The Only Player in Warhammer Chapter 208 208: Ah! My Malcador!!

Datch used the teleport gun to instantly travel from Macragge's Grand Strategy Room to the Golden Throne Room on Terra.

The Throne Room was bathed in its usual golden light. A harmonious, beautiful chanical symphony continued to echo throughout the entire temple.

At that mont, three Tech-Priests — Lacum Taboo 418, Chronos 07, and Hyax 957 — were leading their subordinates in performing maintenance on the various devices of the Golden Throne. These three tech-enthusiasts were still working tirelessly toward their goal of enabling communication between the Emperor and ordinary citizens.

Trajann stood beneath the pedestal of the throne. As commander of the Adeptus Custodes, he often spent ti there. After all, protecting the Emperor was the Custodians' primary duty. Let's not even discuss whether the protection was sufficient — let's first confirm whether any protection existed at all.

When a green light flashed, Trajann's hand instantly moved to his sword hilt, his expression wary. Only when he saw the naless man step out of the light tunnel and into the Throne Room did he finally exhale in relief.

It was not the first ti he had witnessed the naless one teleport, yet vigilance could never be relaxed. What if the naless one was being controlled? What if he opened a portal and let enemies flood in?!

Trajann released his grip on the sword, clenched his fist against his chest, and bowed his head. "Naless Lord."

The Custodians behind him saluted in unison. Anyone else who dared barge into the Throne Room so casually would have been instantly reduced to minced at by their blades. Even the Primarch himself might not have been given face. But the naless one was different. He could co and go as he pleased. Even if he kicked the Emperor several tis for no reason, the guards would simply look the other way.

Datch ignored everyone else and began circling the Golden Throne alone. The Emperor, seated upon it, imdiately noticed his arrival.

"Naless one, what do you desire?" "Do you need my help?" "Speak, and I shall assist you. In return, you will help as well." "Why won't you say anything?!"

"..."

The Emperor spoke like a chatterbox who had been silent for ten thousand years. His words sprayed out like machine-gun fire in every direction.

Datch paid him no mind. After one full circuit around the Golden Throne, he pulled the "What If Phone Booth" from his ga inventory and set it down beside the throne.

During the Horus Heresy, Malcador had been reduced to ash right here. If one resurrected the deceased, the person would naturally reappear at this exact location.

"What the hell is this guy plotting now?!" the Emperor thought, unease creeping into his heart as he watched Datch's actions.

The phone booth was a simple rectangular box with glass walls on all four sides and a red roof — an old-fashioned, almost quaint design straight out of the 19th century.

That naless man kept pulling out one bizarre gadget after another. What on earth was he going to do with a phone booth this ti?!

Datch pushed open the door and stepped inside. The interior was extrely cramped — barely enough space for one person to turn around. An antique telephone hung on the wall: green receiver, keypad, and a small white table beneath it.

The mont Datch entered, a red warning ssage popped up before his eyes:

[What If Phone Booth]

[An item capable of altering the ga's progression, changing story direction, or rewriting NPC fates. This requires modification of base data and code, consuming a large number of points. The more tiline changes you make, the more tasks and points required. Use with caution.]

Datch carefully read the instructions, terrified of accidentally crashing the ga. He had saved up for ages to buy this PC — he couldn't afford to destroy it with a crash or mory overflow.

Honestly, this item was ridiculously overpowered. With enough points, you could do anything. Even if you wished for the Emperor and all the Primarchs to be female… Slaanesh and the Emperor were once lovers. The Emperor and Khorne had a secret affair. The Emperor had even toyed with the claws of the Four Gods — all within acceptable limits.

"If the Four Gods had never been born, how many points would that have cost?" Datch wondered. He quickly ca up with a way to achieve a satisfying ending. The mont the thought crossed his mind, a string of numbers — several tis longer than his ID — appeared before him.

"..."

Thanks to poverty, I've learned to be content with my lot in life.

Datch was silently weeping inside. It's too expensive. I can't afford it.

He abandoned the idea of directly forcing the perfect ending and instead focused on resurrecting Malcador.

