The Yellow Heaven is Dead, Witchcraft Cured!

Holy Terra.

Watching Emperor sprawl upon the Golden Throne, spewing profanities, Malcador knew his old friend had gone off-script again. He wouldn't be surprised if rumors of a golden giant appearing somewhere in the Imperium reached his ears soon.

Malcador's teeth ached with irritation at this behavior. How could Emperor spend his days lounging on the throne, never stepping out, with drinks and food delivered to his hand, and the occasional leisure time to go offline and beat up minor daemons? Meanwhile, he was the one working himself to death, cleaning up the mess.

Over these past seven years, even during the most brutal periods of the Plague War, Malcador had kept half the Primarchs on Terra to handle administrative duties, all to prevent the Imperium's fragile recovery from sliding back into the abyss.

With the Primarchs working so hard, Emperor—their father—was here slacking off. For the first time, Malcador missed Hogg. While Hogg wasn't exactly a saint, at least with him around, Emperor didn't dare be this reckless.

"Alas, my Lord! Hogg and Guilliman aren't coming back anytime soon. If you keep this up, you'd better watch out for a beating!"

Malcador's remonstrance was nothing if not loyal, but Emperor, much like the decadent monarchs of history, wouldn't hear a word of it. Instead, he patted his increasingly round face and chuckled foolishly:

"What is there to fear? Do you think that dog Hogg could actually beat me? Unless all the Primarchs gang up on me at once, I, Neoth, am the strongest in this age. You must have faith in my educational methods, Old Mal."

Good words cannot persuade a ghost determined to die. Having said his piece, Malcador felt he had fulfilled his duty to their millennia-long friendship. He finally understood why those other Perpetuals had left