Zzzzt!
Just as Eden finished speaking, the signal from the communication device worsened, sparking with psychic energy.
Although the communication technology in the Savior's territory was more advanced than that of the Imperium, capable of using psy-tech machines to transmit signals without sacrificing the lives of Astropaths, communication between realspace and the Warp was still exceptionally difficult.
In midair, the half-projection of Guilliman flickered more and more, growing fuzzy under the interference.
He appeared somewhat anxious, his mouth opening and closing as if shouting something:
"Ro...BB...BBB...Baal!"
Just as the Lord Regent managed to utter these words, the signal abruptly cut out, the projection dissipating.
"Sigh, the communications department really needs to up their game..."
Eden gazed at the now-silent communication device, a hint of dissatisfaction in his expression.
The galaxy was vast, and communications were vitally important. The Savior's realm had invested immense resources and manpower into building a communications network. Yet, the current results were still underwhelming.
He immediately contacted the department head, issuing a stern reprimand and follow-up orders:
"From now on, your budget and staffing will be doubled. Get the signal issue resolved quickly, or be prepared to face the grand council for a public self-criticism session!"
The Savior's way of handling problems was always so simple and crude: throw money and manpower at it.
In addition to the core research teams of the Savior's realm, various outsourced teams from the Mechanicum Forums were also engaged to work together on the project.
In short, it was a matter of pouring in excessive resources to buy time.
"Old Gui... so is he coming or not?"
Eden frowned, waved the communications machine away, then took a sip of champagne with a grimace:
"Hah... whatever. At least old Gui is still alive and kicking. Looks like he's doing okay, just a bit tired."
In any case, being able to contact him was a good sign.
If old Gui did make it over, Eden would have a deluxe hydrotherapy and spa package prepared for him to recover and recharge.
It was important to get some rest.
At this moment, the vibrating pressure from the foot massage machine had stopped, and the intense kneading pain dissipated.
"Phew, that feels good."
Eden let out a sigh of relief, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and stretched his body leisurely. His muscular form rippled beneath his skin, his lower body wrapped in a towel.
From beyond the door, the occasional tremors and crashes echoed. Occasionally, screams of agony rang out, mixed with some familiar voices.
Like Dante's muffled yet oddly satisfied groans, Tyberos' gruff bellows, and the occasional pained cries from the Lord Commander of the Custodians.
Eden pushed open the door to his private suite and stepped into the massage hall.
There, numerous high-profile figures of the Imperium reclined on alloy chairs—Chapter Masters, Custodians, and legendary heroes—receiving massage therapy under the Savior's arrangement.
These massage machines, powered by Knight-class plasma reactors, delivered crushing force. The sessions, including foot massages, full-body treatments, and ultra-intense fascia scraping, could make even the toughest warriors howl in pain.
Of course, it wasn't just about the massage. Expensive medicinal oils and electrical stimulation complemented the therapy.
The combination effectively relieved muscle tension, healed injuries, and provided complete physical and mental relaxation.
This massage therapy philosophy, pioneered by the Savior himself, had thoroughly conquered these Imperial legends.
"Dante, how's this treatment working for you?"
Eden approached the Blood Angels Chapter Master, giving him a light pat on the shoulder and inquiring about his experience.
"By the Emperor, I've never felt so relaxed in my life..."
The veteran's once-dim eyes sparkled, his body flexing with newfound ease, overwhelmed by a sense of bliss.
In that moment, Dante felt the whole world brighten. Even the constant thought of seeking out Sanguinius had faded.
"By the Emperor, the Savior sure knows how to live... I need to stick by his side more often..."
He mused to himself, already looking forward to future relaxation sessions.
This Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, while not officially retired, was close enough. He had handed over major responsibilities to Captain Karlean, leaving himself free to wander alongside the Savior, practically a professional entourage.
His main duties were now slacking off and occasionally swinging a sword.
"I must step away from heavy responsibilities. Following the Savior will help me better serve the Imperium and provide greater opportunities for the Blood Angels to grow!"
Not long ago, during the Crimson Conclave, Dante had sat upon the Red Crystal Throne, righteously declaring this to the chief librarians, captains, and Sanguinary Priests.
