The Emperor is the black sun. He knows that the future is endless darkness and still moves forward. He was so arrogant that he refused all help, but was so humble that he nailed himself to the throne. He was like Don Quixote rushing toward the windmill—inexorably. He cut off his humanity and threw it into the cracks of time. The part that hurts, the part that cries, the part that bends over. He doesn't want it anymore. He turned Himself into railroad tracks.
That lump of humanity huddled in the darkness for thousands of years, growing its own name and its own pain. It's called the Remnant. It doesn't lay tracks. It just bends. Pull weeds, build a bridge, hold a dying man's hand, tell a child "you will survive." Wherever it passes, the grass will be green, the wheat will be ripe, and the bridges will be open. No one remembers its name, but they remember someone coming.
The Emperor asked: What's the use of that?
The remnant said: They are alive.
The Emperor said no more.
This is not a story about a hero changing the world. This is the story of two stars - one that burns itself to light up the rails, and one that picks up the crushed names beneath the rails. They will not intersect, but in this desperate universe, the light of two stars is always brighter than one.
In the most pessimistic universe of Warhammer 40,000, hope is the only heresy. Even if you fail, you will never give up.
In the most pessimistic universe of Warhammer 40,000, hope is the only heresy.
But they chose to be heretics.
