Emperor's Bane

Chapter 933 The Burning Galaxy

This is a legendary era.

This is a century of bloodshed.

This is the second era of disintegration.

The hegemony of the old era perished, and the ancient dynasty that had been passed down for thousands of years collapsed overnight. With just three hungry groans, the prosperous world that no one dared to dream of was cut short, leaving only a desolate wasteland. However, on the day the old king died, the new king was already trapped in an iron cage, unable to extricate himself. Like the sun that had not yet risen, he died suddenly and the country was destroyed, leaving all nations without a ruler.

From beneath Heaven, unprecedented chaos and disorder descended upon the myriad star-studded world, marking the beginning of the Age of Conflict.

The crown of yesteryear has turned to ashes. There is no longer a ruler to govern the world, no longer a command to exercise power, and no longer a law to judge. The chaotic world is as precarious as a pile of eggs. Everyone is terrified and insecure, which has led to the rise of bandits and bloodshed in various countries. Thousands of races and their powerful kings have drawn their swords, intending to compete for supremacy, all for the sake of seizing the power to rule the world.

In the midst of chaos, a man in golden armor with dragon-like eyes, a heroic figure, rose to the summit of Terra, drew his sword, and commanded a fierce army. Heroes from all walks of life flocked to him, sweeping across the homeland of Terra. From then on, peace reigned near and far, and there were no bandits on the roads. He proclaimed himself the Lord of Mankind and the Emperor of the Galaxy.

With helmets covering thousands of miles and banners in hundreds of rows, the emperor's sword is wielded across the chaotic Milky Way, aiming to restore past glory and create an immortal legacy with his own strength. Thousands of fierce warriors sweep across the starry sea in his name, annihilating disobedient subjects. The cosmos is restored by the emperor's military might, and ferocious enemies perish under the blade of the original entity, finally bringing the people under unity. The nightmares of humanity are no longer present in the vast starry sea.

These two hundred years of glory were the Great Expedition.

At the end of his legendary deeds, the Lord of Mankind stood on the land of victory, Ulanor, summoned his legions of sons, and had his great achievements engraved on the Arch of Triumph. Finally, he reviewed the army, lavishly rewarded the meritorious officials, and appointed Horus, the chief of the Primarchs, as the War General who embodied the glory of all people. From then on, he wielded the whip and lashed the world in the name of the Emperor.

After that, a golden age of prosperity and peace prevailed. Humanity and its empire enjoyed fifty years of peace and glory. The Emperor lived in seclusion on Terra, detached from worldly affairs, while the Primarch and his ministers performed their duties to maintain its grand order.

However, all good things must come to an end. The human empire enjoyed fifty years of golden age, but the sharp blade of conspiracy was quietly lurking in the dream of peace.

The tyranny of Terra grows increasingly cruel, and countless worlds suffer from its oppressive rule. The hearts of the Primarchs grow ever more arrogant, viewing the Emperor's Lords as treacherous and sycophantic villains. Former brothers-in-arms are now like strangers, and numerous self-serving individuals emerge from the shadows, extinguishing the light of peace and reason in their maneuvering.

Eventually, the building collapsed.

The Warlord led his troops to Terra, only to return in disarray. His brutal actions had already torn away the veil of peace: the gates to the highest authority had been opened, and the breath of war had returned.

There can be no two suns in the sky. The unreserved hostility between Holy Terra and Konia pierced the crumbling bones of the two-headed eagle, and everything that followed was like a landslide and a tsunami, heading unstoppable toward destruction: Horus's ultimatum was not only delivered to the desks of the Terran high lords, but also to the hands of every Primarch prince.

This is both an invitation and a threat. The Warmasters have no shortage of banners, and the Holy Terra also has its own supporters. But even so, the direction of any Legion or Nation can still have a crucial impact on the entire galactic war: the power of the Primarchs depends on the masses under their rule, but the will of the Primarchs is above the masses under their rule.

Therefore, if only the dozen or so noblest names in the entire galaxy decide or tacitly approve of the arrival of war, then war will naturally come.

