Datch skipped ahead, leaping all the way toward a shrine illuminated by candlelight. Castaller, though bewildered, still followed.
Standing before the Emperor's statue, Datch placed the ancient Rat Talisman he held onto the statue's crown. (PS: Based on the effect, the Rat Talisman came from Jackie Chan Adventures.)
Buzz!
At the very spot where the charm landed, a warm and pure golden light erupted, swiftly spreading in ripples and engulfing the entire statue.
Then, before Castaller's eyes, an unforgettable miracle occurred: the statue's stone shell, like burning cotton, flared with flames, and a radiant golden armor shone through, unveiling a resolute and noble countenance beneath.
Barely a breath later, a thick wave of golden light thundered out, enveloping the whole shrine.
Within this limitless glow, the once cold and lifeless sculpture transformed before Castaller's astonished gaze into a proud, golden man armoured in power-plate, shining with brilliance from head to toe—like no other.
His face radiated the majesty and depth known only from the Imperial portraits.
The Emperor... the Emperor... he is alive. He lives!
The Emperor looked down at his hands—encased in gilded armor—eyes widening minutely. For he possessed a body, one he could move with his will.
How... how had this been accomplished?
His dominant consciousness still sat enthroned atop the Golden Throne, suppressing the Webway, guiding the Astronomican's light, and enduring the prayers and wails of billions across the Imperium.
But now he gained a second awareness, able to perceive the world around him, and to draw on a fragment of his power.
This duality—two forms, two foci of perception—was just as mysterious to the Emperor himself.
Those nobles within the shrine's proximity who bore witness to this scene were dumbstruck.
"Your Majesty... your Majesty…"
No proof or argument was needed. Deep in their genes, within the fabric of their souls, generations-old loyalty and belonging surged forth like a collapsing dam.
They swore eternal fealty to one another, falling to their knees with fervent Aquila salutes.
"Your Majesty!!"
"The Emperor!!"
"The Divine Emperor has appeared!!!"
Word of this miracle raced down corridors, through command decks, into war rooms and tactical centers aboard fleet warships...
Crew, officers, warriors, and tech-adepts—anyone who saw, or even heard the news, was swept by shock and tides of elation.
Sobs, prayers, and eruption of disjointed exclamations drowned out the warship's usual din.
Ten thousand years of faith—a vigilant wait, praying for a miracle in this long darkness—found answer.
When the Emperor appeared, all restraint and reason faded, seeming pitiful and weak.
It was not merely excitement, but a trembling at the confirmation of True Faith. It was the vertiginous ecstasy of experiencing daybreak at the height of a desperate night.
The Emperor said nothing, only standing quietly and letting the surging crowd kneel and shout his name around him.
Emissaries Imperatus Hastius Vychellan, attached to the Torchbearer fleet, soon arrived upon hearing the news. At first, even staring at the living Emperor, he did not believe, suspecting this must have been sorcery or trickery.
He knew the Emperor's wounds had been healed by the Nameless, and yet, the Emperor was still bound to the Golden Throne, unable to leave it, unable to communicate.
But when Vychellan saw the unassuming stranger at the Emperor's side, all his doubts vanished. No other explanation made sense: where the Emperor appeared, so too would the Nameless.
This man, after all, possessed miraculous abilities, bending impossibility to his will.
"My Lord," Vychellan bowed deeply to the Emperor, who remained silent.
Attempting communication risked tremendous psychic backlash, intolerable even to Adeptus Custodes.
Vychellan did not expect a reply. He merely bowed and took up his post behind the Emperor.
Datch muttered to himself for a while, then strode forward and gave the Emperor a gentle shove. "Get to work! Make the Space Wolves accept their Primaris reinforcements, quick!"
The Emperor appeared somewhat helpless—this man showed him no reverence at all, and worse, was unaffected by his power. If any mere human touched the Emperor, they would be reduced to dust by sheer unleashed energy. Yet Datch acted as if nothing were amiss.
As they passed by Lieutenant Castaller, Datch pulled him along. With intimate knowledge of the Space Wolves, Datch was well-suited to broker communication.
…
Meanwhile, the warp boiled: monstrous storms raged, the Realms of the Chaos Gods stilled by unquiet omens. Khorne's brass dimension, Tzeentch's labyrinth, Nurgle's festering gardens, Slaanesh's decadent palaces—all were spellbound in eerie silence.
Even the rowdy daemons fell mute beneath their master's gaze.
The Ancient within the warp eyed Fenris, watching a cursed being walk reality.
Impossible! How could the Emperor—devastated in the Horus Heresy, bound eternally to the Throne—now stride manifest across the galaxy? Any attempt to leave would see his soul and body consumed by faith's power, elevating him to true godhood—and yet, somehow, he lingers in the material world.
The Emperor, too, sensed the Chaos Gods' attention and looked up into their infinite heavens. Ten millennia ago, their duel with him dealt each irreparable wounds, denying them all the chance to act directly. In time, however, the gods had recovered, gathering strength.
With the fall of Cadia, their influence peaked; their minions could pour into realspace, preparing to raze Terra and turn the galaxy to their paradise.
But now, now, it was time to show these gods who truly ruled this galaxy.
…
Datch soon led the Emperor and Castaller to the deck, where they sent a menacing ultimatum to the planet-bound Space Wolves: open the way for their landing—or face retribution upon all Fenris.
…
Deep in an ancient hall of Wolfenburg, Logan Grimnar assembled all the Wolf Lords of Fenris, even rousing the ancient, battleworn Dreadnought Bjorn. They discussed the ongoing crisis, including the issues surrounding the new Primaris and Guilliman's interventions.
Though opinions split, tradition remained paramount—Logan insisted on preserving honor and heritage, refusing to let the Primaris diminish their legacy.
Some leaders advocated accepting the new breed, seeing the galaxy's desperate times as cause to unite.
Finally, elder Bjorn silenced the debate:
"Guilliman cannot be trusted. If Rogal Dorn had not yielded, Guilliman might've sparked a new heresy. His division of the Legions led to Imperial decline, and his 'gifts' are not so easily accepted. Death comes for all—even the Wolfpack. If extinction and regret are our fate, why deny it? Is merely extending our end truly our wish? The Great Wolf decides the pack's destiny. We fight until death. After we are gone, Guilliman may do as he likes—we won't be here to care."
Bjorn's words, suffused with the philosophy of ages, stilled the council.
A servant burst in, breathless.
"What's wrong now?" Logan growled in irritation.
"A message from an Imperial warship in orbit, my lords! They demand all defenses be deactivated and the way cleared for their landing. Otherwise, Fenris will face judgment in the name of the Emperor."
Fury rippled through the wolves. Their numbers waned, their fleet aged, but this was Fenris. Who did these Imperial lackeys think they were, to threaten the sons of Russ?
"If they think we'll fear their guns, let them come!" Logan raged. "And if anyone crosses our line, fire upon them!"
The servant, trembling, instead pleaded, "Sire, I recommend you check the transmission yourself..."
Confused, Logan took the data-slate, and his eyes widened—every image, every line confirmed beyond doubt.
The Emperor…?
"How is this possible!" he cried out, soon joined by stunned councilors who recognized the portrait: it matched the image preserved in Wolfenburg itself.
Whatever they had done, they had awakened the true Master of Mankind.
…