"Well done, my son!"
"HAHAHAHA—"
Looking at the Webway gate blazing with bright light, the Emperor felt a clarity of spirit he hadn't experienced since leaving his long seclusion.
He stepped through the gate, and his psychic hand reached out to touch what he had dreamed of for ages uncounted.
Not eliminating the Fourth Primarch had truly been the right call.
He reached up and snatched a bowl of stinky-tofu-durian-snail-noodle soup floating in the air, crammed it into his mouth without checking whether it was scalding, and looked at the vast Craftworld drifting before him with an expression of deep satisfaction.
"What are your plans from here?"
Perturabo came to stand beside him.
"Are you going back to Terra to keep working on your Webway? What you've built doesn't come close to what the Old Ones made. Better to cooperate with the Aeldari first, explore what's there, and learn from it."
"At least we now have time to actually work on the Webway seriously. Even if it's just replication, you should at least get it to sixty percent of the original before you worry about anything else."
"What you have on Terra compared to the Old Ones' Webway is roughly the difference between a dirt track and an actual road. The Great Crusade can slow down a little — at minimum, you could bring Ferrus and Vulkan over here to research this together."
"What do you think?"
Perturabo wasn't suggesting stopping the Great Crusade — it was necessary. Too many humans in the galaxy were still being subjugated by xenos. But now that they had the Webway, if they could secure more Craftworlds and map more routes, the Crusade's efficiency wouldn't suffer much — and they'd have more time to actually govern the worlds they were conquering.
This was a genuine win-win. Perturabo was genuinely tired of watching serfs and common people pick up pitchforks to charge at planetary defence forces and Astartes.
The Great Crusade shouldn't look like this. Saving humanity meant more than recovering lost territory. What about the actual humans?
"Once our brothers can travel the galaxy with these Aeldari as guides, the Crusade's efficiency will be more than adequate. You just need to understand the Webway fully, then go back to Terra and seal those holes. That's completely manageable — and furthermore—"
"I decline."
The Emperor's calm voice came.
Perturabo's ears — which could hear an entire star system's ambient noise — momentarily suspected they had developed a fault.
"What did you say?"
"I decline."
The Emperor still spoke in that flat, unhurried tone, reaching over and picking up a coriander-spring-onion-bittermelon cola to drink from.
"Have you got something wrong with your head? If you're ill, let Malcador beat some sense into you."
"My son — xenos can never be trusted. Even if you've given them everything they wanted and resolved all their anxieties and worries, they still cannot be trusted."
"This isn't a trust issue! We're talking about the Webway! We don't have to rely on Warp transit anymore if we use this!"
"Are you a masochist? You need our fleets to travel through your dirt-track Webway?"
"Do you not understand what these Aeldari are? We have an extraordinary opportunity right now to solve the transit problem, and you're telling me you decline?"
Perturabo felt something close to incredulous laughter rising in his chest.
"Do you genuinely believe they'll share the Webway with us for nothing?"
"I gave them sanctuary. That's the price."
"How do you know your sanctuary is actually sufficient? Where did the Dark Eldar come from? How many Craftworld Aeldari turn Exodite every year?"
"If they're all so terrified that they suppress themselves this severely, how did Slaanesh come to exist in the first place? Do you really believe you have them fully in hand?"
"The only ones you actually control are the ones standing in front of you right now. What about all the other Aeldari?"
The Emperor's words made Perturabo's brow furrow.
"What do you mean?"
"The Webway still needs to be built — but it needs proper study. This is a rare opportunity, and it shouldn't be wasted. But the Great Crusade absolutely cannot stop — because where do you think the resources for Webway construction come from?"
"Where do you think all those collected resources have been going? The Legions and Crusade fleets don't need numbers that astronomical."
He bit into a houttuynia-cold-braised-intestine-extra-spicy-drumstick burger mid-sentence, words still coming through clearly.
The Emperor pointed at the vast, silent Webway stretching before them.
"This is the real bottomless pit. Can you tell how large it is?"
"To construct a single segment of Webway, I've already poured in resources equivalent to at least sixty percent of the Imperial Crusade fleet's annual consumption — and drained a great deal of stockpiled material accumulated over ages — and what I've managed to build is barely a beginning. Not even a very large beginning."
"And you dare say that to me?"
"When did I have time to study this carefully? If I could, wouldn't I want to study Necron technology too?"
