "How could I know what kind of man the Emperor was? Was he any different from the tyrants of the past? I had to be prepared."

"True," Valdor nodded. "The Emperor didn't care about those crimes; your rebellion was insignificant. The only crime worth judging was the theft of water. Your machines drained the last ocean of Terra."

"Yes, stealing water," she laughed hysterically. "So you sentenced me to death and stole my son."

"He was not stolen; he bore a mission from the Emperor. Clad in gold, wielding a blade, he defended the Emperor and humanity. Many of my brothers failed, but he did more than was required."

"When you took him, I asked if he would survive," she said. "Do you remember your answer?"

"I said: 'If he is strong enough,'" Valdor answered.

"Then he must have survived. I am sure of it," she said. The scene shifted. Valdor stood in the Webway beneath the Palace. Daemons were pouring in. The Webway War.

"Ra run!"

A golden command echoed across time. A black blade pierced a Custodian—not Valdor, but another. The daemon born of the first murder had impaled the Emperor, but the Emperor bound it into a blade and cast it into that Custodian. The daemon was sealed within the body of the water thief's son.

Run. That was his destiny. Seal the daemon and run to the furthest reaches, keeping the first murder away from the Emperor. "Ra Endymion," Valdor whispered the name. "The Golden Jailer of Drach'nyen, son of the water thief. He saved the Emperor's life. Minister... you should be proud of your son."

"And what about you, Constantin Valdor?" she asked. "What did you do?"

The vision shifted again. Blood flowed down the Apollo Spear. A dozen Custodians lay dead around the Golden Throne, looking at Valdor in disbelief. They couldn't understand why their leader was turning his spear against them—against the Emperor.

The Apollo Spear... those pierced by it had their essence revealed to Valdor. Gasping for air, Valdor slowly pointed the spear at the burning, overseeing husk seated upon the Golden Throne.

"This is the sin you committed, Constantin Valdor. You thrust your spear into the Emperor of Mankind."

Crunch.

Alpharius took a packet of coconut hearts he had bought from a roadside stall in Macragge and began eating while watching Perturabo, Corax, and Valdor.

Munch, munch...

Alpharius took another bite and offered one to the robed old man standing beside him. "Want one? Macragge specialty," Alpharius asked.

"I don't eat. Eating is a privilege of the living; the dead have no such capacity," the old man replied, shaking his head.

"Oh," Alpharius nodded. "Then why are you showing me this? The power of the Dark King is affecting those three, right?"

"Yes," the old man nodded. "If they accept what the Dark King promises, they will become His Daemon Primarchs. They will no longer bury the Dark King; instead, they will welcome His resurrection."

"Weren't you created for that same purpose? 'Pieced-together' Mr. Malcador," Alpharius asked, tilting his head.

"Yes... the real Malcador was burned until not even a shred of his soul remained. Even the Dark King cannot control him," the old man sighed. "He could only piece me together from others' impressions and memories of Malcador to tempt you toward the Dark King.

But He is dead after all; His actions are guided by instinct. Instinct is rigid. He released me because Malcador had the greatest influence on your life, but He didn't realize the real Malcador would never do this. So, the moment I saw you, you saw through me."

The old man looked somewhat helpless. "Just as brainless as the Emperor."

"So?" Alpharius asked. "Why show me this? Shouldn't you be trying to stop me?"

"I will not stop you from burying the Dark King—burying our Emperor," the old man said.

"Why?" Alpharius asked curiously.

"Because I am Malcador," Malcador said to Alpharius with a smile.

Alpharius froze for a moment, then nodded. "Oh," he said. The smile on Malcador's face stiffened slightly.

"I am, more or less, the one who raised you. Could you show a bit more emotion?" Malcador asked.

"Raised me? Do you mean the throat-choking?" Alpharius shrank his neck. "To be blunt, your parenting level is on par with my father's. One is an expert at the psychic slap, the other at the psychic chokehold."

"Do you remember that ancient cartoon from America I watched as a child?" Alpharius continued, his voice tinged with mock sorrow. "You were like Homer Simpson, always squeezing my neck like I was Bart. And my dear father? He was like Rick from another show—maybe even less understanding of family bonds. My childhood was full of shadows, even thicker than Corax's."

"At least you had cartoons," Malcador sighed. "When Lion was your age, he was fighting giant beasts in the forest. Angron had nails driven into his brain..."

"Is that my fault?" Alpharius looked aggrieved. "My dear mother... well, at least they're still alive. I actually 'died' once. She knew I wasn't fully developed, yet she still unleashed that Warp storm. And yet, none of you can find it in your hearts to indulge a poor child like me."

"Indulge you? I gave you almost all my patience. Do you want me to talk about what a brat you were?" Malcador's lips twitched.

"At age eight, you snuck out of the Palace, spent three days replacing a warlord in South America, and led his troops to ambush the Emperor. It was in that crisis that I first used my psychic powers to choke you."

