Soon, a silent reform was launched under the backing of the Emperor and Perturabo, with Malcador and Guilliman overseeing the planning while the Primarchs and Space Marines carried out the actual execution.
Many people had no idea what was happening, and several Chapters were simply following orders as they acted.
All most common folk knew was that they no longer had to work such grueling hours, and various entertainment industries were beginning to rise under official Imperial sponsorship.
Thus, a renaissance—far from loud or violent—unfolded quietly across the interior of the Empire.
The populace didn't understand the underlying machinery; they were merely swept up in it, experiencing the changes happening around them.
Those who previously lacked the time to visit art exhibitions were now using their few spare moments to drop by one by one.
For many struggling to make a living, pursuing personal hobbies was a useless, trivial distraction—pointless and completely devoid of meaning.
Yet that was no longer the case for those living under the Empire's domain. The truly gifted had already been filtered out during their time at the Imperial Academies to take up technical posts; those remaining at the bottom as manual laborers were essentially the ones without further prospects for advancement.
For them, adding a bit of flavor to a bland and repetitive life was deeply necessary—it gave them a reason to feel truly alive.
Moreover, this renaissance was no small-scale affair. Sculptures, paintings, music, poetry—none of these required them to pay a high price to access or learn.
All they had to do was show up. Dedicated personnel were present to explain the creative background of each artistic piece, and if anyone wished to learn, they could—completely free of charge!
From total novice to master level, it was entirely free; as long as you wanted to learn, they would teach!
If you grew tired of sculpting, you could move on to painting or poetry composition. With over a hundred popular and niche art courses available, there was bound to be one to pass your spare hours.
And if that still didn't work—if life remained utterly unbearable—then you could head off to the frontlines yourself, filling the trenches alongside the death row convicts and sinners.
After all, if even this failed to cure these people of their idle, dangerous thoughts, Guilliman had no patience left to give them hope, short of expending them directly as manpower.
The Empire was not the Five Hundred Worlds; no matter how boundless his energy might be, he possessed zero desire to save such lost causes.
Within the Empire's borders, the reform proceeded peacefully; most people merely felt that life had recently taken a turn for the better. However, it still sent shockwaves through the major Chapters.
When those Chapters were told to dispatch personnel, many were quite reluctant. After all, how could grand Astartes—the Emperor's Angels—condescend to stay in one place just to guard a bunch of mortals?
They ought to die in never-ending battle!
Yet it was painfully clear that they could not disobey the direct commands of the Empire and their own Primarchs, leading a few Chapter members to take up station in these locales carrying a lingering touch of resentment.
When assigned by their Chapter Masters to garrison those sectors, quite a few Astartes genuinely believed they were being quietly ostracized and bullied by the rest of their Chapter.
Otherwise, why not let them remain with the Chapter to keep fighting?
Even sending them to the Deathwatch for advanced training would have been better!
Yet of all things, they were assigned to guard duty—how could they not feel crestfallen? A century of life, wasted away on such trivial matters.
Astartes were not meant to be static planetary guardians; they were supposed to campaign across the galaxy, exterminating those damned xenos and traitors.
However, both their fathers and Chapter Masters had made the mandate explicit: they had to go. Not only did they have to go, but to prevent these battle-brothers from harboring resentment, they were even granted the authority to select new recruits.
During this hundred-year tour, they were tasked not only with guarding their assigned territory, but also with visiting local planet-side academies to handpick qualified recruits for training—essentially adding more brothers to their own Chapter's ranks.
Astartes were scarce to begin with. A single galaxy was already vast, but now there were five entire galaxies to cover.
Truth be told, even if the current number of Astartes were multiplied by ten, it would still be a mere drop in the ocean for a single galaxy, let alone across five.
Just how vast was a galaxy? No one could say for certain. Even with the Empire in its current state, those Rogue Traders were still discovering new star systems and sectors every day.
The Imperial databases updated daily as the population expanded continuously; even the logic engines could only roughly estimate the daily net population growth based on the incoming data.
There were simply too many people. The number of Astartes could never keep pace—even if there were a billion of them, they would remain as tiny as dust specs scattered across the cosmos.
They were superhumans, but nothing more; the true pillars supporting the Empire were still not them.
Yet a thick barrier remained between the Space Marines and ordinary mortals. Space Marines who could interact with mortals without an air of arrogance were still pitifully rare.
