Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 603 High Lord Council

The official announcement of the State Church's grand triumphal mass for Primarch Feralus Manus arrived at the core communication node of Holy Terra via the highest-priority astral transmission and multi-layered encrypted psionic pathways, like a heavy hammer blow.

An administrative messenger in a gray robe, pale-faced, carrying a data tablet containing earth-shattering news, strode quickly through the magnificent yet oppressive corridors inside the imperial palace.

The towering dome is intricately carved with epic scenes of emperors conquering all directions, as if countless gazes are fixed on the present from the depths of history.

On either side stood cold stone statues of heroes and saints from all ages, silently and majestically watching his hurried figure pass by, seemingly questioning whether every passerby was worthy of walking this road leading to the core of power.

The air was filled with ancient dust, old parchment, and the ever-lingering scent of incense, each aroma seemingly telling the story of the weight and silence of the empire's millennia-long history.

His footsteps echoed heavily in the empty corridor, each step seemingly striking the echo chamber of history, finally stopping before a massive obsidian door.

The imperial eagle emblem on the gate is solemn and dignified, symbolizing supreme authority and unquestionable rule.

After undergoing extremely rigorous identity verification and psionic scanning to confirm that there was nothing amiss, the heavy door silently slid open inwards.

The messenger took a deep breath, as if gathering all his courage for this moment, and then stepped into the heart of the empire's true power.

The High Lords' main hall was dimly lit, and the atmosphere was so heavy it was almost suffocating.

The enormous obsidian round table, smooth as a mirror, reflected the towering vaulted ceiling and the hanging imperial flags, as if every image was watching everything happening around the table.

The air seemed to freeze completely, with only the barely perceptible hum of the sophisticated environmental control system and the occasional faint buzzing of the servo skulls that swept through the air like ghosts, recording every word and action.

Twelve high-backed chairs were arranged around the table, and most of them were already seated.

Each High Lord represents a key branch of the Empire’s vast ruling system, and their decisions affect the fate of the entire human empire.

The messenger dared not look directly into the eyes of these powerful figures who controlled billions of lives, yet he could clearly feel the gazes upon him—heavy and cautious, as if they could penetrate his exterior and reach the deepest fears and loyalty within him.

He strode to the center of the round table, placed the data tablet into a slowly rising interface platform, bowed deeply, and quickly retreated into the shadows, as if lingering even a moment longer would result in being completely crushed by that invisible pressure.

The first to break this suffocating silence was Field Marshal Locken Walton, the representative of the Department of Military Affairs.

His epaulets were adorned with medals symbolizing countless war achievements, and his face was as cold and stern as wind-eroded rock, as if the years and the flames of war had long since erased all tender emotions from his face.

His wrinkled face revealed no emotion, but his slightly constricted pupils and the rough knuckles that accidentally tapped the table betrayed the intense tremor within him.

At this moment, the contents of the data tablet have been projected onto the holographic image in the center of the round table, and every word seems to carry immense weight.

“A living Primarch,” he began, his voice hoarse, carrying the authority of someone accustomed to giving orders, yet suppressing some deep-seated turmoil, “not in the annals of history, nor in icons, but in Medusa—commanding his legions, who has just shattered a massive WAAAGH!!”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across each high lord present like a blade, as if assessing their reactions. "From this day forward, any directives from the Ministry of Military Affairs concerning the Tenth Legion's defense zone and related theaters of war may become worthless, or worse—a proposal that requires the Primarch's 'approval'."

“How are we to explain to the millions of Imperial Guard officers that their Supreme Command may have… taken a back seat? And how are we to ensure that Terra’s overall strategy is not disrupted by the Primarch’s local decisions? This is not merely a matter of power division, but rather a matter of the fundamental logic of the Imperial military system’s existence.” The representative of the Ministry of Justice, Minister of the Interior and Justice Heinrich Krosser, had a grim expression.

He wore a crisp black uniform with the collar buttoned up, symbolizing the rigidity and absoluteness of the law that cannot be compromised.

He glanced coldly at Marshal Walton, his gaze devoid of any warmth, as if he had already seen through all the calculations behind the other's words.

"Suggestions? Marshal, perhaps you are too optimistic—or rather, too fixated on the authority and responsibilities of the Ministry of Military Affairs."

His voice was clear and cold, each word sharp as a final statement in a courtroom: "The authority of the Primarch derives directly from the Emperor; its very existence is almost a living law."

"If he were to exercise powers beyond the legal code under the pretext of 'wartime state' or 'higher rationality,' the judicial system that the Ministry of Justice has built up over a millennium, and the legal cornerstone that maintains imperial order, would likely be no match for him."

"At that time, were we upholding order or going against the will of an emperor's bloodline? The answer to this question may tear apart the entire empire's judicial structure and plunge us into chaos more terrible than war."

Albrecht Morris, the chief administrative officer and senior clerk of the Ministry of the Interior, was almost overwhelmed by the frantically jumping numbers on the data board in front of him.

He was slightly overweight, dressed in an elaborate bureaucratic robe, and covered with scrolls and data chips containing endless data about the empire. He seemed to be a living symbol of this vast bureaucratic system.

He pushed up his thick glasses, his voice trembling with exhaustion and despair, as if he had just finished a fierce battle with infinite numbers.

"Gentlemen, before arguing about the attribution of responsibility and the legal dilemmas, look at these numbers! The real issue is resources! The resources required to revive and maintain a complete Legion—note, a Legion, not a scattered warband—are astronomical!"

He pulled up a holographic chart; the intricate curves and towering numbers were dazzling, as if silently foreshadowing an impending resource crisis.

"Millions of new military equipment, the maintenance and expansion of a massive fleet, massive amounts of ammunition and energy supplies, and a comprehensive upgrade of the infrastructure of Medusa and its surrounding star systems... This will drain the annual quotas of at least three major star systems!"

Morris's voice was almost hoarse, every syllable filled with urgency: "We must immediately establish some kind of censorship, negotiation, or even restriction mechanism, otherwise the governors and command centers of other star systems will rebel due to the supply cut! The Empire's already strained logistics network will completely collapse!"

He wiped the sweat from his brow and made a near-dangerous suggestion, his voice lowered as if afraid of being overheard by some unseen force: "Perhaps... we could activate the emergency plan and redistribute some of the excess quota from the Altrama star system? After all, Lord Robert Guilliman is currently... still in a state of stasis and unable to voice any objections."

Upon hearing this, several high lords frowned—misappropriating resources from another Primarch homeworld was tantamount to touching the Empire's most sensitive taboo, and could trigger unpredictable chain reactions.

The leader of the Starspeaking Hall, the psionic overlord Cassius Raven, had a deeper unease creep onto his unusually pale face, which was already pale from years of immersion in the warp.

He wore a long robe embroidered with star patterns, and his body emanated a faint spiritual light and a camphor-like scent, as if he himself were a bridge connecting reality and the virtual world.

He slowly raised his withered hand, his fingertips wreathed in an unnatural, eerie blue glow, the light trembling slightly as if it had its own life.

“Before you worry about power, law, resources… mundane matters,” his voice was like that of deep water, ethereal yet chilling, each word seemingly carrying the whispers of the subspace, “we should perhaps pay more attention to certain more intriguing details that are beyond our current understanding.”

"The Primarch's return is certainly awe-inspiring, but how did he return? Why now? Are there forces at work behind the scenes that we have yet to detect? The answers to these questions may be more unsettling than the Primarch himself."

(End of this chapter)