Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 182 Under the Throne (Part 2)

The council chambers of the Terra Highlords have never been so crowded.

Twelve adamantine chairs were arranged along a semi-circular platform, each with its back etched with a corresponding insignia of authority: the poisoned blade of the Assassins' Court, the psionic focusing array of the Astronomical Court, the scales and sword of the Ministry of Justice, the sacred symbol of the State Church, and the gear and skull of Mars. Trajan, the Commander of the Imperial Guard, was also among the twelve, but his chair was empty. He stood in the center of the hall, his back to the platform, facing the entrance. He was a messenger, not a decision-maker. When the Emperor's will needed to be conveyed, the Commander of the Imperial Guard never sat in a chair.

Beneath the visor, the old scar stretching from the cheekbone to the jawline was faintly visible in the dark golden light. The Time Chains at the waist hummed at an extremely low frequency in stillness; that mysterious artifact from the dark history of Old Terra remained as silent as stone before the Emperor's will.

The people on the seats were all different—some were whole, some were broken, some had already had more than 90% of their bodies devoured by machinery, and some still retained the last outline of their flesh and blood. But no one could sit still.

A holographic image of the Martian Forging General floated above the seat belonging to the Mechanicus, almost filling the entire area. An array of optical sensors slowly rotated, like a metal compound eye magnified countless times. His true form was far away in the Martian Forging Abyss; the precision of his psionic projection was enough to give him a near-physical phantom in the council chamber. But even this interstellar projection couldn't be completely stable at this moment—something was surging from the direction of the Golden Throne, overwhelming all communication links.

"It's been seven days." The voice of the Imperial Navy's Supreme Admiral drowned out all the noise in the meeting hall. His uniform collar was buttoned to the top, and his left arm, from the elbow down, was constructed of adamantite machinery. "The Garros Forging Director has entered the throne room. No one has told us what happened."

The Grand Master of the Assassin's Court remained silent. His silence hung suspended in the shadows of the conference hall, his right index finger twitching slightly on the armrest—a habitual micro-movement within the Assassin's Court to signal a de-escalation of alertness.

"What is the Emperor's will?" The Director of the Interior's voice, with its characteristically dry, mechanical resonance, trailed off. "You're sending us to our deaths without telling us why?"

Trajan did not turn around. "The Emperor's will demands that further instructions be awaited."

The Mars-forged General's optical sensor array turned towards his retreating figure. "Waiting for what?"

"We await the Emperor's personal instructions."

A moment of silence fell over the meeting hall. The Archbishop of the Imperial State Church rose from his chair, the hem of his deep purple robes sweeping across the adamantine floor, the |-shaped Great Saint symbol on his chest gleaming dimly in the light. His voice trembled with a suppressed intensity, as if it might break at any moment: "The Emperor himself has spoken? What do you mean?"

Tula did not answer.

tenth day.

Trajan remained standing in the center of the council chamber, his back to the platform. The door remained ajar, and a captain of the Imperial Guard stood in the shadow of the doorframe on the outside.

"Imperial Will: All mobile forces in the Solar Sector, assemble on Terra. Speed ​​is of the essence. The Star Court is now on high alert. Mobilization order broadcast across all frequencies."

A moment of silence fell over the conference room. Then, the Martian-forged general's voice boomed, emitting the characteristic shrill cry of mechanical overload: "Based on authorization?"

"The Emperor's will. He spoke himself."

"The Emperor hasn't issued a direct military order in ten thousand years. You want us to mobilize the entire Solar System?"

"Expedition Network".

When those four words were uttered, it was as if a layer of air had been sucked out of the meeting hall. The Archbishop of the State Church's lips moved slightly, but no sound came out. The Supreme Admiral of the Imperial Navy clenched his right hand on the armrest of his chair, his adamantine knuckles creaking. At that moment, Trajan turned around, facing the high platform and the twelve chairs.