This wish would not alter the past tiline in any way. It would only reconstruct the shattered soul, rebuild the body, and restore life — consuming very little energy. However, it would also drain every single point Datch had earned during this entire period.

As the point counter plumted, Datch felt genuine pain. Earn a little, spend a lot! Still, he felt slightly better when he rembered there were three technologies he had to submit, each guaranteed at least 6,000 applications — totaling 18,000.

18,000!

Normally that would require completing 12 to 20 tasks. In reality, the only way to rapidly accumulate points was to make the Imperium self-sufficient. Honestly, this was a pretty good deal.

anwhile, in the Warp, the Four Chaos Gods suddenly felt an inexplicable chill run down their spines. They had no idea why. An overwhelming sense of anxiety and uncertainty struck them without warning. "I feel like I might mysteriously vanish in the next second…" Fortunately, the sensation disappeared almost imdiately. That damned cursed bastard must be plotting sothing evil again! All they could do now was curse the Emperor and the naless one — because they were terrified the other side might knock on their door through the internet…

...

Datch spoke into the "What If Phone Booth."

"I want Malcador to be resurrected."

Then he hung up.

In the next instant, a strange fluctuation rippled through the Throne Room. Imdiately afterward, Malcador appeared out of thin air. He looked exactly as he had when he sat upon the Golden Throne — even wearing the sa robes. In his hand he held the burning eagle scepter, and his eyes could see straight into people's hearts.

Trajann's pupils contracted slightly. The three Tech-Priests maintaining the Golden Throne montarily crashed.

Malcador — the Emperor's closest friend, holder of the Imperial Seal, the strongest psyker after the Emperor, an immortal, founder of the Inquisition, and first Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum.

The naless one had actually brought such a person back to life.

The Emperor, seated on the Golden Throne, nearly jumped to his feet.

Ah… my Malcador… He really has appeared before again.

During the Horus Heresy, Malcador fought Horus precisely so the Emperor could do what needed to be done. He chose to sit upon the Golden Throne and ultimately turned to ash.

Who could have imagined that the naless one possessed the power to forcibly resurrect even a being that had completely vanished? My beloved naless one… you are essentially my… my godfather. Praise the naless one! For your sake, I shall build a magnificent and perfect city, filled with your statues and countless believers singing your praises.

Malcador's eyes were filled with confusion. He still had no idea what was going on. He looked around and saw the shocked Custodians, the crashed Tech-Priests, and the Emperor seated upon the Golden Throne. Tears welled up in his eyes.

"I..." He was just about to speak to the Emperor — his closest friend and the King of Kings…

The next mont, a powerful hand grabbed him by the collar from behind and lifted him off the ground. Before Malcador could even react, Datch carried him straight into the Room of Requirent. Then Datch rushed back out, stored the phone booth, pulled out the teleport gun, set the coordinates to Macragge, and pulled the trigger. He stepped through the portal and vanished.

The entire process was smooth, efficient, and completely without wasted ti. In the vast Throne Room, only the low hum of machinery and a crowd of stunned people remained.

Datch had resurrected Malcador to turn him into a pack mule. Of course he had no intention of letting him stay on Terra.

Eh? The old yellow guy will be really sad? What does his sadness have to do with — the Player? Even if Malcador cries all the way out of the Terra Palace, he'll still have to work on Macragge.

Heh heh… the Player is just that cruel.

The Emperor finally realized he hadn't even spoken to Malcador yet. Grief and rage exploded in his heart.

"Ah… no… my Malcador!" "Naless one! How dare you steal my Malcador away like that?!" "Naless one, you are far too evil! I have no intention of building that perfect city for you anymore!"

...

By now, the Room of Requirent had transford into a miniature world. The azure sky looked freshly washed, completely cloudless. An artificial sun floated in the vast heavens, bathing the entire space in light. Warm, gentle sunlight cast soft shadows across the blooming flowers, grass, and trees. When the wind blew, the shadows swayed in perfect sync with the plants — exactly like the real world.

