“You fucking asshole…
fucking Big E…”
Klein’s consciousness rose up from the body of the Hive City diviner.
Accompanied by Greyfax’s prayer wishing his soul return to the Golden Throne, Klein’s consciousness rose higher and higher, passing through the church of the Corpse Grinder Cult, through the Hive City, through the veil of reality.
A blazing golden light, like chains of burning fire, engulfed Klein’s consciousness, dragging him, plunging toward the Astronomican shining in the Warp, toward humanity’s homeworld Terra, toward the Imperial Palace atop the Himalayan Mountains, toward the Sanctum Imperialis…
Toward that withered corpse upon the Golden Throne.
For others, returning one’s soul to the Golden Throne was faith, a blessing, a prayer.
But for Klein, it was fact.
He was pinned down hard upon this throne, built of machinery and cables, resembling a mechanical mountain range.
Agony beyond anyone’s imagination struck in almost the very next instant, like a jailer itching to torment mortals, come to punish Klein, this prisoner who had temporarily escaped his cage.
Klein felt his skin being stripped away inch by inch under the searing heat, felt his nerves burned to ash.
Ten million unimaginable things prowled within his consciousness, like blades scraping across his brain marrow.
His spine felt as though it was being trampled by the most savage, most furious beast, every bone crushed down to atoms.
Yet, bizarrely, under such intense pain, Klein’s soul remained intact, his consciousness still lucid.
As if some unseen force shielded Klein’s soul and consciousness, forcibly keeping him clear-headed and rational, still capable of thought.
The pain, surging through every cell, reminded Klein…
After arriving in the world of Warhammer 40k, the first thing he had transmigrated into was not that Hive City diviner.
In fact, that diviner was already his third body in this world.
The first…
was this very body he now inhabited.
The good news was: he had transmigrated, and had even become the ruler of a galactic hegemon-level civilization.
His dominion was utterly unshakeable.
A million worlds were ruled in his name, their denizens all devout in their faith toward him.
His lifespan was limitlessly long.
He was a Perpetual, having survived from the dawn of human civilization to the 41st millennium of mankind, and would continue to survive for far longer.
He also possessed this world’s topmost combat power.
He could stand alongside gods and even defeat gods.
He was in an absolutely secure location, guarded by nearly ten thousand perfect Adeptus Custodes created through biological alchemy.
And throughout the entire galaxy, there were millions of genetically-enhanced transhuman warriors loyal to him…
The bad news…
He was the God-Emperor of Mankind.
Ten thousand years ago, when humanity’s Golden Age ended and the horrors of Old Night raged across countless worlds, when the once-glorious human civilization was sliced into lost fragments scattered among the stars…
The human Perpetual who called himself the Emperor set out from that ancient planet named Terra, also known as Earth.
He launched the Great Crusade, leading twenty offspring who had inherited his extraordinary genetic sequence, called the Primarchs, and the Astartes who in turn inherited the Primarchs’ gene-seed, and once again conquered the galaxy.
But the Chaos Gods lurking in the Warp behind the veil of reality corrupted the Primarch Horus Lupercal, driving Horus to lead half the Primarchs and Astartes in launching the Horus Heresy.
After the God-Emperor of Mankind’s final battle with Horus, He was forced to sit upon the Golden Throne for the sake of humanity’s wretched survival, enduring the torment of this ghastly engine of agony for ten thousand years…
Klein had transmigrated into that very God-Emperor of Mankind.
He wanted so desperately to cry like a Gretchin with its toe stepped on, but his eyeballs had long since been scorched dry and shriveled by the searing heat of the Golden Throne, not a single tear could he shed anymore.
Klein truly could not understand.
In his previous life, though he had been a Warhammer fan, he was by no means what one would call particularly loyal.
His most loyal act had been, at best, choosing the Emperor over lewd Slaanesh artwork.
Why?
Why the fuck did Big E drag him in as a scapegoat?!
Why not drag in those who shout “loyalty” with their mouths but vanish the moment you ask them to step up?
Calm down.
Think about it.
At least he hadn’t been reincarnated as one of the even more unfortunate, even more suffering souls in the Warhammer universe…
Were…
were there even such people?
