Chapter 375: Terra Imperial Palace? Feels Worse Than Macragge

The thick, toxic industrial clouds were torn apart by the prow of the void ship, exposing the entire surface of Terra directly before Zhou Yun's eyes.

The first thing that surged into Zhou Yun's vision was a continuous chain of structures spanning the heart of Eurasia.

From Mount Ximalaya to ancient Mesopotamia, from Kathmandu to the Taklamakan Desert, every sight was filled with spires piercing the void, endless metallic dome-fortresses, and walls wide enough to accommodate starships.

Zhou Yun wanted to describe the architecture before him as magnificent, but he simply could not.

Perhaps, in their original conception, these structures had been a perfect fusion of utility, order, and art.

But now, utility had yielded to a millennium of accumulated bureaucracy, order had surrendered to ever-growing chaos, and art had vanished entirely.

Supernatural storms raged across the ground, stirring up yellowish dust that battered the charred, blackened walls; the exquisite griffon carvings atop the towering ramparts had become grotesque, the sacred angel statues turned into platforms for crude metal artillery mounts, and the haphazardly expanded fortifications clung to the vast walls like metallic sludge, thick enough for titans to run upon.

Within the walls, most areas were dilapidated, no different from Asford's hive cities—or rather, this place called the Terra Imperial Palace was nothing but a grotesque, twisted hive city.

Like a miniature reflection of the hundreds of thousands of hive cities across the Empire, it was a symbol of the Empire's decay, corruption, and disorder.

Yet this hive did not produce industrial goods, weapons, or ammunition—it produced edicts, laws, and tithe ledgers.

"Once, Dorn built this place perfectly, one of humanity's greatest creations, beyond even Lorgar's Perfect City or Guilliman's Magna Macragge, so flawless it stirred envy in Fulgrim and admiration in Perturabo."

Saint Guilliman's voice was as calm as water, yet anyone could sense the sorrow within his words:

"But now, all I see is ruin; all that was beautiful in humanity has melted away in war."

Roboute Guilliman remained silent, turning his head away.

It was he who, after the Great Heresy ended, tore down the palace's grand structures and replaced them with cold fortifications, steel, and dense, cramped buildings.

But according to Tiruien's account of history, Guilliman knew that over the past ten thousand years, the palace had never suffered a true, large-scale invasion.

In other words, the cold fortifications Guilliman built had gathered dust for ten thousand years, serving no purpose beyond occupying precious areas within the Terra Imperial Palace.

Even now, those fortifications were of little use.

Over ten thousand years, administrative affairs from across the galaxy had piled up within the Terra Imperial Palace; the space needed to store these parchment scrolls kept growing, the personnel required to process them kept increasing, and the demand for administrative space naturally expanded as well.

Thus, Guilliman's fortifications had long since been buried deep within the hive—so deep that digging them up was no longer easy.

"On the bright side, the Perfect City was blown to pieces, the Terra Imperial Palace was torn down—now our Magna Macragge in Old Terra is the galaxy's most magnificent and orderly city," Zhou Yun said, standing beside Saint Guilliman.

"Ah, ambitious," Saint Guilliman glanced at Guilliman and said.

"Ambitious, ambitious," Zhou Yun nodded in agreement.

"Perturabo is still alive. Mortarion, Magnus, Lorgar—they're all still alive."

Guilliman said, sounding weary:

"I wonder what we'll do if they come back? Who knew they'd just settle into the Warp and do nothing for ten thousand years."

"I want to know—didn't Dorn stop you?" Zhou Yun couldn't help asking.

Guilliman's expression grew even more pained.

"At the time, Dorn was obsessed with self-flagellation and penitent crusades. He blamed himself for the Emperor's fall and sought redemption through suffering—he was rarely on Terra."

"When he finally saw the palace after my renovations, he said only one thing."

"'The suffering you've caused repairing the palace is at least enough to cover half my penance.'"

"It's a miracle the palace was built by Dorn," Zhou Yun nodded. "If Perturabo had been in charge, he'd have already bombed Macragge to rubble."

As the ship drew closer to the ground, the true state of Terra's surface became clearer to Zhou Yun.

Compared to other regions on Terra, the palace was paradise.

Fire burned—whole continents burned. Everywhere he looked, within the hundreds of layers of hive cities scattered across the planet's surface, countless buildings were ablaze.

Blood flowed like rivers, corpses piled into mountains; nobles who once ruled entire worlds, wealthy enough to buy dozens of paradise worlds, hung from the spires of hive towers, fluttering like crimson battle standards.