Dark golden light seeped out from the center of the dome.

The lighting panels were off, and the projector wasn't running. Light seeped from the space itself, squeezing out from the boundary between subspace and the real universe—like golden fluid compressed for millennia overflowing from a crack. The entire conference hall was bathed in light, and the temperature continued to rise, as if the light itself were burning.

The Emperor stood in the center of the meeting hall, a few steps in front of Trajan.

Golden armor, intact, complete. The soles of his boots struck the adamantine floor with a short, metallic clink. His face was resolute, his gaze steady, sweeping over the twelve seats on the high platform, briefly confirming the presence of each face before looking away. The Emperor himself, from the Great Expedition era, stood before his subjects.

This was a psionic projection. Trajan didn't hesitate when he confirmed this—he had seen the real Emperor and knew where that light came from. But the precision of this projection far exceeded the limits of any mortal psionicist's imagination; it could resonate on the adamantite floor, illuminate the entire conference hall, and make everyone present feel his gaze. In ten thousand years, the Emperor had never projected such a complete presence onto the surface of Terra.

Trajan knelt on one knee. The captain of the Imperial Guard, hidden in the shadows of the doorway, performed the same action simultaneously. His golden armor paled in comparison to the Emperor's radiance, like a star overshadowed by the light of a star.

The Archbishop of the State Church was the first to slide off his chair. His knees struck the adamantine floor, his forehead touched the ground, and his deep purple robes billowed behind him. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the armrests, as if trying to confirm from the touch that he wasn't dreaming. His lips moved, but no sound came out. The faith that had endured for millennia became instinct the moment he saw Him with his own eyes; words were no longer sufficient.

The hologram of the Mars-forged General flickered violently three times before stabilizing again. His voice emitted a short, abrupt electronic pulse. The array of optical sensors shifted away from the beam of light, slowly and almost imperceptibly settling on the fingertips of his prosthetic limbs. The Interior Minister's voice fell completely silent, leaving only the low hum of the cooling pump.

The Imperial Navy's Supreme Admiral loosened his right hand from the armrest, leaving it clenched and suspended in mid-air, before slowly lowering it back to his knees a few seconds later.

The Grand Instructor of the Assassin Court remained silent. However, his right index finger stopped its extremely subtle flexion and extension, resting flat on the armrest, the knuckles forming a straight line with almost no curve.

The Emperor's radiance lingered on the Archbishop of the State Church for a moment. He did not speak. But the Archbishop sensed something—

The will paused briefly in his consciousness, as if someone had pressed a palm against his forehead for a moment and then released it.

The light faded from the conference hall like the tide receding from a beach. The temperature dropped, and shadows began to creep back along the edges of the walls.

Trajan rose. The Archbishop of the State Church remained kneeling, his hands gripping the adamantite floor, his knuckles white, as if confirming from the floor's warmth that what had just happened was not an illusion. He took a deep breath, as if inhaling all the silence of ten thousand years. Then he stood up, his right hand unconsciously pressing against the swastika symbol on his chest, his voice rising a half-tone: "Holy War!"

"The Emperor himself has announced—the expedition to the Net Path! This is the first time in ten thousand years that He has spoken personally! He is summoning the entire Empire!"

The council chamber erupted in chaos. The voice of the Archbishop of the State Church was relayed, from the council chamber to the corridors, from the corridors to the communications room, and from the communications room to the psychic focusing pedestal of the Astral Court. At the end of the corridor, an aged, emaciated Astral Speaker, upon hearing the broadcast, muttered, "This is the Second Cyber ​​War." He didn't realize he had made history, but history remembered that word. When that word reached the walls of the palace, Trajan did not correct him. Because it was the truth.

The hologram of the Mars-forged General remained still for nearly a minute after the Emperor vanished. Then his optical sensor array began to rotate again, and the voice resumed its steady motion, but paused for half a second before uttering the next sentence.

