One month later.
Solar System, Holy Terra.
Titus's expression was as ever—serious and meticulous, the scar across his face lending him an even greater air of intimidation.
This warrior had lived by his Chapter's Codex, striving to become the perfect Ultramarine, worthy of his honor.
He stepped out from the transit corridor, bright light spilling onto his battered armor, making it glint faintly.
The Xenos Inquisition had applied for Webway passage rights to the Savior's realm, rushing this warrior to Holy Terra as fast as possible.
"Savior…"
The moment Titus emerged, he beheld the massive golden sun and the Savior's statue standing tall within the Inner Ring.
Framed by clouds and rainbows, white mechanical angels circled the statue in flight.
The warrior straightened his back and saluted devoutly.
It was a salute of respect—an homage to the Emperor and to the Primarch of Hope.
Along the way, whenever he passed a shrine or statue—whether of the Emperor or of any loyal Primarch—he had done the same.
Titus found himself in awe of it all.
The Throneworld was so sacred, so vibrant, unlike any other place in the Imperium.
His gene-father and the Savior had forged all this grandeur together.
Soon, several high-ranking Inquisitors arrived in a grav-car to bring him to the headquarters of the Xenos Inquisition.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Titus's curiosity only grew stronger.
He could feel that people respected him— even the most arrogant Inquisitors treated him so.
It was nothing like before.
Previously, even the lowest-ranked Inquisitor would watch Space Marines with suspicion, showing little respect.
As if he could become an enemy of the Imperium at any moment.
Let alone what he had endured over the past century.
But Space Marines were used to that.
"He who is without deceit, the Emperor shall favor."
It was the Emperor's test for loyal warriors. No warrior should question or defy this truth, else his soul could never remain pure.
Titus strove to live by it, even if resentment sometimes gnawed at him.
The Grand Master of the Xenos Inquisition had been awaiting his arrival—something unheard of for a Space Marine of his rank.
Only a Chapter Master or legendary hero could expect such treatment.
Once, at best, he would have been merely a soldier receiving orders, never permitted to meet such a figure.
In fact, not even someone sent by the Lord Regent himself might be afforded such honor.
But the Savior was different.
His authority had swelled without limit, and he held firm control over the Inquisition's oversight, able to curb them at will.
Moreover, the Inquisition's own representative was one of the Savior's staunchest henchmen.
"Titus, you've finally arrived."
The Grand Master of the Xenos Inquisition greeted him warmly, eyes fixed on the warrior he had sought for so long.
He had read Titus's file—there was no doubt of the man's ability.
Yet he still could not fathom why the Savior himself valued him so highly.
The Imperium had no shortage of mighty warriors who could serve.
Still, he had his orders. Whatever the Savior commanded must be done flawlessly.
"You have many questions," the Grand Master noted, then explained:
"You have come here through the favor of the Primarch of Hope, the Savior himself. He offers you a road to reclaim your honor.
He may have need of you in battle…"
His gaze hardened. "Do you deserve such favor? Do you have the strength to bear this honor?"
"Honor is my life," Titus answered solemnly. "When will I be granted an audience with him?"
He yearned to learn his mission and duty, then return to the battlefield he had been away from for so long.
"Not yet."
The Grand Master shook his head. "You are not yet ready to stand before him. You need more preparation and training.
It will be a difficult process, and you must execute it flawlessly."
Titus's expression grew resolute.
"Grand Master, I fear nothing. I will give it my all."
Whoosh—
A sudden gust swept through as a dark-golden vessel descended over the Xenos Inquisition's open hall, whisking the solemn-faced Titus away.
He was ready to face whatever awaited him.
At top speed, the ship bore him to the Ecclesiarchy's Inner Ring—to a sacred Imperial resort.
The Primarch of Hope had arranged a thirteen-day, full-service "spiritual cleansing and restoration" package for the warrior—complete with the most luxurious treatments, and even a day trip to the Imperial Palace.
He would be taken right to the doors of the Throne Room to feel the presence of the Emperor himself.
As for entering to see the Golden Throne—that was a privilege for Primarchs and the High Custodes alone.
Inside the vessel, Titus remained disciplined, sitting perfectly upright, surrounded by Custodians and Imperial Fists.
