Imperium Ascendant

Book II: The Great Crusade

Chapter Twenty-Two: Rising from the Ashes

Location: Proxima System, Centauri Cluster

Date: 884.M30

Using prearranged Vox codes, the frigate signaled the system. Soon a flight of warships fell in alongside the craft, escorting the Imperial delegation to Proxima. Iskandar entertained himself with intercepted transmissions between the fleets. The Proximan fleet had almost opened fire at their arrival, unable to believe that the kilometer long vessel was a "mere" frigate and not the first arrival of an invasion force. The Proximan escorts were marginally bigger and categorized by them as Grand Cruisers.

Soon Proxima came into view. To the Emperor's surprise, it little resembled the planet within his gifted memories. Instead of the greens, browns, and blues common to countless worlds this Proxima was a technicolor masterpiece. Rolling fields of crimson grasses dueled violet canopies, crisscrossed with razor straight lines of obsidian roads interlinking shining cities. Its oceans were a startling blue and flecked with bioluminescent schools of sea life large enough to be seen from orbit.

The influence affecting the Centauri Cluster went beyond reshaping civilization, it twisted the nature of Proxima as well. The Emperor peered into the Warp, hunting for traces of Chaos. Curiously, the gods attention seemed absent across the system, like something diverted their leering malice away. Warpcraft was not uncommon though. Spiritual flashes and sparks of psykers drawing from the Warp filled the crystal cities, creating an ever shifting pattern in the Warp. The eclectic show distorted foresight and other higher psychic arts making the Emperor muse that this was most likely the reason Chaos Gods ignored the strange system.

Once in orbit over the Proximan Capital teleportation became possible. Using beamed coordinates the diplomatic party rode a column of warp-lighting into a grand plaza. The city awaiting them was curiously beautiful. Crystal spires weaved together in a heavenward lance. It strangely reminded the Emperor of the rancid Acrologies known as hives. As if the same concept of stacking city upon city had been done in a more natural way.

The Plaza they arrived in was nearly a kilometer in diameter, enclosed in a glass bubble and burrowed into the spires side. As the blaze of Teleportation faded the chamber was illuminated by the Emperor. His golden light refracted across the chamber, creating a shimmering rainbow that washed over the thousands gathered. All but the strongest wills among the assembled delegates and leaders fell to their knees. The blinding light of Atham the Revelator struck them with awe like so many before.

Scanning the chamber Iskandar noted the clothes and ornaments favored by Proximan elite. Intricate and flamboyant costumes, each competing with each other. Some had such elaborate outfits they could not kneel properly Leaving the Emperor-shocked dignitaries dangling from their garments as their muscles gave out. Smiling to himself Iskandar felt the filled plaza resembled some crossbreed of avian mating display and flower garden, such was its ridiculousness.

As the Proximans recovered the Emperor addressed the assembly. His psychic might combining with eloquent words to weave a compelling argument for unity. Iskandar watched the hearts and minds around them slowly but surely bend to the Emperor's will. The Master of Mankind promised a beautiful future, one where mankind rose above this universes horrors. Where technology, art, culture and commerce could restart. An age where humanity ruled the stars and feared nothing. All the Emperor asked of Proxima was for its people to grow up. Surrender the worship and myths of old. Become what mankind could always be. The Many-Colored King may have protected them and earned their devotion, but it was time to move past such things. Worshipping something just because it is powerful is foolish. Respect your betters protect your lessers. Embrace your humanity and walk the shining path.

The message cascaded through the officials minds and awoke something in them. A new hope and a surprising sense of trust in this regal arrival. The idea that a speech could have such an effect seems laughable to some. This of course was the world where faith in the Many-Colored King started. Farthest from the clusters edges and the most conservative system. Simple words should have done little to sway the Proximans. What coaxed them into the Emperors light was who the message came from. Nearly 40,000 years of human souls, legends, and history lived within the Emperor. To be in his presence and hear his words is to have the collective will of our species press upon your mind. How can any but the mad, corrupt or truly foolish argue with a Star born of a million million souls?

