36 - The Emperor’s True Will

"My lord, is there some misunderstanding?" The old bishop trembled as he spoke. Years of indulgence had made him gain considerable weight, and now, in his fear, his excess flesh quivered.

"Misunderstanding?" Guilliman's gaze bore into the bishop. "What kind of misunderstanding? Are you questioning me?" His tone was sharp. "I built this great empire alongside my father and witnessed the founding of the state religion. Do you think I'm not qualified to judge your actions?"

"No, no, my lord! I would never think that!" The old bishop was on the verge of tears.

His mechanical prosthetic eyes flickered with unease. The sheer weight of Guilliman's presence, his power, crushed the respect the bishop once held.

It wasn't just fear of death—it was the terrifying realization that Guilliman had denounced his very faith.

"We have always served the Emperor with unwavering devotion," another bishop interjected. Though visibly shaken, he managed to speak without stammering. "We have never defied him."

"That is precisely why I have come here personally instead of ordering your immediate execution," Guilliman stated coldly. "If I had proof of your heresy, I wouldn't be here. You would have simply been purged."

His words sent a wave of terror through the bishops.

They could not forget that the Emperor's son had another title—the Demigod of War.

The empire had been forged in blood, on the ruins of alien civilizations and human factions that refused to submit.

Each Primarch was war incarnate, merciless toward enemies.

"My lord, we are absolutely loyal to the Empire and the Emperor," one bishop insisted.

"Yes, my lord," another echoed.

"My lord, you must believe us. We would never betray the Emperor."

Guilliman smiled—calm, yet unreadable. "I sincerely hope you are merely deceived, rather than truly heretical. I have seen your displays of piety, and I would like to believe they are genuine."

"Our devotion is real, my lord," they chorused.

"Good."

Guilliman gestured toward the iron cages containing writhing prisoners, their agonized screams filling the air. "Then explain that."

"They are heretics," one bishop declared. "They rejected the Emperor's enlightenment and denied the faith."

"We punish them so they may understand the consequences of forsaking the Emperor."

"Pain purifies the soul and leads to repentance."

"You mean to tell me my father requires fear to secure his followers?" Guilliman's voice grew colder. "Just like the foul Chaos Gods, who manipulate and terrify the ignorant into kneeling before them in submission?" His noble features twisted into something cruel.

"My lord! That is not what we meant!" The old bishop's voice cracked with desperation. "We never intended—"

"But you did." Guilliman's voice cut through the protest. "You have twisted my father into a false god of terror, no different from the very Chaos abominations he despised. You have taken his compassion and reshaped it into fear. His kindness into cruelty. His mercy into bloodshed." He took a step forward. "Tell me, how do your actions differ from the heretics my father condemned? Chaos traitors bring suffering upon humanity, but you—you have done the same in his name."

The bishops were paralyzed with terror.

"My lord," one sobbed. "We only sought to preserve his glory."

"Through fear and the sword?" Guilliman's voice was thunderous. "Heresy! You have perverted my father's will! Kneel, or be judged as traitors and burned at the stake."

Drawing the Emperor's Sword, he flicked it through the air. Golden flames surged along its blade, illuminating the chamber with a divine radiance.

The bishops collapsed to their knees, trembling.

Guilliman cast them a glance before stepping onto the grand podium prepared for him.

Holding the Emperor's Sword high, he gazed out with an expression of righteous fury.

A servo-skull hovered beside him, its red eyes gleaming as it broadcast his every move in real time.

Across Espandor, massive projection screens flickered to life, transmitting his presence to cities, towns, and even the desolate outskirts.

Believers gathered before the displays, whispering amongst themselves. Why had the Emperor's son forced the bishops to kneel?

Then his voice rang out, resonating across the world:

"I am the son of the Emperor, the Lord of Ultramar, the Regent of the Imperium, and the sole representative of the Holy Emperor in this empire. Kneel, ignorant believers, or be condemned as heretics."

His command rolled across the land, even reaching the barren deserts.

The faithful looked at one another in bewilderment.

They did not understand why the Primarch had issued such an order.

Yet their devotion to the Emperor left no room for hesitation.

One by one, they fell to their knees.

They were the most fervent of believers—fanatic in their faith, unwilling to tolerate the slightest deviation.

And Guilliman—wielding the Emperor's Sword—was the ultimate authority. No bishop, no saint, could surpass his legitimacy.

Only the Emperor himself could countermand him.

"I rejoice in your devotion," Guilliman continued. "But you have been deceived. The greedy and the corrupt have misled you for their own gain, shaping my noble father into a false god, no different from those abhorrent Chaos entities."

"I will set things right. I will judge the true heretics and restore my father's rightful glory. From this day forward, any who disobey me are heretics. Any who twist my words are servants of Chaos. And I will show them no mercy."

He turned to the kneeling bishops. "You have committed grievous crimes. You have become pawns of corruption, tarnishing my father's name and bringing suffering to those who love him."

"You deserve to burn."

The bishops quivered in terror.

"And yet," Guilliman continued, "my father taught me mercy. He taught me to love those who have not yet fallen completely into damnation. Therefore, I offer you a choice—repent, or perish."

"I will atone, my lord!"

"As will I!"

They saw the massive stakes being erected by Space Marines and dared not argue.

Debating theology could earn prestige among the clergy.

But challenging a Primarch?

That only led to the flames.

"Very well," Guilliman said. "You have chosen wisely. Stand."

The bishops rose, their relief palpable.

Turning back to the kneeling masses, Guilliman declared, "I will reexamine Espandor. I will purge any heretical corruption within your faith. If I find it, and you refuse to repent, you will suffer the harshest punishment. I will not allow my father's name to be tarnished. Rise, and prepare for your judgment."

With that, he ended his address and strode into the grand cathedral.

It was a towering masterpiece, stretching hundreds of kilometers into the sky.

Inside, bridges spanned across vast open spaces, and pilgrims walked along them, singing hymns to the Emperor.

Ossuary walls—kilometers high—lined the interior, filled with the remains of believers deemed saints.

Countless skulls were arranged within dark shrines, flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across them.

Guilliman surveyed the solemn surroundings before moving deeper into the cathedral.

At last, he stopped before a golden-armored statue of the Emperor.

Several bishops hesitantly followed, fear evident in their eyes.

As Guilliman stared up at the statue, a chilling realization dawned upon them.

Had they been wrong all along?

Had heretics truly deceived them?

Guilliman turned to them. "Now," he said, his voice firm. "Let us discuss what has been twisted by traitors and what truly defines my father's divinity."