His eyes shone with anticipation.
He did not yet know what awaited him—only that he had been granted the right to venerate Imperial relics and to stand before the Throne Room's gates.
For any loyal warrior, that was the ultimate dream—supreme honor!
Perhaps this journey will demand many trials. I must reach the standard of perfection!
He believed this was a test set by the Primarch of Hope, with the final reward being entry to the Emperor's relics and the Palace.
Only by accomplishing it all could he earn an audience with that figure.
Before long, Titus, in a daze, found himself—like the others—wearing a simple white robe and a wristband.
He soon arrived at the holy resort.
…
Ecclesiarchy Inner Ring, Sacred High Tower District.
This was a pilgrimage site for elite warriors—a place bathed in the most blazing light of the Holy Sun.
Moreover, it housed many facilities beloved by warriors—strength testers, fighting pits, Titan-engine-forged death pendulums, and various restorative amenities.
They fulfilled needs of faith, recreation, and health alike.
Even better, every facility had a ranking board where one could see the standings of all warriors—and even challenge legendary records.
This was nothing short of a dream-world for Space Marines—where they could release tension, relax, and have no fear of Chaos corruption.
It was a creation born from the Savior's investigation.
He had learned that there were far too many Chaos Space Marines in the galaxy—and that a good portion of them had turned traitor due to long-term psychological strain.
So he built such facilities to relax warriors while strengthening their faith.
In the future, such sites would rise across the galaxy.
After his initial confusion, Titus quickly adapted, tackling multiple challenges.
Under the comfort of the environment and the sacred light's blessing, the shadows of long imprisonment vanished.
The whispers in his mind were gone.
Many of his scores ranked among the top.
In unarmed combat, he even defeated a Custodian.
This caused a stir within the Custodes.
They had heard of the Savior's search for Titus and had been watching closely, curious to see the warrior's abilities.
The result surpassed expectations.
Eager to wipe away the stain of defeat, the Custodians issued new challenges.
Before long, Titus followed them into a section marked with hazard symbols.
The Imperial Fists exchanged looks and joined as well.
<Superheated Sauna Chamber.>
Titus, the Custodians, and the Imperial Fists sat bare-chested on steaming-hot stone benches, skin flushed red.
They stared each other down, faces stern.
"Boy, you're about to drop, aren't you?"
One veteran Custodian Watcher sneered. "If you can't take it, we can end this now."
Titus said nothing. Sweat dripped down his scarred face.
He scooped up another ladle of special solution and poured it onto the central glowing-red firestone.
More blistering steam rose.
The Custodian, unwilling to be outdone, poured another ladle in turn.
The heat grew so intense the air itself seemed to burn.
By the fourth ladle, both Titus and the Custodians were grimacing, holding on by sheer will.
The Imperial Fists, meanwhile, had long since collapsed, twitching and foaming at the mouth.
Soon the alarms sounded.
The resort's elite medical team rushed in, hauling the unconscious Marines out for treatment.
With their advanced technology and equipment, so long as a man still breathed, they could bring him back.
It was said Titus was the last to fall.
Not long after, he even broke the record for the high-speed spinning fascia blade left by Chapter Master Dante of the Blood Angels—lasting several seconds longer than the legend himself.
Word of Titus's feats spread to the Ultramarines.
They initiated internal procedures to welcome him back into the Chapter—offering him the rank of Company Captain.
However, before the Ultramarines could complete the process…
Titus had already been taken by the Adeptus Mechanicus's Archmagos to undergo the Primaris transformation.
He would receive the finest augmentations and gene-organs— and be reborn, stronger than ever.
...
Dreamweaver, Savior's Sanctum.
"Whew… finally over."
Eden emerged from the forbidden xenobiological research labs deep beneath the Sanctum, looking noticeably worn.
For over a year, he had remained in that laboratory, working alongside the researchers to develop a clone capable of infiltrating and combating the Drukhari.
The clone was nearly complete.
It had been grown using vast amounts of his own bone and blood, psychic energy, and the power of the Goddess of Life Isha— forming a body akin to that of a trueborn Dark Eldar.
