Zhou Beichen quickly discovered that the supposedly magnificent, epic Great Crusade was, in practical terms... pretty boring.
Once the Imperium's war machine started moving, it followed a nearly rigid standardized process.
When they encountered a newly discovered planet inhabited by intelligent life, there were basically three steps:
First, they sent envoys down with a diplomatic document written in High Gothic, full of florid language but centered on a single message: "Submit or be destroyed."
If the other side knew what was good for them and was willing to embrace the great "Imperial Truth," abandoning their "ignorant" religious beliefs and "backward" social structures, then everyone came out happy. The planetary governor got a new title, taxes were still paid, people still lived their lives, but now there was an Emperor above their heads.
If they were stubborn and refused to cooperate?
Then it was the Astartes' turn to take the field.
Bolters, chainswords, power fists... they would use the most direct, physical methods to help those "lost lambs" understand what "truth" meant, until they wept and declared their willingness to accept the radiance of the Imperial Truth.
Simple, brutal, efficient. It was as though the conquest of the entire galaxy had been quantified into a cold set of KPI metrics, and the man seated atop the Imperium of Man's hierarchy was the chief evaluator of that system.
Zhou Beichen had seen the Emperor a few times from afar during expedition command meetings.
The bastard who would sneak into his room in Roman robes to mooch snacks and use psychic powers to make air-fried chicken had vanished without a trace. In his place was a cold being whose gaze carried the weight of stars, whose every word bore unquestionable absolute authority, as though he himself were the embodiment of law and reason.