86: Chapter 86 Succession of Power: The Cycle of Fate (Part 2)

When necessary, he even needed to secretly note down those opponents he could not deal with through institutional means, employing covert methods such as assassination, framing, and entrapment to clear obstacles and consolidate his authority.

Sometimes, for the sake of the Imperium of Man's overall stability, he even had to deploy his family's private army, sacrificing his own kin, to personally erase an entire, or even several, disobedient planetary systems.

This was the truest and most brutal political reality at the top of the Imperium of Man.

Seemingly sensing the scrutinizing gaze of his successor, the old Master of Administratum's cheeks flushed slightly, carrying a hint of undisguisable embarrassment.

Having been steeped in aristocratic etiquette since childhood, this ravenous way of eating not only lacked noble decorum but also seemed like a sign of disrespect toward the new Master of Administratum.

Subsequently, he raised his hand to pick up the wine glass on the table, performing a standard aristocratic salute toward the approaching new Master of Administratum to make up for his earlier lapse in decorum.

The new Master of Administratum, who was walking, suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Their gazes met across the space. The moment the old Master of Administratum raised his glass in salute, the temperament of the old man—who had been gorging himself and appearing so disheveled—suddenly changed.

That naturally exuded composure and gravitas, carrying the solemnity and confidence accumulated over two hundred and thirteen years of holding power, formed an invisible aura that suppressed all of his arrogance.

A profound pressure reached the depths of his heart, and he was secretly shocked, his eyes filled with disbelief and confusion.

Only then did he realize that this seemingly undignified old man, with just the simple action of raising his glass, had conveyed the entire aura accumulated from holding power for two hundred and thirteen years.

He performed an aristocratic salute, but what he conveyed was the weight of wielding the Imperium of Man's power, the tranquility that comes after experiencing the vicissitudes of life.

The old Master of Administratum seemed to see through the confusion and shock in his eyes. He lowered his head slightly and paused for a moment—he wanted to give this young successor a blunt reminder, but ultimately chose to be cryptic.

He sighed softly in his heart.

Subsequently, he looked up at his successor, a gentle and clear-sighted smile appearing on his face, and his lips moved slightly, silently delivering a piece of advice.

The new Master of Administratum stared intently at his lip movements, reading the silent words word by word:

"Enjoy this last moment of pleasure."

Fury instantly surged in his heart, and the new Master of Administratum's gaze grew cold, his eyes filled with undisguised disdain and arrogance.

He abruptly shifted his gaze, no longer looking at the old fellow who was burying his head in his food—in his view, this was not advice, but a provocation and a warning, the resentful provocation of one stepping down.

What made him even more irritated was that he had almost failed to withstand that invisible aura just now.

However, none of that mattered anymore.

The old Master of Administratum was already a thing of the past, a remnant shadow eroded by the Imperium of Man's deep-seated ailments, no longer comparable to him.

His gaze turned back to the high platform—the enthroned Pontiff of the Ecclesiarchy, and the sacred tome of the "Imperial Truth" resting quietly on the altar; that was about to become the symbol of his authority, the witness to his ascent.

Soon, he would raise his hand to touch the "Imperial Truth," solemnly swear an oath, and pledge loyalty to the Emperor and the Imperium of Man.

After the coronation ceremony presided over by the Pontiff, he would officially become one of the twelve High Lords of the Imperium of Man, holding power in his hands and controlling the trajectory of human civilization.

The future was destined to be written by his own hand, and the Imperium of Man's deep-seated ailments would finally be completely changed by him.

He glanced at the old Master of Administratum again, his eyes filled with arrogance and contempt, as if declaring his own rise.

And this time, the old Master of Administratum looked back at him, still gentle, his smile calm; there was no mockery or loss in his eyes, only complete clarity, understanding, and a blessing from the bottom of his heart.

The old Master of Administratum looked at this young and vigorous successor, his heart clear, as memories of the past flooded his mind.