"At age eleven, you infiltrated the Custodes, snuck into the dormitory for children awaiting transformation, and replaced them all with girls. You scared the young Constantin Valdor so much he thought Slaanesh had invaded."

"At age thirteen," Malcador continued, "the Emperor forged the Spear of Telesto and the Apollonian Spear, gifting the latter to Valdor. You stole it and replaced it with... a small mechanical device used by Lady Astartes to 'relieve loneliness' at night.

Valdor wasn't much older than you back then; he barely knew you existed. You nearly scared him to death with your pranks. And Lady Astartes? Imagine her coming home after a long day, reaching into her cabinet for relaxation, only to pull out the long, glowing Apollonian Spear!"

"I was young," Alpharius's gaze drifted. "Is it so strange for a biological son to show some hostility toward an adopted one?"

"Oh? And what about after the Great Crusade began and your brothers returned?" Malcador pressed. "You knew that one of my few pleasures was a small drink after work. Do you know how precious that time was after managing the affairs of over sixteen thousand planets? Magnus sent me two bottles of Prosperine vintage. I saved them for ten years. When I finally sat down to drink... it was Baal Red Wine! I nearly strangled you that night!"

Alpharius laughed awkwardly. "It was Omegon's doing!"

"Sometimes I wonder if Omegon even exists," Malcador said, eyeing him. "Perhaps due to your abilities, my memories of your time in the incubation pod are fuzzy. But I occasionally recall that we only cultivated twenty Primarchs. Yet, the twenty-first..."

"Old people's memories are bound to be unreliable," Alpharius chuckled.

Malcador fell silent and turned to the three images suspended before him. He first looked at Perturabo's image and sensed that the Lord of Iron was wavering. At that moment, a faint blue light enveloped Perturabo's silhouette.

"Perturabo, you really are a big fool," the woman sitting across from Perturabo said softly. She rested her chin on her hand, staring at him and the city behind him. "Is this really what you want? A pure, clean, noble city of light?"

"Lord of Iron, you have destroyed ten million cities. You have killed billions. Stars have fallen under your hammer; suns have been extinguished under your gaze. You are the unprecedented destroyer known by all living things. And your dream is merely to build... such a clean city?"

"Yes," Perturabo answered, his voice dry. "I thought you understood me better than anyone."

"Ape, you are afraid of being understood, yet you crave it. You are always so contradictory." The woman's voice carried pity. "But I do understand your heart. This city is a lie—or rather, a symbol. You don't just crave a city; you crave a world as ideal and clean as this one.

But Perturabo, you were born knowing. Your wisdom gave you this ideal, but it also made you realize that in such a world, your dream is an illusion, destined to never be realized. You are a man of contradictions—the most idealistic person who is also the most realistic. That's why I called you a big fool."

The air grew heavy. "I thought you'd be so angry you'd snap my neck," the woman added. "Don't deny it; it wouldn't be the first time."

"I've done it too many times," Perturabo sighed. "But a friend told me before he passed that it was wrong. He was a realistic daemon who did everything by contract. He hated lies, yet he died for an ideal that was a scam from the start. Besides, how much of 'her' are you? Are you my sister, or... the Dark King?"

"Humanity is the Emperor, the Emperor is the Dark King, everyone is the Dark King. You, me, him—we are all the Dark King," the woman said sadly. "The 'Dark King' is a term charged with emotion, but we are simply a phenomenon.

We are more pure than the other four; we represent the choice of the vast majority of people in this galaxy throughout history. The world is beyond saving. Instead of struggling, why not... let it end?"

"The galaxy is getting better," Perturabo argued. "That Saint Doraemon seems to have brought a lot of hope."

"But he is ultimately a part of the Chaos Gods. Chaos is eternal. His will as Alexander is merely a splash in the tide of Chaos; one day it will return to the flood," she countered. "Can't you see his urgency?

He knows he can't maintain his identity as a human for long. Compared to the Emperor, his life is too brief to resist the erosion of two domains. Ape, I can see it... at the end of the universe, the Dark King is still born, and the universe still falls to ruin. He failed."

Perturabo wavered. He saw no lie in her face. "The Dark King cannot realize your ideal of a clean new world," she whispered. "But we can at least destroy this filthy old one. Ape, turning a negative number into zero is better than the negative number itself." She reached out her hand to him.

Perturabo hesitated. He felt himself almost instinctively reaching out to grab her hand. Perhaps this was the best choice; his logic whispered it to him.

Suddenly, a faint birdsong brushed past his ear. A strange feeling bloomed in his soul. His emotions shifted in an instant. He unexpectedly thought of Vashtorr—his late friend, one of the few he truly cared for.

He remembered when Vashtorr revealed his desire. Perturabo had been shocked—not because Vashtorr wanted the tools of the Old Ones, but because the rigorous, rational Vashtorr showed such impulsive sentimentality. There was no contract promising success, no proof it wasn't a scam.

