"If that thing shows up, this whole fleet—including Dreamweaver—might not be able to tank it…"
Eden mulled it over, unconsciously pulling his fuzzy blanket tighter.
A terrible sense of crisis prickled at him.
On the surface, the Savior seemed to be riding high with overwhelming force. In truth, he was edging into far greater danger.
Especially when Chaos manifestations appeared directly in realspace.
That unknown fallen Primarch could tear apart multi-tens-of-kilometers void-fortresses, annihilate entire fleets. Even shipborne batteries probably wouldn't scratch him.
If he struck an Imperial hive world or battlegroup, the loss would be catastrophic—blood loss of the bloodiest kind.
This shattered nexus world before them was ironclad proof.
Worse, the Emperor's condition was deteriorating; Eden would soon lose that protection.
And His Majesty couldn't ride out into the galaxy to face the foe. Eden couldn't just lug the Blackstone Throne around as a mobile turret, could he?
Which meant that this time he had to face the fallen Primarch and the Chaos Gods in reality—no more abusing sanctified radiance like before.
"So the day finally came, huh?"
Eden gazed at the debris of perished worlds and sighed.
He'd anticipated such a day, just not this soon—and not with an enemy this vicious.
This time, the Savior had to go all out.
Vmmm—
The vox-relay lit; irritable binharic and metallic cursing spilled out.
"@&…%#, just you wait—slander our genuine promethium-cola and the genius Cawl will strike with heavy code! I'll open-source your whole lineage!
You *&%￥—beep beep—
O mighty Lord Savior, I was not insulting you just now… please don't ban my access."
The Adeptus Mechanicus' great magos—black-tech prodigy Cawl—saw the Savior's face go all serious, wiped cold sweat, and offered a timid clarification.
Lately his market war with Magos Biologis Moss over 'fuel-drinks' had escalated. Their feud was second only to the Cult's own 'Purity Faction' versus 'Two-Dimensional Idol Faction.'
Thankfully, with the Savior sitting on the red button, it stayed as online flame wars and code duels, not offline civil war.
Otherwise those quarrels alone could have triggered mech-on-mech holy wars.
And under the reconciled creed of the Omnissiah, the Mechanicus was more unified now, with a stronger sense of belonging.
They weren't going to kill each other.
Behind Cawl rose a near-hundred-meter forge dais, laced with crackling arcs. Within the lightning, a hulking black silhouette loomed.
Even that small portion radiated a heavy presence.
Eden rubbed his brow, weary.
"Cawl, how's the joint forging with Archmagos Cawl?
Is the suit tuned? The dark is closing in—I'll need it soon."
The "Archmagos Cawl" he named was one of the Imperium's greatest tech-priests—the maker of the Armor of Fate and the Primaris project.
That legend was now collaborating with Eden's own genius Cawl to forge the Savior's personal warsuit.
Decades ago, the Saviorate had kicked off an armor-forging program—aimed at building the most explosive suit of wargear, an artifact in its own right.
Over the years, Eden had poured obscene resources into it: sages from xenotech institutes, caches of materiel, ancient archeotech.
He'd even shipped over captured Blackstone and Blackstone-based tech, sparing no effort.
The project gathered the finest tech-priests and the best resources.
Like his other black-box programs, it was prophylactic—meant to handle crises yet to come.
Fix the roof before the storm.
Now that a monstrously strong foe had surfaced—and there was no big thigh to cling to—he would have to step up personally.
And without a monster suit? Not happening.
"If you want it now… we can't bring it online."
Genius Cawl scratched his head. "You added more requirements a few years back, forcing new modules into the design and pushing timelines again.
Right now the tuning's only halfway.
Barring anomalies, we need at least nine weeks to complete it."
"Nine weeks?"
Eden's brows knit. "That's an unlucky number. You get eight weeks. Finish it.
Then deliver it to me immediately."
His tone brooked no argument.
It was danger hour—time to ride Cawl like a rented servitor before he wandered off to do side gigs.
After issuing the order, Eden cut the link.
Eight weeks or nine—neither was long. Surely he wouldn't be unlucky enough to meet that thing early.
And even if he did, maybe he could stall for time.
With the armor ETA logged, he pulled up war reports.
The Redemption Crusade was pressing on; Guilliman and the Khan each drove massive fleets along their plotted axes, reclaiming worlds and smashing many foes of the Imperium.
Among the trophies were a minor Ork empire and a Necron tomb world.
Solid gains.
