Chapter 67 Forefather, Do You Want a High Lord Seat?

The newly activated Beacon lighthouse burned fiercely, its radiant glow illuminating the entire Sanctus half of the Imperium. Soon after, reports flooded in that the Astronomican had gone dark, officially cementing the Macragge Beacon as the sole navigational lifeline for the Imperium Sanctus. If things kept progressing this way, it was only a matter of time before Macragge permanently usurped Terra as the political and military heart of the Imperium.

“For the glory of Imperium Secundus!” Vane hollered out once again.

His shout left everyone present completely speechless. If literally anyone else had yelled that, the Inquisition and the Ministorum would have them tied to a stake and slow-roasted over a low flame for forty-nine days straight. Only Vane could spew that kind of treason so casually. The Imperial brass had a massive headache over it, but there was absolutely nothing they could do.

Once the Beacon activation ceremony wrapped up, the three Primarchs immediately returned to their original game plan: marshalling their armies for a massive, galaxy-spanning crusade to restore the Imperium’s glory.

Meanwhile, Vane inputted a new set of coordinates into his mobile fortress, instructing it to use his blueprints to construct a high-speed Obsidian Tunnel pointing straight toward the Sol System. Terra was the capital of the Imperium and the resting place of the Golden Throne; he had to head there eventually. The alternative was sailing through the turbulent Warp storms, and honestly, the ride was way too bumpy. Vane wasn’t about to suffer through that kind of hassle.

While the mobile fortress tore through the Warp, paving a highway to the Sol System defenses, Vane finalized his plans to visit the planet Sotha. Sealed beneath its surface was a shard of the C’tan known as Zarhulash, the Potentate. Since his new main quest required him to defeat all the C’tan and Necron Overlords, the Potentate was naturally on the hit list.

“Cawl, want to tag along with your Forefather?” Vane asked, strolling over to the Archmagos and officially inviting him to Sotha.

If his memory served him right, Sotha had been stripped down to a barren rock during the Second Tyrannic War by Hive Fleet Kraken. The Scythes of the Emperor, the Space Marine Chapter garrisoned there, had suffered catastrophic casualties, and both their Neophytes and gene-seed reserves had been horrifically compromised. Vane figured he’d bring Cawl along so the Archmagos could handle the planetary terraforming and ecological cleanup once the C’tan was dealt with.

“Must I really go?” Cawl looked down at the Wisdom Cube in his mechanical hands, clearly reluctant. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to lock himself in a lab and reverse-engineer the cube. He was desperate to master its technology and build his own fleet of ship-girls.

“I’m not forcing you. But we’re going C’tan hunting. If you miss this, you won’t get a second chance,” Vane baited.

The second those words left Vane’s mouth, Cawl’s hesitation evaporated. As an Archmagos who had lived for ten thousand years, he was well-versed in Necron history and knew exactly what a C’tan was.

When Inquisitor Greyfax, Yvraine, Eldrad, and the other Aeldari Farseers heard that Vane was heading to Sotha to catch a C’tan, they immediately jumped at the opportunity. Whether driven by intense curiosity or deeper ulterior motives, they all insisted on tagging along. Vane didn’t mind the extra company and gave them all the green light.

The expeditionary group boarded an Imperial battleship appropriately named the Imperial Retribution and charted a direct course for Sotha.

By the time they arrived, Sotha was nothing more than a lifeless, oversized asteroid. No oceans, no rolling hills, no signs of life—just an endless expanse of barren, stripped planet. A heavily damaged space station orbited the planet in lonely, silent cycles. Three Imperial warships were currently patrolling the space between the planet and the orbital station. Painted on their hulls was a distinct Chapter badge: two crossed golden scythes set against a striking black and yellow background.

It was the insignia of the Scythes of the Emperor, a storied Chapter founded during the Third Founding.

As the Imperial Retribution approached, the three Scythes warships broke from their patrol route and moved into an interception formation to verify the incoming vessel’s identity. Eager to throw her weight around, Inquisitor Greyfax took the comms. She aggressively flashed her Inquisitorial rosette, ordering the Scythes to stand down and demanding their full cooperation for an upcoming ground operation.

Once their credentials were verified, a single Thunderhawk Gunship launched from one of the Scythes’ cruisers and docked in the Imperial Retribution’s hangar bay. The assault ramp lowered, and Chapter Master Thracian stepped out, flanked by three veteran battle-brothers.

They were all clad in heavily battle-scarred Terminator armor. One suit in particular was an absolute eyesore—it was cobbled together from completely mismatched Marks and covered in crude field repairs. Cawl and Greyfax both winced at the sight. Unless a Chapter was completely out of options and resources, armor in that condition should never have left the armory.

“Whatever your judgment is, we accept it,” Thracian said, pulling off his helmet and looking directly at Inquisitor Greyfax. “We had hoped to wash away our shame with our own blood, but it seems we won’t get that chance.”

“What judgment?” Greyfax asked, genuinely confused.

“Aren’t you here to investigate us?” Thracian frowned, matching her confusion.

“Investigate you for what?” Greyfax turned to Vane. “We’re just here to accompany the Forefather on a C’tan hunt.”