Shakely a single Proximan man arose from the kneeling crowd. His robes were woven crystals, forming a plain form that reflected light in countless beautiful ways. They marked him as a High-Priest to the Many-Colored King. The Old Man softly addressed the Emperor: "O'King of Ancient Terra, thy words speak with cruel truths and sweet promises. You ask us to cast aside our faith and god. You offer us a new path forward, but how can we trust you? The Many-Colored King has faced many false-kings and fiends. I challenge you to walk the path of pilgrimage and face his Prophet. Prove to us we need not worship a Many-Colored King but follow a Golden King."

The Custodes bristled at the challenge and Valdor reflexively shifted his stance. With a gesture the Emperor ordered them to stand down and approached the elderly High-Priest. The Master of Mankind was eye level with his challenger and towered over him simultaneously. Placing an armored gauntlet of carved gold and light upon the Sages shoulder he plucked knowledge from the Priest and spoke: "High-Priest Stanislav of Proxima, your words are wise and true. Mankind must be careful and strong. I will earn your loyalty and prove the Imperium is the best path to Ascension."

At the direction of their hosts, the Imperial party left the grand plaza and started the pilgrimage. The top section of the Spire-City was in fact nearly hollow, a thin layer of institutes encrusted over a gaping hole that held the floating temple of the Many-Colored King. The temple was shaped like a massive human heart of crystal, as its colors constantly shifted due to mirror-gathered light refracted by its strange material. Great strands of gem-muscle were peeled away, forming grisly bridges that connected the Temple and surrounding spire. The pilgrimage into the glass cathedral started with crossing the muscle strand bridges.

With the Emperor and Iskandar at their head, the Imperials started the journey. The strand-bridges were roughly semi-circular in dimension, the path forming the trough and murals decorating the walls on either side. The inscriptions flowed together, forming a story told with each step forward. A story of how Proxima suffered when Mankind fought its children of metal, who were only finally defeated as Warp-Speakers were born along with the fourth Hell-Monarch. Proxima suffered as Old Night descended and the colors of life faded. All was lost and the world begged for salvation. That salvation came in the form of the Kaleidoscope Nights, when the Many-Colored King sent his Angels and spirits to return the color and protect Proxima. They taught secrets of Warp-Craft, culture and beauty, saving the people from darkness and elevating a prophet with divine wisdom. The Many-Colored King demanded worship and tribute to his Angels in order to protect Proxima. His prophet and spectral servants conveying his will in his absence.

It felt eerily similar to the Imperium of the 41st Millenium to the Emperor, a culture of worship and tribute in exchange for protection, keeping humans docile and weak so they were happy to serve whomever ever had the biggest gun. This entire system, no, the entire star cluster was some twisted parody of that possible future. The psychic power coursing through the spire distorted the Emperor's sight, making his mind, foresight and upper senses hazy. A weapon designed to interfere with Gods muddled his perception. That fact worried the Master of Mankind on many levels.

The bridge soon melted into the Temple, leaving a cut in its side for them to enter. A great drum echoed from within, a solemn beat mimicking the human heart. Entering the temple, the beat grew louder and louder, forcing the transhuman warriors to protect their ears and stabilize against vibrational damage. Matching where an atrium would lie in a human body, the chamber was filled with hundreds of worshipping monks, each looked sick and bent in someway. Dried blood covered the ears of some and a few might have even been corpses, crushed to death under the heartbeat that resonated around them.

All the monks sat bowed at the chambers far end, where they could watch the rippling energy of the titanic heartbeats originate. Curved inward slightly, the far wall formed an alter of sorts, where the mighty pulse ripped out from the wall's center. Incense and ritual apparatus cluttered the space around the altar, and half a dozen elderly priests kneeled before it, raw faith keeping their bodies functioning. The mighty footfalls of several hundred power-armored giants went unnoticed as the Imperial approached the altar. Great statues of stone and glass dotted alcoves around the room, all in poses of supplication facing the altar. The chambers walls curved inward and up, forming a tapered peak capping the chamber which pulsed with the heartbeat. Custodes and Astartes took positions as Father and son moved to the Altar.

A massive mural was carved into the chamber wall. Runes of power and circuits of psychic energy etched into glowing crystal. All originating from the same place of the heart-beat. A small hermit-hole was carved into the gem-flesh, barely large enough to fit a small human it held a curious statue. Inside, a diminutive figure was connected to the temple by glowing tubes, coursing with power. This was the temples focus, plugged into the psychic-structure and worshipped by billions. The Many-Colored King's Prophet. Ornately carved with ritual garments, a thick layer of dust lay on the statue.