Even though the Salamanders and Iron Warriors were exceptionally approachable, compared to the overwhelming sea of Space Marine Chapters out there, they were at most a couple of "good guy" Chapters with great reputations. What about the rest?
Guilliman and Perturabo's earlier hopes had fallen through: they simply could not force Space Marines and mortals to coexist in complete harmony.
The gene-seed and organ implantation surgeries had given these battle-brothers an inflated ego; the power was simply too overwhelming, causing them to subconsciously forget where they had originally come from.
Guilliman could foresee that even if he forced certain Chapters to station personnel in these places now, those genuinely willing to lower themselves to interact with the locals would still be extremely few. Their interactions would mostly be limited to selecting recruits at the academies.
The Space Marines of the Word Bearers Chapter harbored the least resistance to these assignments, because they had been entrusted with a special mission, making them feel the grave weight of the task.
In fact, candidate selection for these assignments was conducted internally within the Chapter first, vetting battle-brothers with sufficient seniority before deploying them to their respective posts and worlds.
As for the Chaplains assigned to the Imperial Creed cathedrals, the vetting process was even more rigorous. To that end, on the training grounds of the Chapters under the Word Bearers, quite a few Chaplains resorted to brawling after finding themselves unable to convince their peers with words.
All in all, while this reform was far from perfect, it was carried out in an orderly fashion—far smoother than the previous military reform that attempted to split the Legions.
Resistance was significantly lighter; though a few Chapters harbored mild grievances, they still obeyed their orders obediently.
The atmosphere across the Empire was visibly improving, losing its former heavy, suffocating weight.
In just twenty short years, the entire Empire—top to bottom—grew far more optimistic about its future prospects and direction.
A positive, upbeat, and cheerful attitude was a vital necessity for any nation's growth at any era, and the Empire was no exception.
Guilliman scanned the administrative reports sent back recently, feeling quite satisfied with these changes. All those years spent constantly updating and tweaking policies had not been in vain; the results submitted now finally brought him a sense of relief.
"You seem rather pleased with the Empire's current state."
A voice echoed directly into Guilliman's mind—sent by Angron, who was currently seated upon the Golden Throne.
The Golden Throne was indeed an instrument of torture. Even Angron, who used to be the most cheerful among them, felt his mental state growing unsteady. If he didn't talk to someone every now and then, he felt he would plunge right into depression.
"It's decent. Our efforts are bearing fruit."
A faint smile touched the corner of Guilliman's lips, making his hand move lighter as he processed administrative files.
"My plan is unfolding step by step. I believe that one day, I will bring the entire Empire back onto the right track. Astartes and mortals will coexist peacefully, the Custodes won't have to stay glued to Terra and the Throne, and we will return to the Golden Age—making humanity great once again."
"Is it not on the right track right now? I'd say the Empire is developing pretty well as it is. If it weren't for this recent hiccup, I would have dropped my tools and quit long ago."
The Emperor sat beside Malcador with his legs propped up on Malcador's desk, munching away on a bag of peppercorn and century-egg flavored potato chips.
"Not enough. The Empire still faces numerous issues; it's only because our current military strength is formidable enough that we can sustain this pace of development."
"However, there are still flaws in this system. We must reform it step by step—for instance, how to smoothly integrate Space Marines into the Imperial bureaucratic system remains a massive hurdle."
Guilliman didn't dare take this stride all at once just yet; doing so might introduce countless hidden dangers.
The rule prohibiting Space Marines from engaging in politics had been erased long ago, and plenty of Astartes currently held posts across various Imperial sectors. However, systematically incorporating Space Marines into the overarching bureaucratic framework remained an exceptionally serious matter.
This step could not be rushed. Guilliman already had a plan in mind: within the next thousand years, he would make this move, slowly assigning posts for every Legion.
"You certainly dare to dream. Even now, I haven't placed many of my own sons into administrative roles. The resistance to this step isn't actually that big, but coordinating it properly is extraordinarily difficult. Your Ultramar and my Olympia could serve as testing grounds to introduce Astartes into the bureaucracy on a large scale."
Perturabo had achieved a few breakthroughs in his cellular research on the Second Primarch alongside the Emperor, upgraded the logic engines once again, and roughly figured out how to operate the Dolmen Gates before dropping by the Departmento Administratum for a chat.
It had to be said that Guilliman and old Malcador were indeed reliable when it came to getting things done—who would have thought they could pull off a space-faring, galaxy-wide renaissance?
