He sat silently upon the Throne, gazing down at the war-torn galaxy.
Every moment, every second, someone called his name, desperate for his salvation.
The Throne was a cruel instrument of torture, ceaselessly draining his psyker power. Even a master Haemonculus of the Drukhari would not have endured that agony for a single second.
But he had grown accustomed to it. It had even become a balm for his mental anguish.
He had never felt so helpless.
He watched the Imperium sink deeper into depravity under the rule of the Ecclesiarchy.
He watched humanity slaughter one another in his name.
He watched the sea of stars descend into madness beneath a shroud of conspiracies.
Yet there was nothing he could do.
Even an Alpha-plus psyker with the most powerful psychic gifts could not withstand a single sentence from him.
No matter how carefully he used his power to influence a region, the resulting Psyker Storm killed more people than the xenos and Chaos did.
He had many names.
Emperor.
Corpse-Emperor.
God-Emperor.
Tyrant.
The Supreme One.
The Most Evil One.
All were names for him, each fitting in its own way, yet none entirely accurate.
His fanatical followers defended their homes in his name, but they burned ten times as many of their own people to death as the Chaos cultists they killed.
Those who loathed him denounced him, railing against his inaction and utter hypocrisy.
If it were possible, the person he most wanted to kill was himself.
Over ten thousand years of torment, he had come to understand one thing: he was an absolute bastard, the greatest sinner in all humanity.
When it came to family, he was utterly cold.
As a perpetual, he had witnessed so many partings and deaths that he no longer dared invest his feelings