He had proposed transferring leadership duties and dedicating himself fully to following the Savior.
No one in the Blood Angels objected. They all clearly sensed the Savior's overwhelming power and wealth.
Having Dante follow the Savior would undoubtedly bring greater benefits to the Blood Angels, and they wouldn't have to constantly push this veteran, who often pined for the Great Angel, to keep working.
Besides, during his time with the Savior, Dante had already secured numerous benefits for the Chapter: full-scale upgrades to Dreadnoughts, gene-seed samples, and limited access to the Webway.
These were tangible gains, seen and acknowledged by all.
So, the Blood Angels unanimously supported Dante's proposal.
Now, wherever the Savior went, Dante followed—living the dream of carefree retirement.
And he soon realized that the Savior himself was an even bigger slacker...
Normally, managing a territory, especially on the scale of the Savior's realm, was no small feat. Even overseeing just a single system like Baal required tireless work, constant vigilance against xenos and Chaos, with the ever-present threat of catastrophic losses or even death.
Throughout the Imperium, from the High Lords down to planetary governors, everyone toiled endlessly, daring not to let their guard down.
Yet, from what Dante observed, the Savior's daily routine went something like this:
Wake up naturally in the morning, around 9 AM. Skim some briefs over breakfast.
Around 10 AM, begin "work" for two hours. This mostly involved aimless browsing of documents, often while playing some game on the cogitator system—an amusement developed by a data-savant.
He'd frequently use the excuse of "deep thought" to wander into the sanctum gardens, but he was mostly just daydreaming.
After two hours, it was lunchtime.
The Savior would dine with the warriors, then take an hour-long nap—a rare habit in the Imperium.
Dante had adopted this nap routine himself and found it quite pleasant.
After waking, it'd already be afternoon.
At this point, the Savior might return to his office to repeat the morning's routine or head out for "inspections"—which often meant strolling through scenic gardens or tourist sites.
These "inspections" included a traditional afternoon tea.
Upon returning, it'd nearly be evening.
The Savior would then host a grand banquet, meeting with various department heads and nobles from his realm, as scheduled.
Once the banquet ended, it'd be time for rest.
He would cease all non-urgent business, meditate, and sleep, ready to repeat the process the next day.
Or, on occasion, he'd declare a rest day and organize special activities—like today's grand "all-natural wellness" spa session for the Imperium's legendary warriors in his private bathhouse.
As for more... risqué or heretical entertainments, he dared not attempt them, lest Slaanesh get involved.
Imagine the scene: the Savior, the Primarch, surrounded by Chapter Masters, Custodians, High Inquisitors, and senior Ecclesiarchy clergy, all engaged in... such activities.
If Slaanesh were to catch wind of that and launch a raid, the Imperium itself might well implode on the spot.
It'd become the most shameful chapter in Imperial history—an unmentionable taboo, with all records purged and incinerated eight hundred times over.
At this point, Dante's lofty view of the Savior had utterly crumbled.
He had thought his own slacking-off skills were unmatched, but compared to the Savior... he was nothing.
How could this man maintain order across his territories, nurture so much talent, and inspire such loyalty among his people?
It was a profound, incomprehensible mystery.
After all, Chaos corruption could infiltrate from any direction, and neglecting affairs of state usually led to internal decay and collapse.
Even the mighty Emperor had suffered from this.
Unable to make sense of it, Dante simply gave up trying. He was half-retired anyway, so why not just follow the Savior and enjoy life?
He'd fought wars his whole life—surely he deserved a little rest?
Now, this successor to Sanguinius spent his days following the Savior around, a bit like co-conspirators, really.
Eden had no objections to this and even welcomed it.
His officials and gene-sons were always too formal around him—Dante was much more fun to talk to.
Besides, it was important for Eden to maintain his connection to humanity to counteract his increasingly overwhelming godhood.
Otherwise, he might end up like the Emperor—isolated and deified beyond human reach.
Dante finished his massage session, stretched out, rubbed a special medicinal oil into his body, making his skin glisten with vitality.