When Perturabo questioned him, Vashtorr had simply smiled. "My collaborator, I was born from the inspiration and creativity of sentient beings. I can tell you with certainty that technological development often comes not from absolute rationality, but from the mindset of 'trying it anyway.' Rationality has boundaries. If life relies solely on logic, it traps itself in a framework. Whether it's true or false, or what the probability of success is, I must try."

"And if you fail?" Perturabo had asked.

Vashtorr laughed. "Then it at least proves one fact: my method was unfeasible. The next person can try a different path, learning from my failure. Technology and creativity sprout from repeated failure and learning. If I don't try, I prove nothing."

"To try anyway... you based it on such a shallow reason?" Perturabo had been stunned.

"Shallow?" Vashtorr had smiled. "Language is a curious thing. Don't you think my mindset could be called something else? We could call it 'Hope,' couldn't we, my friend?"

Perturabo realized why he had befriended Vashtorr. The look in Vashtorr's eyes back then was just like the golden eyes of the Emperor when He spoke of the world they would build. Their logic told them they might fall into the abyss, yet they chose to try anyway. Hope. Perturabo chewed on the word. He used to think it wasn't rational enough. But Vashtorr was right—logic is a bounded thing based on the past. Sometimes, one must break those boundaries.

Perturabo withdrew his hand and shook his head at the woman. "I'm going to try anyway," he told her.

The woman smiled gently. "Perturabo, it seems you've grown much smarter over these ten thousand years."

*****

"Lord of Change," Malcador whispered, watching. "And also, Lord of Hope." He then turned his gaze to the image of Corax. Shadows reigned there, but a faint emerald green light was beginning to seep in.

Corax listened silently to the pleas of his mutated sons. They begged for the shadow—the fairest shadow—to shroud everything, from the strong to the weak. The shadow had only one name: Death. Corax was tempted. A shadow covering the galaxy... nothing was more just. But then he heard a deer's cry and felt a surging power of life. He didn't rely on that power, but found the strength of life within his own heart. He thought of the workers in the foundries bathed in fire, the guerrillas who followed him, his brothers and sisters.

"But death... has never belonged to them."

Crimson blood flowed from Corax's hands. The shadows clinging to him pulsed with a faint emerald vitality, helping him find the power of life within death. "Death"—what a sweet word. If everything returned to death, all sorrow, melancholy, pain, and guilt would vanish into silent shadow. There would be no more barriers between people, only absolute equality.

But Corax could not accept the desperate longing of his deceased sons. Death was indeed tempting, but there were things in this world more noble than the end. He thought of the workers by the furnaces, the miners in the deep pits, and the residents in the depths of the hive cities.

He had watched them from the shadows, guarding them in silence. They lived in a harsh world, enduring inhuman oppression and unimaginable pain, yet he believed the vast majority still clung to the desire to live. That desire was hot, warm, and searing. Since they had not given up hope, how could Corax—a man far stronger than them—abandon their right to live?

With a somber voice, Corax softly rejected his sons' pleas. He allowed himself to walk toward death to atone for his fallen progeny, but declared that death did not belong to the wider populace. The shadows began to stir. He heard the sound of clashing claws, the rustling of feathers, and the distorted low growls of his sons. He felt the star named Death, hanging in the shadows, tremble slightly.

"If you hate this world," Corax whispered, "then before you hate the world, hate me first. Give death to me, my sons, just as I once inflicted death upon you."

He slowly spread his arms, casting aside all defense. He closed his pitch-black eyes and offered his everything to the boundless shadows. Crimson tears fell as he accepted his fate, weeping only for the long-accumulated pain, sorrow, and self-reproach in his heart, and for the dreams he had promised his people in his youth that remained unfulfilled.

The shadows closed in. Death approached. His mutated, deceased sons drew near. Corax suppressed his survival instincts, waiting for their claws to tear his throat and vent their righteous fury. It was his foolishness that had led to the crime of their twisted birth, and it was he who had ultimately executed them. They had every right to seek revenge.

Instead, a claw gently brushed his face. It did not tear his pale skin; it only wiped away the bloody tears from the corners of his eyes. "Father." A blurred sound emerged from the deformed vocal cords, but Corax understood its meaning perfectly. "Father," they whispered.

They opened their twisted arms, covering Corax with warm raven feathers. Slender, pale arms touched the Primarch's armor. Within their grotesque chests, hearts beat with a searing heat—a heartbeat that undeniably belonged to a human.

Their fragmented voices coalesced in Corax's ear: "Father, before we loved this world, we loved you. Shadow Father, do not feel guilt. Your shadow never held the coldness of death; it is as warm as a hearth. Please keep this warmth and drive away the gloom..."

The voices in the shadows gradually faded, leaving only a loyal vitality that, though ended by Corax's own hand, had never been exhausted. It flowed now through his flesh and blood.

"The God of Decay," Malcador observed silently, murmuring the name, "is also the God of Life." He shifted his gaze to the final image—Constantin Valdor—where a streak of scarlet was burning.

