A heavy silence shrouded the strategy room, with only the holographic star map running silently, displaying the map of Ultramar marked with large swathes of glaring red (lost territory) and unstable yellow (conflict zones).
For a long time, Guilliman took a slow, deep breath, forcing herself to calm down.
Her wings stopped their restless fluttering and gently folded behind her back; the light of her halo also stabilized, though its brightness seemed to have dimmed slightly.
She knew this was not the time to be immersed in shock and sadness.
She was the leader, the decision-maker; she had to face reality and evaluate what cards she had left in her hand.
She spoke again, her voice having recovered its calmness, though it carried an imperceptible hint of exhaustion in its soft, sweet tone: “Then, Calgar, tell me.
How many…
Space Marines do we have left?” This question made Calgar lower his head even further.
He was silent for a few seconds before answering in a voice that was barely audible: “The main Chapter…
the Ultramarines Chapter currently has only about 600 Space Marines available for deployment on Macragge and its surroundings.” He added with difficulty, “As for other Ultramarines successor Chapters within the Ultramar sector that can still maintain contact and confirm their loyalty…
their total combined strength is, I fear…
less than 3,000.” “…” Guilliman was silent.
This time, she did not exclaim, nor did her wings flutter.
She just sat there quietly, her emerald eyes gazing into the void, as if digesting this number.
600+3000, fewer than 4,000 Space Marines.
And her (Guilliman’s) memory clearly told her that after the Horus Heresy, although the Ultramarines Legion had suffered heavy casualties, after reorganization and the Second Founding, it still retained a massive military force.
In her plans before falling asleep, the Five Hundred Worlds were supposed to be guarded by her descendants for generations, thriving and multiplying.
Ten thousand years have passed.
The loyal Space Marines she once possessed, as numerous as the stars, now only remain as…
this meager number.
A deep sense of frustration, almost enough to drown her, welled up in her heart.
It was not for the loss of power, but for those “descendants” she had never met, who had silently sacrificed and shed their last drop of blood during the ten thousand years of darkness to guard the ideals and territory she had left behind.
And also for the ruthlessness of this cruel galaxy, which had worn down such a massive foundation and Legion to this state.
Her small shoulders slumped slightly, and she lowered her head, her golden hair sliding down to cover part of her cheeks.
That posture did not look like a Primarch listening to a military report, but more like a child who had learned that their home had withered and their family had been scattered, filled with helplessness and sorrow.
This “dejected look,” combined with her petite figure and saintly yet fragile image, was simply “pitiful to behold.” In the strategy room, whether it was the Ultramarines filled with guilt, the heavy-hearted Imperial representatives, or even Yvraine, who had maintained a cold expression, everyone’s hearts tightened involuntarily, surging with a strong desire to protect and an urge to comfort her.
Calgar looked at such a “Father,” his heart twisted like a knife, and he almost couldn’t control himself from stepping forward.
But he knew that any verbal comfort at this moment would be pale and powerless.
Guilliman, immersed in the empathy brought by Guilliman’s memories and Lin Chen’s awareness of the cruelty of the Warhammer universe, whispered, as if asking Calgar, or perhaps asking herself, or asking the ten thousand years of time: “Before I went to sleep…
my descendants, my Legion…
they were once the cornerstone of the Imperium.
Now, ten thousand years have passed…” She raised her head, her emerald eyes carrying a hint of bewildered hope as she looked at Calgar, “Besides Ultramar, in the galaxy…
how many Ultramarines are left?
How many…
are willing to answer the call, cross the galaxy shrouded in darkness, and rush to Ultramar…
to guard a homeland that may only exist in their ancient memories and genetic heritage?” This question made Calgar perk up.
He raised his head abruptly, and although there was still shame in his eyes, a flame of determination burned brighter: “Father!” His voice became powerful again, “I have already, in your name, as the Chapter Master of Macragge and the Ultramarines, sent the highest level of distress and summons to all Ultramarines successor Chapters in the galaxy that can still receive signals, and even to all loyal Astartes Chapters!” He looked around at the representatives of the successor Chapters present, who also puffed out their chests, their eyes igniting with fighting spirit.