Afterward, he casually grabbed a rare fruit from a platter and popped it into his mouth, savoring the sweet taste.
He looked forward eagerly and asked:
"Savior, what's next on the agenda?"
Eden handed him a glass of champagne and took a sip from his own, replying:
"You'll find out soon."
At that moment, pained screams echoed nearby.
Tyberos and Malachai were locked in a contest of endurance, daring each other to endure the massage machine's intensity.
These warriors—men, really—always found strange and ridiculous ways to challenge each other:
"If you can touch that leaf, you're the champ,"
"Bet you can't outlast me at this..."
Tyberos howled in agony, teeth clenched, slamming the button beside him:
"Damn it! Come on! Let's see if you can handle level five intensity, ahhhhh!"
Malachai, tears streaming down his face, refused to back down:
"By the Emperor, bring it on!"
The two of them screamed in torment under the punishing ministrations of the Knight-class plasma reactor-powered alloy massage machines—enough to make it sound like they were being tortured in a battlezone.
Eden, glass in hand, strolled toward another area.
The roaring here was even more intense—this was the domain of the super-alloy fascia-scraping machines!
Even Eden himself dared not try those lightly, but two warriors were currently enduring the experience: the Savior's strongest warrior, Thunder Custodian Commander Carter, and the new Lord Commander of the Custodians, Lycias.
These two had an unspoken rivalry, neither willing to admit defeat.
Occasionally, Lycias would let out a muffled groan of pain, while Carter remained utterly silent.
Eden could see the alloy chairs beneath them had started to warp and dent.
These marks were squeezed into the metal by sheer force as they endured the excruciating pain.
"Damn... Carter's got guts. He hasn't even made a sound."
Eden couldn't help but sigh. Carter was tough, but his physique still lagged behind Lycias's by quite a margin.
As he walked over, he saw Carter biting his lips until they bled, passing out, regaining consciousness, and about to pass out again. Eden fell silent.
He sighed deeply, patted the warrior on the shoulder, and spoke:
"Carter, this isn't a battlefield. There's no need to go all out like this. We're just relaxing here…"
"Savior, I'm fine! Please… let me hold on a little longer!"
This stubborn old warrior, always the one getting the roughest treatment, answered respectfully. But when he glanced at Lycias, his eyes still burned with fierce determination—he wasn't backing down.
Eden realized things were getting out of hand. At this rate, the two of them would end up in the medbay.
So he simply announced that the massage session was over.
Everyone would now proceed to the next event—the sauna.
Of course, standard steam wouldn't do much for warriors of their caliber. So the sauna chambers were connected to the ship's plasma engines for an extreme high-temperature experience.
Yet the moment Eden made the announcement, many warriors exchanged challenging looks, eager for the next contest.
The intense gaze between Carter and Lycias practically sparked with fire.
Seeing Carter and Lycias walk into the same sauna chamber, Eden immediately decided he'd pick a different one—there was no way he'd share the same space with those two maniacs.
It was going to get rough in there.
Soon enough, Tyberos, Malachai, and several others also entered that chamber.
Eden could only give them a sympathetic look. It wasn't the right time to pull them out—otherwise, they might think he was looking down on them.
He turned to Dante:
"Let's head to a different sauna room…"
The two of them—true slackers—weren't cut out for that level of intensity.
Before leaving, Eden also reminded the medical team to stay on high alert. There'd likely be quite a few warriors carried out afterward.
Thankfully, there wasn't much to worry about.
After all, the Savior's realm had Panacea Elixirs—as long as there was even a sliver of breath or a trace of soul left, they could bring someone back from the brink.
Several hours later...
The medical team, clad in sealed defensive armor, charged into the sauna chamber to carry out Tyberos and the others.
Once Carter and Lycias both collapsed, the Savior's grand leisure event finally came to an end...
...
Nightfall.
On the balcony of the Crimson Hall.
Eden stepped away from the banquet to get some fresh air.
Above the orbital space, starships steadily approached Baal Secundus, preparing for tomorrow's victory parade.
Baal itself was ablaze with lights. From Adeptus Astartes to officials, nobles, merchants, and civilians alike, all were immersed in the festive atmosphere, eagerly awaiting the grand occasion.