The statue twitched and clumps of dust fell to the floor. It twitched again, convulsing as it struggled to move. Atrophied muscle forced itself to work and deathly lean arms rose up and fumbled with its head dress. The prophet was no relic or statue, it was a human. Muscle spasms disturbed dust from long dorment flesh. Milky-white eyes flickered open and peered blindly. The Prophet was a little girl, fused into the temple for centuries and living a waking dream of prayer and meditation.

This was abhorrent. She was an innocent bound and broken, mutilated by forces outside her understanding into a psychic tool. She had been locked away from life and time as an object of worship and preserved by arcane technology. All things bitterly familiar to the Emperor. In a voice cracked by ages, the prophet whispered a question: "Are you the Golden One?"

The Emperor came to one knee and reached out to the girl, his form shifting from armored giant to robed sage. Meeting her blind eyes, he softly and gently answered: "I am my child, why are you here little one?"

Cocking her head slightly she observed the brilliant psychic aura of the Emperor. He was just like the Many-Colored King had described. At last, her sacred duty would be at an end. Forcing her dessicated vocal cords to work, she answered the Master of Mankind: "My god tasked me with delivering a message and a gift. The message is "The difference between gods and daemons largely depends upon where one is standing at the time". The gift he gives you is a word."

In that moment, the psychic pulse echoed louder from the prophet, rippling through the crystal heart and illuminating a mural hidden at the back of her alcove. The mural was of a laughing face, half black, half white, surrounded by a spiders web. A sigil ancient beyond measure, left as a calling card by the Many-Colored King. It was a final punchline to reveal his identity to the Emperor. Cegorach, the Laughing God was at work across Proxima.

Dawning horror filled the Emperor as the child prophet opened her mouth, stretching it in ways not meant for human flesh to be moved. Vocal cords and facial muscles were flooded with arcane power as the Heart-Temple fulfilled its purpose in preserving and preparing the prophet, allowing her to give the Emperor of Mankind a gift. In a voice that defied the material universe, the Prophet of Proxima spoke the tongue of the Old Ones. She proclaimed a terrible command, and the universe obeyed.

"DEATH"

Enuncia is the first language. Once, it was like any other, a method of conveying meaning between beings and spoken by the first sentients to touch the Warp. As these first-born dived into the Sea of Souls and mastered it, they encountered the Wellspring, the place where everything and anything originates from. Secrets were uncovered and the first attempt to master the Immaterium occured. Drinking from the Well of Eternity, the Old Ones gained a power beyond comprehension. They gained the power to impose their will on the cosmos, to dominate and enforce their sanity and will upon the sea of souls.

Whereas their successors anointed singular beings to master and bridge the surface and deeps, the Old Ones bound the power of God-Calling to their language. Enuncia is the Old Ones God-Caller and the very first instance of the Anathema. It was a language that can overwrite reality. A word spoken in it becomes real and powerful beyond compare. Those with the strength and knowledge can wield it, but at a terrible price. Every use was dangerous to the user, for it called upon the universe itself and forcing it to change. The more powerful and complex the order, the greater the price. The Old Ones would burn out entire bodies and lifespans singing songs of creation and destruction to alter existence.

Cegorach had turned a human child into his prophet and weapon, teaching her a single word of Enuncia. He taught her the most powerful and feared single utterance in the God-Language, the word for Death/End/Doom/Extinction/Erase/Delete. The prophet should not have survived such knowledge, her body and mind crushed under the universes mechanisms. This was the purpose of this temple and religion; to keep the prophet alive and working, containing that Word until she could play her part.

The Emperor of Mankind moved at speeds that defied physics and reason, arcane knowledge and incalculable warp power racing against what was about to occur. For all his ability and skill, it was not enough. The moment the Prophet's mouth spat forth that impossible word, death struck. Enuncia speaks to the universe, and the universe answers. The Prophet said the Emperor was dead, and the cosmos rewrote itself to signify that truth. Existence itself started to shift, erasing the Master of Mankind.

