The Emperor's voice echoed continuously in Cisrain's ears.
That emotion was mixed with an extraordinary complexity of feelings.
Like an aged old man who, after waiting through countless years, had finally reunited with someone once more.
That intense emotion stirred even Cisrain's own heart.
From the Imperial Palace on Terra.
Upon the massive Golden Throne.
Although, in the eyes of countless people, the tall and majestic Emperor sat upon the Golden Throne.
Once all psychic power had been stripped away from the Emperor, however.
What everyone saw was an aged old man, skeletal in appearance, with countless tubes behind him connected to the Golden Throne.
Everyone could see him standing alone, painfully supporting the entire human Imperium.
The humanity within his personality was gradually being swallowed by divinity.
The human part of his soul was gradually fading away.
"Malcador."
"My old friend."
"..."
The history of those days seemed to be replaying before his eyes.
He seemed to see Malcador once again, taking his place and sitting upon the Golden Throne for him, sealing the rift that would have set the entire galaxy ablaze.
Even the slightest fluctuation in the Emperor's emotions could destabilize the psychic energy around him.
He wanted to speak with his old friend about the future, to dream once more of the future they had envisioned and the plans they had made for humanity.
Yet during that process, he had gradually learned everything about his own future and seen all that was to come. The galaxy would burn, the universe would fall silent, and everything would move toward a future of ending.
He was like a tabletop player holding a script.
Sitting at a game table called the gods, holding several cards as he waited to play them.
Everyone else was playing the game, but he