Thracian froze, an icy pit dropping in his stomach. Oh, crap. He had assumed the Inquisitor was here because the Inquisition had finally caught wind of the Genestealer corruption tainting their Neophytes and gene-seed. He hadn’t realized he had just completely outed himself.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Thracian frantically tried to formulate a lie to smooth things over.

But Vane spoke up first. “Stop talking past each other. She doesn’t know you guys got infected by Genestealers.”

The moment those words hung in the air, every single Skitarii and Space Marine in the hangar bay snapped their weapons up, leveling them squarely at Thracian and his veterans.

“You’re heretics?!” Greyfax drew her bolt pistol, aiming it right between Thracian’s eyes.

Realizing his desperate hope of saving his Chapter’s honor and keeping their name alive was officially dead, Thracian let out a heavy sigh. “Yes. The Scythes’ Neophytes and gene-seed reserves… have all been corrupted.”

Long before Hive Fleet Kraken had arrived, Sotha had been heavily infiltrated by Genestealer Cults. The planetary defense forces and even the Chapter serfs had been riddled with hybrids. Worst of all, when the Chapter managed to pull survivors from the world after their devastating defeat, a significant portion of those refugees were also Genestealers. Sure, they had managed to purge the immediate infiltrators, but the damage was done. Their gene-seed was tainted. Now, the surviving brothers had to wear psychic dampening hoods at all times just to block out the relentless, maddening call of the Hive Mind.

“You pathetic fools. You have been corrupted by the Tyranid menace. Cleansing by fire is the only fate you deserve.” Greyfax’s immediate instinct was absolute zero-tolerance: execute every single tainted Space Marine and officially disband the Chapter.

Greyfax’s ruthless declaration drained the color from the Scythes’ faces. Yet, none of them raised a weapon or voiced a protest. They simply stood there, silently accepting their grim fate.

“Relax, it’s really not that deep. A minor issue like this is a piece of cake for your Forefather,” Vane said, pulling a few Splash Potions of Weakness and some Enchanted Golden Apples out of his inventory.

He nonchalantly tossed the Splash Potions right at the Scythes, shattering the glass and drenching them in the mist, before tossing them the Golden Apples.

“Eat up. Down those, and you’ll be completely normal again.”

Thracian and his veterans exchanged highly skeptical looks. But having nothing left to lose, they raised the shimmering apples and took a bite. The moment the sweet flesh and juices hit their tongues, their eyes widened. A surge of comforting warmth radiated from their stomachs, washing through their veins and completely revitalizing their exhausted bodies. In a matter of seconds, the maddening, ever-present psychic whispers of the Hive Mind vanished completely. Even when they ripped off their psychic dampening hoods, there was absolute silence in their minds.

“Are we… actually free from the Hive Mind?!” Thracian gasped, completely overwhelmed with shock. He immediately spun toward his Apothecary. “Quick! Run a diagnostic!”

After a frantic, thorough scan, the results were indisputable: every trace of the Genestealer taint had been completely eradicated.

“This… this is a miracle,” Thracian stammered, barely able to form a coherent sentence.

Genestealer corruption occurred on a fundamental, genetic level. They had exhausted every medical and technological avenue trying to purge it, to no avail. Who could have ever imagined that this mysterious man could permanently cure them with a weird potion and a shiny apple? It was genuinely miraculous.

“Thank the Forefather. He’s the one who just gave you a second chance at life,” Greyfax said, lowering her weapon.

Thracian immediately dropped to one knee, intending to lead his brothers in pledging their absolute loyalty and gratitude to Vane.

But Vane quickly waved them off. “Skip the formalities. Just bring the rest of your surviving brothers over here and let’s get the corruption cleared out. I’ve still got a C’tan to catch on the surface, and I’d rather not waste daylight.”

“At once, Forefather!” Thracian nodded aggressively. He immediately opened a secure vox-channel to the fleet, ordering the remaining Scythes to get their asses to the Imperial Retribution.

After a brutal string of engagements against the Tyranids, the Scythes of the Emperor had been bled down to a single company, and their wargear was practically falling apart. Because their gene-seed was compromised, they couldn’t recruit, and they hadn’t dared to requisition fresh supplies from the Imperium for fear of discovery. Their final plan had been a suicidal last stand: throwing everything they had left at Sotha to reclaim their homeworld and ensure the Chapter died with its honor intact.

Once Vane had systematically cured every single remaining Scythe, he opened his inventory again and started dumping piles of pristine Terminator armor, master-crafted bolters, and brand-new power swords onto the deck.

“Go gear up. You guys look so pathetic that if any xenos saw you right now, they’d assume the Imperium had already collapsed.”

“Forefather…”

Thracian and his battle-brothers actually teared up. Aside from the Forefather, absolutely no one had ever treated them this well. If it were up to the bureaucratic parasites running the Imperium, they would have had their Chapter struck from the records and been quietly executed in a dark room.

Forefather… do you want a seat on the High Lords of Terra? Because if you do, the Scythes of the Emperor will march straight to the Throneworld right now and butcher every last one of those High Lords for you.

Having swapped out their garbage for pristine, master-crafted wargear, Thracian eagerly stepped forward to volunteer.

“Forefather, the deep caverns are still crawling with Genestealers, including a full Patriarch. Let us serve as your vanguard. We’ll clear the path for you.”