This was necessary. Such a body was far more respected among their kind than one born of mere vat-cloning, making it easier for him to maneuver in their ranks.
"Tarko, report on our current progress."
Eden stepped into the council hall, eyes sweeping across the floating holo-map of the Dark Eldar realm—its data riddled with gaps.
"It's time to decide—do we launch a direct assault, or bring them down from within?"
Tarko bowed, frowning slightly.
"My lord Savior, a frontal assault would be… ill-advised."
He projected a battle simulation over the map, explaining the difficulty of attacking Commorragh.
Commorragh—one of the most infamous names in the galaxy—yet so few had glimpsed its true form.
It was a vast city left behind by the ancient Aeldari Empire, hidden within the Webway, its foundations built of wraithbone that could grow and expand endlessly, devouring other dimensions.
It could even snare dying stars, dragging them into the Webway to serve as illumination and energy sources.
In theory, it could grow without limit.
Commorragh was so massive that its population exceeded that of any single Imperial system combined—
the largest city in realspace terms, though it did not truly exist there.
The Craftworld Aeldari called it "the tumor growing in the holy Webway."
Unlike any city in the galaxy, it was a multidimensional construct—part satellite districts, part ancient metropolis—fused together by corridors, tunnels, and Webway nodes.
From a spatial perspective, its scattered districts might be separated by thousands of light-years—
yet the Webway bound them seamlessly, with instant travel between nodes.
Its towers grew upward like light-hungry flora, connected by countless passages and arches, sprawling outward as they absorbed yet more dimensions as their foundation.
Commorragh thrived.
Thousands upon thousands of ships entered through its Webway gates daily, hovering in its skies to unload slaves and resources.
Mercenaries, bounty hunters, even renegade Space Marines risked death to trade here, seeking greater wealth.
Even Imperial nobles and Chapters sometimes came to certain districts to do business.
It was perhaps the greatest trade hub in the galaxy.
The Savior's realm's latest intelligence made Eden's scalp prickle.
Commorragh was vast—wealthier and more populous than anyone imagined.
The Inquisition's central archives had once described it as merely a large xenos city—smaller than Holy Terra.
But in truth, that was only a minor port district.
If the Imperium truly knew the scale of Commorragh—its countless ports, arsenals, and treasure vaults—
they would refuse any dealings and seal every Webway gate they could find.
If Commorragh struck in full force, it could pour through its gates and launch simultaneous assaults on hundreds of thousands of Imperial territories.
To attack it would mean first fighting through its labyrinthine, heavily fortified port zones just to reach its immense central city—
a place guarded by countless ancient defenses, where even an entire Legion could not fill a single district.
The difficulty was staggering.
By current estimates, Commorragh and its satellite districts covered nearly one-third the area of the Savior's realm.
A frontal attack would demand unthinkable sacrifice—
and that's assuming they could even find a viable invasion route.
Eden dismissed the idea of direct assault at once.
It was a fortress that could devour armies whole.
Fortunately, Commorragh lacked a unified government—
more a Drukhari-dominated pirate haven and black-market trade hub than a single empire.
If it had been united, even the Imperium would have howled under its raids—
and the Savior's realm might not survive.
Still…
"What a delicious city…"
Eden's gaze lingered on the data, almost salivating.
From one perspective, Commorragh was the most valuable location in the galaxy—Holy Terra was trash in comparison.
Even Urth Ecclesiarchy's sacred worlds might not compare.
A city that could grow infinitely, threaded with Webway infrastructure—
even the Emperor would covet it.
Give him Commorragh, and he'd happily trade away Terra itself—
maybe even sell his throne.
After all, the Emperor had nearly destroyed himself just to maintain a tiny Webway project.
Imagine giving him a ready-made Webway megacity—he'd be ecstatic.
Eden resolved to take it for himself.
His current network of nexus-nodes could no longer meet his needs;
only a city of such scale and growth could host all humanity's trade, binding every civilized world together.
Of course, this would not be easy.
The Imperium as it stood could never conquer it head-on; even victory would leave nothing but a ruin.
Fortunately, he had another plan—
to infiltrate, destabilize, and claim Commorragh from within, turning it into his own paradise.
This was possible.
