For this event, Medici had not cast a wide net.
He had screened carefully, pulling only nineteen participants from the vast ocean of player data, each meeting a very specific set of qualifications.
These nineteen corresponded precisely to the eighteen full Astartes Legions under the Emperor's command at the end of the Great Crusade, plus that singular, transcendent force loyal to the Emperor alone: the Custodes.
I Am Not God was that final one, the representative of the Custodes.
As the light of teleportation faded, Daniel, or rather, the temporary guardian now clad in the resplendent golden armor of the Custodes and wielding the superweapon known as the Guardian Spear, felt a sense of texture and presence unlike anything he had experienced before.
The weapon in his hands was no ordinary blade. It combined the solemn weight of a melee weapon with the lethality of ranged firepower.
Along the haft, faint traces of energy shimmered, and the blade's edge seemed to carry a force field capable of tearing space itself.
More refined still was the miniature laser array hidden just beneath the spearpoint, capable of vaporizing distant threats in an instant.
The weapon itself was a perfect union of science and swordsmanship, a symbol of the Custodes' power and their sacred duty of protection, both far beyond the reach of any era.
He looked around. Standing shoulder to shoulder with him were dozens of fellow Custodes, clad in the same radiant golden armor, towering like giants stepped out of myth.
They stood silent as mountains, their bearing flawless, the golden plate flowing with a liquid metal sheen under a light whose source could not be determined.
Every line etched into that armor seemed to hold ancient power and absolute loyalty.
The place where they stood was an arena of almost unimaginable scale, circular in shape.
Its architecture fused the grandeur of the Colosseum of ancient Rome with the transcendent, sacred aesthetic unique to the golden age of the Imperium of Man.
Towering columns bore epic reliefs depicting the Emperor's conquest of the stars. The entire venue was wrapped in an atmosphere both solemn and stirring.
Their position was the arena's finest vantage point: the main viewing platform reserved for the highest dignitaries.
It stood above the field itself, looking down over the sand that would soon become the site of combat.
Behind the platform rose a sacred stairway of pure white stone and gilded metal, leading to a place higher still.
At the top of that stairway stood a throne beyond all others.
That throne was not forged of any mortal material. It seemed instead to be given shape by frozen starlight, the collective will of humanity, and pure divinity made manifest.
It sat empty for now, yet it radiated a majesty so absolute that one could not help but feel the urge to kneel before it. It belonged to the Master of Mankind. It belonged to the Emperor.
Just as all the players had taken their places, hearts full of awe and anticipation, then it came.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
A drumbeat, low and mighty, as though it could strike the very depths of the soul, rolled out from every corner of the arena.
Each beat carried an ancient rhythm, and the air itself seemed to tremble with every strike, heralding the beginning of a grand gathering that spanned ten thousand years of history.
Every gaze, without exception, turned toward the stairway entrance behind the platform.
A figure emerged, slow and deliberate.
At first it was only a blurred silhouette, but the instant it stepped into the light, an indescribable presence flooded the entire space, drowning out even the thunder of the drums.
It was the Emperor.
Like the other Custodes around him, I Am Not God instinctively tried to make out the true face of this Master of Mankind.
But what he saw was not a clear countenance, only a blinding yet gentle radiance of pure white.
That light was not harsh, yet it effectively blurred every detail, as though the Emperor's very existence, its essence and the sheer weight of information it carried, had already exceeded what mortal senses could directly process.
He could only barely discern a tall, majestic silhouette, radiating boundless power and wisdom, like a star given human form and set walking among men.
At that moment, one of the true Custodes beside him noticed his "transgression" and gave his arm plate a light, almost imperceptible tap, one carrying stern warning.
Through the Custodes' internal encrypted communication link, a calm voice reached his mind.
"New Warden. Mind where your eyes fall. To look directly upon His Majesty is forbidden. Mortal eyes cannot bear the weight of His true nature.
At best, you will be struck permanently blind, your soul scarred. At worst, your very existence will be purified into nothingness by that light."
I Am Not God felt a chill run through him.
He immediately understood that the reason he had not collapsed instantly, as his Custodes companion's warning implied he should have, was not because he was special, but likely because his current status as a "player," or perhaps some protective filter granted to him by the Emperor himself as this temporary "Custodian Warden," allowed him to perceive only the silhouette and feel the pressure of that presence, without being harmed by the unbearable truth beneath it.
He hurriedly lowered his head, casting his gaze respectfully to the ground.
In that instant of lowering his eyes, he felt the gentle yet absolute white light that enveloped him seem to... linger on him, ever so briefly.
It was not a physical gaze, but something closer to the brush of a will.
As though the presence seated upon that throne, that white radiance embodying the ultimate hope and despair of all humanity, had, within its vast and boundless consciousness, taken the briefest possible notice of him: this peculiar "Custodian Warden," who had come from a distant future, bound by the Imperial Honor Contract.
An indescribable heat rose up from the depths of his soul, not pain, but something like being brushed, ever so gently, by the purest and most searing flame: the flame of humanity's collective will, the undying psychic fire of the Emperor.
He could not be certain whether it was mere illusion, or some form of recognition from a higher plane entirely.
He could only bow his head lower still, his heart filled with a restlessness and gravity he had never known before.
Had the Emperor... noticed him?
Even if it was nothing more than the faintest flicker among a billion billion thoughts, to him it carried the weight of a mountain.
The drumbeat began to fade.
The Emperor's form now sat enthroned upon that supreme seat, the white radiance flowing like tangible sovereignty, cloaking the entire platform.
A voice, vast and calm, devoid of any emotion yet carrying supreme, unimpeachable authority, rang out through some form of psychic broadcast that spoke directly into the minds of every participant: the Custodes upon the platform, and every warrior standing within the eighteen Legion formations below.
[Let the grand tournament begin.]
Simple words, only a few, yet they landed like a spark thrown into a powder keg.
Below, the eighteen Astartes Legion formations, each utterly distinct in character, some steady and disciplined, some wild and untamed, some shrouded in mystery, some resplendent in glory, erupted into a roar like the crashing of tides, weapons humming in answer.
The eighteen "Chosen," drawn from the future, stood shoulder to shoulder with their new battle-brothers, heads lifted, eyes fixed upon the center of the arena.
The duel tournament of the 30k era had begun in earnest: an age of glory, of power, and of tragedy not yet foreseen. And each of them would play a role unlike any other within it, living through a single facet of this legendary chapter of history in the flesh.