Deep within the consciousness, that silent “sea” representing the true will of Guilliman was not truly calm.
The lingering echo of that sigh had not yet faded before a deeper, more complex undercurrent of emotion began to surge.
If the previous reaction was shock, shame, and a desire to give up, then after “seeing” (or rather, perceiving) Guilliman wearing that blue and white dress, wearing a laurel wreath, and bathed in holy radiance, a more ultimate despair, mixed with “resignation” and “social death,” began to spread.
“Sigh…” Guilliman’s mental fluctuations were like a long, fateful sigh, echoing in the corridors of consciousness that only “he” could hear, “This appearance…
it seems it is truly…
impossible to go back.” Although rationally, he knew that being able to wake up, possess power, and continue to fulfill his duties to humanity was already a blessing, and his form was just a minor detail.
But emotionally, for this Primarch known for his rationality, majesty, and statesmanlike demeanor, accepting that he had become a magical girl—beloved by all (and perhaps even wanting to be petted by all)—complete with halos and wings, was no less difficult than having him go single-handedly to drag Horus out of his grave and beat him up again.
Especially when he uncontrollably began to imagine scenes that might happen in the future, scenes that would make him “have no face to live on”: “Screen force-playing —” Scene: The magnificent yet cold and murderous throne room of Terra.
The air was heavy, and the roar of the Soul Furnace was the only background noise.
The Golden Throne stood like a mountain, and upon it, that massive, withered body covered in ornate but ancient armor—the Emperor—was like a dried-up statue, with only the seemingly eternally burning psychic fire beneath the lowered head proving the existence of some will.
Below the throne dais stood three figures.
On the left was Lion El’Jonson.
He was clad in the First Legion’s most magnificent black-green armor, his cloak like the night sky, his face still as majestic as stone, but upon closer inspection, the corners of his tightly pursed mouth were twitching in a tiny, almost imperceptible way, as if he were enduring the impact of some huge, absurd hilarity while having to maintain the solemnity of a Primarch of the Dark Angels.
His gaze drifted to the small figure in the middle from time to time, then quickly looked away, his shoulders trembling slightly.
On the right was the Archangel Sanguinius.
His handsome face was filled with an undisguised, almost loving or “cute-thing-lover” radiant smile, and the white wings behind his back flapped happily, scattering specks of light.
His eyes were so gentle they could melt ice, always focused on the figure in the middle.
And in the middle…
was Guilliman.
She was wearing that blue and white dress, wearing a laurel wreath, and the little golden energy wings behind her back were working hard, flapping one by one.
But because the throne dais was too high, even if she stood on tiptoe, she could barely see the Emperor’s lowered, armor-covered knees, and could not see “Father’s” face at all.
Guilliman tilted her head up, her little face slightly flushed from the effort, her soft, glutinous voice tinged with anxiety and a little bit of grievance: “Father?
Father, can you hear me?
It’s me, Robert…
uh, Guilliman.
I’ve woken up.
I can’t see you, it’s too high here…” Sanguinius immediately bent down and, with those arms capable of tearing demons apart, gently but unmistakably picked up little Guilliman, letting her sit on his solid arm, and even thoughtfully adjusted her position so that she could lean comfortably against his breastplate.
“Now you can see, Little Thirteen.” Sanguinius’s voice was gentle enough to drip water, and he used his other hand to gently smooth out Guilliman’s somewhat messy blonde hair.
Guilliman sat in the crook of Sanguinius’s arm, finally able to be “eye-to-eye” with the Emperor, but her expression was even more embarrassed: “Thank you, Brother Sanguinius…
but could you put me down first?
It’s not very solemn to see Father like this…” “How could that be?” Sanguinius smiled even more happily, even rubbing his cheek against Guilliman’s hair, “Little Thirteen is solemn and cute no matter what she looks like.” Lion El’Jonson finally couldn’t hold it back and let out a repressed grunt squeezed from his nasal cavity, which sounded like he had choked.
He quickly held a fist to his mouth and pretended to cough, but the mockery and amusement were about to overflow from those sharp eyes.
He thought to himself: Little Sister Thirteen…
Hahahaha!
I can laugh at this scene for ten thousand years!
No, must hold back, I am the serious Lion El’Jonson…
But it’s really too funny!
What kind of expression will Father have when he sees this?
As if to answer Lion El’Jonson’s inner question, above the Golden Throne, that body of the Emperor, which had not moved for ten thousand years, seemed to…
move ever so slightly.