"When have I had time for that? Terra was practically shattered by those wretches — if I'm not there holding that gap closed, sooner or later our homeworld gets corrupted by Chaos, and then everything ends for everyone."
"The Webway is the only method I know that can free humanity from dependence on the Warp. Besides the Webway, what else was I supposed to do?"
"Then why aren't you using it right now?"
Perturabo was genuinely baffled. How could a person be this perversely contrary about things?
Artificial intelligence — what a gift of a technology. Perturabo didn't believe for a second the Emperor had no access to it. And yet all the way to 42K he'd kept it banned.
The corruption risk was nothing. Pure overcorrection. Throwing the entire meal away because one grain of rice fell on the floor.
Now they had the Webway right in front of them — if he just pushed a bit further and secured more Craftworlds, they could travel freely anywhere in the galaxy — and yet he was worried about a risk that might never even materialise, leaving all this Webway unused to keep routing everything through a Warp that killed people.
Now Perturabo understood where Rogal Dorn's obstinacy came from. That the genetic line that produced this man had also produced someone like the Angel was nothing short of a miracle at the cosmic lottery.
He watched the Emperor sucking down a spicy-olive-lemon juice with a straw, and finally the anger that had been building couldn't be contained anymore.
BOOM.
He threw the punch.
The Emperor, who had been examining the Webway's unusual structure, had no warning. Everything he'd just swallowed came back out, and he went sailing out of the Webway gate in a straight line.
By the time the Emperor registered what had happened, he was already in planetary orbit.
He hadn't even finished processing this when Perturabo came flying after him at speed, that power fist — larger than a siege ram — crackling with black lightning.
"You little—! I think you've actually rebelled!"
The Emperor, punched without cause, felt his own temper ignite. He drew the great golden-flaming sword and charged.
It was a bad day to be a Warp daemon.
The enormous golden sun and the Daemon Factory trailing black smoke fought each other through the Warp with a violence that flipped stars, shattered constellations, and nearly unmade entire regions — until Khorne personally intervened, and only then did the two colossal figures agree to stop.
The collateral daemon casualties were difficult to quantify. The entire local Warp had been thoroughly wrecked. The Undivided daemons had grievances they could not articulate to anyone.
"You disobedient wretch! What are you doing — let go — I told you to let go!"
Covered in bruises, the Emperor was currently held by the hair by Perturabo. Half his teeth had been knocked loose, and he had a return grip on Perturabo's hair.
"You first."
Perturabo, equally battered, had nothing undamaged anywhere on his body. He was genuinely weaker in close-quarters combat — couldn't match the man who had tamed a Martian dragon in what amounted to the Middle Ages. In the material universe, this golden figure was effectively untouchable in a straight fight.
"You first."
"Fine — take this then!"
But the Emperor didn't fight honourably. He manifested a giant psychic hand and drove it directly into Perturabo's nostrils while his right foot stamped hard on Perturabo's toes.
Perturabo released him and stepped back. Both parties retreated one step.
"What's the matter with you — that was unnecessarily brutal!"
The Emperor rubbed his throbbing scalp and glared across at Perturabo, who was equally committed to pretending the pain wasn't happening.
"You insufferable creature — Malcador must have been out of his mind inviting you out. In my entire existence I have never encountered anyone as perversely stubborn as you."
"I'm perversely stubborn? Is there something wrong with being cautious about xenos? Is there something wrong with building a Webway that belongs to humanity? Is there?"
"You have something ready-made and you won't use it. You insist on using your dirt-track Webway. You insist on continuing the Great Crusade at full speed. Look at the state the Imperium is in right now."
"It's a necessary cost. It isn't a large one. Future generations of humanity will remember the sacrifices that were made."
"I—"
Something like a clot of pent-up outrage lodged in Perturabo's throat. He had been fully prepared to deliver a comprehensive verbal assault on the Emperor. Now nothing came out at all. A mouthful of blood left instead.
The Emperor actually startled. Had he hit too hard? That shouldn't have been possible—
"Get out. Just — get out."
"I'm telling you — don't touch that Webway carelessly, and make sure you study it properly. I'll send Vulkan to you. Ferrus needs to continue the Crusade, he can't come. Make sure arrangements are sorted when the time comes, and report any progress immediately."
The Emperor finished speaking and disappeared.
Perturabo was left alone in the void, somewhat dishevelled.
He used a quick psychic adjustment to deal with the rather catastrophic state of his appearance and returned to the feral world with a mood that could generously be described as dark.