In the entirety of Warhammer 40k, was there truly anyone more unlucky and more miserable than the Emperor?!
Compared to the extreme agony inflicted by the Golden Throne, even the most pain-loving and masochistic daemon of Slaanesh would look at it and say, “The Throne scares the Slaanesh out of my soul.
Even I, a daemon, want no part of this.”
The only thing that brought Klein any solace was that occasionally, he could “break out” from the Golden Throne.
His will could extend outward from the Golden Throne, lodging itself within the corpses of the recently dead, using this to escape the golden torture device and walk normally among the living.
Klein could not say for certain whether this was an ability the Emperor had always possessed, or a small vacation Big E’s guilty conscience had left him, or perhaps the cheat ability granted to him as a transmigrator.
Klein could not explain it clearly, yet he understood with absolute certainty how to do it, as if it were instinct.
It merely required some time and luck.
In the time since his transmigration, he had succeeded only twice.
The first time, he awoke within the body of a forest hunter, his memories shattered and fragmented, finding himself deep within a sunless, primeval forest teeming with grotesque beasts.
For a time, he believed he had undergone a second transmigration.
He survived in that dense forest for over a month by drinking stream water and eating wild fruits, only to be ultimately killed by a gargantuan beast that appeared without warning.
The second time, the one he had just experienced, he transmigrated into a Hive City diviner.
His extending will seemed unable to carry the Emperor’s psychic power with it.
But it appeared that abilities from bodies other than the Emperor’s could also be wielded by a new host body.
When Klein operated as the Hive City diviner, he could still employ the stealth and hunting techniques he had learned while inhabiting the forest hunter.
The torment radiating from the Golden Throne left Klein with no desire to continue analyzing his own abilities.
The bone-deep agony flogged him like a whip, urging him to hasten, to deploy his power, to flee the Golden Throne’s torture.
He gathered his focus and stilled his breathing, turning his gaze toward that sea of souls called the Warp.
Pure energy undulated within the Warp.
Klein could see specks of starfire reflected one by one across the Warp’s expanse.
Those were the reflections of mortals within the Warp, nearly every sentient being with a soul cast a reflection there, some dim, some bright.
Mortals were like scattered sparks, while psykers blazed like torches…
and Klein, or rather, the Emperor, was a black sun.
Klein’s gaze swept across those billions of sparks, searching for the chance that would let him escape the Golden Throne.
The torment of the Golden Throne and the nature of the Warp had blurred his perception of time.
After what could have been an eternity, he finally sensed a pull from reality upon a dying ember.
The pull grew stronger the longer his gaze lingered, as if reality itself had extended its tentacles, trying to drag his consciousness out of the Warp and back into reality, binding it once more within a shell of matter.
Klein did not resist the pull.
He yielded to its gravity and fell toward reality.
The agony slowly receded from him.
The frailty and overwhelming might of the Emperor’s desiccated body were both left behind, far away upon the Golden Throne.
He felt his bones grow solid again, no longer brittle from searing heat.
He felt the temperature of his flesh drop, moisture returning, blood beginning to flow through his veins once more.
His eyes, withered like raisins, filled with aqueous humor, the crystalline lenses capturing light again.
Klein opened his mouth slightly.
Flecks of golden light welled up in his throat.
Searing golden flames coursed from within his body, tearing through every cell, incinerating every inch of flesh, obliterating everything that had been the corpse.
In an instant, Klein was reduced to ash.
Then, in the next moment, the flame, something that did not belong to the material universe, dragged the ashes back together, reshaping the body into perfect form, identical in every detail, save that the will dwelling within had been replaced by Klein’s.
Klein suspected the flame was the Emperor’s psychic power, conducted down from the Golden Throne.
But this psychic power could only remake the corpse, reconstructing it, excising the fatal injuries so Klein’s will could enter it.
It had no other effect.
Klein opened his mouth, wanting to draw a deep breath, to feel his lungs fill with air once more…
But he failed.
The moment Klein opened his eyes, he realized his vantage point was very high.
At first, he thought the corpse he’d entered this time was simply very tall.
Now, feeling the rope digging into his neck, Klein understood exactly how the guy now hosting his consciousness had died.
He’d been playing tug-of-war with the ceiling, using his neck.
(Translated by yourtl.app)