35 - Heretics??
Regarding the bishops' requests, Guilliman dismissed them without hesitation.
Now was not the time.
Once the meeting was over, how should he deal a blow to these bishops?
"Our meeting will take place only on Espandor, in front of the church with the strongest faith in the Emperor and the most sacred grounds. This meeting shall be held under the witness of my father, not aboard my flagship."
Guilliman's voice echoed across multiple channels in the Espandor system, sending waves of euphoria through countless believers. His words were an acknowledgment of their faith.
The Emperor's sons and daughters believed in the sanctity of their devotion, and hearing such recognition from Guilliman made their hearts burn with a righteous fire. Their blood surged with excitement.
The Lord of Ultramar must surely be a faithful follower of his father.
He was the true representative of the Emperor, the most legitimate voice of the state religion, the living embodiment of the Emperor's will.
Several bishops, hearing Guilliman's decree, quickly apologized for their presumptuousness. As an act of atonement, they used thorns and iron rods to lash themselves, punishing their own arrogance and selfishness.
Their Stormbird joined Guilliman's fleet, bound for Espandor's starport.
A grand ceremony was already underway.
Four Hours Later
On Espandor's surface, in its largest city—the capital of faith—five colossal horns forged from gold let out a piercing, hoarse cry.
The deafening sound reverberated through the vast city, thick with incense and prayers, ensuring every believer could hear it.
The trumpets announced the arrival of the Emperor's son, the Lord of Ultramar.
These golden horns, forged from the offerings of the faithful, were inscribed with sacred scriptures. Each weighed several tons, mounted atop the strong towers and high walls of the cathedral fortress, only to be sounded for the most sacred occasions.
As the echoes of the horns faded, the choir of the state church took over, their voices swelling in harmony with an orchestra of trumpets, drums, and grand organ tones. They played a hymn of the Emperor, composed by a musician of unparalleled genius.
From the towering temples, a swarm of flying constructs took to the skies.
Servo-skulls hummed, cherubs resembling human infants fluttered their wings, genetic constructs bred from Mechanicum technology hovered reverently, and elderly priests sat atop anti-gravity platforms, preaching as they drifted over the crowd.
They emerged amidst billowing clouds of incense, their movements stirring the perfumed smoke into swirling patterns around the gilded banners they bore.
Multiple hymns, each distinct yet melodious, filled the air alongside the fervent cries of priests, who exhorted the masses to revere the Emperor.
Thousands of senior clergy emerged from their respective temples—some floating, some walking, some crawling, and others riding upon ornately decorated mounts. Their faces bore expressions of unshaken zeal and rapture.
Their acolytes followed closely, chanting the Emperor's psalms in unison, their voices rising in competition as they sought to prove themselves the most devout.
Amidst the crowd, automated preaching machines rolled forward, their mechanical limbs clanking rhythmically. Within these machines, the preserved brains of the most devoted believers, programmed with scripture, ceaselessly roared proclamations of faith through primitive loudspeakers, urging all to devote their lives wholly to the Emperor.
Hunched censer-bearers weaved through the throng, swinging incense burners as they sang sacred verses.
On luxurious processional carriages, bishops stood upon gilded platforms, golden scepters in hand, delivering impassioned sermons.
These massive parade vehicles were pulled by groups of shackled slaves, their backs bent under the weight of heavy chains, symbolic of their sinfulness.
Catachist priests wielded whips, lashing any who faltered, forcing them to pull harder.
The welcome ceremony was unparalleled in its grandeur.
Every believer expressed their elation at the Primarch's arrival in their own way.
As Espandor's planetary defense shields lowered, a fleet of warships, each armed with weapons capable of reducing entire worlds to ash, loomed in the dark sky.
At the center of it all, the Glory of Macragge stood as the most imposing presence.
A squadron of Stormbirds launched from the massive battleship, their azure-blue hulls edged with dark green, reminiscent of the deep forests of ancient Terra.
Behind them followed a landing fleet—Thunderhawks, troop carriers, and heavy gunboats—moving in perfect formation, descending through the atmosphere toward the capital's spaceport.
As the troop carriers docked, the roar of venting thrusters drowned out even the cheers of the crowd.
With a soft hiss of depressurization, the troop carriers' hatches slowly opened.
Five hundred Space Marines, clad in crested helmets and adorned in azure and gold, stepped forth, their capes billowing behind them. They moved into formation, standing in two precise rows along the red-carpeted path, bolters in hand, scanning for any threats.
Then, amidst the anticipation of millions, a living god emerged.
Clad in cerulean and gold armor, a pristine white cloak draped across his shoulders, Guilliman strode forward.
The Imperial Aquila gleamed upon his breastplate, a golden laurel wreath resting upon his flawless brow.
At the sight of him, the faithful erupted into ecstatic cheers, their voices rolling like waves across the city, shaking its very foundations.
Guilliman smiled and waved, and the crowd's frenzy reached a fever pitch.
Stepping onto a hovering platform, he moved along the broad avenue, lined with carpets of deepest crimson.
As the jubilation surged, Guilliman and his entourage arrived before the grandest church on Espandor.
Towering hundreds of kilometers into the heavens, a titanic statue of the Emperor dominated the square, its peak piercing the very atmosphere.
The bishops stood at the entrance, awaiting the Primarch's arrival.
As he disembarked, they approached in solemn procession, bowing deeply in reverence.
"Such an elaborate ceremony," Guilliman remarked with a knowing smile, his gaze sweeping over the opulent display.
He was well aware of the wealth of the state church. As the sole sanctioned religion of the Imperium, it had the authority to collect religious tithes.
Yet, despite his expectations, the sheer magnitude of their riches still astounded him.
The decorations and excesses of this single missionary world alone could sustain a vast army.
And this was but one planet. If the wealth of all church-held worlds were considered, the resources could fund an empire-spanning military force, strong enough to sweep aside xenos threats with ease.
"To spread the Emperor's glory, some extravagance is necessary," one bishop ventured, bowing respectfully.
Guilliman chuckled, his smile unreadable. "Indeed. If my father were to wake and witness your devotion, I'm sure he would be most... pleased."
Yet, inwardly, he knew the truth.
The Emperor despised religion more than anything.
During the Great Crusade, he had personally overseen the purging of temples, ensuring even the smallest shrines were reduced to dust.
Lorgar had built but a single city of faith, and for that crime, he was forced to kneel and watch as it was razed to the ground.
The modern Ecclesiarchy was infinitely more fanatical than Lorgar's heretical vision.
If the Emperor were to awaken in this era, his first act would likely be the annihilation of the state church.
Hearing Guilliman's words, the bishops trembled with excitement, believing they had earned his favor.
But before they could revel in their triumph, Guilliman's voice hardened.
"Your devotion is commendable, but you have misinterpreted my father's true intentions. Perhaps you have been deceived... or perhaps you are heretics."
His hand rested on the Emperor's Sword, a silent declaration of his authority.
The bishops' expressions paled.
Some trembled so violently that their legs gave out beneath them, collapsing in fear.