In the distance, gentle hills covered in green vegetation stretched to the horizon. Occasionally, a few trees with wind-swayed branches could be seen. A crystal-clear river andered through the hills, revealing pebbles and schools of fish on the riverbed. The fish, vivid in color and graceful in movent, chased and played in the water. From ti to ti they leaped out, drawing silver arcs in the sunlight. The riverbanks were covered in green grass and wildflowers of every color — red, yellow, purple, white — everything imaginable! Butterflies danced in the breeze, occasionally pausing to rest.

At the highest point of the hills stood a grand castle built of gray stone bricks, its main building flanked by two wings and four corner towers. Flags bearing the emblems of the Dark Angels fluttered atop the towers. The castle was surrounded by a vast open training ground covered in fine sand, equipped with various training devices and weapons.

The mont the entrance opened, Mordachi and the other Astartes imdiately noticed. They initially thought the naless one was summoning them to fight a powerful enemy. Then they saw him sprinting in while carrying an old man — and sprinting right back out again.

When the old man was set down, he staggered a few steps before finally steadying himself. He wore a simple yet exquisite robe embroidered with golden eagles along the hem. Each feather was rendered in astonishing detail, the curves smooth and beautiful. The fabric was the finest silk, glowing softly under the sunlight. In his hand he held a scepter carved from an unknown wood, its tip a pure-gold eagle wreathed in flas.

The instant Mordachi saw the man's face, he froze in shock. He had seen this face before — in the Dark Angels' secret library. Among the countless records of the Imperium's heroes, this man's file existed.

Malcador — the King's Chancellor, the Emperor's most trusted confidant, one of the founders of the Imperium. The na that appeared in every Imperial myth, every history book, every mural. The legendary hero who fought alongside the Emperor to build the Human Empire. The hero who sacrificed himself for the Emperor, sat upon the Golden Throne, and ultimately turned to ash.

All the Astartes stood dumbfounded, unable to believe their eyes. They gathered around Malcador, staring in awe, trying to confirm his identity. Before Malcador could even speak, the entrance opened again. Datch charged in, taking three steps at a ti, and ran straight to Malcador. Without a single word — not even pausing to catch his breath — he scooped up the newly resurrected Imperial Chancellor and sprinted back out. The entrance closed. The light vanished. Everything returned to normal.

Mordachi and his brothers stood there, windblown and utterly lost. At least… let the man say a word or two!

And then he just picked him up and ran off again!

Malcador was completely bewildered. He had no idea what was happening. His last mory was sitting on the Golden Throne, watching the Emperor and Horus duel from beginning to end. Golden flas had surged from every direction, consuming his body and burning his soul. While seated on the Golden Throne, Malcador had gained an unparalleled perspective. He had seen the truth of the universe, the fate of the future — everything. He had felt his soul ignite and slowly shatter. Overwheld by indescribable pain and power, he had lost the ability to speak and could only sit there, silently enduring.

After the duel between Horus and the Emperor ended, Dorn and Valdor returned carrying the gravely wounded Emperor — and Ferrus's head.

Their faces were filled with grief. That war had demanded far too many sacrifices. They suppressed their sorrow and quietly descended from the Golden Throne.

And then his body and soul turned to ash, scattered across the galaxy by the winds of the Warp. His wounded soul drifted aimlessly through the Milky Way. Sotis a fragnt would be drawn by soone's prayer, drifting to them and offering guidance. But most of the ti, the fragnts simply wandered the endless void, drifting in eternal darkness. They had once passed by blazing stars and felt their warmth. They had drifted over frozen planets and known the cold of vacuum. They had drifted across battlefields and heard the screams of the dying. They had seen newborn babies floating on water and felt the joy of life.

So… he didn't know how much ti had passed.

Suddenly, an irresistible force gathered from every direction — from every corner of the galaxy — to collect every last fragnt. From the hearts of stars, from planetary mantles, from battlefield ruins, from the cradles of infants. The fragnts were forcibly reassembled and restored to their original form. When the final piece clicked into place, he opened his eyes and regained consciousness.

And found himself once again in the Throne Room.

