Chapter Twenty-Two: Rising from the Ashes (Part II)

Location: Proxima System, Centauri Cluster

Date: 884.M30

Using prearranged Vox codes, the frigate signaled the system. Soon a flight of warships fell in alongside the craft, escorting the Imperial delegation to Proxima. Iskandar entertained himself with intercepted transmissions between the fleets. The Proximan fleet had almost opened fire at their arrival, unable to believe that the kilometer long vessel was a "mere" frigate and not the first arrival of an invasion force. The Proximan escorts were marginally bigger and categorized by them as Grand Cruisers.

Soon Proxima came into view. To the Emperor's surprise, it little resembled the planet within his gifted memories. Instead of the greens, browns, and blues common to countless worlds this Proxima was a technicolor masterpiece. Rolling fields of crimson grasses dueled violet canopies, crisscrossed with razor straight lines of obsidian roads interlinking shining cities. Its oceans were a startling blue and flecked with bioluminescent schools of sea life large enough to be seen from orbit.

The influence affecting the Centauri Cluster went beyond reshaping civilization, it twisted the nature of Proxima as well. The Emperor peered into the Warp, hunting for traces of Chaos. Curiously, the gods attention seemed absent across the system, like something diverted their leering malice away. Warpcraft was not uncommon though. Spiritual flashes and sparks of psykers drawing from the Warp filled the crystal cities, creating an ever shifting pattern in the Warp. The eclectic show distorted foresight and other higher psychic arts making the Emperor muse that this was most likely the reason Chaos Gods ignored the strange system.

Once in orbit over the Proximan Capital teleportation became possible. Using beamed coordinates the diplomatic party rode a column of warp-lighting into a grand plaza. The city awaiting them was curiously beautiful. Crystal spires weaved together in a heavenward lance. It strangely reminded the Emperor of the rancid Acrologies known as hives. As if the same concept of stacking city upon city had been done in a more natural way.

The Plaza they arrived in was nearly a kilometer in diameter, enclosed in a glass bubble and burrowed into the spires side. As the blaze of Teleportation faded the chamber was illuminated by the Emperor. His golden light refracted across the chamber, creating a shimmering rainbow that washed over the thousands gathered. All but the strongest wills among the assembled delegates and leaders fell to their knees. The blinding light of Atham the Revelator struck them with awe like so many before.

Scanning the chamber Iskandar noted the clothes and ornaments favored by Proximan elite. Intricate and flamboyant costumes, each competing with each other. Some had such elaborate outfits they could not kneel properly Leaving the Emperor-shocked dignitaries dangling from their garments as their muscles gave out. Smiling to himself Iskandar felt the filled plaza resembled some crossbreed of avian mating display and flower garden, such was its ridiculousness.

As the Proximans recovered the Emperor addressed the assembly. His psychic might combining with eloquent words to weave a compelling argument for unity. Iskandar watched the hearts and minds around them slowly but surely bend to the Emperor's will. The Master of Mankind promised a beautiful future, one where mankind rose above this universes horrors. Where technology, art, culture and commerce could restart. An age where humanity ruled the stars and feared nothing. All the Emperor asked of Proxima was for its people to grow up. Surrender the worship and myths of old. Become what mankind could always be. The Many-Colored King may have protected them and earned their devotion, but it was time to move past such things. Worshipping something just because it is powerful is foolish. Respect your betters protect your lessers. Embrace your humanity and walk the shining path.

The message cascaded through the officials minds and awoke something in them. A new hope and a surprising sense of trust in this regal arrival. The idea that a speech could have such an effect seems laughable to some. This of course was the world where faith in the Many-Colored King started. Farthest from the clusters edges and the most conservative system. Simple words should have done little to sway the Proximans. What coaxed them into the Emperors light was who the message came from. Nearly 40,000 years of human souls, legends, and history lived within the Emperor. To be in his presence and hear his words is to have the collective will of our species press upon your mind. How can any but the mad, corrupt or truly foolish argue with a Star born of a million million souls?

Shakely a single Proximan man arose from the kneeling crowd. His robes were woven crystals, forming a plain form that reflected light in countless beautiful ways. They marked him as a High-Priest to the Many-Colored King. The Old Man softly addressed the Emperor: "O'King of Ancient Terra, thy words speak with cruel truths and sweet promises. You ask us to cast aside our faith and god. You offer us a new path forward, but how can we trust you? The Many-Colored King has faced many false-kings and fiends. I challenge you to walk the path of pilgrimage and face his Prophet. Prove to us we need not worship a Many-Colored King but follow a Golden King."

The Custodes bristled at the challenge and Valdor reflexively shifted his stance. With a gesture the Emperor ordered them to stand down and approached the elderly High-Priest. The Master of Mankind was eye level with his challenger and towered over him simultaneously. Placing an armored gauntlet of carved gold and light upon the Sages shoulder he plucked knowledge from the Priest and spoke: "High-Priest Stanislav of Proxima, your words are wise and true. Mankind must be careful and strong. I will earn your loyalty and prove the Imperium is the best path to Ascension."

At the direction of their hosts, the Imperial party left the grand plaza and started the pilgrimage. The top section of the Spire-City was in fact nearly hollow, a thin layer of institutes encrusted over a gaping hole that held the floating temple of the Many-Colored King. The temple was shaped like a massive human heart of crystal, as its colors constantly shifted due to mirror-gathered light refracted by its strange material. Great strands of gem-muscle were peeled away, forming grisly bridges that connected the Temple and surrounding spire. The pilgrimage into the glass cathedral started with crossing the muscle strand bridges.

