The lights in the final corridor leading to the strategic chamber seemed exceptionally pale, casting a long, trembling shadow of Belisarius Cawl’s dejected mechanical frame onto the floor.
His human left eye was hollow, his mechanical right eye flickered with a faint red light, and each step was arduous, as if the polished marble beneath his feet were a path of ashes leading to the execution ground.
Just as he was about to shuffle to the magnificent doors of the strategic chamber in this posture of “marching to his death,” a soft, pure golden light began to diffuse from the corridor corner ahead of him.
The light was not blinding, but carried a strange, soul-reaching warmth and purity, instantly dispelling the gloom and the atmosphere of self-imposed despair surrounding Cawl.
Subconsciously, or perhaps drawn by some instinct, he raised his head.
And then, he saw.
Guilliman was walking out from the corner, surrounded by Calgar and the Honor Guard, heading toward the strategic chamber doors.
But at this moment, she seemed somewhat different from the version Cawl had previously “witnessed” (more accurately, perceived through data).
Perhaps because she was about to face many high-ranking officials, or perhaps because the resolve to “start working” naturally flowed from within her, the faint golden halo around her was slightly brighter than before, as if she had draped a layer of divine gauze over herself.
The olive wreath on her head was lush and verdant, complementing her eyes, which flowed with a subtle emerald hue.
Her blue and white dress swayed gently with her steps, each movement of the hem seeming to align with a graceful rhythm.
And most eye-catching of all were the pair of translucent golden energy wings on her back, flapping gently with a soothing and steady rhythm, causing her petite body to float slightly above the ground.
It was not high-speed flight, but more like she was stepping on invisible stairs, “gliding” forward elegantly.
Each flap of her wings scattered tiny, golden specks of light like miniature stars, leaving a brief, brilliant trail of light along her path.
This “flight” posture, combined with her exquisite face, holy halo, and solemn dress, created a scene of tremendous impact.
It was a beauty and cuteness that transcended what mortal vocabulary could describe.
It was not just a visual shock.
That beauty and cuteness seemed to carry a power on the level of universal laws.
Even if you closed your eyes and covered your ears, that image would be like the deepest brand, appearing directly in the depths of your consciousness, tugging at the softest part of your heart, making you involuntarily feel admiration, affection, a desire to protect, and an almost instinctive impulse to draw closer to this beauty.
It had nothing to do with desire, nothing to do with profanity.
It was the most primitive and direct resonance of life with “supreme beauty” and “supreme purity.” All of Cawl’s sensors—optical, thermal, psychic disturbance, and even molecular motion analyzers—overloaded at this moment, data streams flooding his vision before resetting instantly, because no data could define the scene before him.
His human left eye widened, his mechanical right eye stopped flickering, as if even his processor had forgotten how to function.
He stood there blankly, like a rusted statue, watching the small figure radiating warm light, like a young god descending to the mortal world, “floating” toward him.
Guilliman also saw Cawl.
She saw his ashen complexion (the human part), his dim mechanical eye, and the aura of “I am done for” radiating from his entire being.
The memories belonging to Lin Chen immediately reminded her that the person before her was the future Guilliman’s most capable assistant, technical pillar, and ten-thousand-year-old Archmagos—an indispensable key figure in saving the Empire!
She must not let him be crushed by self-doubt!
She landed softly in front of Cawl, retracted her wings, dimmed her halo slightly, and tilted her small face, looking at him with clear emerald eyes.
Her soft, sweet voice carried just the right amount of concern and gentleness: “Archmagos Cawl.” This soft call was like a clear spring flowing into a parched riverbed, instantly shocking Cawl out of his stupor and despair.
His massive frame trembled violently, as if struck by an electric current.
Looking at the Primarch before him, seeing the lack of blame in her eyes, only peace and encouragement, the heavy guilt and fear in Cawl’s heart began to melt rapidly like snow encountering sunlight, but at the same time, an even stronger sense of shame welled up.
“Primarch…
Primarch!” Cawl’s voice was distorted by excitement and nervousness.
He clumsily tried to salute, but didn’t know where to put his mechanical arm, and finally just lowered his head deeply, almost burying his human half-face into his chest.
“I…
I am so sorry!
Terribly sorry!
It was all because of my negligence that you…
you…” He wanted to say “became like this,” but felt it was blasphemous once the words reached his lips, so he got stuck, leaving only a series of “sorry”s accompanied by sobbing (mechanical noise).
Guilliman understood immediately, knowing that this tech-geek had definitely blamed himself for everything.
She took a small step forward, extended that fair, slender little hand wearing a blue feathered gauntlet, and gently took one of Cawl’s cold mechanical fingers, which was still stained with some machine oil.
This action was as gentle as a feather brushing past, yet it caused Cawl’s whole body to shake violently, as if infused with the purest energy.
His human eye looked at his held finger in disbelief, then looked at Guilliman.
Guilliman tilted her face up, her expression serious, her voice soft but carrying a comforting power: “Archmagos Cawl, there is no need to blame yourself so much.
Being able to wake up, being able to breathe again, and being able to continue fighting for the Empire and for humanity—this in itself is already the greatest reward bestowed by the Emperor and the Omnissiah.” She paused, her emerald eyes flashing with wise light, mixing Guilliman’s political wisdom and Lin Chen’s “prophetic” perspective: “The past, regardless of the cause, is already set in stone.
What matters is the present, the future.
The Empire is collapsing, and humanity is weeping in the darkness.
We need you, Cawl.
Your knowledge, your wisdom, and your technology are the beacons in the darkness, the indispensable cornerstone for rebuilding order.
Please, do not dwell on the ‘past’ that cannot be changed.
With me, with the Ultramarines, and with all those loyal to the Empire, look toward the ‘future,’ okay?” These words, like the most precise password, instantly unlocked all the shackles in Cawl’s heart.
The Primarch does not blame me!
She affirmed my value!
She needs me!
The Empire needs me!
She is right!
Waking up is the greatest success!
The form…
is just a detail!
The future!
For the Primarch!
For the Empire!
“Yes!
Primarch!” Cawl straightened his back abruptly (though it was still a bit crooked), his mechanical eye erupted with fiery red light again, and his human face was filled with tears of excitement and determination (this time pure emotion).
“Your magnanimity and wisdom make even the light of the Omnissiah pale in comparison!
I, Belisarius Cawl, swear here in the name of the Omnissiah, that I will exhaust all I know and have learned, and do my utmost to assist you and save the Empire!
This vow will not change until death!” He carefully squeezed Guilliman’s small hand back, then respectfully stepped back half a step to clear the way.
Although machine oil tear stains still hung on his face, his entire spirit had been renewed, turning from a “person marching to death” into a “guardian and follower.”