"I have that intention as well, but the timing isn't right just yet. We need to hold off a bit longer."
"Why wait? We might as well strike while the iron is hot and get it done now. Sooner is better than later—who knows what resistance might pop up in the future? It's better to take advantage of the current reform phase and slot the Astartes right in."
The Emperor no longer viewed the Astartes as disposable rags. After all, thinking about it realistically, the human population was vast beyond measure—what could a handful of Astartes really accomplish on their own?
Besides, weren't Astartes human at their core anyway? Thus, the Emperor had come around on the matter. It wasn't every day an opportunity came along to keep the Empire thriving—wouldn't it be a shame not to seize it?
"Our administrative capabilities haven't reached their limits yet. Though many mortal bureaucrats work themselves to exhaustion every day, that alone isn't enough to drive true systemic change within the Empire."
"We must wait—wait until these officials actively propose reforms on their own initiative. That will be our moment. That way, inserting Astartes into the bureaucracy won't feel so jarring."
"While we do allow Space Marines into the administrative system now, we treat it on a case-by-case basis under special circumstances. The presence of Space Marines on Terra and in certain regions is merely a tacit understanding everyone agrees upon."
"Have the mortal factions grown so powerful that even you two have to care about their stance? Did I make a mistake back then?"
The Emperor was somewhat surprised by Guilliman and Perturabo's cautious attitude. Both were hardliners at heart—especially Perturabo, whose usual arrogance was plain for all to see. It was unexpected to see him tread so carefully on this matter.
"It's not that we fear them; we're worried they might stop giving their all for us. When all is said and done, these people are still our foundation. Even with Abominable Intelligences assisting us, these mortals remain an indispensable part of the Empire."
"If we forcefully shove Astartes into their ranks like that, the outcome might produce the exact opposite of what we want."
Perturabo spoke up, and both Guilliman and Malcador nodded in agreement.
"Just execute them, then! Replace them with graduates from the academies—does the Empire really lack people like them?"
The Emperor couldn't understand it, but Imperial officials truly needed to excel across all fronts. Perturabo would never allow incompetent fools to take office just to fill numbers, so while the Empire didn't strictly lack officials, it was by no means overstocked either.
After all, very few academy graduates could meet the strict standards Perturabo demanded.
"If they all come from the academies, there's no reason why they would resist Astartes entering the system, right?"
The Emperor felt his head spinning, unable to wrap his mind around the logic.
"The real challenge isn't them—or rather, it's not these mortal bureaucrats. It's the entire system we constructed beforehand."
"We have no way to guarantee that Space Marines won't harbor ambition—even if we are their fathers."
"Normally, we shouldn't speculate like this, but what were the predecessors of those traitors? Regardless of who they were, once power gets involved, everything changes."
"Space Marines already enjoy immense autonomy. If we let them meddle in administrative governance as well, how will the mortals view it?"
"Our current setup is already pushing the limit. If we try to bring the rest of the Astartes in now, then regardless of whether those Space Marines entertain dangerous thoughts, the very first thing we'll have to face is widespread internal unrest across the Empire."
"Panic among the mortals would be inevitable. They can accept the Emperor's Angels descending from the heavens to save them, but that doesn't mean they can accept Astartes ruling over them. To them, it feels like an invasion by another species."
Guilliman understood what the people wanted better than anyone: at the end of the day, they wanted powerful, awe-inspiring saints to protect them—but letting these saints rule over them? Absolute non-starter!
That was the genuine mindset of the common folk. Becoming an Astartes was honorable, but letting Astartes govern them was completely out of the question!
The invisible friction between the two sides had always existed. On the surface, the Astartes held an absolute advantage, but down at the root, the ones truly rejecting the Astartes were the ordinary mortals.
Because they no longer viewed the Astartes as their own kind.
"Then—"
Just as the group was discussing how to seamlessly bridge the Astartes into Imperial governance, a figure that caught them off guard came running inside.
They all recognized this figure, and all implicitly tolerated its presence.
"What's wrong, Trazyn? Did you steal something you shouldn't have stolen again? Looking for us to clean up your mess?"
Perturabo teased.
"Warmaster, this time is different! I've made a monumental discovery—one so massive it could cause another galaxy-shaking upheaval across the Empire!"
Trazyn gesticulated with excitement, having come exceptionally close to pulling it off this time.