Malcador saw the Emperor's personal guard… and the Emperor himself — the King of Kings — still seated upon the Golden Throne. Honestly, it was truly pitiful. He tried to speak, but before a single word could leave his lips, an unknown person had grabbed him and whisked him away to a magnificent central platform.

Countless light wells surrounded the platform. Countless ships ca and went, loading and unloading cargo at the docks.

This was the orbital transition platform of the Macragge star system — over 500 kiloters in diater, dotted with towering buildings and grand sculptures of the naless one. Thick armor plating covered the platform, bristling with turrets and sensor arrays in standby mode. The sensor arrays rotated ceaselessly, scanning for any threat. The construction of the Star Rail had greatly accelerated the Imperium's travel speed, but if an enemy ever seized a railway entrance, it could be used against the Imperium itself. Now that Macragge had beco the central hub of the stellar orbit network, one could never be too cautious.

The port area was packed with every kind of vessel — from tiny shuttles to massive cargo haulers, civilian ships to warships. They moved constantly, like worker bees in a hive. The control tower continuously issued instructions for safe takeoffs and landings.

Datch landed with Malcador in the central square. People bustled everywhere. Envoys from countless star systems wore magnificent robes. Emperor's guards patrolled, using stellar trajectories to prevent surprise attacks on Terra. Long-robed Tech-Priests and monks maintained the platform and Star Rail operations. Businessn in casual attire sought opportunities or made purchases. Workers, farrs, soldiers, and scholars filled the square. At the edges, countless holographic screens displayed the latest battle reports, Imperial decrees, and trade information. Crowds gathered around them, reading scrolling discussions about war and policy.

Pam, the Star Rail conductor, had been working non-stop. The Warp Servants Datch had captured were diligently drawing stellar trajectories. The current railway network connected many vital planets, and Macragge had beco the unshakable heart of the Imperium. Orders issued from Macragge carried more weight than those from Terra's High Lords. Accusations that Guilliman was ambitious were growing louder. Guilliman himself was devastated.

"I wasn't coerced by the naless one — I wanted to do this myself! I'm innocent! Truly innocent! Believe — my loyalty to the Emperor is absolute!"

...

"Turn on all radio channels. I have sothing to say to everyone."

Datch's voice echoed from every communication device on the platform. The staff were shocked by the naless one's sudden appearance and orders, but they imdiately complied, activating every broadcast channel.

All the holographic screens in the square flickered and switched to the sa image — Datch and Malcador. Through the Star Rail, the broadcast reached every connected colony system and even the most distant frontier worlds.

The crowd instantly erupted into whispers and discussion. What happened? Why did every channel switch at once? Did sothing major occur?

Once he confird every channel was live, Datch raised Malcador's hand and shouted so loudly his voice carried across the entire square, the entire central platform, and every connected world:

"Citizens of the Imperium — rejoice! The revered hero of the Imperium, the Emperor's greatest partner and right hand, Malcador, has returned to serve the Imperium once more!"

Datch stepped aside. Every cara focused on Malcador. That aged face appeared on every screen.

The entire square fell into a deathly silence. Everyone stared in shock, wondering for a mont if they were still dreaming. This was the face they had only ever seen in murals and sculptures — Malcador.

Malcador the Sigillite. The Emperor's left arm. One of the founders of the Imperium. The legendary hero who died ten thousand years ago.

From the crowd, soone perford the Aquila salute in front of the live cara. Then another. Then a third, a fourth… Soon hundreds, then thousands joined in. Many were moved to tears.

anwhile, in the Terra Senate, the High Lords stared at their screens in utter disbelief. They had only just been inford that all channels were being commandeered for a speech by the naless one. They turned on their displays and saw him — and behind him, Malcador. Their faces froze instantly.

No way…

They didn't even inform us about Malcador's resurrection? We are the highest authority in the Imperium — the Emperor's proxies! This is an event that could completely redraw the political map of the galaxy! Shouldn't they have consulted us first? Shouldn't they have listened to our opinions?

Damn it… this must all be Guilliman's doing. That ambitious bastard! He's always using the naless one to achieve his own tyrannical goals!

…

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