After sending out his communications, Eden patiently awaited the front line reports—and the arrival of the High Lords.
Meanwhile—
The deployed clusters of Redemption Titans had already begun their assault, plunging the entire planet into a state of terror.
One void shield after another shattered, as did layer upon layer of force fields.
VRRRRRRRR—!!!
Massive Creus Siege Drills spun with lethal velocity.
Several Breacher-class Titans marched forward, crushing super-heavy tanks, artillery, and corpses beneath their feet—closing in on the walls.
Steel met ceramite as the drills unleashed torrents of sparks.
The supposedly impregnable fortress—the last bastion of the Roskavler family—was crumbling under the weight of the god-machines.
Even though this fortress had been designed to withstand sieges for years—even against the likes of Horus himself.
No one expected the Savior to bring more Titans than the entire Imperial Warmaster once could.
"Hey, Breacher crews, you better hurry! The Savior's getting impatient!"
A command Titan transmitted with mock cheer.
So far, the siege felt more like a picnic—no resistance, no challenge.
Honestly, the only complaint was overkill. There were too many god-machines—no one had a chance to show off.
Elsewhere, untouched departments fell into panic.
Even though their High Lords hadn't been declared heretics, Redemption Titans were still deployed "for protection."
These god-machines stood ominously silent in plazas and squares—emitting a soft hum.
Everyone feared they'd unleash hellfire at any moment.
Their looming shadows cast over entire districts.
The supposedly neutral High Lords broke into panic.
Especially after receiving the Savior's "invitation"—a clear and present threat.
They gathered to discuss options.
But no one dared speak out.
To speak was to risk opposition—and the label of heretic.
And no one wanted to go to the Senate.
Because going there meant obedience. Meant surrender. Meant giving up one's power.
But staying put?
Might still get you declared traitor—and wiped out.
A true no-win situation.
"So... what do we do?"
As the capital shook from distant bombardment, Cleo Patra, the High Representative of the Inquisition, addressed the gathered orders of the chamber.
"Well?! Say something!"
She looked utterly miserable.
This wasn't what she signed up for.
Due to its unique, decentralized structure, the Inquisition's representative seat was not a lifetime position. It was a five-year sabbatical.
In truth, most Inquisitors treated it like paid vacation.
Most preferred leading a local cabal or conducting shadow ops in danger zones.
Not bickering with decrepit bureaucrats in a dusty theater.
Cleo Patra just wanted to enjoy her holiday. And now, this mess had fallen into her lap.
If the Inquisition lost more influence under her watch, how could she face her peers?
She might just get clubbed in the back alley.
The Inquisition was a wild bunch—known for their "unorthodox" solutions.
Their views on the Primarch varied.
Puritans: hostile to change. To them, any reform was heresy—even improving daily life!
Radicals: more open-minded, especially the Reconstructionists who saw the Imperium as broken and in need of reinvention.
Xenophiles: believed aliens weren't all bad—some were useful.
Zanxianists: the most extreme—they believed using Chaos was the only way to defeat Chaos.
These radicals often worked with the Urth Inquisition—who were growing in power.
If the Savior seized total authority, the Urth Inquisition would dominate, and Cleo's kind would be out of a job.
But what could they do?
Fight back? With Titans outside?
Cleo Patra slumped in her seat—totally resigned.
She had no interest in this power struggle.
A proud leader of the Silverlight Faction, she dreamed of becoming a Necronomancer—obsessed with sorcery that could resurrect the Emperor's soul from the Warp.
She just wanted her term to end, so she could try her newest soul-binding spell.
Even if it would probably end in chaotic side effects.
Amid the Inquisition's ranks stood Grand Master Corwin, leader of the Grey Knights.
He appeared entirely at ease.
Since returning from his "excursion" to Nurgle's Garden, his prestige had soared.
Even the Supreme Grand Master couldn't compare now.
After all, Corwin was the only man in the Inquisition to lead a team against a Chaos God's realm—and live.
Rumor said he slide-tackled a Great Unclean One and shot Nurgle's hand in rage.
(He would never admit it was a misfire from sheer panic.)
That Chaos God probably didn't even notice.
Didn't matter.
The other Inquisitors worshipped him and his squad—their return banner covered in daemon bone and demon-flesh scraps, carefully "cleansed" in holy promethium.
Now, Corwin stood proud.
Whatever happened here... wouldn't affect him.
After all, he and the 7th Brotherhood had already pledged loyalty to the Savior.
Then—
Silence fell across the chamber.
Everyone turned.
Cleo Patra had left her seat.
She was walking straight toward Grand Master Corwin.
All eyes locked on them.
"Lord Corwin, you and the Savior... have a rather special relationship, don't you?"
She smiled slightly.
"We've fought side by side in humanity's darkest hour—against horrors most will never know."
Corwin nodded solemnly. That was the honor of a Grey Knight.