For at midnight, the first ceremonial event of the victory celebration would begin.
Dante approached, concern evident in his voice:
"Savior, do you think the Lord Regent will make it?"
As the master of Baal, he too hoped that humanity's leader—the Imperial Regent—would arrive to attend the festivities.
Such an event would forever mark Baal's history with sanctity and significance.
Eden frowned slightly:
"The Lord Regent said in the last transmission that he would come… I guess he'll make it in time…"
Truthfully, he wasn't too confident.
Old Gui's tendency to be late was practically a law of the universe by now.
It seemed that the more important the occasion, the more intense the battle, the higher the chances of him being delayed by some unforeseen obstacle.
There were countless examples of this.
During the Horus Heresy, Guilliman had planned to lead a relief force to Terra, but Warp storms severed the connection between Ultramar and the Imperium, preventing him from setting out.
Faced with that, he assumed the worst: that the Emperor and the Imperium had fallen, and that he must shoulder the responsibility.
Thus, he established the so-called Second Imperium—a provisional government—while repeatedly insisting that he was loyal and refused to become its ruler.
In that tangled situation, both Guilliman and the Lion thought the other unfit to lead the new order.
They pushed the responsibility onto Sanguinius, making him the de facto Regent of the Second Imperium.
But as the three of them scrambled to build this new government, news suddenly arrived: the Imperium hadn't fallen, and the Emperor was still seated on the Golden Throne, waiting for their help!
They were dumbfounded.
Especially Sanguinius, who had just been crowned as the Regent of the Second Imperium, which now looked like a blatant act of rebellion.
So the Great Angel bolted—fast.
The freshly formed Second Imperium collapsed almost immediately.
Guilliman's decision to establish the Second Imperium not only achieved nothing, it effectively counted as another rebellion and wasted precious time that could have been spent aiding Terra.
After realizing the blunder, Guilliman launched an all-out effort to reach Terra, mustering 100,000 Ultramarines and over 3,000 capital ships in a desperate attempt to break through the Traitor lines.
He roared toward the Throneworld like a man possessed.
Yet even then, he was caught in Horus's Warp trap, stranded in an endless no-man's-land.
He remained trapped there for an agonizingly long time—until after the Emperor had fallen.
Only then did he and his reinforcements arrive, far too late.
This bitter lesson drove Guilliman to push harder, leading the Great Scouring, purging traitors, and authoring the Codex Astartes, determined to rebuild the Imperium.
But the Imperium never got to see that resurgence, as this Ultramarines Primarch was gravely wounded in a one-sided, absurd duel and left comatose.
That nap lasted ten thousand years.
Now, the Imperium had finally seen the Lord Regent's return, and there was hope once more.
Even so, had Eden not intervened in the Baal campaign, following the original timeline, Guilliman would've only arrived after Baal was a mountain of corpses, barely in time to mop up the mess.
It was Eden who had turned the tide and saved Baal.
Based on these patterns, Eden estimated:
Old Gui would most likely show up at the last moment, probably just as the celebration started—or maybe when it was already over.
The timing seemed about right.
What else could be said?
Old Gui was the main character of the galaxy—the protagonist of the setting—always appearing at the last possible moment to save the day. That was the Imperium's style.
Eden ordered the reception staff to remain on high alert, ready to welcome the Lord Regent's arrival.
In truth, both Eden and many across the Imperium hoped that Guilliman, the Imperial Regent, would attend the victory celebration.
After the Great Rift, the Imperium had fallen deeper into decline, with countless territories consumed by the Dark Side, trapped in suffering and war.
The Imperium remained anxious, fearful, and exhausted, seemingly without hope of revival.
The Lord Regent's return had brought some hope, yes—but his Indomitus Crusade was slow-going, locked in brutal battles, and hadn't secured any victories worthy of a grand, Imperium-wide celebration.
The Imperium and humanity desperately needed a decisive victory to lift their spirits, to offer hope.
This Baal campaign had delivered exactly that: the annihilation of the monstrous Leviathan Hive Fleet, ending its thousand-year reign of terror against the Imperium—a victory of unprecedented proportions!