“I believe in them!” Calgar’s voice was resonant and powerful, echoing through the strategy room, “I believe that no matter which corner of the galaxy they are scattered in, no matter what kind of enemies they are facing, as long as they learn the news that you—Roboute Guilliman, the Regent of the Imperium, the Primarch of the Ultramarines—have awakened, they will do everything in their power, overcome all difficulties, and assemble towards Macragge, towards Ultramar!” “Your descendants have never forgotten your teachings, never abandoned the oath of loyalty!
Darkness may swallow the starlight, but it can never extinguish the fire of loyalty branded into our genes and souls!
They will return!” These words, filled with unquestionable faith and strength, instantly diluted the frustration that permeated the room.
The eyes of the Ultramarines present reignited with light, as if they could see fleets of blue warships in the distant sea of stars, cleaving through the raging tides of the Warp, converging toward their home planet.
Guilliman looked at Calgar’s determined eyes and listened to his powerful words, and the trace of frustration and bewilderment on her face gradually dissipated.
A faint, yet incredibly real smile, like the morning light piercing through dark clouds, slowly spread across her delicate lips.
The smile was light and faint, yet it seemed to carry a certain magic, instantly illuminating her small face and warming the hearts of those watching her.
She nodded gently, her emerald eyes gathering luster once more, and her soft, sweet voice carried a touch of trust and anticipation: “Yes.
I believe.” “I believe in my descendants.” At this moment, she was no longer just the awakened one who was dejected by the current situation.
She was the banner, the symbol, the lighthouse that gathered the scattered loyalty.
Although the road ahead was dark and her strength was meager, the spark of hope had already been reignited in her heart and the hearts of these loyal warriors.
However, just as the atmosphere had improved, and everyone felt slightly encouraged by Calgar’s oath and Guilliman’s smile—a cold snort, filled with dissatisfaction and even a hint of “anger at their lack of ambition,” sounded chillingly in the depths of Guilliman’s consciousness: [Hmph.] [After the Horus Heresy, my Legion still had at least 250,000 Ultramarines, who were dispersed into various successor Chapters after the Second Founding.
Even if the combat losses over these ten thousand years were great, there shouldn’t be only this few left to answer the call.] Guilliman’s own consciousness seemed to have temporarily detached from his “social death fantasies,” spurred by this bleak military report into a kind of critical spirit of the “management soul.” [That kid Calgar, and those later Chapter Masters, how exactly have they been ‘operating’?
The population growth rate and combat loss control are just too terrible!
The Codex is meant for them to use flexibly, not for them to split the Legion thinner and thinner, until they can’t even scrape together a decent strategic reserve!
And those successor Chapters, it’s been ten thousand years, have they never thought about expanding recruitment scales or optimizing the efficiency of gene-seed cultivation?] Guilliman, who was being moved by Calgar’s oath, was choked up by this tirade of capitalist-style criticism from her “boss.” She rolled her eyes in her mind and responded mentally: “Lord Guilliman, you certainly woke up at the right time.
Why don’t you come and ‘operate’ it yourself?
Teach them how to increase the ‘population growth rate’ and ‘combat loss control’ of Space Marines while the Four Chaos Gods are invading, the Great Rift is tearing the galaxy apart, and Orks, Tyranids, and Necrons are taking turns attacking?
And while you’re at it, optimize the ‘cultivation efficiency’ of gene-seeds under the interference of Warp storms?” […] A suspicious silence came from the sea of consciousness.
Then, Guilliman’s consciousness instantly switched channels.
The flame of the “management soul” from a moment ago went “poof” and extinguished, replaced by the familiar air of playing dead while trying to get away with it: [Ahem…
the weather is nice today.] [I seem to be a bit sleepy again…
where were we just now?
Operations?
What operations?
I don’t know anything about that…] [Zzz…] Guilliman: “…” Fine, keep sleeping, old man.
So you’re only responsible for complaining and imagining social death scenarios, and you don’t want to touch any serious business at all, right?
However, just as Guilliman’s consciousness was about to sink back into the abyss of “slumber,” escaping the reality of “going to work,” perhaps because of the previous associations regarding “descendants” and “operations,” a certain clearer, more concrete, and even more “shameful” future scenario uncontrollably and vividly began to construct and play in the depths of his consciousness— [Guilliman’s “Bad Imagination” Theater · Opening—]