"Then, for the good of the Emperor—and the future of the Inquisition—I believe you must accept greater responsibility."
She turned to the assembly.
"My term as Inquisition Representative is nearly over. I hereby nominate Lord Corwin as my successor."
Within the Inquisition, there was little regard for hierarchy. What bound its agents together were shared beliefs, philosophies, and absolute loyalty to the Emperor alone.
Grand Master Corwin of the Grey Knights was more than qualified to represent the Inquisition—especially with the kind of shining honor he carried.
More importantly, he had a close relationship with the Savior.
This made him a perfect candidate to ensure the Inquisition preserved its power during the current upheaval, without drawing the ire of that terrifying being.
"Representative, this... this isn't quite appropriate, is it?"
Corwin was completely blindsided.
He was the supreme commander of the Inquisition's specialist forces—his job was to slay daemons and heretics, not get involved in politics.
And now he was being made the Inquisition's representative?
He hated arguing in councils with a bunch of crusty old men.
All he wanted was to blast heretics with more Holy Ash Bombs, not sit through bureaucratic debates!
"By the Emperor, you're the best person for this."
Cleo Patra, significantly shorter than Corwin, reached up and grabbed his hand with surprising force.
"There's no one more suitable to speak for the Inquisition right now."
The other inquisitorial leaders all nodded in agreement, their faces serious—there wasn't a single dissenting voice.
Despite their strange experiments and often incomprehensible behavior, Inquisitors were elite. They'd been raised and trained with the finest education in the Imperium.
They could smell political currents like a Loxatl in the warp.
"See? Unanimous decision."
Afraid someone might backpedal, Cleo Patra hurried to push it through like a hot potato.
"I now invoke Inquisition Emergency Protocol #856:
Effective immediately, Grand Master Corwin of the Grey Knights is appointed the new Representative of the Inquisition.
The fates of our fellow agents now rest in your hands."
All the assembled Inquisitors brought a hand to their chest—a solemn Inquisitorial salute, signifying unanimous agreement.
That made it official.
Documents, seals, tokens, and staff would follow later. None of that mattered now.
What mattered was—Corwin was going to the Senate to speak with the Savior.
"But I haven't even agreed yet!"
Surrounded by ceremonial salutes and traditional gestures, Corwin began to panic.
And at some point, without him realizing it, Cleo Patra's cloak had been draped over his shoulders.
Cleo Patra herself? Gone.
Now, the towering Grand Master stood cloaked in a visibly ill-fitting robe—one clearly too short for his imposing frame.
Then a new message came in:
"The High Lords of the Astronomican and Administratum have already launched their shuttles toward the Senate!"
That made the Inquisitors even more anxious.
Arriving quickly was a political statement in and of itself—one that could shape the outcome of this power shift.
They had their man now. No time to lose.
"Quick! Ready the shuttle!"
"Too late—use warp sorcery!"
Within the chamber, psychic runes flared to life.
A warp-sorcery portal locked onto the stunned Grand Master Corwin.
WHOOSH—!
And in a flash, the newly appointed Inquisitorial Representative was teleported directly outside the Imperial Senate.
...
The Officio Assassinorum.
This secretive Imperial organization was originally formed under the direct command of Malcador the Sigillite—intended to act as his personal force to counterbalance other factions.
It handled the Empire's dirtiest tasks—eliminating heretics, traitors, and threats before they could even emerge.
The Emperor had allowed its creation.
Nobody in the Imperium wanted to mess with the Assassinorum—unless they had a death wish.
At any moment, anyone—be they a Hive World beggar or a High Lord of Terra—could drop dead on the spot.
A headshot from a forbidden rifle, a knife in the gut from a lunatic, or just a bit of breakfast food laced with long-lost toxins.
An assassin could wait a hundred years, perfectly still, just to strike the moment the target slipped.
They could even kill Primarchs.
But since the Horus Heresy, the Assassinorum had been reined in—no longer free to act independently. Now, only the High Lords of Terra could approve execution orders through a vote.
This protected the upper echelons and made them bolder—and far more reckless.
Now, though the Officio was quiet, subtle shadows hinted that its deadliest agents were gathering—still unseen by the public eye.
Lady Idyia, High Lord and current Grand Mistress of the Assassinorum, stood tall—her body clad in adaptive liquid gear that formed a skintight suit, highlighting certain... contours.
Not that anyone ever saw them. She was always wrapped in a thick black cloak.
She was relatively new to the role. Her predecessor, the legendary Fadis, had assassinated a High Lord and his fellow conspirators during a rebellion.
After that? He vanished—removed himself to prevent paranoia or unrest.
Now Idyia carried the torch. Though she disliked sitting alongside people who might one day be targets, duty called.
It was time to meet the Primarch.
Perhaps, with Senate approval, the Officio Assassinorum would move again.
With steady footsteps, she made her way to the shuttle. The cannonfire outside caused tremors—but not even that disturbed her balance.