That huge palm resting on the armrest, covered in broken gold armor, seemed to have a few fingers twitch and curl imperceptibly.
Then, the hand slowly, extremely slowly, lifted a few centimeters, as if using the last bit of mechanical strength in that withered body, and moved in front of the “face” shrouded in the shadow of the helmet.
The action froze.
The posture was not like a blessing, not like a signal, and certainly not like an attack.
If one had to describe it…
it was like an old father or boss who had endured too much shock, helplessness, absurdity, and a little bit of despair, instinctively, deeply…
covering his own face (if that could still be called a face).
Although there was no sound, no psychic transmission, the three Primarchs present seemed to “hear” a silent, soul-piercing scream: “Where is my such a big good son (good tool man)?!
Where is the thirteenth Primarch who could write the Codex, manage the Five Hundred Worlds, fight wars, handle politics, and although sometimes indecisive, was generally very reliable?!
How did he sleep for ten thousand years and wake up…
turned into a daughter?!
And with special effects and wings?!
How do you use this thing?!
This style is wrong!!!” The scene froze in the Emperor’s classic “face-covering” posture, then flickered, shattered, and disappeared like a screen with a bad signal.
” — — — — Scene End — — — — ” In the sea of consciousness, the fluctuations of Guilliman’s true will rose and fell violently, with emotions of shame, despair, and a desire to dig a hole and bury himself (if there were holes in the sea of consciousness) like a tsunami.
“…No face to live.” This was his most real, most concentrated inner voice at this moment.
Just as Guilliman was immersed in the extremely socially dead future scene he had imagined, outside, Guilliman, who had just finished admiring her new image, was in a good mood.
She felt the violent fluctuations coming from the depths of her consciousness and knew that the “true self” must be directing and acting in a tragedy there again.
She rolled her eyes, and while walking towards the strategy room surrounded by Chapter Master Calgar and the Honour Guard, she sent a “friendly” invitation in her consciousness: “Primarch?” Her consciousness was a bit playful, “You seem quite active, what are you thinking about?
Do you think this dress is not bad?
By the way, do you…
want to ‘go to work’?
The meeting is about to start, this is your first official appearance after waking up, and we are discussing major military and national affairs.
It would be more appropriate and majestic for you to host it personally!
How about it?
Want to switch shifts?” Dead silence.
The sea of consciousness, which had been fluctuating violently just a moment ago, instantly became like an absolute zero frozen abyss, without even a ripple.
Playing dead skill MAX.
Guilliman waited for a few seconds and curled her lips.
“Hmph, lazybones.” She muttered in a voice that only she could hear, a flash of realization and helplessness in her emerald eyes, “Fine, you continue to sleep.
I’ll keep covering the shift.
But it’s a deal, if the situation gets out of control later, or someone questions me, you must be ready to go online and hold the fort at any time!” There was still no response in the sea of consciousness, only a firm aura of “I have fallen asleep, burn paper if you have anything.” Guilliman shook her head and refocused on reality.
At the end of the corridor, the heavy alloy door engraved with the Macragge Aquila and star patterns—the door to the strategy room—was already close at hand.
More heavily armed Ultramarines stood at the entrance, and the atmosphere was solemn.
The test was about to begin.
Just as Guilliman was walking towards the strategy room, in another corridor leading from the Adeptus Mechanicus workshop to the strategy room, Belisarius Cawl was moving forward with heavy, slow, as if filled with lead or poor-quality machine oil steps.
His mechanical body had finished rebooting, all systems were running normally, and he had even regained some motivation because of Chapter Master Calgar’s previous “enlightenment.” But at this moment, that bit of motivation had been shrouded by a larger cloud of self-doubt and fear.
His processor was running at 200% load, frantically backtracking, analyzing, and simulating every detail of the awakening ceremony in the Correction Temple not long ago, trying to find that evil “error variable” that caused the “Primarch loli-fication.” “Energy injection sequence…
correct.” “Aeldari death god power guidance…
within predetermined parameters.” “Stasis field release timing…
error less than 0.0001 seconds.” “Biological repair fluid composition…
consistent with samples.” “Warp barrier stability…
consistently higher than the safety threshold by 99%…” All data, all processes, all plan comparisons…
theoretically, everything was flawless!
The awakening should have been a success, Guilliman should have stood up in the majestic 3.5-meter male Primarch form, put on the armor of fate he had prepared, and then delivered an inspiring speech to begin the Indomitus Crusade!
