[Screen loading…] “Here we go again…” Inside the Strategium in reality, Guilliman was slightly moved by the scene of loyalist assembly depicted by Calgar, but she suddenly felt a familiar wave of shame, anger, and despair from the depths of her consciousness.
She couldn’t help but sigh and rub her temples in her mind, “Lord Guilliman’s…
terminal persecution complex.
There’s no saving him.” This time, the stage for his delusions seemed particularly “grand” and “nostalgic.” [Guilliman’s “Bad Imagination” Theater: Grand Opening—] [Time Setting: 30K, when the Emperor walked among men, before the Horus Heresy, with all Primarchs present and the Imperium on the rise.] [Location: Holy Terra, deep within the Imperial Palace, the grand banquet hall annexed to the Council of Primarchs.] The banquet hall was magnificent, with a soaring dome painted with star maps and the great deeds of the Imperium, and a massive crystal chandelier casting a warm glow.
The long tables were filled with delicacies and fine wines from across the galaxy, and the air was thick with the scent of spices, leather, and the faint hum of energy fields.
This was meant to be a rare place for the Primarchs to gather, discuss state affairs, or engage in not-so-friendly “brotherly exchanges.” But today, the atmosphere was entirely different.
The gilded doors of the banquet hall, large enough for a Knight Titan to pass through, were pushed open just a crack.
Then, a petite blue figure radiating a soft golden light, fluttering her wings slightly and with some hesitation, “floated” in.
It was Guilliman.
Still in that blue and white dress, with an emerald laurel crown, golden hair, and green eyes, her small energy wings fluttered uneasily behind her due to nervousness.
Her face wore a mix of extreme embarrassment, a desire to die of shame, and a dazed sense of “why am I here?” The moment her figure appeared fully at the doorway— Inside the banquet hall, the dozen or so massive figures, who had been standing or sitting, whispering or in silent confrontation, all froze in unison.
All sound came to an abrupt halt.
It was as if a pause button had been pressed; time froze for a fraction of a second.
Then, the gazes of all the Primarchs, as if locked on by the most precise tracking systems, simultaneously and instantly focused on the small, golden figure at the door who looked completely out of place.
The emotions in their eyes were indescribably complex: shock, bewilderment, disbelief, curiosity, inquiry…
and a rapidly spreading, irrepressible, sparkling interest.
The first to break the silence was the Warmaster, Horus.
Clad in magnificent gold and black power armor, his handsome and majestic face originally wore a gentle smile, which now froze slightly before melting into a deeper, more…
unspeakably tender expression.
He set down his wine glass and walked toward the door with steady steps, as if welcoming the most precious treasure.
“Oh~” Horus’s voice was deep and resonant, carrying undisguised surprise and an almost doting softness, “Look who we have here?
Our little Archon, our industrious Guilliman…
no, perhaps now I should say…” He stopped in front of Guilliman, his towering frame casting a shadow, yet he deliberately bent down to meet the petite blonde Primarch at eye level.
He reached out with the hand that could crush a tank and, with extreme gentleness and brotherly care, patted Guilliman on the head, the movement so practiced it was as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times.
“Our little princess, Lady Guilliman, has returned?” Horus’s eyes were full of smiles, his tone so tender it could drip like honey.
“That ten-thousand-year sleep seems to have…
yielded quite the harvest?” The head-pat made Guilliman freeze, her small face turning beet red, and even the halo above her head flickered unsteadily from shame.
She swatted away Horus’s hand, tried to puff out her small chest, and attempted to maintain her dignity with her soft, sweet voice, though the effect was closer to acting spoiled: “Horus!
W-watch your behavior!
This is just…
just an accident!
Temporary!
I—I’ll change back!” “Change back?” A magnificent, elegant voice rang out, sounding like an aria.
Fulgrim had appeared on the other side like a ghost at some unknown moment.
The Third Primarch’s eyes were flashing with the light of an art connoisseur discovering a peerless treasure.
He looked Guilliman up and down, especially at the dress, halo, and wings, his face showing utter intoxication and satisfaction.
“Change back?
Why would you ever want to change back?
My dear thirteenth sister~” Fulgrim’s voice was full of wonder.
“Look at you!
This is simply the most perfect creation since the birth of the universe!
The ultimate art!