Blood was spilling. Valdor watched the ichor flow down the Apollonian Spear. This blood-stained weapon was a divine artifact forged by the Emperor. Its sister weapon was the Dionysian Spear once wielded by Leman Russ. Anyone pierced by Russ's spear was forced to face the absolute truth of themselves. Conversely, Valdor's Apollonian Spear allowed him to see the absolute truth of whatever he pierced.

As he slew those Custodians in the vision, Valdor saw their entire lives. Their essences seemed to merge with his own. "Why are you doing this, Constantin Valdor? Have you betrayed us? What sin are you about to commit?" The dying thoughts of his brothers echoed in his mind.

"Yes, why are you doing this?" Koja stood beside him. "The Emperor's most loyal guardian... for what reason did you charge before the Throne and point your spear at the Master of Mankind?"

Valdor's fingers trembled. "Because of fear," he whispered.

Fear. Raw fear. He had witnessed the rising of the Black Sun aboard the Vengeful Spirit. Through the Apollonian Spear, he had glimpsed a distant future of boundless darkness, ruin, and death—a glimpse into the essence of the Emperor.

What was He? That being called the Emperor? To realize the existence of the unknown is more terrifying than the unknown itself. Valdor was like a primitive man in a cave who once thought the dark was just the dark. But on the Vengeful Spirit, he had glimpsed a strand of that darkness, seen the beast within, and known the hidden danger.

He could not suppress this fear. His familiar, rational dream had collapsed. Fear drove him to unravel the unknown within the Warp's chaos—and he happened to have the tool to do it. If he pierced the Emperor's form with the Apollonian Spear, he could confirm the truth with his own eyes.

A thousand years ago, Valdor had indeed struck the Emperor with the spear. He had seen the essence: magnificent, vast, terrifying, dim, silent, and twisted. That Black Sun was larger than anything, and he was but a tiny ant falling toward it.

For ten thousand years, in every sleepless night, Valdor had trembled. The memory of facing that essence oppressed him, driving him to flee the Imperium and search for a way to kill the Emperor.

But now... he looked at the Dark King seated upon the Throne. Scorching light radiated onto his face. The Dark King was dead, but how could Death truly die? Death was merely a state, a transformation. He would eventually awaken.

Even this funeral—this grand ritual—could not stop the resurrection. It was simple logic: to have died means to have lived; to have lived means to have been born. The Dark King died before being born, so He must be born in the future to close the loop of causality.

"Yes, the Dark King was destined to be born the moment He died," Koja admitted. "You are afraid, Constantin Valdor. But there is no need to stop His birth. The Emperor is the Dark King; the Dark King is the Emperor. They are inseparable. You are the Emperor's guardian, and thus, you are destined to be the Dark King's guardian. Accept Him, and the fear will vanish."

The Emperor watched Valdor from the Golden Throne. Fear roared in Valdor's heart. Did he really have the courage to strike the Master of Mankind a second time? No... there was only terror.

Suddenly, a scarlet barking of hounds echoed from afar, reaching into his will. A crimson power flooded his body. The God of Blood does not despise fear, nor the weak. Courage is born from fear; the "strong" are merely the weak who have overcome their terror.

Valdor gripped the Apollonian Spear. The memory of the strike ten thousand years ago resurfaced. Intense fear racked his body, but within those horrific memories, a golden thread became clear. Crimson courage helped him dig out that specific moment:

+Constantin Valdor.+

+Kill me.+

"Kill Him..." A low, blood-scented growl escaped Valdor's lips. He stepped forward, a golden shadow fueled by beast-like courage, and thrust the Apollonian Spear into the Emperor's chest.

*****

"The God of Slaughter," Malcador said softly, "is also the God of Courage."

Alpharius looked around in a daze. Everything was becoming thin. "Wait," he said. "What about me? What about Slaanesh? Aren't you going to test me? I wanted to experience the love of the God of Love! Why are you skipping me?"

Malcador smiled helplessly. He raised his scepter, carved with the Imperial Eagle, and gave Alpharius a light tap on the head. "You must restrain your playfulness..."

Malcador started to speak, but stopped when he saw Alpharius watching him with a calm, gentle gaze. "I will prove that I have never failed the expectations of you or my Father," Alpharius whispered.

A smile finally appeared on Malcador's aged face. "I have always believed in you."

Malcador's voice grew distant and hazy. Alpharius stepped forward and hugged the old man's frail body. "Old man, I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye," he whispered.

"I have never truly left you, my child. We both know that the spirit is what matters. Life can be killed, existence can be erased, memory can be wiped, and the soul can be destroyed. But the spirit... the spirit is something even the Dark King cannot kill. Do you remember our mission?"

Alpharius nodded. "To continue humanity, by any means necessary."

"Yes. For that goal, you, I, and He have all committed many crimes. But as long as you remember the mission, you are the Sigillite." Malcador touched Alpharius's helmet, offered a gentle smile, and then dissipated like a dream.

The weight returned to his shoulders. The sarcophagus pressed down. Alpharius's instincts made him quickly scan his surroundings. It felt as though only a second had passed, but the four pallbearers all looked different.