With the Emperor and Iskandar at their head, the Imperials started the journey. The strand-bridges were roughly semi-circular in dimension, the path forming the trough and murals decorating the walls on either side. The inscriptions flowed together, forming a story told with each step forward. A story of how Proxima suffered when Mankind fought its children of metal, who were only finally defeated as Warp-Speakers were born along with the fourth Hell-Monarch. Proxima suffered as Old Night descended and the colors of life faded. All was lost and the world begged for salvation. That salvation came in the form of the Kaleidoscope Nights, when the Many-Colored King sent his Angels and spirits to return the color and protect Proxima. They taught secrets of Warp-Craft, culture and beauty, saving the people from darkness and elevating a prophet with divine wisdom. The Many-Colored King demanded worship and tribute to his Angels in order to protect Proxima. His prophet and spectral servants conveying his will in his absence.

It felt eerily similar to the Imperium of the 41st Millenium to the Emperor, a culture of worship and tribute in exchange for protection, keeping humans docile and weak so they were happy to serve whomever ever had the biggest gun. This entire system, no, the entire star cluster was some twisted parody of that possible future. The psychic power coursing through the spire distorted the Emperor's sight, making his mind, foresight and upper senses hazy. A weapon designed to interfere with Gods muddled his perception. That fact worried the Master of Mankind on many levels.

The bridge soon melted into the Temple, leaving a cut in its side for them to enter. A great drum echoed from within, a solemn beat mimicking the human heart. Entering the temple, the beat grew louder and louder, forcing the transhuman warriors to protect their ears and stabilize against vibrational damage. Matching where an atrium would lie in a human body, the chamber was filled with hundreds of worshipping monks, each looked sick and bent in someway. Dried blood covered the ears of some and a few might have even been corpses, crushed to death under the heartbeat that resonated around them.

All the monks sat bowed at the chambers far end, where they could watch the rippling energy of the titanic heartbeats originate. Curved inward slightly, the far wall formed an alter of sorts, where the mighty pulse ripped out from the wall's center. Incense and ritual apparatus cluttered the space around the altar, and half a dozen elderly priests kneeled before it, raw faith keeping their bodies functioning. The mighty footfalls of several hundred power-armored giants went unnoticed as the Imperial approached the altar. Great statues of stone and glass dotted alcoves around the room, all in poses of supplication facing the altar. The chambers walls curved inward and up, forming a tapered peak capping the chamber which pulsed with the heartbeat. Custodes and Astartes took positions as Father and son moved to the Altar.

A massive mural was carved into the chamber wall. Runes of power and circuits of psychic energy etched into glowing crystal. All originating from the same place of the heart-beat. A small hermit-hole was carved into the gem-flesh, barely large enough to fit a small human it held a curious statue. Inside, a diminutive figure was connected to the temple by glowing tubes, coursing with power. This was the temples focus, plugged into the psychic-structure and worshipped by billions. The Many-Colored King's Prophet. Ornately carved with ritual garments, a thick layer of dust lay on the statue.

The statue twitched and clumps of dust fell to the floor. It twitched again, convulsing as it struggled to move. Atrophied muscle forced itself to work and deathly lean arms rose up and fumbled with its head dress. The prophet was no relic or statue, it was a human. Muscle spasms disturbed dust from long dorment flesh. Milky-white eyes flickered open and peered blindly. The Prophet was a little girl, fused into the temple for centuries and living a waking dream of prayer and meditation.

This was abhorrent. She was an innocent bound and broken, mutilated by forces outside her understanding into a psychic tool. She had been locked away from life and time as an object of worship and preserved by arcane technology. All things bitterly familiar to the Emperor. In a voice cracked by ages, the prophet whispered a question: "Are you the Golden One?"

The Emperor came to one knee and reached out to the girl, his form shifting from armored giant to robed sage. Meeting her blind eyes, he softly and gently answered: "I am my child, why are you here little one?"

Cocking her head slightly she observed the brilliant psychic aura of the Emperor. He was just like the Many-Colored King had described. At last, her sacred duty would be at an end. Forcing her dessicated vocal cords to work, she answered the Master of Mankind: "My god tasked me with delivering a message and a gift. The message is "The difference between gods and daemons largely depends upon where one is standing at the time". The gift he gives you is a word."

In that moment, the psychic pulse echoed louder from the prophet, rippling through the crystal heart and illuminating a mural hidden at the back of her alcove. The mural was of a laughing face, half black, half white, surrounded by a spiders web. A sigil ancient beyond measure, left as a calling card by the Many-Colored King. It was a final punchline to reveal his identity to the Emperor. Cegorach, the Laughing God was at work across Proxima.

Dawning horror filled the Emperor as the child prophet opened her mouth, stretching it in ways not meant for human flesh to be moved. Vocal cords and facial muscles were flooded with arcane power as the Heart-Temple fulfilled its purpose in preserving and preparing the prophet, allowing her to give the Emperor of Mankind a gift. In a voice that defied the material universe, the Prophet of Proxima spoke the tongue of the Old Ones. She proclaimed a terrible command, and the universe obeyed.

"DEATH"