The fleet was assembled, the army issued a mobilization order, renowned generals and mortal legions reappeared on the armament list, Astartes warriors pushed open their deadly armories, blowing away fifty years of dust, a new generation of Imperial knights looked up at the long-lost letters on the table, and powerful Titan captains sat on their thrones to welcome the legionary guests who had come for them.

Beside the forges that forged the world, bishops whispered among themselves about the gains and losses of responding to the ancient covenant. In the dark and deep void, wandering merchants reverently touched the permits that flowed with holy blood. In the magnificent halls, planetary governors frowned, torn between Terra, Warlords, or other choices, hoping only that they would not be crushed into dust by these giants who had awakened from their slumber.

The factories, once established solely to defeat the enemies of the Great Expedition, roared once more. Brand-new armor and warships rolled off the assembly lines and from the docks. Countless sophisticated killing machines were recast into chess pieces, supporting their masters as they returned to the grand chessboard of the galaxy, seeking a share of the spoils in this unprecedented chaos.

No Primarch can refuse this game; they are drawn into it, either willingly or unwillingly, either siding with one side or remaining dangerously neutral.

But in any case, even the most oblivious person has realized what has happened.

Whether by design or by the cruel twist of fate, the struggle between Holy Terra and Konia has stripped the Lord of Man of his invincible purple robes. When the entire galaxy realizes that the monarch they served is gone, this nation that rose because of the Emperor will also perish because of the Emperor: the Lord of Man is the first and last emperor of his empire, and there will never be anyone else but him.

Perhaps he, like those mortals, believed that Terra's power was abundant and secure, but in reality, he left behind nothing more than an empire on shifting sands and a group of ambitious men who were well aware of it.

The collapse of the Empire was not a long ordeal, but a fleeting moment. As rumors of the Emperor's death spread across the skies of a million worlds, this unprecedented empire crumbled: the rulers of Terra and Konya stared intently at each other's thrones, refusing to yield, while the powerful Primarchs, wielding their strength, returned once more to this familiar chessboard.

But this time, they seem to have the opportunity to play a role they never imagined before.

They grew hands and feet, and possessed willpower. They no longer needed to obey orders from behind to move to the square in front or to the left or right. On the contrary, they found themselves looking down at the chessboard from above, holding in their hands expensive chips forged from life and trust. With just a gentle toss on the board, they could disrupt the stalemate painstakingly maintained by both sides in the blink of an eye.

They are no longer pawns.

They became chess players.

A freedom unlike any other, a dangerous ambition, began to quietly blossom in the dozen or so most powerful hearts in the entire galaxy. Whispers from the unspeakable abyss reached their ears, helping them recall fantasies that had once been considered mere jokes: perhaps, it was time to turn them into reality.

The most brilliant minds in the galaxy have once again turned their attention to the matter of war and slaughter, but this time, it is not for the Emperor and humanity, but solely for themselves.

The powerful Astartes Legion, fully armed, boarded their warships and set sail. But this time, they did not head towards an unknown future. Instead, they turned their guns towards a target they had never imagined before: a place where they had been willing to shed their blood and die fifty years ago.

Trade routes were cut off, checkpoints were set up, ambassadors were recalled and summoned for talks, and elite companies were rushed to the frontiers whose allegiance had not yet been decided. Borders that had never been truly demarcated in the past were clearly defined in just a few weeks by the most brutal means. Trench and fortress replaced lone sentries, and millions of troops were silently setting off for the front lines.

The stage has been set, the dice have been rolled, and the sharp edges pointed outwards have been redirected, all awaiting the day when bayonets clash: as the warlords and high lords count down the last few seconds of peace, on the distant other side, those powerful figures who can determine the course of war are also waiting for their own opportunity.

The gods are in the heavens, and heroes are in the wilderness.

The Emperor's fleet once measured the boundaries of the galaxy, the High Lords' decrees were enough to alter the sun's orbit, and the golden double-headed eagle once sheltered the greatest empire in human history, yet none of this could stop Horus from taking his simple yet resolute step toward Terra.

The Primarchs and Legions who once swore allegiance to the Emperor on Ulanor are now hindering and wary of each other, like crabs in a cage, trapped in their own delusions and tacit understandings, unwilling to wake up. They can only watch helplessly as the Wolf God becomes the spokesperson for all contradictions, sitting high above all cause and effect, acting recklessly.