If no major surprises cropped up, all forces would rally at the next nexus corridor and plan the next phase.
"We're not doing badly either. We just need to deal with the Ten Thousand Eyes warhost squatting in this region."
Eden paged through his own fleet's campaign log.
They'd cut through multiple systems and dozens of civilized worlds, freeing planets from Chaos taint.
Follow-up support flotillas were already restoring infrastructure.
Incoming intel pointed to one root cause behind most incursions here: a Chaos warhost called the "Ten Thousand Eyes."
Their total numbers were unknown, but they held many worlds across the Imperium Nihilus, fielded large fleets, and wielded scary destructive power.
Likely a super-scale warhost on par with the Red Corsairs—practically a renegade legion.
Handle with care.
Worse, the Ten Thousand Eyes operated inside Imperial borders, which magnified the damage.
In the air above, a holo threw up a half-body profile—
A feral, warlock-like Chaos lord.
His hair and left cheek had turned to living flame. He leaned on a dull, accursed staff of Chaos, its head spiked through a rune-etched skull.
Handsome—but steeped in wickedness.
"Seraphax."
Eden spoke the name, face hardening.
Even twisted by Chaos, the bastard had kept his looks—a bad sign. It meant Seraphax had a firm leash on warp-taint, could consciously blunt or shield against it, keeping his mind.
In other words, a thinking man's Chaos lord—the last thing the Imperium wanted to meet.
"This guy…"
Eden's eyes narrowed. "Holy crap, he's playing for keeps. Those blacked-out worlds might be part of something nastier."
The Ten Thousand Eyes weren't randomly raiding; their occupations looked deliberate. On the starcharts, the captured worlds sketched a ritual geometry—uncanny and ominous.
They'd seen similar planet-scale sorcerous matrices during the Plague Wars.
Miserable to counter.
"If I remember right, Seraphax wants to capture the First Primarch—the Lion."
A few old notes clicked into place.
Under normal events, Seraphax would bait and trap the newly returned Lion, then use him to force the Emperor into full apotheosis—a Warp god.
At that thought, Eden's scalp tingled. "You're aiming higher than the Chaos Gods themselves, you maniac!"
No wonder Seraphax bore few marks of any single Dark God.
Who'd dare sponsor him?
Most Chaos lords simply widen Chaos' frontiers—spreading slaughter, contagion, disorder, fear.
Seraphax was trying to light the biggest warhead in existence—detonating the Chaos pantheon and everyone else in one go.
To shatter the galaxy—and maul the Immaterium—for a 'greater good.'
Ambitious. Goal-driven. Terrifying.
Were the Four quaking at home right now?
Not every heretic pawn obeyed them, and Their reach into the mundane galaxy had limits.
Eden flopped back into his beanbag, frowning.
"The Lion's gone off who-knows-where. Which means… the trap laid for him might end up snapping on me?!"
He sighed and flipped another page.
"What hatred could run so deep that Seraphax would loathe the Lion and the Emperor this much—
—to the point of a mutual-destruction plan?"
"Ah. Put that way… it tracks perfectly."
When the holo expanded to show Seraphax's full body and a tattered badge, comprehension dawned.
There was only one answer.
Another episode in the Emperor-and-sons' long, ugly family drama—classic tragic fare.
The broken badge was clearly First Legion.
Meaning Seraphax was one of the Fallen—more precisely, a Fallen who had thrown in with Chaos.
No wonder he hated the Lion so much.
The point was revenge on the Lion; the Emperor was collateral—so the Lion could taste what it was like to be slandered…and slay his own father with his own hands.
Ten millennia ago, the Fallen waited on Caliban for the Lion's triumphant return—only to be met with orbital bombardment.
The homeworld turned to rubble.
Then they were branded traitors, driven, hunted—hell on earth.
For ten thousand years, the Dark Angels made it their mission to hunt the Fallen—building a vast spy-web.
No rumor was too thin to chase; no lead was left cold.
Once a Fallen was nabbed, he'd be dragged to the Rock—into grim oubliettes.
Interrogator-Chaplains would wring confessions and contrition by any means, then the sentence fell.
The names of the penitent and executed were inked in the Book of Redemption.
Thanks to the First Legion's sins long ago, the Fallen lived cursed lives.
Many had remained loyal—yet bore the brand of patricide, scurrying like rats in gutters.
Others, like Seraphax, smashed the jar—embracing Chaos completely.
They bided their time to repay their gene-sire, the Lion, in blood.