Ivieria and the others wisely did not try to say anything. When they had watched two mortal-realm gods nearly unmake local space with their fighting, they had arrived at a single conclusion: these two were gods, full stop. Only human gods were apparently especially modest about it — nothing like the Aeldari gods of old.
"My lord—"
"Start preparing. Draw the next Craftworld here, or take me to it yourselves."
"Yes."
"If they submit, everything becomes straightforward. If they don't—"
Perturabo didn't finish the sentence. Ivieria understood precisely what he meant.
She also had no desire for her kin to be tormented by Slaanesh after death, or assigned to production lines running without pause.
"Everything as my lord commands."
"Go and prepare. When my brother arrives, you will take me there."
"Yes."
"Abo — are you certain you want to relocate all of Olympia?"
Calliphone looked mildly confused. What place was worth moving the entire family's assets to?
"Yes. That location is important. If I'm not there personally to anchor it, I'm not at ease. At minimum, one of my brothers needs to be stationed there."
"What makes it so important?"
"A transit corridor. A very important transit corridor. Faster than light travel without going through the Warp."
"That fast?"
Calliphone was genuinely surprised.
Warp travel was already extraordinarily quick. Olympia's fleet had always navigated it so smoothly that she'd almost forgotten how serious its disadvantages were for the rest of the Imperium.
"Yes. That location cannot have any problems. This method of travel is considerably safer and more reliable than Warp transit. Unfortunately, humanity can't currently operate it independently — we still need assistance from certain xenos."
"What?"
Xenos?
Abo wasn't even pretending anymore? He was openly engaging xenos in preparation for open rebellion?
Though — the power wasn't quite there yet, was it?
While Calliphone was considering how she might help her brother in some meaningful way, Perturabo interrupted her thoughts.
"It's fine, sister. Begin coordinating all the resources across the Olympia System. I'll position a habitable world here to replace what we're moving — the Olympia System will remain intact and functional, and it will still be our territory."
Calliphone had nothing to argue. When her brother made a decision, he didn't change it. Nobody could talk him around.
"Understood."
"Brother."
Vulkan arrived by Stormbird and came aboard the Iron Blood. Perturabo came out to meet him personally, and the greeting was a bear hug.
Vulkan was always genuinely happy to see his brothers — and the Emperor had personally arranged this assignment for the two of them to work together, which the Salamander Primarch valued deeply. He considered any opportunity to spend time with his brothers precious.
"Vulkan."
"Did the Emperor tell you what this assignment involves?"
"No. Father said you'd explain when I arrived."
"Is it our Legions working together against some enemy?"
Vulkan was a little puzzled, because if that were the case, why wasn't the Fourth Legion present? Only his brother and his flagship.
"No. The assignment is weighty. Come with me — you'll understand when you see it."
"Aeldari!"
The Salamander Primarch saw two Aeldari aboard the Iron Blood's flagship and his anger ignited instantly.
Nocturne had suffered Dark Eldar raids and abductions for generations — the people of Nocturne had a reflex reaction to any Aeldari on sight. Shoot.
Vulkan was no different. He drew the Dawnbringer from his hip and was ready to reduce Ivieria and Dikter to pulp — but Perturabo stopped him.
"Brother. What are you doing?"
Vulkan's red eyes seemed about to produce actual flames. His enormous dark-skinned frame filled the corridor, and the two Aeldari sheltering behind Perturabo were genuinely terrified.
"Brother — they are not enemies."
"You're dealing with xenos. Father is going to—"
"He knows."
One sentence from Perturabo and Vulkan froze.
"What?"
"He knows."
Perturabo responded without expression.
"That's impossible. Absolutely impossible. Father would never permit you to collaborate with xenos!"
"They don't classify as xenos anymore. The Imperium has formally registered these Aeldari as 'psykically-specialised abhuman' — they have documentation and official status. Only the ones under my authority at the moment, though more will likely join in time."
"Do you know what you're saying, brother?"
Vulkan stared at him in complete disbelief. He couldn't understand how any Primarch could collaborate with xenos — and specifically the Aeldari, whom he despised above almost all others.
"They are useful, Vulkan."
"What use could they possibly have that makes you willing to take on this charge?"
"They've been formally registered as abhuman subjects of the Imperium, Vulkan. You need to accept that — at least for the ones under my authority. Any other Aeldari without Imperium registration are still xenos, and if you run into them later you can reduce them to paste to your heart's content."
Perturabo casually teleported Ivieria and Dikter back to the planet's surface and dismissed the mortal attendants and automata units.