"Mars will respond to the Emperor's will. We need to confirm one thing: has the network repair made any progress? Where is the Garros Foundry Director currently located? What is the current status of the project?"

Trajan, facing the direction of the Mars-Forged General, said: "The Emperor's own manifestation in the council chamber is the answer in itself. This projection cannot be maintained unless the repair of the network progresses to a level sufficient to reduce psionic energy loss."

Mars Forging General's optical sensor array paused for a moment at focal length before resuming its normal rotation frequency. "Understood. Mars will enter combat readiness mode within the scheduled period."

Trajan turned to the center of the conference hall: "Astral Court, broadcast across all frequencies. Mobilization order format: Imperial Summoning. All combat units and all mobile units in the Solar System, assemble on Terra. Worlds outside the Solar System, respond automatically upon receiving this broadcast."

At the same time, the Emperor's psionic broadcast appeared directly in the consciousness of the navigators of every ship navigating the warp, piercing through the warp storms and ignoring distance attenuation. For the first time in ten thousand years, the Emperor himself spoke, and his voice did not require the intermediaries of the Astrologers. The Second Cyber ​​War had begun.

The order first reached the Imperial Guard's barracks.

The messenger carrying the order passed through the underground passageway of the palace and pressed his palm print onto the sensor panel at the entrance to the Legion Hall.

The adamantine gates slid open inwards. Nearly ten thousand Imperial Guards stood in formation beneath the dome, their gleaming gold armor forming a silent sea of ​​light in the dim space. The shield guard company commander, receiving orders, turned to face the ten-thousand-strong column, silently clenching his fist against his chest. At the same instant, the entire column adjusted their posture—shifting their weight forward, their fingers resting on their weapon hilts. The assembly was complete.

As the Imperial Guard assembled, beneath the Golden Throne, Cohen was meticulously repairing the dilapidated artificial network that had been isolated for millennia by the Emperor's psychic powers.

This was a passage forcibly opened by the Emperor ten thousand years ago using radiant gold and psionic energy. It was shattered by a single psionic strike from Magnus, and further fragmented by ten thousand years of warp erosion. Some sections had completely broken walls, leaving only a void filled with dark purple chaotic energy; others still had walls, but riddled with cracks, the radiant gold lattice structure nearing collapse under the continuous burning of psionic energy. What Cohen's field sensed wasn't a passage in need of repair, but a series of severed fragments scattered throughout the surging torrents of warp. He struggled to move forward, fortunately enveloped and isolated by the Emperor's psionic energy, the pressure remaining within a manageable range.

The field extended forward, touching that dark purple boundary.

The decomposition command was issued. The chaotic energy, upon touching the field's boundary, was stripped, decomposed, and transformed into an atomic cloud that surged into the warehouse. New layers of sacred bone and boundary membranes were formed. Cohen did not hesitate when lining the inner layer with the radiant gold layer—this Terra rift could never connect to the Old Ones' psionic energy cycle; it could only sustain itself. Magnus's attack not only shattered the psionic network but also tore an eternal rift between Terra and the warp, requiring stronger protection. The Emperor suppressed it with psionic power for ten thousand years, and repairing this psionic network was a way of suppressing that rift, preventing it from expanding further.

He continued forward, regrowing the swallowed passage layer by layer. Each completed section meant the passage's passable distance had increased a little further. A boundary membrane spread across the surface of the sacred bone, converting the remaining subspace energy into psionic energy, forming a relatively small, self-sustaining isolation layer. The rift was not closed—it was merely being repaired by the reconnected sacred bone...

The gleaming gold lining and the continuously operating boundary membrane were pressed below the critical point.

He paused to inspect a section of the newly completed cross-section. The halo of the boundary membrane was stable, the psionic pulses of the sacred bone were smooth, and no stress cracks appeared in the radiant gold layer. Every inch of this passage required continuous monitoring and maintenance, but for now, it was indeed suppressed.

