A statue of Presideka Arkenoviz sat in the cold winter night, illuminated by scarce light-spires and candles. In his hand, a sword, posed to point at the stars. His other hand, clutching the sigil of the Vostro Republika attached to a chain-like necklace, the metal links drooping from his grip. The man who sculpted the statue died years ago, unable to requisition the proper medication through a mix-up in orders in the Adminisratsiya. The buildings around it were younger than the statue for the most part, rebuilt from the ashes of destruction at the hands of the Bile Trade Empire after being stolen from. The Vostroyan Firstborn drove them off, of course; they always did.
Presideka Arkenoviz...what could be said of his stature and rank that was not already? His smile was the smile of the people, his gifts to the people were not biased between rank and planet, his Republika was a testament to his skill and genius. He led the assault which recaptured this town, his boots marched on this cobblestone street, his voice echoed throughout burning buildings and warfare.
Evgeniius placed his hand on the statue's boot. He could barely reach atop his copper pedestal, but the child managed. His parents cared not where he was; only the location and amount of cheap amasec mattered to them. Like the rest, their spirits had been crushed under the heel of Stademesa, the reigning Presideka. Like the Firstborn she had march like toys, like the Cadians she had conquer worlds instead of keep the Republika's name pure and use them to protect the people, like Arkenoviz made a point of.
He was Evgeniius, a child on a backwater world named Forstunc with a stolen stubpistol in his back pocket and a handful of Vostroble currency in his front. But he would be more, he would be immortalized by statue and placed in a town square on a backwater world with the ever present snow to fall around his monument. He would make Arkenoviz proud. And the Republika would be too.
Boltguns roared out as the death cries of wayward humans tried to match. "Brother Ambrogio, to the east!" A voice cried out in his vox. The Space Marine turned his attention to the established direction, and he saw his foe. Three traitors and an autocannon on wheels. They wouldn't even settle the cart. With a trio of Bolter barks, the traitors died and the autocannon was removed from the battle. "Very good, brother. Link up with the squad, we've gotten orders to move. The Chapter-Master wants this Blood Cult exterminated."
The Space Marine gave an acknowledgement, and proceeded towards his battle-brothers. His mind drifted to another time and place, back when he was a noble heir on Hemofila. The world was gone now, burned to a crisp after allowing a few select towns to join them as serfs. Most citizens of the world were left on the surface, to die to endless bombardment from the fleet in orbit. Even with such measures taken, these Blood Cults were sprouting all over Segmentum Pacificus.
The Chapter would not allow that. His thoughts turned to his grandfather, the Eldest Lord of the House...before being met by the end of a shotgun. The weapon rang, uselessly, against his red and gold helm. The buckshot wouldn't have penetrated his skin, but not only had a mortal gotten past his senses, but if it were a more high-power weapon... "Heretic!" Brother Ambrogio shouted, unsheathing his combat knife and he took a swing at the cultist. With a swipe, the enemy's flak vest was torn asunder and his torso followed suit. Blood sprayed against his already red armor, mingling with the maroon durapaint.
Blood. It was a constant. The Blood Angels drank it, the Cults they hunted worshipped it, and his cursed lineage, whom he rejects with each trigger pull of his holy Boltgun, drew much power from it. It powered Humanity, it powered life. But it was also the symbol of death, the usual proof of life's end. Ambrogio shook his head. Such gibberish and thought was what let a mortal draw a gun on him. It would not happen again.
But as the Astartes attempted to leave, the cultist gurgled out a murmur out of his crimson soaked throat. "You...are...s-still...heir..." He choked out, before his soul fled his body. The Astartes turned his head over his shoulder to give the cultist a glance, before continuing on to join his brothers in purging. They started without me, he thought to himself. I smell burning blood in the air.
Flame plumes roared from the indecent city of Clavicus, the capital city of the Phoenix Imperialis. Only few could know the full extent of the debauchery unfolding with every second, the unsleeping city roared and danced with anger and allurement in unison. The mortal populace knew only a few things, and fewer things mattered to them. It was a heathen's paradise, a good man's nightmare.
Then why, Lucius thought to himself, did he loathe this place? He was a champion of Slaanesh himself, traitor to the Emperor of Mankind and he'd help doom his realm to further and further damnation. He fought and killed people who could've saved the Imperium, he defiled thousands and reveled in every moment. Then why...? Lucius looked to the mirror, and saw his perfect face. His near perfect face. The apothecaries and flesh-engineers of Huron Blackheart's warband pieced him back together better than he had been in thousands of years.
Except his nose. His nose, which Garviel had struck with enough force to snap a normal man's spine. Was it any more extreme an injury than the dozen blades which pierced him from his intestines outwards when the souls of a thousand damned were set free? No, far from it. Did Lucius request they not fix his nose? Of course not, if he were to be perfect, he was going to be completely so. But it remained...twisted. Broken.
Lucius owed Garviel that. Garviel was dead, he knew that. And the Emperor lost, and the Imperium is dead. So was Garviel wrong? Was Solomon, Tarvitz or Torgaddon? The forces of Chaos weren't doing much better than the Corpse-Emperor's Corpse-Imperium. Sure, Huron, whoever ruled the Black Legion these days, Gregulus and Fabius had their little realms. But all that remained of the Gods themselves were...corpses.
Lucius focused on the booming, nonsensical festering of beats, murder, and loveless love. But he felt no kick. No high. Nothing left to feel...but a mirror and memories.
A pair of figures sat on the cliffside. Ahead, a glimmering ocean owed to the star above and the peaking command spire of a Lunar-Class warship. The pair were still. No talk, just...silence. Until finally, "Do you know one of my observations? One of my most curious thoughts?" No reaction from the other, but the answer was pregnant in the air. "That mankind always associated the moon with night, yet you can see it clear in the sunlight through the day on Terra?"
"But there is no sun in night," the other responded. "There is only the moon, and its pale light."
"Indeed. But the moon was always there, waiting to shine. Do you know of another who called himself lord of the Moon?"
The other gave the first a hard glare. "Do you mean to say that he waited to strike, broadcasted in the light of the Imperium?"
"If there was no Imperium, there would be no Chaos."
"If there was no Imperium, there would be no Humanity either. The Imperium was Humanity. Humanity was the Imperium."
"Then do you mean to suggest the Imperium was Chaos? For Chaos is intrinsic with our species. Chaos' control over the Warp banished us to Terra and other worlds for Old Night's length. Then when they dispersed, the rabble left of Humanity ran to the stars and caused the whole process to start again. Now here we are, banished more or less to our worlds and systems. When the dust clears, another Emperor will simply rise and do it all over again."
"Your perspective on the human race worries me. We are not linked with Chaos, our souls are attached to the Warp, yes, but the Warp is not Chaos. Chaos is a cancer upon both materium and immaterium, now that Chaos has been destroyed, Humanity is free. The next cycle shall achieve the vision of Humanity that the Imperium of Man promised."
"Will it? You know as well as I do that the Warp stirs. These...Blood Cults, the remnants of the Ministorum, they all are swirling the water within the kettle. All it'll take is a spark and...the sacrifice will have meant nothing."
"I trust you to ensure that Humanity remains without the corruption of the Ruinous Powers. But first, you need to find your love for them again. You cannot help a people without first liking them enough to help them truly. Open your heart to their goodness, and maybe instead of death and spite you'll find kindness and life."
And then all that was left was the first. The sun was setting. And the moon would soon be able to shine its brightest.
And this is not our fate