She boarded silently, sitting in her usual dark corner.
The shuttle turned invisible, cloaked from sight and auspex.
And just like that—she was gone, en route to the Senate.
...
The Senate.
"Ugh, this damn chair hurts my butt after a while. I should have them install a proper sofa here."
Eden leaned back, mumbling to himself. He glanced at the time.
At this point, he had achieved total dominance in the power struggle. Nothing could stop him now.
All that remained was for the High Lords to show up—for him to formally inherit the Mandate of Authority.
A crowning moment, really.
Though no one called it that.
Still—who showed up first, who showed up last—all of it would be recorded.
As for those who didn't come?
Straight to the blacklist.
Then—
Eden heard hurried footsteps. He could tell right away: loyal ones.
"My Lord Savior!"
The voice practically dripped with flattery.
Eden looked up—and was immediately confused.
"You?! What are you doing here?!"
He hadn't expected him to be the first.
It was the Father of the Novas, one of the Light Concord's members.
Eden had just declared that loyal High Lords must report. And now this guy—who'd just been threatened with Titan-stomping—had waltzed in?
Bold or just plain stupid?
"My Lord Savior, please accept my loyalty!"
The esteemed High Lord dropped to his knees.
"I accept all punishments. The Navigator Houses will obey your every command!"
Turns out, the moment the Father of the Novas heard Eden was going to flatten his skull with a Titan, he raced over to beg for mercy.
Eden was speechless.
Truthfully, Navigators rarely rebelled or threatened the Imperium.
They existed because of the Imperium. While important, they weren't irreplaceable.
Aside from hoarding wealth, they rarely caused real problems.
Joining the Light Concord's rebellion? That was just him playing around—useless and deluded. Probably got suckered by the other traitors.
Eden debated killing him right there...
But decided against it.
"I'll spare your life," he said. "But you and the Navigator Houses will be punished."
He'd hand him over to the Custodes and toss him in the Imperial Palace dungeons.
Release date: whenever Eden felt like it.
But he'd leave the High Lord title intact—as leverage.
This way, he could control the Navigator Houses more effectively—and use this as an excuse to conduct a mass purge of those obscenely rich, decadent freaks.
A thorough investigation—any sign of heresy or treason? Confiscated!
After all, the Emperor hated how Navigators abused their power to hoard wealth and meddle in politics.
He had planned a purge after repairing the Webway...
Then promptly got stuck on the Golden Throne.
Now Eden would finish that work.
He pointed to a corner. The Father of the Novas scampered off, like a kid sent to the baby table.
Soon, other High Lords arrived—Eden's allies, the Archivist, the head of the Astronomican, and the Speaker of the Astropaths.
Then came Corwin, Grand Master of the Grey Knights—which actually surprised Eden.
"Any questions?" he asked the group, noticing the strange looks they were giving him.
Were they doubting his place in the chair?
They glanced from Eden... to the three massive Redemption Titans looming behind his throne.
And said nothing.
He was sitting in the Emperor's seat. Blatantly.
But what could they do? Tell him to move?
Especially with the face of the Savior, formed from thousands of voidships, staring down at them from orbit?
Yeah. No one was saying a damn thing.
Finally, Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Regent, arrived.
He saw where Eden was sitting... and frowned.
"Brother Eden... that seat..."
He was clearly thinking about how to gently get him off it.
"Lord Regent!"
Eden leapt up to greet him with excessive cheer.
He'd already planned this—he would be Senate Leader, Guilliman would remain Lord Regent, and together they'd push reforms.
Guilliman didn't even want to rule Terra anyway—he had his Webway to fix.
Let Eden place his people, seize power, and get on with it.
In this world, face and titles mattered.
"Come, come—Lord Regent, have a seat!"
Eden dragged Guilliman toward the throne.
"No need," Guilliman resisted. "I'll sit beside it."
He didn't dare.
He wasn't Emperor. The Emperor wasn't dead. His will remained.
He still remembered how Father punished disobedient Primarchs.
Like when Lorgar was forced to kneel in shame before Father, Guilliman, and their warriors.
That humiliation was seared into memory.
To sit in the Emperor's seat?
That would be a death sentence.
"Oh, don't be shy! We're family!"
Eden assumed Guilliman was just being polite—maybe Terra had some custom about refusing three times?
So he did what every relative does during holiday visits:
Shoved him into the chair.
Now he was satisfied.
Then—
RUMBLE.
From deep within the Imperial Palace, the Golden Throne roared.
A pulse of psychic might swept out—reaching even the ancient Senate halls.
"Oh crap... the Emperor's waking up..."
Eden muttered, brows furrowed.
"Was it the Titan-quake...? Hope he's not mad..."
That lingering will... scanned the changes on Terra.
It paused over the Senate.
And there, sitting in the Emperor's seat—
Guilliman broke into a cold sweat.
(End of Chapter)
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