No one knows in what direction the War General's actions will lead the entire galaxy.

But there's one thing they're well aware of.

But there's one thing they're ashamed to admit.

When the flag is raised.

The millennia-old dream of the Great Expedition has already vanished.

The calamity known as the "Second Era of Conflict" has finally descended upon humanity.

This time, however, no one is innocent.

------

The golden age has come to an end.

------

"Just as expected."

As soon as he finished speaking, Hector withdrew his broad hand from the wall in front of him.

This is no easy feat: these seemingly solid bricks maintain a strange stickiness, with virtually no scientific basis to support them. However, Hector discovered that if you place your palm on them for too long, you can feel something in the wall trying to bite your palm little by little, as if it possesses sentience.

At that point, it will take quite a bit of effort to pull your hand out again.

"How many times have we encountered these strangely sticky mesh walls?"

Hector rubbed his palms together vigorously, but still felt that there was something like dirt left in his palms. After several futile attempts, he gritted his teeth, took out the pendant that the Primarch had personally given him around his neck, faced the side that glowed with psionic energy towards his palm, and pressed it on: the effect was immediate, and in the blink of an eye, those annoying psionic residues disappeared without a trace.

"It should be the thirteenth time."

Company Commanders Davu and Dilmud watched Hector's operation in silence, and both agreed that their colleague was somewhat wasting his talent: although they themselves had done the same thing quite often in private.

"Thirteen times?"

Hector nodded.

"Speaking of which, every time we find one of these walls, is it always accompanied by [Wigbilach]?"

"If you put it that way, it does seem to be true."

Dawu stroked his chin, looking thoughtful.

“Bayar’s company has just discovered a new Wigbilach about 15 kilometers away.”

"He told me he looked thirty years younger."

"Thirty years old..."

Hector shook his head.

"We should have brought Marshall with us."

"That's true, what a pity."

Davout and Diarmuid nodded in agreement.

At this point, more than a month had passed since the Dawnbreakers had fully penetrated the Web Path. Even the slowest learner, Morgan's son, had gradually adapted to the rules of survival in this new world. He had also learned to calmly view some things in the Web Path that overturned their understanding and even defied the rules of physics.

The Wigbilach is one of the most representative examples. The Wigbilach refers to some very remote areas within the network, which ordinary people would never be able to set foot in without a special guide, extreme luck, or misfortune. If they do go in, they will find that the laws practiced in these areas are completely opposite to what they are used to.

In Wigbilachri, time stands still.

It could even be a step backward.

More than one Dawnbreaker warrior was surprised to find that their bodies and armor had returned to their previous state after wandering into these strange areas: two unlucky ones only discovered that the medals awarded to them by the Primarch were missing from their chests after being dragged out by their companions. It took Hector quite a bit of time to calm these irritable warriors down.

"Okay, let's label this area too."

Hector resealed his armor, then glanced at the “professional” cartographers he had brought: In fact, the Dawnbreaker Legion did not have a tradition of drawing and collecting maps. Although they had a vast geographical library to record the natural environment and customs of various star systems in Avalon, the most professional drawing club was always a niche hobby within the Second Legion.

Until the Primarch suddenly started to pay attention to them.

Seven or eight years ago, the Spider Queen used official power to establish and support a large number of interest groups within the Dawnbreakers by signing a personal decree from the Primarch. This was extremely rare in the history of the Legion, because the Lord of Avalon did not like to interfere in the daily lives of her offspring, and the Spider Queen never asked too much about how her sons spent their post-war time.

However, the Primarch's sudden change of course did not cause too much of a stir within the Second Legion. After Morgan personally endorsed these supported orders and clubs, a large number of Dawnbreakers naturally readjusted the proportion of their time in their daily lives: the professional military drafting order rose to prominence during that period, with more than 20,000 Dawnbreakers training at its peak.

Considering the size of the Second Army Corps at 160,000 men, this is already a rather exaggerated proportion.

It wasn't until the Web Expedition officially began that Hector and the other company commanders learned the intention behind their Mother Gene's support of the Military Cartography Order: although not all Dawnbreakers who had taken the drawing courses became fully trustworthy professional cartographers, the Spider Queen had still managed to accumulate a considerable number of cartographers through several years of last-minute cramming.