Perturabo's gaze was drifting; Corax's eyes no longer looked dead; a golden light flickered in Valdor's eyes. Valdor instinctively reached behind him... There it was. Alpharius watched in surprise as the Apollonian Spear—the Emperor's own artifact—somehow appeared on Valdor's back. Valdor's gaze grew deep, as if he were seeing something new.

Then, Alpharius noticed that even Lion El'Jonson, leading the way, looked strange. Lion had also been disturbed by the Dark King's influence. He had seen Luther, but Slaanesh's power had twisted the vision... Lion's face was contorted into a grimace, clearly unwilling to remember what he had seen.

Suddenly, Lion looked toward the front of the procession. Mortarion, holding the funeral banner, and Guilliman, leading the way, both stopped.

On the distant horizon, beneath a hazy light, four silhouettes appeared, faintly glowing with four different colors.

"The dead come first! The living, retreat!" Mortarion roared.

"We are not the living," a gentle, kind voice replied.

"We are not the departed," a voice full of wisdom added.

"We are the buriers," a steady, powerful voice declared.

"We are four kind passers-by who happened to be wandering through," a sweet, cloying voice finished.

**********

Four figures emerged from the horizon where heaven and earth met, walking as if from the boundary between reality and the empyrean. The first was a kind, simple-looking old man with a stout belly, clad in a robe of brown and green. Half his chest and one arm were bare; his thick beard and hair were so dense they nearly obscured his face, serving as a sanctuary for birds, butterflies, and moths. His emerald eyes were filled with warmth and benevolence.

The second was a tall, thin elder in a blue robe embroidered with complex, dark patterns. He wore a hood and held a staff pieced together from fractured crystals, resembling the archetypal mage from an ancient fairy tale. A snowy white beard cascaded down his cheeks like a waterfall, and his eyes shimmered with the light of profound wisdom.

The third was a burly man clad in armor made of brass plates. The brass only covered his shoulders and half of his arms, while the rest of his body was draped in animal pelts. A beast's skull hung from his waist. His face was rugged with fierce stubble, his skin was tinged a blood-red, and his eyes burned with a wild, unrestrained scarlet.

The fourth was a beautiful young maiden in a thin, sheer robe that faintly outlined her form. Her feet were bare, and droplets of water seemed to fall from her toes. Her waist was so slender it looked as though it might snap with a twist, yet her body was as supple as a serpent, shifting gracefully with every movement. Her face possessed both the softness of a girl and the handsomeness of a youth, and her violet eyes were utterly bewitching.

"I am the Shepherd, I am Life. Whether on land, in water, or in the sky; whether great or small, all that lives is tended by me. I love all living things, just as they love me," the emerald elder said with a smile.

The blue elder followed, tapping his crystal staff against the ground. "I am the Mage, I am Wisdom. Whether on paper, in the mind; whether infinitesimal or grand, all that is knowable is known by me. I know all beings, just as they know me."

"I am the Warrior, I am Courage. Whether wielding a sword, a shield, or bare-handed; whether strong or weak—all who can be fought are my foes. I battle all beings, just as they battle me," the middle-aged man brimming with the scent of blood declared.

"I am the Maiden, I am Love. Whether male, female, or both; whether beautiful or ugly—all who can love are loved by me. I love all beings, just as they love me," the girl in gossamer silk said, smiling.

"Son of Vengeance," said the one calling himself the Shepherd, "I revere your father's life. He saved more lives than you can imagine. Ten thousand years of longevity, eternal decay without death. Permit me to bear His casket as a token of my respect."

The blue Mage added, "Son of Vengeance, I revere your father's wisdom. His knowledge exceeded imagination. He was the greatest change in billions of years, the origin of every shifting tide. Permit me to bear His casket as a token of my respect." As he spoke, he revealed the hard, knotted muscles beneath his robe.

The scarlet Warrior exhaled a breath of bloody mist. "Son of Vengeance, I revere your father's courage. No bravery surpasses the white rainbow that split the sky. Permit me to bear His casket as a token of my respect."

"I love Him," the maiden said with a sweet smile. "Son of Vengeance, I love your father. I love His beauty, His tragedy, and His brutal end. Permit me to bear His casket as a token of my respect."

Guilliman's eyes twitched. He was no fool; he knew exactly who these four were. Was this what Alexander meant by "fated people" coming to carry the casket?

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Guilliman addressed them solemnly. "Four kind passers-by who happened to be wandering through, on behalf of my father, I thank you for your respect and kindness. Please, bear my father's casket."

The Shepherd smiled warmly. He did not lift the casket immediately; instead, he stepped forward and reached into his beard—the one full of birds and butterflies. He pulled out a gourd with growing vines, uncorked it, and a pungent, foul stench erupted.

"Friend, I always longed to forge a friendship with you, to talk heart-to-heart, to taste soup together, and discuss the education of children. Alas, we never had the chance. Now that you are dead... I can only offer this thick soup as a libation."

