CHAPTER 526: CHAPTER 527 — SAVIOR: EVERYONE STAND UP—THE EMPEROR JUST GOT OFF THE TOILET!

The Prince of Pleasure reclined upon the throne-bed, basking in pain and ecstasy, a satisfied breath slipping from parted lips.

A pink mist spread wider, leaving the pleasure-palace damp and slick.

The authority and awe of that Hope Primarch—the Savior—only stoked the god’s hunger and fascination.

"No..."

At the foot of the dais, the Fallen Phoenix, Fulgrim, slumped to the floor, eyes squeezed shut in pain.

This Daemon Primarch of Slaanesh had been summoned to attend the Prince of Pleasure and to witness, with his own eyes, the Savior and the False Emperor fail.

Yet midway, the Prince of Pleasure had pushed him aside without mercy.

The culprit behind this humiliation was that Hope Primarch, the Savior.

How Fulgrim wished he were in the abyss beneath the throne rather than sprawled on this platform, suffering such shame.

It ground his pride beneath its heel.

But the Daemon Prince also understood that no matter what he did, he could never ascend to the heights of the Hope Primarch.

That being always descended upon battlefields—upon the galaxy—in the most dazzling of ways.

It made him ache with envy.

"Perhaps only when that Savior dies can the Fallen Phoenix once more become a flamboyance the galaxy cannot ignore..."

Fulgrim thought bitterly.

All he wanted now was to see the Hope Primarch and the False Emperor topple into the bottomless abyss beneath the strikes of Chaos assassins!

Deep in his soul there lurked a fear he dared not name:

If the False Emperor truly awoke—if he regained the ability to act in realspace—how would Fulgrim face that?

Suddenly, the sinuous body of the Prince of Pleasure ceased its shuddering, tinged by a faint disappointment and reproach.

But the god’s hunger for the Savior’s soul only grew; that craving now even surpassed Its malice for the Emperor.

Especially after the Savior abruptly halted everything.

—

At the Black Throne.

"Not good—the Prince of Pleasure got off on that!"

Eden cut off the beatdown in a snap, his whole body prickling numb.

His blows had wounded the Slaaneshi Chaos Assassin, yes—but they also fed it a certain peculiar energy, sending the Prince of Pleasure’s excitement soaring.

He was, in essence, empowering a Chaos God in realspace—like swinging and getting farmed for free.

Eden stopped wasting time on the Slaaneshi Assassin.

He broke off and flipped targets, racing to intercept the Assassin puppeted by the Changer of Ways before it could shank the Black Throne.

Boosted by the "I Reckon" power, Eden ignored the witch-traps the Tzeentchian Assassin had planted.

He simply grabbed it.

"Big Blue Bird, I reckon it’s time you scrammed!"

With a brutal wrench, he tore the Tzeentchian Assassin in two.

Foul ichor sprayed.

But the corrosive blood couldn’t so much as scuff his explosive physique.

With that all-out strike, the Changer of Ways was knocked clean off the board.

Eden allowed himself the smallest breath of relief.

Tzeentch’s attacks were the trickiest and most deceptive—killing that one first made the rest of the fight saner.

Now it was two-on-one, and his odds went up.

"Sā-vi-or!"

The Khornate Chaos Assassin marched forward, each step making the ground shudder, cords of muscle standing out even thicker, wreathed in a miasma of blood.

Clearly, the Blood God behind it was angry.

In uncounted centuries, no one had dared assault Him head-on— not even a clone-avatar.

Whip—

A barbed lash snapped like a serpent’s tongue, winding around Eden, its wicked thorns stabbing deep to drip venom.

"This is my fight!"

The Khornate Assassin quickened its pace, annoyed at Slaanesh.

It wanted to execute the Hope Primarch Savior alone.

Eden had only just ripped free of the barbed lash when the Khornate Assassin’s fist—packed with pure murder-might—smashed into him.

The god of slaughter’s power hit so hard his guts bucked and tore; he even coughed up fragments of lung.

He didn’t slow.

He planted a fist right back in the Assassin’s jaw.

Wounds like that were a tickle to Edork the greenskin—high-tier greenskins could lose a head, slap on a spare, and keep swinging.

The Edork trait of the greenskin also bled through this body.

Even as he countered Khorne, Eden felt no joy—only weight.

This fight had to turn hard.

His job wasn’t to beat Chaos Gods—it was to hold the Black Throne.

And now, with the Khornate Assassin tying him up, he was giving the Slaaneshi Assassin a free lane!

The Slaaneshi Assassin didn’t press him.

Instead, it cast out a veil of pink mist and slid into it,

using the cover to sprint for the Black Throne.

That cloying haze could spike every organ into fever, blinding sight and sense alike.

The Prince of Pleasure felt certain the Savior couldn’t find Its clone within this mist, let alone stop it.

The other Imperial warriors? Even less chance.

With the god’s glamours over their minds, they lost all vision and perception.

Under that cover, Slaanesh’s malice ghosted toward the Accursed One; a blasphemous dagger—capable of wounding even gods—glinted with killing frost.

One second.

It needed only one second to pierce the Accursed One.

"Accursed One, savor this pinnacle of torment.