But the reality was…
a 1.65-meter blonde loli, with halo wings, a soft voice, and wearing a dress!
“Why…
where exactly did the problem go wrong…” Cawl’s human left eye was bloodshot, his mechanical right eye flashed red frantically, emitting a low, buzzing sound full of self-doubt.
Suddenly, his processor captured a tiny timing node that had been overlooked by the previous huge impact!
“Wait…
at 3.72 seconds when the stasis field was completely lifted, the Primarch’s vital signs began to recover, but not yet fully awake…” Cawl pulled up the sensor data recorded at high speed, “There was an unrecorded, unanalyzable spectrum, unmeasurable intensity white energy pulse that erupted from the scar on the Primarch’s chest, instantly interfering with the synchronous timing of all instruments, lasting…
0.00001 seconds?” It was this pulse!
The omen of this “white light”!
After it appeared, the Primarch’s gene sequence readings and physiological reconstruction signals began to deviate completely from the preset track!
“The source of this pulse…
is not the ritual itself, not the power of the death god, not the Warp energy…” Cawl’s analysis thread reached a conclusion that made him shudder (if he still had hair), “It came from inside the Primarch…
or rather, it was accompanied by the Primarch’s awakening, intervening from some undetectable dimension!” So the question is: what caused this “intervening pulse”?
Cawl’s logic core ran frantically, eliminating all known variables, and finally locked onto a “mistake” that even he himself could not believe, but was “logically the only possibility”: “Could…
could it be…” Cawl’s human voice began to tremble, “Is it because…
I didn’t put the armor of fate on the Primarch the moment the stasis field was lifted?!” The more he thought about it, the more he felt it “made sense”!
“That’s it!
It must be this!” Cawl’s mechanical arm waved excitedly, hitting the corridor wall with a clatter, “The armor of fate is not just a piece of armor, it integrates the most advanced gene stability field, form fixation matrix, and multiple barriers against Warp interference!
One of its design purposes is to provide the most comprehensive protection and fixation at the fragile moment of the Primarch’s awakening!” “And I!
Because I was focused on monitoring life data and guiding the purification of the death god’s power, I actually forgot to start the armor’s donning program at the first moment!” Cawl covered half of his human face, his voice full of endless remorse and self-condemnation, “Just in those critical few tenths of a second, the Primarch was completely exposed in an unprotected state, leading to the intervention of that unknown pulse, triggering the uncontrollable morphological mutation!
Ahhh!
What am I doing!!!
How could I mess up something so important!” He completely ignored a fact: under the circumstances at the time, whether it was possible to complete the armor donning within 0.00001 seconds was a question.
He also selectively forgot that the energy level and nature of that “white light” did not look like something a mere suit of armor could resist or affect.
But under the huge pressure, fear, and the urgent need for an “explanation” to soothe himself, Cawl decisively and firmly placed this huge black pot on his own “process negligence.” After all, admitting that he had made a “understandable” mistake was much more comfortable for a person (machine) than admitting that the whole event was completely beyond understanding and he was helpless.
However, finding the “cause” did not make Cawl feel easier, but made him even more desperate.
“It’s over…
it’s all over…” He sat on the ground leaning against the wall, the red light in his mechanical eyes dim, “It really was my fault…
it was my negligence in key steps that caused the Primarch to become…
that way.
Although Chapter Master Calgar has not pursued it for the time being, the Ultramarines must be keeping it in mind.
Once the Adeptus Mechanicus and Mars know the truth…” His persecution delusion theater started again, and because there was “solid” “criminal evidence,” it became more real and cruel: The roar of the Fabricator-General of Mars, the terrifying future of being stripped of all titles, dismantled, melted down, and made into servoskulls or even toilets, emerged clearly again.
“Emperor…
Omnissiah…
anyone is fine…” Tears mixed with machine oil and despair flowed from Cawl’s human eyes, “Save me…
or at least…
give me a quick one…” But he knew he had to attend the meeting.
Avoiding it would only make things worse.
So, he struggled to stand up, tidied his wrinkled red robe, wiped the “tears” from his face, and with a mentality almost like going to his death, took steps even heavier and more tragic than before, walking towards the strategy room.
That back, it didn’t look like he was going to attend a meeting that would decide the future fate of Macragge and the Empire, but more like he was going to visit a grave.
His own grave.