He poured the soup onto the stone casket; it vanished instantly upon contact, flowing into depths invisible to the naked eye. He then took his place beside Corax.

Next was the scarlet Warrior. He struck his brass breastplate, producing a sound like rolling thunder. "You were cunning, shameless, a scoundrel. You trampled on honor and defiled blood," the warrior stated.

"But I must admit, you were a warrior worthy of respect. Your true enemy was yourself, and you successfully made Him bleed. I can only offer my own blood as a sacrifice." He drew a brass sword, sliced his palm, and let searing blood fall onto the casket. Like the soup, it flowed into the depths. He then stepped beside Valdor.

The maiden in sheer silk stepped forward next. She let out a wailing cry, stretching her arms and pressing her delicate body directly onto the stone casket... CRACK. Perturabo's face twisted as his shoulder guard fractured under the sudden weight. Alpharius, Valdor, Corax, the Shepherd, and the Warrior all staggered.

A fleeting, mischievous smirk crossed the maiden's lips before she resumed a mask of grief. "How could you be so heartless as to leave me alone? My love is as deep as the sea, yet you knew it not..."

She murmured as a violet-glowing tear fell from her eye. Once the tear vanished into the stone, her sadness evaporated. she hopped off the casket and stood beside Alpharius to take up the weight.

Finally, the blue Mage stepped forward. He hiked up his robe, revealing sturdy legs, and then... "Old Huang! You died such a miserable death!"

The Mage let out a deafening howl, collapsing to his knees and slamming his head against the ground with a loud thud. "You just died, and your ambitious son couldn't wait to bury you so he could be Emperor and marry an Eldar girl! I feel so wronged for you! If you aren't completely dead, let this unfilial son face his karma!"

Guilliman's face went dark. The Mage stood up, unbothered. "Seems he's truly dead then. Burn this paper for yourself; stay down there and don't come back." He threw a stack of papers covered in occult runes onto the casket. They ignited in mid-air without smoke or ash, as if sent to the realm of the dead. He then stood beside Perturabo and shouldered the burden.

Alexander sat on a balcony, watching silently while his mouth was stuffed with food. As the four projections of the Chaos Gods joined the four Primarchs in lifting the casket, eight spectral spikes appeared around the "dead star" that was the Dark King's remains in the Warp.

Like an eight-pointed star, they pierced into the empyrean, pinning the tide of souls. Combined with the collective belief of the masses on Macragge that the Emperor was dead, a spectral coffin formed, sealing the dead star away.

Just one last step... Alexander thought, stuffing a soft-shell crab into his mouth. The crab was cooked with heavy spices from a place no Imperial chef could imagine: the Daemon World of Mortarion, the Plague Planet.

Though often mocked as a replica of Barbarus, the Plague Planet was surprisingly "alive" compared to most daemon worlds. Under the surface, humans lived in massive tunnel cities and underground villages, producing weapons in factories. They suffered from Nurgle's rot, but it was controlled enough for them to work and reproduce.

In fact, life there was better than on some of the more brutal Imperial Hive Worlds, as Mortarion didn't collect tithes. Since the Plague Planet was submerged in the Warp, it had developed its own unique culinary culture. The inhabitants loved heavily spiced food to stimulate appetites weakened by disease.

Mortarion had insisted on using these spices for the funeral feast. After Sanguinius purified the Warp taint from them, they were used for the Macragge crabs. Mortarion's hidden motive was to use the "Anywhere Door" to integrate the Plague Planet into Guilliman's new commercial system.

Mortarion was perhaps the most "moral" of the daemon primarchs, but even more striking was his recent admission to Alexander: he had figured out the general outline of Alexander's plan using nothing but goddamn numerology.

Mortarion had always been one of the biggest variables, but Alexander kept him around because he was useful and knew the value of silence. Alexander now fully sympathized with Malcador and the Emperor—Mortarion had a knack for stumbling upon secrets like the Golden Throne in the same mysterious way.

The procession stopped before the ten thousand descending steps. The deep, inverted pyramid pit lay before them. The eight pallbearers descended level by level, as if walking the Emperor through the ten thousand years He sat upon the Golden Throne.

They stopped before a narrow tomb. Sanguinius descended from the sky to help Guilliman lift the massive stone slab. Together, the two Primarchs moved the lid over the chamber. "Rest in peace!" Guilliman shouted. The slab slammed down, sealing the casket representing the Emperor's remains beneath it.

A dull thud echoed in reality and the Warp. The "dead star" in the empyrean shuddered as the eight spikes drove it into the deepest layers of the Sea of Souls. It was buried.

"Hmm?" Suddenly, Joan, sitting beside Alexander, let out a confused murmur. Alexander's expression shifted as well.

The remains of the black sun were half-buried beneath the surging tides of the Warp. The collective consciousness of humanity was acting as a force of nature, pushing these remains into the deepest reaches of the empyrean. Those on Macragge who had attended the Emperor's funeral believed He was buried, that He was truly dead.