Atham felt it, a great swell of space/time. His very molecules started to fade, individual atoms melting into nothingness. When he was born, the Emperor had been etched into the Warp. His very existence burned into the universe. Those long dead Shamans and their immaterial allies had touched the Well of Eternity and embedded its power into mankind, birthing a God-Caller who could call upon the power of both realms enforce mankind's sanity upon both. The body born in ancient Anatolia held this power and guided humanity. Now that vessel of flesh and light was being destroyed.

Horror filled Iskandar as he watched chunks of his father's flesh and armor dissolve into the void. Both Primarch and Captain General charged to protect the Emperor. Iskandar was faster and reached out to seize the rapidly dissolving Anathema. One moment his arm was coated in byzintine purple armor and touching the Emperor's shoulder, the next it was gone. Iskandar screamed in horror as a bloody stump nearly reaching his shoulder appeared. Nearly half the Emperor's body and Iskandar's arm was gone, leaving gaping wounds that grew with each second. Frantically the Emperor swung his remaining hand and with a wave of telekinetic force pushed his son and his bodyguard away, protecting them both from doom.

Grasping at air and flickering with warpfire, the Emperor looked into Iskandar's eyes. The Emperor had been fast enough, his son had only lost an arm. Desperately, he conveyed what might be his last piece of wisdom before he vanished. "Iskandar, my son, you are not a Serpent. You are a phoenix. A phoenix, Iskandar! Rise, rise from the ashes!"

With those frantic words, a blast of golden light erupted from the Emperor's wounds. The Master of Mankind was fighting for his life. Cegorach had caught him by surprise and used an impossible weapon. Why the damnable clown-god would do this would be discovered. For now, Atham simply struggled to survive. Golden power encircled his flesh and halted the advancing erasure. Such a curse could ruin the Emperor's flesh, but not his soul or mind. Such a thing was powerful beyond reason, branded into the universe just as Enuncia was. The Emperor could survive without a body, but such a fate would be worse than death. Unanchored in the Materium, he could become something far greater and more terrible.

Such a fate would not stand. The Emperor carried a million years of human history. He would not allow himself to become like the God-Emperor or worse. Eununcia was a form of God-Calling, gone diluted and feral without its original masters. The Emperor was not hampered by such things. The full might of humanity was his. With herculean effort, the Emperor pushed against the tide of restructuring reality. Space/time itself worked to erase his body, but such petty things would not stop him. With enormous willpower, Atham the Revelation fought for each individual molecule, enforcing his will on the universe itself and keeping atomic bonds together through sheer strength.

As the Emperor struggled to preserve and rebuild his flesh, the temple around the Imperial party cracked. Iskandar frantically looked around, watching the crystal heart shatter before them. A black burn mark covering the Altar wall was all that remained of the Prophet. Her body and soul were reduced to nothing, leaving a stain that perfectly formed the sigil of Cegorach. The monks had also been killed, bodies simply ceasing to function as the Enuncian curse started. A thing of such total death was too much for an unaugmented human mind and body. Even when not focused on them, the shockwaves snuffed the life from the monks. Astartes and Custodes are made of sterner stuff. It rattled, but not hurt Mankind's defenders.

The Primarch centered himself and closed his wound, biomancy squeezing arteries shut and dulling his screaming nerves. Disoriented and scared, Iskandar unsheathed his sword and collected himself. Valdor was ahead of him, quickly giving commands to the Companions. A squad of Custodes lifted the Emperor's body between them on a litter of shields. They would escape this world and return to the Bucephalus. There, the Emperor could heal.

Valdor shouted orders and Voxed the frigate to teleport them offworld, but the psychic interference was too great. The temple's collapse and the Emperor's struggles thrashed through the Warp and made it to where another method into orbit was required. Iskandar sent some of his sons to scout ahead, clearing the path for the Custodes. A slight motion caught the Primarchs eye and he spun face it, blade in remaining hand. One of the monks had stood up, a sharp hunk of fractured crystal grasped in its hand. Faster than any human should be able to move, the monk lept at Iskandar moving with inhuman grace and poise. Atom-sharp adamantium cleaved the monk's head from his shoulders. Iskandar had lashed out with his uru-blade. Crippled and shaken, he was still the greatest duelist the Imperium possessed.

