His, save for a single orb of diamond hard stubbornness: Titan. It stood, a stony fortress, its doors sealed from the necrons by admantium and heavy cannons, its soul sealed from Abaddon by the cold steel cage of faith encaging the hearts of the Grey Knights and Custodian Guard still trapped upon the world. All other humans on the world had perished a thousand years previously, yet the ancient warriors stood firm, a shadow of the Imperium’s previous glory.
In the turbulent energies of the warp, the Chaos gods also suffered. For upon the end of the Emperor, something else stirred. Birthed upon the death of Him on Terra, the Starchild suckled upon the raged religious lunacy of the dying Imperium, consuming every soul remaining upon terra in its birth pangs. This is what killed the astronimicon. Ophelia became a focus for this dark zeal. At the dawn of the 50th millennium, the Starchild became the Star Father, and the warp became a battleground. For a brief instance (or perhaps and eternity in the warp, none can tell for sure) the Star Father became dominant over the chaos foes. Then, with the sickening inevitability of the great game of chaos, the Star Father became one amongst the five, an order god amongst chaos gods.
Where they spread chaos, He spread oppression. Where their daemons were feral nightmares that rended souls, His daemons were faceless automata, enslaving the souls of humans into servitude. Star Father daemon worlds sprung up in the eye and across the galaxy in the closing thousand years of this dark age. They were balls of featureless gold, with golden faceless daemons and billions of mindless, empty humans. The inhabitants of these worlds shuffled across the surface for no particular reason until they simply died of starvation, or fatigue
It is the 51st Millennium and I cannot wake up from this nightmare! I cannot wake up!