These witnesses would return to their home worlds, spreading the news and the details of the funeral. Eventually, within the shared psyche of mankind, the recognition of the Emperor's death became the absolute majority, a torrential flood drowning the dead star. In the Warp, will is everything; belief is power. Since this black sun was forged by human will, the thoughts of the present and future began to entomb it.

+Desire... Birth...+

A distant murmur echoed from the star's corpse. +Birth...+ Another powerful will surged and leaped from the remains, erupting as tongues of flame mixed with tens of thousands of agonizing roars, clashing against the gathered thoughts of the galaxy's living beings.

+How can one die without first being born?+ the murmur questioned. The causality of life and death had not yet closed. Since Death had occurred, Birth must have happened. Even if it had never occurred in the past, it must manifest in the future.

Tides of thought from the past began to surface from the corpse of the black sun. Memories from the last ten thousand years—even tens of millions of years—of countless beings' desperate longings emerged. These souls prayed for an end: the end of pain, the end of life, the end of hated enemies, even the end of all things. This collective emotion was the foundation for the Dark King's birth.

Searing tongues of fire snaked out like spider silk, piercing through every point in time—past, present, and future—attempting to find a way to be born into the mortal world.

"What are you doing?!" Joan let out a cry that was almost a plea. The girl with withered golden hair looked up into the Immaterium at the half-buried black sun. The tongues of fire vomited by the star spread across the timeline. To her horror, she saw one flame pierce into the distant past of ancient Terra, toward a small tribe on the Anatolian Peninsula.

Joan witnessed an argument late at night. Two men were shouting and shoving each other inside a hut made of mud and grass.

"My brother," the older man said, his voice calm yet heavy with sorrow. "Every village has its patriarch; every tribe has its chief. You accuse me of not caring for the blood in our veins or your pleas as my younger brother. But before I am your brother, I am the leader of this village. I am the monarch; I am the law. My duty is to maintain unity and order within this village. This stands above all else—whether it be kinship or anything else."

The younger man was desperate. "Your 'fairness' is just you deciding who gets how much grain! I am only asking for a bit more during the next harvest. This doesn't violate your fairness. You know my daughter is to be married. According to tradition, I must weave her a necklace. I need enough grain to trade for gemstones with the village on the mountainside..."

"The one Mother left you is fine," the older man countered. "It is perfectly suitable as a dowry for your daughter, my niece."

"It is fine, but not good enough! It can serve as a dowry, but it isn't enough for my daughter to be respected. She needs property in another village to maintain her dignity," the younger man begged. But the older man only shook his head. No matter what was said, the answer remained the same.

The younger man's eyes reddened. "Your son gets the whole village, the whole valley, while my daughter can't even get a necklace. Where is the fairness in that?"

"It is not about fairness," the older man replied. "It is order. It is the law. I cannot destroy order and law for your sake."

The younger man spat on the ground and left the mud hut with eyes full of resentment. In the darkness among the stars, a burning tongue of fire silently sliced through the Warp. A blue bird in the sky shrieked; flies suddenly withered and dropped dead; hounds in the village barked at the darkness as if fighting something invisible. A single flicker of black flame pierced reality, passing through the younger man and awakening... the thing called Hate.

When the sun rose and the wheat fields rolled like waves of gold and black, a crude weapon driven by hatred pierced the older man's back. Blood flowed; the body fell into the wheat, submerged by the stalks. The younger man discarded the weapon—stained with his brother's blood—into the mud and fled the scene of the murder, believing no one knew what he had done.

But a long-haired youth with bronzed skin stepped into the field, gazing at his father's corpse.

+When you first witnessed murder, what was your greatest desire?+

+Vengeance? An eye for an eye? Or...?+

The youth gazed at the body. His psychic power allowed him to sense his father's lingering soul—his final thought. There was no hate, no resentment. He didn't even tell the boy who had killed him. He only told the boy: "You are my continuation. My life flows within you. Live."

Live.

Birth is the continuation of life after death.

"No, my Lord!" Joan wailed. She realized what the Dark King was doing. He was self-propagating; He was tearing Himself apart. While the vast majority of His essence would be buried in the depths of the Warp by the collective consciousness, a part of Him was attempting to be born into the material universe as an offspring—much like the Emperor had done when creating the Primarchs. He needed a physical vessel in the material world to carry His power, an anchor for His birth.

The black sun turned its gaze toward Joan. It sensed the numerous voids within her soul, making her one of the most suitable vessels. Erupting black flames, carrying despair, pain, wailing, extinction, and death, surged toward her. The torrent of intense emotion made her body tremble. "My Lord... Emperor..." she murmured in agony, watching the black fire draw closer. She tried to awaken the Emperor's will within that black star, but it was impossible.

The Emperor was dead. The Dark King was dead. Their deaths had been confirmed by the masses of the galaxy. Everything the star did now was out of a biological instinct to be born—like the twitching of dead beef or a frog's leg reacting to electricity. There was no true will left.

