Divinity Begins to Coalesce

At this moment, he held a piece of golden silk soaked in holy oil and woven with intricate Psionic Energy runes.

With the gentlest and most respectful movements, he wiped the cold and complex surface of the Golden Throne.

He could sense the throne's "aging".

It wasn't physical corrosion, but rather a deeper weariness of the Psionic Energy circuits and ancient technology that sustained its operation.

Recently, in order to maintain the faint light of the Astronomican and the stability of the Throne Seal, the number of Psyker being sacrificed... has been increasing again.

Each time Trajann sensed the faint, mournful cry of his soul being extracted, a sharp pain would pierce his steely heart.

But he understood even more the immense suffering endured by the one who sat on the throne.

Your Majesty, you have done everything in your power.

After completing the cleansing, Trajann took three steps back, knelt on one knee in the most standard posture, head bowed, and performed his daily prayer:

"Your Majesty, please wait patiently a little longer."

The flame of hope has never been extinguished, because you are still here, guiding us like the Polaris.

Your descendants, your warriors, will sweep away all evil, overcoming all obstacles, until you are whole again and your glory returns."

After he finished praying, he took a deep breath, with unwavering piety and a barely perceptible hope for some kind of response.

He slowly raised his head, preparing to look up at the withered, dried-up "shell" bound to the throne, just as he always had, drawing from it the determination to continue his steadfast commitment for ten thousand years.

However--

The moment he raised his eyes, Trajann, the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes who had endured ten thousand years of vicissitudes and whose will was more steadfast than the hardest alloy in the Imperium, was there.

He was struck dumb, frozen in place!

The scene of desiccated corpses that should have been ubiquitous on the Golden Throne... vanished!

Instead, a majestic, complete, and vibrant figure has been erected!

The figure sat upright on the throne, his posture natural and dignified, no longer contorted in pain and restraint.

My skin is a healthy wheat color, no longer dry and cracked.

The features were clear, the kind Trajann had seen in ancient texts.

Characterized by typical Old Terra Asian features, with long black hair cascading over his shoulders, he exudes supreme authority despite not wearing a crown.

What truly chills the soul are those eyes:

No longer a hole burning with painful Psionic Energy, but pupils as calm as liquid gold.

She was quietly watching him, with a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

The smile was faint, yet it seemed to pierce through millennia of painful shadows, carrying a sense of... relief?

Approval?

Or perhaps it was some deeper emotion that Trajann could not comprehend.

Time seemed to stand still.

Trajann could even hear the hum of his Power Armour's internal circulation system suddenly accelerating, and the roar of blood rushing to his head.

Shock, astonishment, ecstasy, doubt...

Countless extreme emotions exploded within him, almost shattering the psychological defenses he had built up over millennia.

He instinctively closed his eyes abruptly, shook his head violently, and then rubbed his eyes hard.

This action was extremely inappropriate for a Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes.

Then, with an almost fearful anticipation, I looked again intently—

On the throne still lay that familiar, withered "corpse," tormented by endless suffering.

It was as if that fleeting glimpse was merely a vivid, terrifying hallucination born from his extreme exhaustion or intense anticipation.

Trajann stood there frozen, unable to move for a long time.

Cold sweat had silently soaked the lining beneath his luxurious Power Armour.

Is it a hallucination?

It must be a hallucination.

How could Your Majesty... how could you possibly recover to that state?

And he even... smiled at himself?

but...

He stared intently at the mummified corpse.

For some reason, an absurd yet incredibly firm feeling rose from the depths of his soul: the "His Majesty" before him seemed to have an extremely subtle difference from the past.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact differences.

The withered form remained unchanged, and the aura of pain still lingered, but... the feeling was different.

If I had to describe it, it's like someone who, after enduring endless pain and torment, suddenly has a... brief but incredibly sweet "dream".

The tranquility and warmth of the dream left an indelible, faint trace of warmth even in the harsh reality of waking.

Trajann had no idea what that "dream" was.

But he gripped the Guardian Spear tightly at his waist, his knuckles turning white from the force.

He no longer tries to analyze or question.

As a member of the Adeptus Custodes, he only needed to trust his instincts and fulfill his duties.

He slowly knelt on one knee again, this time with his head bowed even lower, but his posture was more resolute than ever before.

Regardless of whether what he had just witnessed was real or an illusion, and regardless of any subtle changes that had occurred to His Majesty, one thing he was absolutely certain of:

Hope, perhaps, has indeed become... a little closer, in some way he doesn't yet fully understand.

And he, Trajann, would wait here like the most loyal mastiff, until that hope was fully realized, or until he himself turned to dust.

The throne room fell silent again, save for the perpetual low rumble of the Golden Throne.

And deep within that withered body, there seemed to be a fainter ripple of... painful Psionic Energy than usual.

Even as the echoes of Guilliman's soul-stirring vow still reverberated in the sky above Macragge.

The golden frenzy in the Warp, triggered by the power of billions of faith, had not yet fully subsided.

A sudden change occurred!

It did not come from the sky, nor did it originate from the earth.

Rather, it comes from the still-active gap between reality and the Warp, made exceptionally active by the collision of immense Psionic Energy and the convergence of faith.

A strange, cloyingly sweet purple mist quietly seeped out.

The mist carries an extremely stimulating odor.

It was as if a mixture of a thousand precious spices and rotting flowers, mixed with the pungent sweetness of blood and honey.

Even a mere whiff of it is enough to make the weak-willed waver and conjure up all sorts of licentious and decadent illusions.

The mist was initially just a thin layer, lingering around the edge of the square, but in the blink of an eye it expanded and spread like a living thing, quickly covering half of the Hera Fortress Square!

The Astra Militarum soldiers retreated in terror, instinctively covering their mouths and noses.

The Ultramarines instantly went on high alert, their Bolter raised in unison, their Power Sword humming as they were drawn, and a chilling ripple spread across the blue-armored sea.

Everyone felt it!

That is not a natural phenomenon, but the manifestation of the deepest and most blasphemous depravity in the real world!

An anger and hatred, originating from the depths of their genes and spanning millennia, erupted like a volcano in the chests of every loyalist!

"Chaos is invading! All personnel prepare for battle!"

Calgar's roar echoed throughout the array via his helmet communicator.

Three hundred thousand Ultramarines, as one, took a step forward, and the torrent of steel was about to completely crush the blasphemous purple mist!