Your only hope will be shattered. You will never claim the Aeldari Webway. Just like ten millennia ago, we will mercilessly destroy everything.

Perhaps, you should cry."

In the assassin’s mind, the Prince of Pleasure quivered in rapture, a small, soft tongue licking Its lips.

Death loomed.

Upon the Black Throne, the Emperor’s clone remained motionless, its soul force locked in struggle against the Throne’s power.

It could only receive the world in silence—helpless.

"Where the hell is that thing?!"

—

A few seconds earlier.

Eden fought to break the Khornate Assassin’s roadblock and tracked Slaanesh’s movements, heart knotted tighter.

Like the other Imperial fighters, he’d lost the Slaaneshi Assassin in the fog.

He couldn’t even line up an I-Reckon smack to the back of its skull.

A flicker of thought—

—and then a bone-rattling impact.

The Khornate Assassin seized the opening and plowed him through a mechanized defense line.

Two titans grappled.

At speeds a normal warrior’s eyes couldn’t parse, they smashed through several heavy turrets; explosions strobed the deck; an Ultramarines heavy Dreadnought toppled amid sheared limbs.

Those Ultramarine assets had been sent by Roboute Guilliman, Imperial Regent, to help the Savior assault the Black Throne zone held by the Supreme Overlord.

They arrived a tad late—just in time for the last stand around the Throne. Classic Regent timing.

As long as you show before the champagne pops, it counts as a win.

Wham—

"No more time!"

Eden wrung out every last drop of potential and booted the Khornate Assassin off him.

A spike of dread hammered his chest.

It felt as if His Majesty was about to be wounded—badly—in a way beyond repair.

What now?!

Then Eden’s gaze snagged on the heavy Dreadnought beside him—its pilot, an Ultramarines veteran of a hundred centuries, straining with half-shorn limbs, trying to stand and fight again.

From inside the sarcophagus came a grinding vox: "An Ultra... never falls. I... can still fight..."

It was heavy. Somber.

"I’ve got it..."

Eeden stared at the heavy Dreadnought—and a bright idea clicked.

Not its firepower. Not its iron will.

Its paint—blue.

As every greenskin knows, blue... is the luckiest color!

Eden’s thunderhead muscles bunched and rolled. He heaved the Ultramarines Heavy Dreadnought up and swung.

There was nothing left but a gamble.

"Imperial warrior—His Majesty’s fate is in your hands!"

With a full-body pivot, he hurled the Dreadnought into the pink fog shrouding the Black Throne.

The Hope Primarch’s brutal strength turned the ceramite-and-adamantine chassis into a living shell—an artillery round forged for ramming—its destructive force terrifying to behold.

If it hit the Black Throne, it could smash it.

But there was no other way—and no time for anything else.

The blue-armored Heavy Dreadnought streaked into the haze at macro-cannon speed.

The Imperial Aquila on its chest flared with sanctified radiance, throwing off a sheen of gold.

Brilliant.

Inside that sarcophagus, the mind of a millennia-old veteran snapped crystal-clear—as if he suddenly grasped his final purpose.

His vox-roar carried across the air:

"For... the Emperor!"

He didn’t finish the line.

By luck (blue is lucky, after all), the Ultramarines Heavy Dreadnought smashed straight into the Slaaneshi Chaos Assassin just as it raised a dagger toward the Emperor’s clone—blasting it aside and bowling the pair into a nearby defense bastion.

"???"

The Prince of Pleasure froze, stupefied. A heartbeat from victory—then darkness—

—and an Imperial war-sarcophagus pancaked It into a wall.

"Savior!"

Slaanesh came back to Its senses in a shriek of spite, hatred for the Hope Primarch surging. It wanted that soul.

Failure at the moment closest to triumph—that was the wound that bled rage.

Then a shadow loomed.

Imperial heavy armor.

"Heretic abomination... die!"

The Heavy Dreadnought burned like a small sun, engine-howl rising; even shattered components cycled back to life under the glow.

With the stump of an arm it hammer-fisted the Slaaneshi Assassin, then unleashed a melta beam.

With unbending will, the ancient warrior tied down the abomination.

Meanwhile—

Eden slapped aside a plunging slab of super-heavy tank armor. Power flooded his frame as I Reckon roared to life.

He drove a punch to meet the Khornate Assassin’s onrushing fist.

The impact detonated a pressure wave, blasting gravel and dust into a whirling sandstorm.

Eden stared the Khornate Assassin down, battle-fire bright in his eyes.

He even threw a taunt:

"Now we can settle this without interference. Do you dare, or don’t you?!"

The Assassin’s eyes burned hotter; behind them, the Blood God’s fury found a sliver of respect.

"Savior, I admire your courage.

You shall taste the War-God’s might and fall as a warrior—and your soul will be mine."

Khorne accepted the Hope Primarch’s challenge outright, ready to break and claim this towering foe with a clone-avatar—

—and take his soul.

It would be the richest feast in millennia.

With both the Hope Primarch and the Exalted Bloodthirster as Khorne’s champions, his realm would eclipse the other Dark Gods in brute strength.