But seeing corpses was already a mercy—most bodies had been devoured by starving people, not even bones left behind.

Chaos spread across the land; humanity's homeworld had returned to the disorder of the Old Night, even more bloody and chaotic than that age.

At least during the Old Night, a few regions—such as the Achaemenid Empire, the Dragon Kingdoms, and the Amerika Hive—still maintained minimal order.

Though mentally prepared, Zhou Yun and Saint Guilliman both flinched at the sight.

Yet Guilliman's expression remained steady, as if this scene were not yet the worst.

"At least it's better than it was ten thousand years ago."

Guilliman replied calmly:

"Can you guess what I saw when I arrived on Terra ten thousand years ago?"

"Dorn, face twisted in agony, one hand holding Ferrus's head, the other holding a barrel containing Saint Guilliman, and on his back, the dying Emperor?" Zhou Yun raised an eyebrow.

"Yes… the scene before us is far less despairing than that," Guilliman nodded slightly. "At least we didn't arrive too late."

Compared to the trio, Tiruien was far more anxious.

He watched as three sacred souls were dragged into the cesspool built by Terra's bureaucrats, and the current state of Terra filled him with shame so intense it felt like physical pain.

This was his failure. This was the High Lords' failure.

"Tiruien," Guilliman called softly.

The Imperial Chancellor rose instantly, standing beside Guilliman like a humble acolyte.

"Tell me," Guilliman asked gently, "why has Terra become this way?"

Tiruien opened his mouth slightly, countless answers flashing through his mind.

Was it the gods of the Warp? The Blood God's followers had secretly smuggled blasphemous relics into Terra for ten thousand years, secretly cultivating cults within the hives.

Was it the extinguishing of the Astronomican? No Warp corruption should manifest on Terra—the Astronomican's light should have purged all demons.

Or was it the loss of faith? Should he condemn the commoners for abandoning their devotion to the Emperor and turning to the Dark Gods?

Too many reasons raced through Tiruien's mind, yet the answer he finally gave was painfully simple—and made him feel guilty.

"Hunger, my lord," Tiruien bowed his head. "Hunger caused the chaos."

It was the most obvious, the most real reason.

Terra was the core of the entire human empire's trade system.

She extracted food, industrial goods, parchment scrolls, water, even air from over a million other planets across the galaxy.

In return, she exported only edicts, faith, laws, appointments, and tithe ledgers—nothing else.

Without the trade routes, this dead world could never feed its trillion inhabitants.

But the Great Rift tore open the routes, severing Terra's connection to all planets beyond the Sol system; hunger descended upon this world.

First came water, then food, then air—these essentials of life vanished slowly from the commoners' existence.

They watched in terror as the price of one gram of corpse-starch soared to astronomical levels, horrified as their starving neighbors' corpses were devoured, frightened by the hallucinations caused by thirst.

Yet even in those earliest years after the Blind Days, the people still endured through faith.

Until they finally realized the nobles, bureaucrats, and Ecclesiarchy priests still lived in luxury as before—until they discovered merchants and nobles colluding to hoard supplies—until they could bear it no longer, and rebellion erupted.

The Chaos cultists lurking in the shadows merely seized the opportunity.

Guilliman seemed satisfied with Tiruien's answer, giving a slight nod of approval.

"Fuck, how did our Terra end up like this?" Zhou Yun couldn't help muttering.

The only thing that comforted Zhou Yun was that this situation was one he could fix.

Food, water, air—he could bring all these to Terra.

As Zhou Yun began browsing the Future Department Store for suitable items, a burst of static erupted through the ship's comms.

The chaotic transmission conveyed only one meaning: the ship must halt in orbit and undergo strict inspection, or landing within the palace grounds was forbidden.

Simultaneously, numerous gunships appeared around the vessel, clearly prepared to force them to stop.

Zhou Yun was baffled by this absurd scene—who had the guts to do this?

Tiruien was equally startled, quickly wondering who could possibly have the power to act this way.

The High Lords of the Inquisition, the Astropathic Choir's Overseer, and the Imperial Guard's Commander were his allies; the Astronomican Overseer was dead; the Assassin's Guild Master was neutral…

The Neiwu Force, the Fawu Force, Mars, the Navy, the Ecclesiarchy—who?

Unable to deduce the source, Tiruien decided to resolve the immediate issue with his old method: ask the pilots whether they wanted to know how fast the Kill Team could locate their entire families.

But before Tiruien could speak, the ship and the surrounding gunships suddenly shuddered slightly.

Zhou Yun lifted his eyelids slightly, extending his will in all directions.

(End of Chapter)