Inside the vast and imposing halls of the Imperial Parliament, only two figures remained—Roboute Guilliman, the Regent of the Imperium, and Belisarius Cawl, the enigmatic Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Everyone else had been dismissed.
Cawl, though human in origin, was now a towering construct of flesh and machine. In sheer height, he stood as an equal to Guilliman, a testament to his millennia of self-modification. Over ten thousand years, he had undergone countless technological augmentations, replacing nearly all of his organic body with intricate machinery.
His back was encased in a massive, shell-like structure, housing a force field generator, multiple articulated mechanical limbs, and several floating servo-skulls, each tethered to him by thick neural cables. Embedded within his mechanical form were an array of high-powered weapons gathered from across the galaxy, directly linked to his brain and spinal systems for seamless control.
Even his lower half had been completely mechanized. Each step he took resonated through the chamber, the hiss of pistons and the hum of servos filling the silence. A core in his chest pulsed with an eerie glow—clear evidence that he had integrated a compact fusion reactor to power his arsenal.
Guilliman, despite his many encounters with the Mechanicus, couldn't help but marvel at Cawl's form.
The saying had proven true: Flesh is weak, but the machine endures.
The Adeptus Mechanicus had long since abandoned humanity's frailties, discarding biological limitations in their relentless pursuit of the Omnissiah's truth.
"Cawl, come closer," Guilliman commanded, his tone measured but warm.
Of all the figures in the Imperium, Cawl was one of the few he could trust—for now. The Archmagos had dedicated ten millennia to his resurrection, scouring the stars for lost technology, delving into forbidden archives, and unearthing ancient relics buried within crumbling tombs.
Such devotion was rare. If someone would endure ten thousand years of hardship for a mere promise, could there be a greater sign of loyalty?
Then again, Guilliman had lived long enough to know that in this grim universe, loyalty was fleeting. Even the most steadfast allies could turn in time.
Cawl approached, his heavy mechanical frame leaving imprints on the chamber's polished marble floor. His artificial eyes, a fusion of organic remnants and cybernetic augmentation, emitted a cold, calculating glow. Within those glassy depths, the delicate whir of internal gears was barely perceptible.
"Regent, what do you require of me?" Cawl inquired, his voice a mix of synthetic resonance and ancient human tone.
Guilliman hesitated for a moment before producing a small data-storage device. He held it up, the dim chamber lights reflecting off its surface.
"This contains knowledge I secretly collected ten thousand years ago," he stated evenly. "With it, we can create a new kind of army—an army powerful enough to reclaim the galaxy from chaos and decay."
Of course, this was a lie.
The data wasn't from ten thousand years ago. It had been compiled from the vast Imperial archives, knowledge hidden and fragmented over millennia. But claiming it was ancient lore gave it legitimacy—anyone questioning its origins would be challenged to prove otherwise.
If the Mechanicus wished to dispute it, let them search ten thousand years into the past for verification.
They wouldn't find anything.
They never could.
This was why Guilliman had chosen Ultramar as his staging ground. The Adeptus Mechanicus, for all their power, held less influence here. Unlike Holy Terra, where the Martian Priesthood's authority was absolute, Ultramar allowed him more freedom. With support from Marneus Calgar and Saint Celestine, he had room to maneuver—space to create an army unburdened by the dogma of the past.
And Guilliman needed that army.
The Imperium was bloated, its governance fractured and inefficient. Every faction within it—the High Lords of Terra, the planetary governors, the noble houses, the Astra Militarum, the Imperial Navy, the Adeptus Custodes, the Inquisition, and the myriad Astartes Chapters—competed in a tangled web of power struggles.
The Adeptus Mechanicus, while a supposed ally, often acted in self-interest. Their bureaucratic stagnation had nearly cost the Imperium everything during the War of the Beast, and their dogmatic refusal to innovate had stifled progress for millennia.
And then there was the Ecclesiarchy, a whole separate problem. Their obsession with faith and purity had led to disastrous crusades, sending thousands of loyal warriors into the Eye of Terror, only to see them branded as heretics for returning.
The Imperium was a rotting corpse, held together by patches and prayers.
Guilliman knew that patchwork solutions would no longer suffice.
The Imperium needed a rebirth.
And for that, he needed a military force powerful enough to enforce radical change.
Cawl accepted the data-storage device, his metallic fingers clicking as he inserted it into the interface at the base of his skull. Information flooded into his neural processors, and his optics flared brighter as he processed the knowledge.
For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, excitement flickered across his mechanical face.
This was knowledge beyond anything the Mechanicus had recovered.
Genetic enhancement techniques.
Blueprints for warships unlike anything in the current Imperial fleet.
And then he saw it—the plans for the Death Star.
Cawl's body trembled slightly. Even with all his augmentations, a surge of exhilaration passed through him.
This was a world-killer.
A weapon capable of obliterating entire planets.
The Mechanicus had lost so much knowledge over the millennia, and what little remained was hoarded zealously. True innovation was forbidden. Their doctrine dictated that all technology must be based on Standard Template Constructs (STCs)—ancient blueprints from the Dark Age of Technology. Anything without an STC was deemed heretical.
"Is there an STC template for this?" Cawl finally asked, looking up at Guilliman.
"No," Guilliman answered plainly. "This was obtained through study, not recovery."
Cawl hesitated. The Mechanicus would never accept technology that lacked an STC. Any deviation from the sacred templates would be considered blasphemy, punishable by death. Entire forge worlds had been purged for lesser offenses.
But Guilliman knew something else.
Cawl was different.
Unlike the rigid traditionalists who ruled Mars, Cawl was a radical. He had already pushed the limits of technological doctrine, daring to innovate where others clung to stagnation.
And now, faced with knowledge that could reshape the Imperium, Cawl's choice was clear.
"What do you require of me, Regent?" he asked at last.
A smile ghosted across Guilliman's lips. He had won.
"I need a new army," he declared. "From warships to armor, from weapons to gene-forged soldiers—everything must be upgraded. I will give you full authority to mobilize every industrial world within Ultramar. You will have all the resources you need."
Cawl nodded, his excitement barely restrained.
"It will be done, Regent," he vowed. "I will outfit your legions with the finest technology the Imperium has ever seen."
"Good," Guilliman said. Then his expression darkened.
"One last thing—this thought stamp technology must be developed as a priority. And it must remain classified. No records. No leaks. No outside knowledge. Understood?"
Cawl's optics whirred as he analyzed the implications.
"Understood, Regent," he confirmed.
Guilliman leaned back.
With this, the future of the Imperium would change forever.
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