91: Chapter 91 The Ladder of Imperial Power

The true power of the Imperium has never resided on Terra.

The pulse of the Adeptus Mechanicus beats on Mars, the other head of the Aquila; their Forge Worlds are scattered across the galaxy, and Terra is merely their diplomatic outpost.

The soul of the Ecclesiarchy long ago largely migrated to Ophelia; that holy city is the true hub of faith.

The black blades of the Adeptus Arbites and the Inquisition are tempered on Saturn's moon, Titan, home to the Grey Knights' sanctuary and secrets mortals should never know.

The Six Great Temples of the Officio Assassinorum are scattered throughout the Imperium, but their headquarters has always been a mystery.

Rogue Traders go where the wind takes them, recognizing only their Warrants of Trade rather than local authority.

The history of the Navigators Houses is older than the Imperium itself; the location of their headquarters is said to be known fully only by the Emperor himself.

These powers only station representatives on Terra.

Their full strength never operates within the confines of Terra.

But no one dares to underestimate their representatives, for behind each one stands an entity of power capable of shaking the galaxy.

The fundamental forces truly stationed on Terra contain no mortals.

Only three forces maintain the Imperial Palace and guard the Golden Throne:

The Adeptus Astronomica: They light the Astronomican for the Imperium, allowing human ships to navigate the Warp without getting lost.

The Astropaths: They are the sole nexus of the Imperium's communication system, transmitting the Emperor's will and the orders of the Administratum from Terra to the ends of the galaxy.

The Adeptus Custodes: The personal bodyguards of the Emperor's physical form, the silent sentinels in golden armor, beings mortals cannot look upon directly.

More accurately, branded with Mental Engrams as they are, it would be more appropriate to call them the Emperor's prosthetic limbs.

Yet these three forces are the foundation of Terra and the neural center of the Imperium. However, they are not mortals in the traditional sense, and they do not participate in Imperial politics.

Within the Council of the Twelve High Lords, there are three rotating seats held by mortals or near-mortal factions.

These three, along with the Master of Administratum, constitute the other, 'flexible' side of the High Lord council.

The Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy—this position has always been the private domain of Terran nobility.

The position of Navy Admiral never requires mastery of void warfare; it only requires acceptance by the Terran nobility. This unwritten rule is more stable than any of the Imperium's codified laws.

The Lord Commander Militant of the Astra Militarum; unlike the Lord High Admiral, this seat belongs to military aristocrats and Knight Houses from beyond Terra.

It is the inheritance of the Imperium's glory, belonging only to those who have truly earned their status with blood and steel on the battlefield, making it the most isolated pole in the Imperial political landscape. Yet no one dares ignore him, for he is the only system that still functions smoothly in the Imperium; the Emperor's Angels watch over and protect him, and even the Emperor himself often casts his gaze upon him.

The Master of Administratum is the only one among the twelve High Lords elected by the Sector Nobility.

In theory, he is the second most powerful individual in the entire Imperium after the Emperor, the Chancellor of the Imperium.

His existence itself is a banner, a political declaration by the Imperium to the galaxy.

It tells everyone in the Imperium: mortals, and only mortals, are the foundation of the Imperium.

Not those non-humans with psychic powers, genetic enhancements, mechanical augmentations, or genetic mutations.

This is the Imperium's public top-level power structure.

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The New Lord Chancellor wore a simple black and grey robe, said to be the same style that Malcador once wore.

This was the attire his family elders advised him to choose for his audience with the Emperor; the elders believed it might evoke the Emperor's memory of his dear friend, offering a chance to gain more of the Emperor's favor.

He passed through the Hall of the Custodes and arrived at the Throne Room, where Trajann Valoris was already waiting for him at the entrance. This was the final procedure to secure his power as Master of Administratum: an audience with his sovereign, the 'God' of the Imperium of Man.

The rising sun of a Terran morning gradually climbed the golden gates step by step. He took a deep breath and stood firm before the gates, welcoming the scrutiny of the Captain-General of the Custodes, Trajann Valoris.