"They are directly relevant to the assignment. Have you ever heard of the Webway, brother?"
"What is that?"
Perturabo gave Vulkan a broad explanation of what the Webway was, where it came from, and what it did.
Vulkan's expression moved progressively through stages of bewilderment.
"Something like this exists in the galaxy?"
"Yes. And the means of opening and closing it are in the hands of these Aeldari — which is why your task is significant. You'll need to station yourself in the Webway long-term, studying its material composition and preventing hostile entry."
"Like the Dark Eldar who used to raid your home world."
At the mention of Dark Eldar, Vulkan's aura shifted to something volatile and dangerous. Those wretches deserved total extinction.
"How can you trust these Aeldari, brother? You know xenos can't be trusted — that should be obvious to you."
"They are a useful tool. And once you've cracked the material composition of the Webway — once the Emperor's Webway project on Terra reaches completion — these Aeldari become xenos again, and you can do whatever you like with them. You can smash them with your hammer or use every divine artefact you've ever forged on them in creative succession for all I care."
"But right now — put your bias aside, stay at this Webway gate, and learn the technology. Analyse the Webway's material composition and construction techniques."
"That is what you should be doing. Not standing here worrying about questions of xenos collaboration."
"And before you say anything else — I know about you sneaking off and secretly burning xenos children with fire—"
The Salamander Primarch, who had been showing genuine signs of beginning to waver, reacted as though the most forbidden words in existence had been spoken. He lunged forward and clamped both hands over Perturabo's mouth.
"Stop — stop talking — brother — I agree, I agree, will that do?"
Good. Looking at the younger brother who had finally come around, Perturabo's mood improved slightly.
"Brother — how did you find out about that?"
Vulkan leaned down conspiratorially, keeping his voice low.
"Everyone in the Imperium knows. You just thought your concealment was working. Did you not know your sons don't bother hiding it when they do the same?"
Vulkan felt the sky collapse around him. What had been the point of all that pretending?
"There's nothing remarkable about it. Xenos deserve no better. Burning a few of the vermin is nothing — I enjoy playing decimation games with them myself. Who's going to say a word?"
"Anyone who does, I'll kill them."
The perpetually mild-mannered Vulkan found he couldn't quite keep up with this brother and decided to strongly encourage a move to the Webway — he wanted to get out of the Daemon Factory as quickly as possible. This place was deeply uncomfortable.
A massive iron giant drove a whip across the back of an equally enormous Undivided daemon. The creature's soul-tearing shriek made Vulkan feel distinctly cold.
"My lord."
Ivieria was already waiting at the Webway gate.
Despite considerable residual discomfort, Vulkan suppressed the revulsion and stepped through.
The moment he entered the Webway, the world seemed to open.
It was vast. Incomprehensibly vast. No one could imagine how the Old Ones had actually built this.
Watching construction teams already at work inside the Webway building enormous Hive World-scale structures — and a great planet taking shape — Vulkan understood that Perturabo intended to make this place a permanent home.
"Go work!"
"Are we all going to be living here, brother?"
"Yes. I'll be making trips out regularly to look for more Craftworlds that are willing to submit — finding more Webway exits and maps. Right now we can only reliably access the immediate star sectors."
"The Eastern Fringe route maps exist, but many sections even these Aeldari haven't re-explored — they'll need to be travelled again."
"And the Webway isn't static, brother. Over time it even grows new branches of its own — and nobody knows where those branches lead."
"Then there's the damage issue. The Webway hasn't been maintained for a very long time. A great many sections are broken, and some significant areas have already been corrupted by Chaos."
"Whenever I go out and encounter those, I'll cleanse them as I pass through. But that's primarily your responsibility, brother. Do you understand what I'm asking of you?"
Vulkan nodded, heavily and firmly. He understood his brother completely now.
He felt a new weight settling onto his shoulders — and a new kind of watchfulness taking up residence in the back of his mind.
"If you want, I can relocate Nocturne here as well. The constant natural disasters on your world ultimately trace back to the moon — I can resolve that for you."
"You could do that?"
Vulkan's face lit up. The Salamander Primarch was always deeply engaged when there was something he could do for his people — and this was his home world.
"Do you want them moved here?"
"If you want, I can deal with this problem now while we have time."
"Thank you, brother."
Vulkan felt strongly that this trip had been the right call. The xenos collaboration was still difficult to fully accept — but being able to spare his people from long-term catastrophe while also taking on a task that mattered for humanity's future was an extraordinary outcome.