He realized he was doing more than just repairing; he was practically rebuilding a path. The Radiant Gold was repairing and shaping the inner layer, while the Sacred Relics enveloped it from the outside, using a barrier to isolate warp energy. The Radiant Gold retained its physical strength, but it no longer needed to bear the burden of warp isolation. The Emperor's psionic pressure was decreasing, but it couldn't disappear. Maintaining this passage still required a massive amount of psionic energy—this was the price of forcibly connecting to the Ancient Web, and the consequence of the Four Gods' intrusion. Outside the passage, the warp energy density far exceeded reason; the Eternal Rift acted like a heavy shackle, firmly holding Him back. The Emperor needed a "new Magnus" to sit on the Golden Throne before he could truly escape.

Meanwhile, every corner of the solar system is awakening from millennia of silence.

In Saturn's orbit, the Grey Knights' strike cruisers had long since departed port. At this moment, three hundred Grey Knights stood in formation on the berth platform of Lionsgate Spaceport, the Grand Master leading the ranks, their Terminator armor gleaming a cold, silvery-grey light in the Terran twilight. As the Grey Knights descended the gangway, the Terran wind, carrying the acrid smell of industrial waste, filled their masks. They didn't stop, didn't exchange glances—three hundred psionic warriors simultaneously confirmed each other's presence, like three hundred taut strings being plucked at once, then falling silent. The Grand Master, on the bridge, received an encrypted pulse from the Terran Palace, uttering only one sentence: "This is the day we've been waiting for."

At Lionsgate Spaceport, the Solar Guard's shield company began moving to its defensive positions. At the Ministry of Justice's Tribunal fortress, arbitrators were counting ammunition—their mission not was street patrol, but maintaining order for the trillions of people on Terra's surface after a mobilization order was issued. In the Martian Forge Abyss, the Martian Forge General's prosthetic limbs activated, and dozens of warships began preheating their thrusters in the orbital dock.

At the same moment, the psychic focusing pedestal of the Star Court began outputting the broadcast that had been repeatedly encoded, encrypted, and re-encoded. The format was extremely simple: Imperial Summoning, Solar Domain, Terra.

The broadcast, like a boulder thrown into stagnant water, sent ripples spreading in all directions of the galaxy. Hundreds upon hundreds of ships were pouring into Terra from every corner of the solar system; some would arrive before the storm completely blocked it out, while others would be kept at bay.

Trajan stood on the palace wall, his communications officer whispering behind him, "The restoration work beneath the throne room continues. The foreman of casting has completed two-thirds of the work."

He nodded, without turning back. The palace was awakening from millennia of silence—the Grey Knights were in position, the Royal Guard was in formation, and the Silent Sisters stood guard silently at every entrance. The Silent Sisters' legal status had been reaffirmed in the Emperor's manifestation, the exile order had automatically expired, and Terra was recalling every nun.

As the High Master passed through the passageways of Lionsgate Spaceport, Trajan awaited him beneath the palace portico. Their radiances met in the dim light, and neither spoke.

Then Trajan said, "You know where you are going."

"Beneath the Golden Throne. The Emperor's artificial network leads to Karata."

Trajan stepped aside to make way. The Grey Knights silently passed through the doorway. Behind them, the first echelon of the Custodians began to assemble, and the Silent Sisters silently gathered from the side corridors. Their silver-grey armor gleamed coldly in the dim light, their very presence acting as a filter—the psionic fluctuations of the warp were severed, attenuated, and reduced to nothingness at the edge of their ranks.

At this moment, atop the walls of Terra Palace, Trajan faced the Lionsgate spaceport, watching the lights of ships rapidly converging. For the first time in ten thousand years, the solar system was breathing again at the rhythm of a war machine. Beneath his feet, the net was being stitched together, line by line. No one knew what the Emperor was waiting for, but everyone sensed it: the wait was about to end.

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