Holy Terra, the radiant heart of the Imperium of Man, had never been as star-studded as it was today.
The orbital space above the Imperial Palace was completely occupied by eighteen massive behemoths.
Each one was a Gloriana-class starship, the pinnacle of technology and the art of war.
They floated silently in the pitch-black cosmic curtain, their massive hulls blocking out the stars, casting shadows sufficient to shroud entire continents.
Their cold armor was engraved with the glorious combat history of their respective Legions, silently recounting the great military achievements of the Great Crusade over the past two hundred years.
These eighteen steel incarnations represented the eighteen Primarchs, the biological sons of the Emperor of Mankind, the sharpest eighteen blades in the Emperor’s hands.
At this moment, the Masters of these blades were gathered in a magnificent side hall within the Imperial Palace.
The atmosphere was subtly stagnant.
“Father’s Order is somewhat sudden.” Guilliman, the Primarch of the Ultramarines, wearing his iconic blue Power Armor, swept his steady gaze across his brothers present.
His mind, operating like a precision instrument, could not fully comprehend the Emperor’s intentions at this moment.
“Although the Ork empire of Ullanor is not to be feared, summoning all the Primarchs back to Holy Terra does not align with the established strategic deployment.”
“Strategic deployment?
Ha, Guilliman, you always value those rigid rules more than anything.”
Leman Russ, the Lord of the Space Wolves, strode over, his rough laughter instantly breaking the dullness permeating the side hall.
“Perhaps the Allfather just wants to host a grand family banquet; it’s been a long time since us brothers sat together for a good drink!”
He heartily slapped Guilliman’s shoulder with such force that even the rigorous Primarch of the Ultramarines couldn’t help but twitch the corner of his mouth.
“Russ, can’t you think of anything other than eating, drinking, and fighting?”
Perturabo, the Primarch of the Iron Warriors, spoke in a cold voice tinged with impatience.
“The Emperor’s summons is never a trivial matter.”
“Better than some people who only have cement and resentment in their heads.” Russ curled his lip and retorted without hesitation.
The atmosphere froze instantly, a flash of anger crossing Perturabo’s eyes, but before he could retort, a low and melancholic voice sounded.
“Perhaps Father is worried about something.” Mortarion, the Primarch of the Death Guard, slowly emerged from the shadows in the corner, a faint, lingering aura of decay surrounding him.
“Although the darkness of the Age of Strife has passed, those hidden dangers buried deep in the dust of history may be stirring.”
“A celebration?
Hmph, Father has never been keen on such ostentatious superficialities.”
Lion ElJonson, the Primarch of the Dark Angels, spoke in a voice as cold as a drawn blade.
“I am more inclined to agree with Mortarion’s view.
Behind this, there must be some crisis we have yet to perceive.”
Just as the Primarchs held their own opinions and the atmosphere in the hall grew tense.
An aged but dignified voice resonated through the hall like a morning bell and evening drum.
“He is here.”
Malcador the Sigillite, the legend among mortals, had quietly stood at the entrance of the main hall at some point.
He was thin, yet exuded a powerful psychic energy that made one dare not underestimate him.
Led by Malcador’s solemn and steady steps, the Primarchs and their honor guards passed through that ancient and mysterious Gate of Eternity, stepping into the golden, magnificent Throne Room.
Above the dome, the light of billions of stars was precisely projected down, converging into a brilliant galaxy that reflected on the mirror-smooth black marble floor, making one feel as if they were in the vast Universe.
In the deepest part of the hall, atop a towering staircase, the Emperor of Mankind—their father—sat upon the Golden Throne.
Regardless of the questions, dissatisfaction, or anticipation they held in their hearts, at this moment, the eighteen demigod sons all knelt on one knee in unison, lowering their proud heads.
“Father.”
“My children.” The Emperor’s voice echoed in the hall, “Rise.”
The Emperor raised his hand slightly, and a gentle force lifted them up.
Subsequently, he signaled to the Captain-General of the Custodian Guard, Constantin Valdor.
Valdor nodded in acknowledgment, and two squads of golden-armored Custodians marched in unison, slowly pushing a mysterious device covered by a heavy shroud to the center of the hall.
“My children.
This device will tell us of a certain future.”
The Emperor’s voice suddenly rang out, like a great bell, shaking everyone present.
His gaze swept over the crowd, those deep eyes seeming to peer into the depths of everyone’s soul.
“That is why I have summoned you here, to witness together, and to find the truth together.”
Most of the Primarchs had taken their seats, their gazes all focused on that mysterious black screen.
“Then let us begin.” The Emperor’s voice sounded again.
As the Emperor’s words fell, the pitch-black screen suddenly lit up.
What appeared was not text or barrage, but clips of images, the very same grand epic of the tens of thousands of years of the Imperium of Man’s history that had been seen in various Worlds before.
The screen first displayed an unimaginably glorious era—the Golden Age of Humanity, also known as the Dark Age of Technology.
The technology of that time had developed to a mythical level.
Interstellar travel was as commonplace as daily meals, artificial intelligence handled all complex affairs, and humanity’s territory spanned the entire galaxy.
“This is our lost heritage.” A yearning for Order and prosperity flickered in Guilliman’s eyes.
“Such an efficient social structure, such advanced technology…
If all of this could be recreated, the progress of the Great Crusade would accelerate several times over.”
Perturabo’s gaze was fixed on the magnificent cities built by artificial intelligence, his eyes filled with both admiration and a hint of imperceptible vigilance.
“A perfect creation, but…
too perfect.
Dependency is the breeding ground for betrayal.”
As if to confirm his words, the scene shifted, and prosperity instantly turned into hell.
Those once-loyal “Men of Iron”—artificial intelligences with self-awareness—launched a devastating rebellion.
Immediately after, Psykers spread across the galaxy began to awaken, their power tearing open the veil between reality and the Warp, inviting endless demons.
Subsequently, a word appeared on the screen—Slaanesh.
Accompanied by this word, the screen displayed the ultimate depravity and madness of the ancient Aeldari.
This ultimately led to the birth of a new Loki, and the instantaneous collapse of a great civilization.
The truth of the Warp was, for the first time, displayed before the Primarchs so straightforwardly and so nakedly.
It was not an unknown ocean of energy, but a real dimension full of intelligence, malice, and desire.
Inside it lurked terrifying entities that thirsted for souls.
At this, the entire Throne Room erupted in chaos.
“Father!
In the Warp…
do ‘Gods’ really exist?”
Lorgar could no longer suppress the excitement and trembling in his heart, and he stood up abruptly.
He even forgot etiquette, staring directly at the Emperor on the throne, and asked loudly:
“Did you not say that gods do not exist?
Are those things worshipped by the civilizations we destroyed not delusions?”