Trajann did not speak.

He simply stood there, like a statue forgotten by time. There wasn't a single scratch on his golden armor, as if he had never participated in any battle—or rather, no opponent he had fought was worthy of leaving a mark.

The New Lord Chancellor felt his throat go dry.

He had seen countless grand scenes in the Sector Governor's Palace, presided over resource allocations spanning several star systems, and signed suppression orders without flinching amidst a mob's siege. But now, standing before this silent golden giant, he felt like a child entering an adult's room for the first time.

"Enter," Trajann's voice came from beneath his faceplate, devoid of any emotion.

The heavy doors slowly opened.

The light of the Golden Throne surged toward him.

It wasn't light, but a physical manifestation. It pierced through the eyes and the skull, branding itself directly onto the soul. The New Lord Chancellor instinctively wanted to close his eyes, but his body was no longer under his control—not out of fear, but out of a more primal awe.

He knelt down.

Not because protocol dictated he must kneel.

But because in the presence of such light, standing itself was a form of sacrilege.

"For the Emperor."

His voice echoed in the cavernous hall, as if sucked into some invisible abyss. He heard his own heartbeat, the sound of blood rushing through his veins, and then—silence.

The Emperor did not respond.

The figure upon the Golden Throne was like a statue desiccated by time, frozen atop the high dais.

But The New Lord Chancellor interpreted the Emperor's silence as approval.

"I am your newly appointed Master of Administratum," he continued, his voice gradually steadying. "In your name, I shall reorganize the Imperium's administrative system, purge corruption, and restore efficiency."

He spoke at length.

About administrative optimization, about the checks and balances of the nobility, about the reorganization of the tithe, and about the logistics reform between star systems.

He became increasingly impassioned as he spoke, his pace unconsciously quickening, and tears even began to glisten in his eyes.

At this moment, he had never been more convinced that he was the "God-chosen" one, for His silence was the best footnote.

He believed He was approving, and that he was about to become the turning point in the Imperium's destiny.

Trajann stood in his fixed position, his gaze gradually becoming solemn. He watched the Emperor's body, but his focus was more on this increasingly frenzied New Lord Chancellor.

His body began to tense slightly and instinctively, guarding against any move by The New Lord Chancellor that might threaten the Emperor, even though he was but a mortal.

Trajann knew clearly that his Lord was not listening.

His psychic power swirling around Terra was gradually weakening, leaving only enough to maintain His physical form; His soul had departed into the Warp.

As for this mortal...

He had seen this scene far too many times!

They always pledged loyalty to his Lord with different faces and different clothes, but with the same oaths.

He did not warn The New Lord Chancellor.

That was not his duty.

His duty was to stand here, wait, remain silent, and then—execute—when the Emperor required it.

The New Lord Chancellor finally finished speaking.

He knelt there, waiting for a response.

Silence.

A long, oppressive silence.

The psychic pressure from the Emperor grew weaker and weaker, a fluctuation that even a mortal could now feel.

Then he stood up, because he interpreted the Emperor's silence in the Throne Room as trust.

"I will not fail you, Sire."

He turned and walked out of the great hall with a firm step.

The sunlight shone on his young body, outlining him with a golden edge.

The doors of the Throne Room slowly closed, separating the world filled with pipes and machinery, psychic power and the extraordinary, into two halves.

Behind him, Trajann and the two Custodian Guards at the door remained at their standard posts, like tomb-guarding beasts continuing to fulfill their duties that had lasted for ten thousand years.

The Captain-General of the Custodes had seen dozens of Masters of Administratum say similar things in the same spot; he knew what would happen next.

But he would say nothing.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the galaxy, on the outskirts of the 500 Worlds of Ultramar, on a world called Vulcan-IV, above that tomato field, the Emperor's soul was watching a newly born Warp entity he had never seen before.

He was considering whether to strip away His own divinity and grant it to her.

To allow Himself to stand once more.