About twenty minutes later, the train eased into a noticeably quieter station. A sign above the platform exit read in gilded Gothic script:
Dawn's First Eden Garden of Heroes
Stepping out of the station, they were greeted by a massive, open plaza. At the far end stood a breathtaking stone archway, soaring sixty meters into the air. The pillars were carved from solid blocks of black granite, completely covered in densely packed rows of names. In the sunlight, the engraved letters shimmered with a faint gold hue.
Capping the arch was a colossal square lintel, bearing the bold inscription:
Dawn's First Eden Garden of Heroes
The calligraphy was fierce and powerful, projecting a heavy, undeniable solemnity that demanded respect. Flanking the archway were two thirty-meter-tall monuments. The left was an obelisk carved with the imagery of cogwheels, stalks of wheat, and stars. The right was a sculpture of the rising sun. Two lines of golden Gothic text ran down the sides of the stone pillars:
They traded their lives for our dawn.
They built our today with their sacrifice.
Cogboy stopped right in front of the grand archway and turned to face the two Primarchs.
"Lord Guilliman. Lord Sanguinius." His voice was low and deadly serious. "Laid to rest here are the heroes who sacrificed everything over the last twenty-four years of Aurelian's reconstruction, all to protect this world and forge our new home."
"There are 3,734,217 names carved into these stones."
"From the laborers who died rebuilding the Redblaze Wasteland, to the grunts butchered in the bloody siege of the Aru Industrial Zone."
"From the troopers who fell during the Aurelian Unification War, to the law enforcement officers shredded on the line while holding back mutant beast swarms."
"Every single one of their names is etched right here."
He raised a hand, pointing at the towering stone gate and the endless sea of golden letters. "And every single one of those names used to be a living, breathing human being."
"They had parents, spouses, and kids."
"They fell, but their sacrifice is forever remembered."
Guilliman remained silent.
Sanguinius was silent as well.
Behind them, the officers of the Ultramarines and Blood Angels shared that same heavy silence.
Azkaellon's gaze locked onto the names, unable to look away for a long time.
Seranaphy's hand subconsciously gripped the battered Blood Angel miniature hanging at his waist.
The group passed through the stone archway, stepping deeper into the Garden of Heroes. Inside was an expansive, profoundly solemn plaza. Countless black tombstones stood in densely packed rows across the grounds. Each slab was engraved with the fallen's name, their dates of birth and death, and a brief epitaph.
Some epitaphs were plain and simple: "A hardworking man, an honest soul, a family man."
Some were deeply affectionate: "Wait for me to come home. But I know you made it home first."
Some were fiercely heroic: "My blood to shield my people."
Some were just warm and comforting: "Mom, Dad, I'm doing great over here. Don't worry about me."
Right now, right in the middle of the Mid-Autumn Festival, the plaza was packed. Mourners were everywhere.
White-haired elders crouched by headstones, carefully wiping the engraved letters while murmuring their sons' childhood nicknames. Young widows held their toddlers' hands, laying fresh bouquets before their husbands' graves before pulling their children close and standing in long silence. Fresh-faced soldiers in uniform snapped crisp salutes to the markers of their old squad leaders, leaving behind a bottle of vodka and a lit cigarette.
Lines of military cadets marched in formation to present wreaths, their voices rising together to recite that eternal oath:
"Labor buys dignity; hope guides the dawn."
Those voices merged, echoing over the Garden of Heroes for a long time.
Sanguinius swept his gaze over the scene. He saw the fresh flowers, the new offerings, and the faces of the people who had come to pay their respects. There was no numbness. No despair. Just a quiet, sorrowful pride.
He listened to the murmurs and read the epitaphs around him.
"He fell before the dawn, but his light illuminates our path."
"Here lies a man who gave his life to protect this land."
"Dad, I'm a soldier in the Dawn Defense Force now too. Can you see me up there?"
Sanguinius stood a short distance away, quietly taking it all in. His fists slowly clenched at his sides.
He thought of the warriors his Blood Angels Legion had lost over the years. The sons who had fallen during the Great Crusade. The brothers who had died fighting back warp invasions. And the mortal auxiliaries whose names no one even bothered to remember.
What did they get when they died? A casualty notice? A hollow 'Died in service to the Emperor'? And then completely forgotten in the endless sea of humanity, just another piece of expendable fodder sacrificed to the Imperium's grinding gears?
Sanguinius closed his eyes.
He remembered the families of the fallen he had seen back on Baal. Mothers who had lost their sons, sitting in shoddy shacks with hollow, empty eyes. Orphans who had lost their fathers, digging through garbage just to find something to eat. Widows who were forced into the most degrading, backbreaking labor just to survive another day.
Did they ever get a forest of monuments like this? Did they ever get a day like this, a chance to stand before their loved one's grave, talk to them? Were they ever given a promise like this?
Sanguinius opened his eyes. He looked at the grieving crowds around him, the flowers and offerings resting against the stones, and the bright spark of life in the children's eyes. An incredibly complex, indescribable swell of emotion surged in his chest.
He suddenly understood something fundamental.
If the Imperium of Man could just do this... If they made the Imperial Auxilia and the Solar Auxilia understand that if they died in battle, their names would be carved in stone. Their families would be treated with honor. Their children would be raised and protected. Their sacrifice would never be forgotten.
Would so many worlds and armies rebel against the Imperium every year if they just had that?
--
Guilliman was equally silent.
Watching all of this, his mind drifted to the flawless social welfare systems back on Macragge. There, the families of the fallen were also given pensions and properly taken care of.
But... to carve the name of every single casualty into stone so future generations would always remember them? To have countless people spontaneously show up every Mid-Autumn Festival, bringing flowers and genuine heartfelt reverence for the lives lost? To let the fallen truly live on in the hearts of the people, instead of reducing them to cold, hard statistics?
Macragge couldn't do this. The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar couldn't do it either.
Because it required a specific kind of conviction. A conviction that genuinely treated every single ordinary person as a human being, not just a replaceable cog in a machine.
Guilliman's gaze settled on a particular tombstone. The epitaph was incredibly short, just four words:
"A clear conscience."
He stared at those words, silent for a very long time.