The front line was stretched thin, while the rear was living it up. Different duties, different roles—everyone had a bright future ahead.
It had been three months since the Emperor disappeared. Without Old Man Yellow holding down the fort, everyone carried on as usual—and things were even more comfortable than when he was around.
Malice flaunted her new skin in public, drawing countless tourists who came to see her. At first, she hadn't been used to it, but then she remembered she was bearing Neoth's name and let herself go. Her only concern was that the faithful might not approve of her new look.
But Malice's worries were clearly misplaced. The people had sharp eyes. Every pilgrim who came to Holy Terra praised her beautiful appearance and declared that this was the God-Emperor's true face.
Even the Adeptus Mechanicus agreed. This was the real God-Machine—far better than that old bastard who'd used psychic rain to deceive them.
Beauty was universally loved, regardless of gender or species. With Malice's powerful charm, Lorgar held a grand church procession, recruiting a great many followers for the half-crippled Ecclesiarchy. Among them were even some abhuman races the Emperor hadn't been too fond of.
There were Blue-skinned Punk Girls, Red-robed Tech-priests, Skin-swapped Necrons, Robed Little People, Dog-man Nuns, and Eldar Monks. These were all relatively normal, at least in appearance. They looked human enough to fit the public's aesthetic tastes.
Others were rather more outlandish. For instance, there was an Evil Orc Priest in church robes who could bend a tank barrel with a single club strike. Then there was a Zerg War Beast with four arms, used as a guard to protect the church. It was anyone's guess how many arms the God-Emperor they worshipped had.
In short, during the three months the Emperor