"Let's go. Quickly and cleanly."
"Good."
"Wait — let's use the Webway. Might as well, and it's a useful scouting opportunity."
Ten days later, they came out of a Webway exit. Nocturne was visible not far ahead.
For the first time, Vulkan understood what it meant to travel a safe, reliable, efficient route.
Warp travel was undeniably fast. Sometimes absurdly so — you could leave today and arrive before you departed, by the calendar. That was why, despite all its drawbacks, so many species would have given anything for access to it.
But standing here, having just stepped through the Webway without incident, the Salamander Primarch experienced something entirely new.
"Is this why you were so insistent that I commit to studying the Webway, brother?"
"The future of this rests with you, brother. Work hard."
"Now — watch what I do."
He patted Vulkan on the shoulder, raised his hand, and delivered another demonstration of what planet-crunching actually looked like.
Vulkan stared, face frozen, at the proportionally-miniaturised Nocturne now sitting in Perturabo's palm.
"Brother — you — this—"
"A small matter. Your people are fine. Let's go — the engineering fleet will go in and do the renovation work, and things will be much better after that."
Small — small?
Looking at the absolute fervour on the Aeldari's faces, and the stunned expressions of his own sons, Vulkan did not think this was a small matter.
He found himself thinking of the Factory Perturabo had shown him, and of the Chaos Gods Perturabo had described.
"Brother — can I ask you something?"
"Yes?"
"What does Father look like in the Warp?"
Ivieria and the other Aeldari's pointed ears twitched. The Salamander Firedrakes also leaned in slightly.
"A golden sun."
"Like the one over Terra?"
"Yes. Larger, though."
"Larger than your Factory?"
"I don't know. About the same, probably. Very large either way."
"Then are you gods?"
"I am not a god."
In the Terran Palace, Malcador was currently beating the Emperor with his staff in front of Valdor and several others. The Emperor, faced with this old friend, was not in a position to do anything about it.
The Custodians could only treat this as if it were not happening, standing silent vigil outside the palace. Only Valdor watched the two of them with an expression of profound resignation.
"What in the world are you doing!"
Malcador's voice carried through the entire Terran Palace. The mortal attendants only knew the Regent was furious today, not why. The periodic sounds of things being struck made them increasingly anxious. The Custodians guarding the doors did nothing to make anyone feel better about the situation.
Arthor had once been a Thunder Warrior. He had survived the Purge because he had managed to maintain enough control over himself not to be caught in the reckoning. Now he and some brothers lived secretly in the areas around the Terran Palace — the Regent had arranged housing for them nearby.
The Custodians hadn't given them trouble. The Regent had quietly made space for them to exist.
In truth, they had largely stopped wanting to move at all. The Emperor's choices had been painful — but this quiet life was not without its value. A person, in the end, found worth in peace and contentment, even if certain honours that should have been theirs were lost. This calm was genuinely precious.
Today the Regent was berating the Emperor again. They could hear it from outside the palace — it happened with some regularity. The Custodians were maintaining their perimeter to prevent outside knowledge of this "embarrassment."
Arthor came and looked in for a moment. The Custodians didn't stop him. A shield-captain came and stood beside him quietly for a short while, saying nothing and doing nothing.
Arthor lowered his hood and gave a clean, precise Aquila salute. The shield-captain nodded once. Then Arthor left.
A perfectly ordinary visit. This was what these men lived on — these small threads of connection.
"So the first thing I need to focus on is mastering wraithbone technology, brother?"
Vulkan held a large watermelon in his left hand. Several pieces of candy floss hovered nearby, drifting toward him at intervals to be taken in large bites.
Sweet. Very good.
In front of him was an enormous quantity of fried chicken — an experience the perpetually deprived Salamander Primarch was discovering he had been missing for a very long time.
"Yes. Beyond that, you also need to understand the Webway's primary structural composition — that is the most important objective. Aeldari technology is valuable, but the Webway itself is what matters most."
"The Webway is the pinnacle of psychic and physical technology in combination. Aeldari technological artefacts and wraithbone will likely give you insights. My own aptitude in this area is limited — but in researching Aeldari technology generally, I can provide some support."
"Eat. Eat well and work well."
"Yes."
He chewed through a piece of fried chicken, bones and all, and swallowed cleanly. Picked up a watermelon, bit into it with the rind still on. Juice everywhere.
Delicious.