Two hundred and thirteen years ago, he too had once had that same look—

Full of arrogance and conceit, harboring a pure and naive faith, firmly believing that he could change the Imperium of Man's deep-seated ailments, and even bring humanity back to the Golden Age.

At that time, he had also stood on the same steps, surrounded by the same crowd, heard the same cryptic warnings, and had also seen his predecessor, burying his head in his food like a "rat," so disheveled, so undignified.

In a daze, he gave a faint, bitter smile, his eyes filled with a bit more pity.

Perhaps, beyond the official transfer of power in the Imperium of Man, the position of Master of Administratum had long ago formed an unspoken, yet generational, implicit inheritance.

His predecessor handed it to him this way, and he passed it to the next, cycle after cycle, round and round, yet the Imperium of Man remained unchanged, its deep-seated ailments incurable.

The true terror of the Imperium of Man was never the open warfare, Chaos incursions, or planetary rebellions.

Warfare could be quelled, turmoil could be purged, and rebellions could be suppressed.

What was truly unsolvable was the deep-seated, entrenched corruption that had permeated the very fabric of the Imperium of Man.

Those rampant ills, solidified interests, and unshakeable unspoken rules had long since merged into the bloodline of the Imperium of Man, becoming a part of what sustained the survival of human civilization.

If one were to forcibly eradicate them, the entire Imperium of Man would collapse instantly, and the human species itself would head toward extinction, with no one spared.

Even the Emperor, once the guardian of humanity and the hope of human civilization, had, under the erosion of ten thousand years of worship and decay, long since turned into the Dark King bearing humanity's end.

Among the successive Masters of Administratum, there was no one who did not see through this deep-seated issue, and no one who had not thought of radical reform to save this crumbling Imperium of Man.

They even all knew that famous inscription in the Inquisition's archives, above the holy site of the Grey Knights on Titan:

"They are the unbreakable shield against the coming darkness; the last blade forged in the face of desperate destiny."

"They are the legacy I leave to the worlds I have conquered, and the final gift I bestow upon the species I could not save."

So, no matter how much ambition they had or how much effort they expended, they would ultimately collide with the same wall—the Imperium of Man's systematic, deep-seated corruption, which was unsolvable, incurable, and impossible to root out.

They could only hold onto the mindset of "better a miserable life than a good death," making minor repairs day after day, barely maintaining the operation of this gargantuan Imperium of Man.

In the end, all those in power who harbored the will for reform became mere masons patching up the Imperium of Man, exhausting their lives, yet ultimately unable to turn the tide.

The Grey Knights' "blade of the end," the Emperor's final "gift," was never meant to counter external Chaos incursions or planetary rebellions.

Its true mission was to wait for that ultimate moment—

The moment the Emperor slowly rose from the Golden Throne, this blade, forged from loyalty and fate, would strike without hesitation at the Emperor whom humanity once revered as a god.

That was the blade of ending that the Emperor had forged with his own hands to guard against himself becoming the Dark King, becoming the Terminators of humanity; it was also the last loyalist of human civilization.

This was no longer a problem that could be solved by cleaning up the administration, reforming the bureaucratic system, or purging corruption.

This was the corruption of the god himself, a hidden danger rooted at the source of human civilization, an unsolvable cycle carved into fate.

And the Imperium of Man, this gargantuan civilization that spanned the galaxy and had continued for tens of thousands of years, had its foundation and faith built precisely upon the phrase, "The Emperor is protecting us."

If one day the Emperor were to shed his halo as a guardian and completely transform into the cataclysm that ends human civilization, who in the vast galaxy, among the billions of living beings, could stand up and save humanity from the brink of extinction?

This was the greatest secret buried deep within the Imperium of Man for years, one that no one dared to speak of easily.

Unless humanity could once again obtain a large number of the ultimate technological creations of the Golden Age, restart the origin of civilization, and break this cycle of fate that had been entwined for ten thousand years.

Otherwise, this fate, this decay, this cycle—there would never be a day when it could be broken.