"Father..." Joan whispered. The flames were inches away. In her final moments, images of many people flashed through her mind. She didn't know who had birthed her or why she had been abandoned. She was born empty, raised in silence as a vessel for the Emperor's power, spending years without social contact. Her soul had so many holes, which was why she cherished the few things she had.

In the end, her thoughts rested on Alexander.

A round hand reached out from beside Joan, accompanied by Mini-Doras and Chestnut Manju. They quickly enveloped her body. The round hand grabbed her and yanked her into the deepest part of the Tsukimi-dai. The black flame roared and stabbed at the domain of Alexander.

On the second floor of the Nobi residence, inside Nobita's bedroom, the closet doors were slammed open. Alexander, in his Doraemon-like form, hopped out and let out a massive yawn. Simultaneously, in the open space outside, Gian swung his bat, Nobita toyed with a string between his fingers, and Suneo manipulated a remote control surrounded by toys. Shizuka—shaped by the Eldar gods, Fulgrim, and the Great Devourer—slowly raised her violin.

Explosive singing, intersecting strings, flying toys, and the sharp, wood-sawing screech of the violin clashed with the burning fire. Instantly, the flame was shattered, deflected, and banished from the skies above the Tsukimi-dai.

But... the black star continued to shriek. At the final moment before sinking into the depths of the Warp, the star tore itself apart once more. Searing solar prominences scattered into the Warp. Each prominence was a fragment of the black star—both its offspring and the star itself.

The projections of the Gods emerged in the Warp's torrent. Most prominences were parried, controlled, or destroyed. But... Slaanesh let out a piercing scream. A single prominence—one far more powerful than the others—scorched Slaanesh's form. This was a calculated move by the black star; even with only instinct, it knew:

Slaanesh was the weakest link among the Gods.

Slaanesh wailed in pain, their movement slowed for a fraction of a second by the burn. The prominence seized this instant, vanishing into the flood of the Warp and disappearing without a trace. The black sun then sank into the deep layers of the Immaterium, gone from sight.

The atmosphere in the Warp suddenly turned silent. Khorne, Nurgle, Tzeentch, and Alexander all stared at Slaanesh with terrifying gazes.

"Ouch, that hurts!" Slaanesh cursed, rubbing the scar left by the prominence. Then, they noticed the other Gods' stares. "...Wh-what?" Slaanesh asked timidly.

"It got away," Alexander said softly.

Slaanesh opened their mouth and backed away toward their own domain. "...It's all your fault!" Slaanesh shrieked. "If you hadn't ripped open my belly earlier, how could I have been like this?"

"Bitch!" Tzeentch was even faster than Alexander to curse. He picked up his shattered crystal staff and slammed it into Slaanesh. Khorne let out a bloody roar, Nurgle raised his decaying bell, and Alexander looked at his round hand... before slamming a fist into Slaanesh's face.

Beneath the surface of a distant world, a blood-dripping altar of flesh and bone stood. The people gathered around this shrine were human, but not purely so. They were gene-edited by Fabius Bile and given to the mutated monster Eidolon. They were created for one purpose: to provide tender human skin to cover the surface of this small planet, and to endure the long agony of being flayed to serve Eidolon.

They were designed with extremely delicate skin, parthenogenic reproduction, multiple births per pregnancy, weak constitutions, and the ability to survive after being flayed. They lived in symbiosis with tiny spiders designed by Fabius; whenever the planet's surface skin was damaged, the spiders would flay the women for more. They relied on these spiders to survive, as the creatures absorbed Warp energy to protect them from radiation and served as their only food.

They knew nothing of the galaxy, but they knew of the Emperor. Eidolon was a "Son of the Emperor." They didn't understand the term, but they knew Eidolon had betrayed Him. Thus, they developed a secret faith in the Emperor, praying for Him to descend and kill Eidolon.

Eidolon had once discovered their faith. He slaughtered them indiscriminately, mocking their beliefs and telling them they weren't even human—just twisted mutants the Emperor would never save. But he failed to eradicate the faith. He killed only to vent his anger; he didn't care to destroy them entirely because they posed no threat. He enjoyed their struggle and despair.

"The Emperor will not save us..." They remembered. They stopped asking for salvation and instead prayed for Him to destroy Eidolon and themselves—to end their suffering.

They pieced together a statue from blood, corpses, and bones to pray to the Emperor. At the moment the statue was completed, one of them gave birth. Just one child.

Under Fabius's design, they usually birthed six children after a six-day pregnancy. But this child was born after thirteen days, and it was alone. As the child grew, they noticed she was different. Her skin was rougher; her physiology was unlike theirs. She could not eat the spiders.

"She... she is human," they whispered with certainty.

They fed the child with their own blood and flesh, viewing her as the embodiment of the Emperor's will. They hid her in the deepest tunnels, keeping her a secret from Eidolon.

The child grew day by day but never spoke. Her eyes were vacant as she wandered near the statue of the Emperor. Until today... looking at those praying for the Emperor to descend, the child finally opened her mouth.

"I am here," she said.