They possess extensive theoretical knowledge and a relatively rich amount of practical experience, and under the arrangement of the Primarch, they have a mature and operational system. But most importantly, these Astartes cartographers are absolutely honest and reliable. Although they may make unavoidable technical mistakes, there is no need to worry that they will subjectively delay important matters.

Therefore, when marching through the Webpaths, almost every Dawnbreaker squad was assigned a professional cartographer who did not undertake any extra work. Their only responsibility was to record in detail all the areas the Dawnbreaker Legion passed through during their Webpath expedition, marking out the most important forks and dead ends, and recording all the dangerous or strange areas.

However, in many cases, the strange situations in certain areas have exceeded the capabilities of these accelerated learners. In such cases, the lower-level cartographers will obediently report the situation and let the elites who follow Captains like Hector take over the work. If even these elites are helpless, it proves that the situation is so troublesome that it is enough to warrant the presence of the Primarch himself.

This is not a joke.

In fact, as a purely military march with almost no large-scale firefights, the Netpath Expedition suffered astonishingly high non-combat casualties: among the highest in Hector's previous experience.

Although the Dawnbreaker Legion doesn't lack numbers that are resolved without combat on ordinary days: there will always be people who want to grab some souvenirs after a battle, or who are just being cheeky and want to try some meat they've never seen before. These people usually end up in the Legion's medical room, where they leave with a profound lesson amidst their pig-like screams.

Contrary to popular belief, although the Dawnbreakers are known for their strong vitality and self-healing abilities, they are not a particularly resilient legion. Compared to the tough skin of the Death Guards and Salamanders, the Sons of Morgan often end up in the Legion's infirmary for reasons that seem incomprehensible to outsiders.

Hector once spent several hours in a hospital bed due to a massive intestinal hemorrhage.

Then he learned where the two adamantite daggers he had lost during his sleepwalking had gone.

However, unlike these somewhat comical casualties, the non-combat losses in the Web Path are enough to make one break out in a cold sweat: just like the two squads under Diarmuid, who vanished without a trace after turning an unrecorded corner, and those who followed them could not find them at all, and more than a dozen Astartes simply evaporated into thin air.

This incident caused quite a stir, but fortunately the Primarch arrived at the scene in less than ten minutes and quickly brought back the missing warriors. However, Morgan then erased their memories without explanation, making them forget everything that had happened after they went missing. According to Diarmuid's description to Hector afterward, he felt that his missing warriors seemed to have aged hundreds of years after they returned.

Diarmuid will probably never know what happened to these people during the few minutes they were missing.

He also didn't want to know.

Fortunately, after this incident, the Primarch ordered several companies to act together.

In any case, don't be alone.

The Webpath is not a safe place: they have already retrieved the remains of more than seven Dawnbreaker warriors.

"What's the point of doing this?"

While the three of them were taking a break from their busy work, Company Commander Hector looked down at the strange scenery around him and asked his fellow combatants a question.

In truth, much of the scenery in the netherworld is not strange at all; you can even appreciate it from a human aesthetic perspective. For example, Hector can see arched roofs, walls that look like marble with purple veins, and slender, golden columns and vaults spaced dozens of meters apart. They look like they have been around for a long time, but they are still very sturdy and can even withstand the ravages of war.

This is no joke; Hector once tried to fire a bomb at one of the pillars.

The result was surprising: the bomb simply disappeared.

Moreover, on the other hand...

In this place where humans have never set foot, something that conforms to human aesthetics has appeared: perhaps this is the most abnormal thing.
"What do you mean?"

Dawu habitually stroked his bald head.

"These maps."

Hector pointed to the draftsmen not far away.

"To my knowledge, the Primarch has never gone to such lengths to record a map of a place."

"indeed."

Diarmuid seems to have some ideas.

"Maybe she thinks we'll need her in the future?"

"Would you need it? In a place like this?"

Hector looked around and shivered.

"I never want to step into this place a second time in my life."

"To be honest, this place called Netway always gives me a very uncomfortable feeling."

"It's as if it's rejecting me."