This golden hair, these emerald eyes, this holy aura, these exquisite wings…
Oh, by the Emperor, this must be His greatest flash of creative inspiration!” As if by magic (or perhaps he was prepared), he pulled out a neatly folded, luxuriously made, and dazzlingly embroidered gown from behind him, presenting it to Guilliman like a prized offering, his eyes shining: “Look!
The moment I sensed the aura of your return, I personally tailored this for you!
It blends the finest brocade techniques of Chemos, the aesthetic heritage of the Emperor’s Children, and my brand-new interpretation of the concept of ‘cuteness’!
Quick, put it on and show your brother!
You must be the cutest in the entire universe—no, the entire multiverse!” Guilliman looked at the overly ornate dress, its hem weighted down with pearls and tiny gemstones, looking heavy enough to crush her.
Her small face scrunched up as she backed away repeatedly: “N-no need!
Thank you, Brother Fulgrim, I—I’m fine in this!” “Ha!” A deep, resonant snort that was clearly stifling a laugh came from the center of the hall.
Lion El’Jonson stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a pillar.
On his usually stern, stone-carved face, the corners of his mouth were currently quirked upward at an alarming angle; though he tried to suppress it, the mischief and mirth in his eyes were nearly overflowing.
“Ahem,” Jonson cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound serious, but failed.
“Guilliman, my thirteenth brother…
no, thirteenth sister now.
Truly…
an unexpected return.
If the citizens of the Imperium, or the xenos and heretics, found out that a Primarch of our Imperium, the majestic Lord of the Thirteenth Legion, had turned into such a…
well, cute form, what would they think?
What would become of the Imperium’s dignity?” He paused, his tone shifting to one of “I’m doing this for your own good”: “But it’s alright, thirteenth sister.
The First Legion, the Dark Angels, has a long history and deep foundations, and most importantly—we have no secrets (he said this without blinking).
Come back to Caliban with your brother—no, back to our new fortress.
It’s safe there, the facilities are complete, and I guarantee you’ll be well-protected.
No one will find you, let alone laugh at you.” “Civilized barbarian!” A cold, hard voice like grinding rocks interrupted him.
Rogal Dorn, the Seventh Primarch and gene-sire of the Imperial Fists, strode over from the side.
He was tall and burly, with a resolute face, and his golden power armor was spotless.
He first gave Jonson a cold glance, spitting out that classic evaluation, then turned to Guilliman, his expression instantly switching to a clumsy attempt at gentleness that looked more like the serious planning of a fortification.
“Thirteenth sister, do not listen to him.
There are too many secrets with the Dark Angels; it’s not suitable for you.” Dorn’s tone was earnest, as if stating a military fact.
Then, he performed an action that made everyone’s eyes widen— He stepped aside and pushed something out from behind him (no one knew where it had been hidden).
It was a…
carriage.
But not an ordinary carriage.
It was crafted entirely from shining Auramite, with straight lines and sharp angles, full of the signature solid, practical style of the Imperial Fists.
The chassis was etched with complex defensive runes and the Imperial aquila.
It had a canopy (retractable), guardrails, a soft lining (which looked like high-grade velvet), and even several small storage compartments that seemed meant for snacks or toys.
Most absurdly, two small triangular pennants embroidered with the Imperial Fists’ fist and the Macragge aquila hung from the sides.
No matter how one looked at it, this thing was a…
fortress-level, handcrafted golden baby carriage designed for an infant or toddler.
“Thirteenth sister,” Dorn introduced it solemnly, patting his “masterpiece,” “this is the Mobile Personal Fortress Vehicle – Primary Protection Model, which I have meticulously designed for you.
It utilizes the most cutting-edge composite armor technology and a built-in micro-force field generator, which can effectively deflect small-caliber Bolter rounds and energy weapons.
The top can be fully enclosed to form a sealed life-support space.
The hubs use hover technology to adapt to various terrains.
In the future, if you are on the battlefield, or walking in the palace, and encounter xenos, Chaos Assassins, or any ill-intentioned individuals…” He paused, giving a pointed look at Jonson, whose mouth was twitching, and an even darker-faced Primarch further away, before continuing: “…immediately enter this fortress carriage.
Then, I will personally lead the Imperial Fists to form the most solid defensive line, escorting you and the fortress carriage to retreat safely, orderly, and efficiently to the nearest secure bastion.
Rest assured, with your brother here, no one can harm you.” Inside the banquet hall, there was dead silence.