Before any questions could be asked, other monks rose, their motions like that of marionettes being pulled on their strings. They were dead, that was certain. No life or soul filled them, only warp-craft. Dead flesh and bone tore itself apart as the monks attacked the Imperials with flexibility and power beyond the basic human form. Astartes and Custodes parried the dancing corpses and quickly hacked them to pieces, watching as the bodies danced the dance of death, even as it tore them apart. Some alien force puppetered them to fight in ways impossible to mankind.

Just as the last monk fell to a Guardian Spear strike, the next part of the performance started. A puppet show was starting and its puppeteers had finished warming up. Iridescent light ignited within the Temple statues. The hidden guardians alcoves came to life and showed their nature. These were Aeldari Soul-Dolls, Wraithbone constructs animated by the scraps of souls.

The Laughing God once had thousands of cults in his name, each worshiping in serving in their own unique ways. Those who survived the fall tucked away in the Black Library had been reborn as the Harlequins. Yet only a fragment of Cegorach's followers are known to the galaxy at large. Only some of his chosen traveled with his troupes. Others plied more secret or hidden crafts. One of these performer priesthoods is the Maerion-Tur: Cegorach's Puppet Masters. They were powerful psykers who could fracture their soul and consciousness into dozens, or even hundreds of pieces, allowing for control and perfect coordination of small armies of Soul-Dolls.

Now, these elusive children of Cegorach performed for Mankind's Anathema. Dozens of Soul-Dolls, each matching an Aspect Warrior in talent attacked. Custodes threw themselves between the homunculin tools and their master. Adamantium blades clashing with Wraithbone claws. Annoyance lanced through Iskandar, they did not have time for such things. His father suffered to protect him. These filthy Xenos would pay, but for now they had to get into orbit. Focusing his mind and body, Iskandar went to war.

Superhuman muscles pushing into overdrive, the Primarch leapt at the nearest Soul-Doll. His Uru-Blade got to work, its form shifting from whip, rapier, and saber as needed. The Primarch's weapon was a thing of genius. Memory alloys, Adamantium, and archeotech weaved together into a shape-changing blade. Its length, rigidity, and shape were subject to its wielder's skill, only limited by its size and wielders imagination. Even the most skilled Astartes would find such a weapon daunting in its complexity. Iskandar used it as an extension of his flesh.

Storms of razor-metal tore through the Soul-Doll. Before it's lacerations fully opened, Iskandar had moved to the next, and then the next. A trail of sonic-booms followed the Primarchs as he accelerated around the chamber, cutting through all fifty two Soul-Dolls in the time it took the shards from the first struck to hit the floor. In that moment of incredible violence, a flicker of surprise crossed Valdor's face as he realized what had happened. This is what a Primarch is capable of.

Exiting the Temple, the Imperials looked like a heavily armed funeral procession. Hundreds of warriors crossed the crystal bridge with the Emperor born upon his companion's shields. Such a resemblance crossed Iskandar's mind and was quickly thrown away, fear had no place in his heart now. Small packs of flesh-puppets crossed from the bridge. Composed of fallen priests and wraithbone puppets. they sought to attack the Imperials. Primarch and Honor Guard led the procession and tore through all in their way, racing the collapsing temple as massive sheets of crystal fell off its deteriorating bulk. Hundreds fell to the fury of the pursuing horde as they butchered through the outer temple and into the city proper.

Bursting free into the open air, they were greeted with a massive flash of light and sound. The Imperial Frigate had exploded in orbit, reduced to ash and scrap raining across the sky. The Emperor and his guards were stranded. As this knowledge was digested and before a new plan could be formulated, two events occurred. First, dozens of shimmering Aeldari craft flickered into being around the spire. Holofields faded as the gaudily painted ships flitted around like birds of prey. Iskandar could sense the alien intelligences within each, watching him with perfidious mirth. The second event was a great roar, like the ignition of some far off engine. Growing louder with each second, it soon became clear what the origin was.

The Enuncian aftershocks had echoed from the temple and across Proxima. The entire hive had died and rose again. A billion puppeteered corpses stampeded towards them, guided by the Laughing God's servants. The Show had just begun.

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