The thought alone fanned the god’s wrath and battle-lust, empowering the clone.

Eden burned the last charge of the Little Sun’s stored I Reckon power, holding himself at the peak.

He and the Khornate Assassin locked eyes; the air grew heavier, the final clash of Primarch and god-clone on a hair-trigger—

—and Eden’s gaze popped wide.

He looked past the Assassin’s shoulder like he’d seen the impossible, shock flipping to wild delight. A psychic ping flared:

"Th—the Emperor... stood up?!"

At once the holy currents around the Black Throne surged; the Emperor’s presence rippled—undeniably real.

"???"

"The Accursed One awoke?"

Khorne, riding the clone, caught that telepathic burst.

His pupils pin-pricked.

The Accursed One was a threat like no other: if he rose from the Black Throne and struck the clones, the backlash could wound their true selves.

Fear—yes, fear—tilted the Blood God’s attention toward the Throne.

And in that sliver of distraction, the clone felt it—

—a sickening crunch at the back of the skull.

Edork’s signature move.

When the greenskin godling can’t be seen, back-of-the-head shots happen. Even a blink of inattention will do.

The instant Khorne’s focus drifted, Eden ghosted behind the Avatar with sneaky, filthy speed—

—and drilled a haymaker into that soft spot.

"Ambush?!"

The Khornate clone reeled, furious, whirling—

—and took a sledgehammer shot square in the face.

Blackness.

Eden crashed it to the deck and poured on a barrage—smash, smash, smash—never letting it get its feet.

"Craven Savior—you will pay!"

Howling, Khorne forced the clone to clear its sightlines, shutting down the openings Eden had exploited.

But before the counterstrike landed, a new reality dawned:

The Khornate clone was suddenly surrounded by Imperial elites—itching to brawl.

"Dog-pile it!"

Eden, swinging a slab of super-heavy tank plate like a bench, thwacked the clone and broke its wind-up.

Then the White Scars Primarch, Jaghatai Khan, the Captain-General of the Custodes, Marshal Carter of the Thunder Guard, and other top-tier warriors swarmed.

Together with the Savior, they hacked, hammered, and booted the Khornate clone in the most cathartic galaxy-class beatdown imaginable.

"Dishonorable! Coward’s fight! Treacherous ambush!"

The Blood God’s roar only made the fists fly faster.

How often do you get to stomp a Khornate avatar?

Eden was the dirtiest of the lot—always picking at weak spots. Nothing was off-limits.

Maybe the Hope Primarch kept a thread of dueling honor—maybe.

But Edork—the newborn greenskin god—wasn’t stage-acting. He was cunning, rabid, and mean.

The Khornate clone went down beneath endless rage—and choking humiliation—and popped, its residue spiraling back into the Immaterium.

Now the Changer’s and Blood God’s clones were gone.

Only the Slaaneshi clone remained.

On paper, the board looked great.

But Eden felt a chill.

He glanced toward the Slaaneshi Assassin "pinned" by the Heavy Dreadnought—only to see a sorcerous phantom.

Slaanesh had slipped the tackle—vanished.

"Damn it—Tzeentch."

Eden’s heart clenched; a wave of mortal dread crashed through him.

The Changer hadn’t retreated at all—it had melded into the Slaaneshi clone, fusing their powers, then spun an illusion to fool everyone.

Eden didn’t hesitate. He sprinted for the Black Throne.

He had to reach it before the strike fell.

Vmm—

Air warped before the Throne—Slaanesh’s clone surfaced, artifact dagger driving for the Emperor’s clone.

At the split-second brink, Eden tackled the Assassin.

And every hair on his body stood up.

"A... phantom—oh no!"

The decoy shattered, crystal chains snapping out to bind him in place.

He couldn’t move.

Eden looked to the Emperor’s clone—hopelessness licking his chest hollow.

The Chaos Gods would not pass up this chance—and there was no one left to stop them.

Except... nothing hit the Throne.

"???"

Before Eden could parse it, a soul-rending presence knifed straight for him.

"So I was the target!"

The thought flashed.

The Prince of Pleasure and the Changer of Ways hated the Hope Primarch so much they’d skip the Emperor—just to take his soul?!

Eden fought back.

He would never be Slaanesh’s thrall—never a toy for endless disgrace.

But there was no way to block the blow.

Cold sank in.

Maybe... I die here?

And then the strike fell—

—and Eden smiled, at peace.

Because his job was done.

Shnk—

Radiance bloomed.

Golden lightning claws punched through the Slaaneshi clone’s chest, unwinding the killing stroke.

Behind those claws strode a colossal figure in auramite—

The Emperor.

He stood before the Black Throne in a storm of pressure; lightning of raw soul-force raved in his eyes.

His Majesty... got off the toilet!

Eden stared, elation catching—then stalling.

Something felt... off.

Was this truly the Emperor—and not some deity wearing the face?

The golden claws clenched; the Chaos clone crumpled to nothing.

The Emperor’s first words rang out, holy and commanding, flooding the hall:

"I am no god—but the proof that you shall end in oblivion!"

Eden grinned, relief snapping bright.

That was His voice.

It was the Emperor—no doubt at all.

(End of Chapter)

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