The corruption of Chaos will erupt like festering sores across the galaxy, turning entire planets into screaming, living sacrifices…
The Necron Dynasty, slumbering for tens of millions of years, will awaken from its cold tombs, bringing with it an eternal hatred for the living…
Green tides of destruction will sweep over everything, demolishing the strongest fortresses with their battle cries…
The Tyranid Swarm from deep space will devour all biomass, transforming prosperous worlds into lifeless rocks…
If it were just a single threat, the Imperium of Man, with its sheer size, could still fight.
But at this moment, all the calamities have descended simultaneously, as if by agreement!
It's like a meticulously orchestrated symphony of doom, where each destructive movement overlaps and resonates at the worst possible moment.
Not only that, there are also elusive Aeldari pirates taking advantage of the chaos, the ambitious T'au Empire seizing the opportunity to expand its territory, and the never-ending rebellions within the Imperium, along with the territories completely torn apart by the Great Rift…
Each of these wounds is fatal on its own, and now they are all bleeding at the same time.
The next twenty years for mortals will be the eve of the Imperium of Man's descent into its deepest, most desperate darkness.
Historical records from this period will be filled with contradictory narratives—some will see it as the last glory, others will witness the beginning of collapse, and this depends entirely on which side of the Great Rift the observer stands.
If not for Guilliman's miraculous awakening, humanity would likely have experienced another despair akin to the Old Night, and the entire Imperium of Man would have completely disintegrated.
The Primarch's return was like a star suddenly lighting up in a dark universe, but even he himself could not be sure whether this light was a harbinger of dawn or the last flicker of a dying civilization.
"So, to save the Imperium of Man, buddy, some… principles and bottom lines can't be held onto from the 3k era anymore." 32 reached out, and her cold metal bionic hand gently patted Alex's shoulder, an action carrying an almost cruel "comfort."
She had long since adjusted her mindset, viewing this desperate world as a large, immersive game with unchangeable rules.
As a "player," she chose to "complete" the game within the rules, suppressing her inner discomfort and playing her role well.
Alex, however, bore a heavier sense of justice and compassion.
Whenever he saw workers being sent to the recycling plant, his stomach would physiologically cramp; whenever he signed another compromise document, his signature would be heavier than usual, as if he wanted to tear through the paper.
32 saw these subtle reactions but could only choose to remain silent.
As a governor, he possessed the power to make local changes and yearned to do so.
He established the most efficient hydroponic farm in the entire Star District on Rostov II, installed real windows in the workers' dormitories, and even secretly reduced the quota for Servitor modifications.
But these small acts of kindness were like faint starlight in a dark universe, fleeting and unable to illuminate the entire galaxy.
The inertia of the Imperium of Man's overall decaying machinery was too strong; individual acts of kindness were like stones thrown into an abyss, stirring little echo.
Alex's reform measures began to distort after spreading to three planets, and by the time they reached the tenth planet, they had turned into completely opposite policies.
The bureaucratic system was like a funhouse mirror, twisting all good intentions into a shape it could accept.
Even Guilliman, upon his return to the Imperium of Man, facing the mountain of "spaghetti code" that was the Department of Internal Affairs' bureaucracy, could only sigh in resignation and had to start anew.
The Primarch wrote in his private journal: "Sometimes I truly wish I could throw the entire Terra bureaucratic system into the sun and start from scratch."
But he ultimately had to compromise, establishing parallel agencies to bypass this quagmire.
This entire Imperium of Man is a colossal, despair-inducing "spaghetti code" that has been running for ten thousand years.
Every subsystem is intertwined, every decree is convoluted, and every tradition is deeply rooted.
It's like an ancient computer constantly patched by countless generations of programmers; no one can explain its original architecture anymore, and no one dares to rashly shut it down and restart it.
Any attempt to modify its fundamental layers is akin to digging a foundation on the edge of a crumbling cliff—hoping the mountain won't collapse with a roar is the greatest luxury.
Alex once dreamed of pulling a loose thread on the Imperium of Man's decaying corpse, only for the entire body to begin disintegrating, revealing countless skeletons of devoured reformers within.
When he awoke, his pillowcase was soaked with cold sweat.
"Alright, I get it," Alex's sigh almost depleted the air in his chest, his voice so soft it seemed it could vanish into the cold air at any moment.
His fingers unconsciously tightened around the metal railing, the coldness of the metal transferring through his fingertips.
How could he not understand this cold reality?
It was just that deep-seated reluctance and unwillingness, like thorns, constantly entwined his heart.
Whenever he closed his eyes, the faces devoured by war would appear in the darkness, their final screams seemingly still echoing in his ears.
Ultimately, the foundation of the Imperium of Man is those billions of individuals with names, flesh and blood, who laugh and cry.
They once rejoiced at the birth of a child on a certain morning, cried at the departure of a loved one on a certain evening; their lives should have been as unique as stars.
If the Imperium of Man itself treats individuals as mere grass, wantonly crushing them simply to maintain the existence of the abstract behemoth called the "Imperium of Man," then what meaning truly remains for "humanity" in this "Imperium of Man" that is ultimately protected?
It is nothing more than an empty shell, devoid of soul, a walking corpse in appearance only.
Does it protect merely the hollow concept of "existence" itself?
Like guarding a magnificent but uninhabited palace, or a book full of words that no one reads?
This question is destined to have no answer.
Because from the moment the Emperor raised the banner of human unity, what he could gaze upon was the grand and abstract concept of "humanity," rather than any specific individual.
That gaze transcended time and space, looking at the collective fate of a distant future, yet it overlooked every single life perishing beneath his feet.
For this grand vision, he was willing to sacrifice himself, let alone billions of individual lives like dust particles?
In the face of a magnificent blueprint, personal joys and sorrows are but insignificant ripples in the long river of history.
The irony is that it is precisely the silent sacrifices of these countless individuals, their crushed flesh and blood, their extinguished souls, that barely maintain this enormous machine called the "Imperium of Man," stumbling forward in the dark universe towards its already destined, decaying end.
Every turn of a gear is soaked in crimson lubricant.
The insignificance of the individual and the grandeur of the whole form the sharpest paradox and the deepest lament at this moment.
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