The news of the celebration was being broadcast across every reachable sector of the Imperium, allowing as many as possible to share in the joy.
Holy Terra itself, along with countless other worlds, would hold synchronized ceremonies.
With such a momentous occasion, the Lord Regent's appearance would undoubtedly boost morale even further.
Eden glanced at the time:
"Almost midnight. The ceremony is about to begin…"
This was the first event of the victory celebration: illuminating all of Baal, boldly proclaiming this triumph to the galaxy.
Even regions far from Baal would witness the spectacle.
It would draw countless eyes.
From Imperial worlds to xenos empires and the hordes of Chaos alike—all would bear witness to this celebration.
It was humanity's declaration to the stars, a shot of adrenaline to its veins.
A message to all:
Humanity has not succumbed to Chaos or xenos.
Humanity fights back—and wins.
Humanity's hope endures, and it will flourish once more!
Eden felt the surge of psychic power. Looking up toward the holy spire, he saw the psykers and Librarians channeling their energy into the tower.
In an instant, the energy reached its peak.
BOOM—
A brilliant, golden, sacred light shot into the heavens, piercing the void.
This divine radiance bathed all of Baal in white light, transforming it into a beacon among the stars.
Pious believers fell to their knees beneath this light, praying in silence.
Others, filled with awe, gazed up at the radiance, eyes brimming with hope.
...
Baal System: Orbit
VMMM—
A massive fleet burst from the void like a band of weary travelers, their ships battered and scarred by battle.
They were a sorry sight.
This was the Indomitus Crusade Fleet, one of the most powerful forces in the Imperium.
Aboard the Macragge's Honour, on the command deck.
"All battlegroups, prepare for combat immediately!"
Guilliman's brow was tightly furrowed, anxiety gnawing at him.
But he suppressed his worries, ordering the fleet to establish a battle formation, ready for Tyranid attacks.
At the same time...
The Lord Regent's mind was racing—worrying over the Obscurus Sector campaign, fretting about other fronts in the war.
Worse yet, the Indomitus Crusade Fleet was stretched thin—dangerously so.
He had to calculate exactly how many forces he could afford to detach in support, down to the very ship. Every bit of strength mattered.
The sheer pressure, anxiety, and relentless calculations even made the transhuman mind of the Primarch feel a flicker of dizziness.
BOOM—
A colossal, continuous roar snapped the Lord Regent's focus.
Looking through the observation dome, he froze.
He saw salvo after salvo of firepower bombarding an empty patch of space, creating a dazzling cascade of colors.
Guilliman was stunned.
What... was this?
In reality, those were celebratory fireworks, launched by the fleet's guns.
Nearby, he saw the brilliantly glowing planet of Baal itself—and his confusion deepened.
That was... Baal?
Zzzzt zzzzt...
A cascade of message chimes filled the Macragge's Honour's comms.
The fleet's vox channels and Astropathic relays were suddenly flooded with transmissions from across the Imperium, all directed toward Baal.
The messages were the same everywhere:
"Holy Terra sends its congratulations. The Emperor's light shines! We celebrate the annihilation of the Tyranids at Baal."
"The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar send their congratulations—praise the Savior's victory!"
"High-ranking nobles and lords offer warm congratulations and blessings to the Savior…"
Similar messages poured in endlessly.
"Baal's war... is won?!"
Guilliman, hearing the flood of congratulations, felt utterly bewildered and disoriented.
The entire Imperium, even Ultramar, had already heard of Baal's victory and was celebrating it.
And he—the Master of Ultramar, the Imperial Regent—was the last to know...
"By the Emperor..."
Suddenly, his adjutant, Felix, let out a startled cry.
Following Felix's gaze, Guilliman's eyes widened, and a chill ran down his spine.
There, amid the stars, stood a figure—Eden, the Savior, the Primarch of Hope!
Countless points of light composed his awe-inspiring form, dominating a massive section of the star system.
No one could ignore it.
Those shimmering lights were countless warships, their formations dense enough to blot out the heavens.
It was the Savior's grand victory light show...
(End of Chapter)
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