Thus the Ten Thousand Eyes formed—and grew.
They'd prepared a banquet of horrors for the returning Lion.
But instead, the Savior had blundered onto the stage.
The good news? Compared to that unknown cosmic horror, the Ten Thousand Eyes weren't terminal. Eden could handle them.
He'd shoulder this for the Lion—wipe the warhost as soon as possible.
"Your Majesty, our latest operational plan is complete." Tarko hurried up and made his report, properly respectful.
"Well? Have we located Seraphax?"
Eden straightened a little, adopting a more imperial mien.
It was just hard to look imposing while sunk into a beanbag—with a cute 'Machine-God idol' plush squished at his side.
He absently patted the plush on its little head. "If we have him, dispatch a Custodes-led combined detachment to take him down!"
This fleet's roster of Imperial elites was lavish—over a thousand Custodians, even more Grey Knights, and numerous Space Marine Chapters.
Including some very big names:
Dante of the Blood Angels; Tyberos of the Carcharodons; Gabriel Angelos of the Blood Ravens, and more.
With that lineup, one Chaos lord shouldn't be a problem… right?
Tarko shook his head.
"Regrettably, my lord, scouts have no bead on the Ten Thousand Eyes' master. He is adept at concealment—buried deep."
"Then widen the net—or force him out."
Eden wasn't discouraged.
Those Fallen probably hid even better than the Blood Ravens.
Otherwise the Dark Angels would have bagged them ages ago with black-grade auguries.
"My lord, your wisdom shines!"
Tarko seized the chance for a crisp bit of flattery, then got to the point:
"That is our next step—progressively clearing worlds controlled or targeted by the Ten Thousand Eyes, boxing them in for annihilation."
He pointed at a light on the starchart—an Imperial civilized world.
"Our next objective is a nexus world called Avalonis. Our probes found traces of the warhost and of Chaos Daemons there.
Avalonis is very likely a key target.
Not only that—many Fallen are hiding there. We may be able to reclaim them and guide them back to the Imperium."
"Good."
Eden nodded.
Bringing the Fallen home was already on his docket.
He couldn't let loyal warriors suffer any longer.
Strictly speaking, the Lion should be doing this—but the guy had vanished, so Eden had to step in.
Otherwise, if the Dark Angels arrived first, a brutal civil bloodbath was likely—and that would be a loss for the Imperium.
He intended to proclaim, in the Emperor's name, the loyalty of the Fallen and accept their return.
Suddenly, data flickered across the mech-node at Tarko's temple—fresh input.
He read and reported at once. "My lord—we've found… the Lion's trail!"
"What?!"
Eden snapped fully alert. "Where is he now? Can we contact him?"
With war looming, one more Primarch tilted the odds.
And this was the First—for the Lion started at 1.5 Guillimans baseline. If he awakened his warp-nature, perhaps more!
Tarko shook his head.
"We cannot reach him. He departed a world called 'Kamas'—and vanished."
The intel said:
During restoration ops on Kamas by the Savior's support fleets, locals reported a mighty warrior claiming to be the Primarch, the Lion.
After clearing threats at the forest's edge, the Lion took a shuttle off-world—destination unknown.
"I thought that volume near Kamas was empty of civilized worlds…"
Eden stared at Kamas on the chart and sucked a breath. "Why is the Lion so bull-headed? Has he always been this reckless?!"
A shuttle carried only baseline charts. If the Lion could pilot, he must have checked them. How did he dare just charge off like that?
That enormous dead zone—how many short hops would that little rust bucket need to drift through the Warp to find a way out?
By the time he emerged, it'd be the Year of the Monkey. The Emperor might've ascended; the Imperium might've fallen!
In his memories, the Lion had relied on his warp-nature to translate. Why was he joyriding a shuttle?!
Alas, that was the sensible path. Instead, once he had a ship, he chugged off under his own power.
Never even considered probing his warp-aspect.
Worse, latest sweeps showed plenty of Ten Thousand Eyes asteroid bases and fleet tracks near Kamas.
If their heretics spotted the Lion flying a dinky ride without proper translation banks—
If they realized it was the gene-sire they hated to the marrow—
The consequences didn't bear imagining.
They'd sortie whole armadas—sharpen knives—roll out eighteen flavors of exquisite torment.
A thought struck Tarko; his face tightened.
"My lord… could a Primarch's body withstand ship-mounted macro-batteries—or large melta warheads?!"
(End of Chapter)
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