Commorragh was fragmented—
its countless factions, known as Kabals, lived by their own ruthless rules.
If one was strong enough, one could climb over the corpses of rivals to become its ruler.
It had been done before.
The current Supreme Overlord, Asdrubael Vect of the Kabal of the Black Heart, had once been nothing more than a street slave destined for sacrifice.
He survived, founded his Kabal, and through cunning and ambition rose to the pinnacle of Commorragh's elite.
"If that bastard could do it, why can't I?" Eden thought.
The odds were worth the gamble—especially with his hidden trump cards.
Including a living Aeldari god.
And with Commorragh now divided by strife between Vect and the aristocracy, he could slip in through the cracks.
He would found the Kabal of Redemption, seizing a satellite district first, then working toward Commorragh's heart.
For this, he needed shock troops—
whether Drukhari warriors or elite xenos mercenaries.
Above all, he needed champions to fight in Commorragh's arenas, winning him influence and wealth.
The Drukhari loved to wager on arena battles, staking everything from treasure to territory—even priceless relics.
Lives included.
He already had a prime candidate in mind—
the Ultramarine, Titus.
"Tarko, I'll leave the Kabal preparations to you."
Closing his dataslate, Eden added, "Oh—and when Titus's surgery is done, send him to me."
It was time to meet the brute.
...
Savior's Sanctum, Throne Hall.
The heavy gates swung open, hymns resounding, the air rich with the scent of sacred unguents.
Primaris Titus was taller and broader than before, nearly three meters even without armor—
radiating raw presence.
Fresh from his transformation, he wore only a grey robe, no armor or weapons yet prepared.
"By the Emperor… at last, my mission comes."
Titus inhaled deeply, nerves taut, as white-robed mechanical angels led him into the Primarch's throne hall.
The hall was resplendent in gold and marble.
Thunder Warrior champions flanked the crimson carpet, strange winged quadruped creatures circling overhead.
As the warrior stepped inside, the hymns reached their holiest, most exultant peak—
choirs of white-robed children harmonizing around the Primarch.
Soft golden light streamed through crystal windows, bathing the Primarch of Hope in his gleaming golden armor, making him seem divine.
"My lord Primarch."
Titus stopped short of the throne's steps and bowed with utmost formality.
Ultramarines never cut corners in matters of protocol.
This was his first time standing before such a legend.
In truth, he longed more to meet his gene-father, the Primarch of the Ultramarines—
but with his disgraceful past, that chance might never come.
Unless his Chapter forgave him.
The thought soured his heart; his battle-brothers had not yet sought him out.
"My lord Primarch?"
Eden rose from his throne and descended the steps, studying the warrior.
"I don't care for that title."
His voice carried effortless authority.
Titus blinked in surprise, tension coiling tighter.
Before him stood a son of the Emperor, a guardian of the Imperium for millennia—
a living legend, not to be slighted in word or deed.
"How should I address you, then?" he asked carefully.
"Child, you have suffered much."
Eden stepped close, smiling warmly, his voice rich with care.
"Now my blood runs in your veins. You have been reborn.
Perhaps… you should follow your heart."
The Primaris transformation had used new organs grown from the Savior's own gene-seed—
with a substantial measure of his genetic blood now within Titus.
The kindness in his tone struck deep.
Titus had known little affection in his life; his heart was heavy with unspent fury.
This man had freed him from prison, given him a path to reclaim his honor.
Looking into the Savior's eyes, he felt a bond—
a connection of blood between Primarch and son, amplified by the Primarch's personal concern.
After a moment's silence, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
"Father…"
Few could claim the right to call a Primarch by that name.
Just as a Primarch might call the Emperor "Father," so too could only an acknowledged gene-son, in a solemn moment, speak it.
It was both vow and blessing, a gift from the Primarch himself.
Eden accepted and sealed the rite.
He lifted Titus to his feet, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"Rise. I'll take you to choose your wargear."
From this moment, he was this brute's "stepfather" or adoptive sire.
Hopefully Guilliman wouldn't take offense.
He led Titus into the Primarch's armory, outfitting him with a full set of legendary equipment—
even gifting him Glory, the famed power sword once wielded by Guilliman in his youth.
(End of Chapter)
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