All the Primarchs, including Guilliman, stared dumbfounded at that gleaming, golden “fortress baby carriage” full of Dorn-esque aesthetics (or lack thereof).
Guilliman’s small mouth hung open in an ‘O’ shape, her emerald eyes filled with the words “Who am I, where am I, and what am I looking at?” Just then— “CLANG!
CRASH—!!!” A piercing roar of metal tearing, twisting, and restructuring exploded from the other side of the banquet hall!
Everyone looked over in shock to see the Fourth Primarch, Perturabo, had left his seat at some point.
He stood beside a pile of metal wreckage that had originally been decorative sculptures for the hall.
His massive, power-armored hands were tearing, melting, and forging that metal with dizzying speed and terrifying strength!
Red-hot molten iron flowed between his fingertips, and cold steel deformed in his palms like clay!
In just a dozen seconds, the outline of another “carriage” rapidly took shape in his hands!
It was also designed for defense, but the style of this carriage was vastly different from Dorn’s.
It was entirely the signature iron-grey of the Iron Warriors, with lines that were coarser and heavier, filled with an industrial, unadorned sense of brutal power.
The body was covered in rivets and weld marks (though he had just “hand-rubbed” it into existence, Perturabo deliberately left these marks to emphasize its “solidity”), with even sharper angles that looked almost menacing.
Instead of small flags, two miniature (relative to a Primarch) but definitely functional-looking autocannon turrets were mounted on the sides.
It also had a canopy, and the lining appeared to be some kind of durable leather.
“Dorn!” Perturabo finished the last “weld” and looked up, letting out a low growl at Dorn full of disdain and competitive spirit.
“What is that piece of junk?
Golden?
Gaudy!
Pretty but useless!
Like a sissy’s toy!” He shoved his hand-forged, still-steaming, and metallic-smelling iron-grey “Fortress Baby Carriage Mark II” in front of Guilliman, his tone carrying an unquestionable toughness (and a deeply hidden, clumsy attempt at being nice): “Thirteenth sister!
Sit in this!
Your brother’s is better!
Stronger!
More practical!
The defense coefficient is at least 37% higher than that golden wreck next to you!
And,” he pointed to the miniature turrets on the carriage, “if you run into trouble, you don’t have to wait for your brother; this carriage itself can blast any scum looking for trouble into dust!
Sit in mine!” Dorn’s face instantly darkened to the point it could drip ink.
He took a step forward, the Auramite baby carriage and the iron-grey baby carriage nearly clashing together.
“Perturabo, watch your words!
My design has undergone the most rigorous calculations and testing; its defense is comprehensive with no blind spots!
Your pile of crude iron scraps is useless for anything except adding unnecessary weight and reducing mobility!
Thirteenth sister, sit in mine!” AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite “Sit in mine!” Perturabo refused to back down, the familiar fire of rivalry with Dorn igniting in his eyes.
“Otherwise, every one of us Iron Warriors will rename ourselves the Imperial Fists!” (He wore an expression of extreme disgust after saying this, as if he had just uttered a profanity.) A vein pulsed on Dorn’s forehead.
“It is clearly you who should throw away that pile of scrap metal!
Otherwise, every one of us Imperial Fists will rename ourselves the Iron Warriors!” (He also wore an expression as if he had swallowed a fly after saying this.) The two Primarchs, known for their stubbornness and expertise in siege and defensive warfare (as well as their mutual animosity), stood in the center of the banquet hall, locking horns over whose “stroller” was more worthy for Little Thirteen to ride in.
The atmosphere was incredibly tense.
Caught in the middle, Guilliman looked at the glittering “Dorn” on her left and the grim, iron-gray “Perturabo” on her right.
Feeling the almost tangible aura of rivalry and “care” radiating from her two brothers, she finally reached her limit.
Her small face puffed up in anger, looking like an inflated pufferfish.
Her emerald eyes were filled with shame and fury.
She stomped her foot (though it made no sound) and shouted with a soft, sweet voice that sounded even more “coquettish” due to her rage: “That is enough!!!” She pointed at the two ridiculous “vehicles,” her voice trembling.
“Take this!
And this!
Throw away all these damn strollers!!!
Who would want to sit in things like these!!!” This shout stunned both Dorn and Perturabo, and they turned to look at her.
Dorn immediately pointed at Perturabo’s vehicle.
“Did you hear that?
Little Thirteen told you to throw away that pile of scrap metal!” Perturabo also immediately pointed at Dorn’s vehicle.
“She told you to throw away that sissy gold box of yours!
Otherwise, every one of us Iron Warriors will rename ourselves the Imperial Fists!” (He looked disgusted again.) Dorn: “It is clearly you who she told to throw it away!
Otherwise, every one of us Imperial Fists will rename ourselves the Iron Warriors!” (He looked equally disgusted.) Guilliman: “…” She covered her small face in despair and let out a long, powerless sigh.
“Sigh…” While the “stroller war” had not yet subsided, the other Primarchs could no longer restrain themselves.
“Little Thirteen!” The Fifth Primarch, Jaghatai Khan, arrived like a whirlwind.
He still maintained his dashing and uninhibited nomadic knight image, his face bearing a hearty (and slightly mischievous) smile.
“Don’t listen to those two oafs who build houses.
Their vehicles are slow and clumsy.
Do you want to go for a ride?
Brother will take you; I guarantee it will be a hundred times more thrilling than sitting in those things!” He pointed to the corner of the banquet hall—where, at some point, a rocking horse carved from premium wood, painted a vibrant pink, and adorned with golden reins and bells had appeared.
“Look!
A mount specially prepared for you by your brother!
Although you are small now and probably can’t ride a real jetbike, this is just as good!
It’s fast, turns flexibly, and even comes with sound effects!
Come, come!” Khan invited her enthusiastically.
Guilliman looked at the pink rocking horse, then at Khan’s “come play” expression.
Her cheeks flushed red, and she said indignantly, “That’s enough!
Brother Khan!
I am not riding that!” “Not riding a horse?
Then drink!” A rough voice interrupted.
The Sixth Primarch, Leman Russ, swung by, carrying a wooden barrel of mead that was almost as big as Guilliman herself, emitting a pungent odor.
He grinned, revealing his fangs, his body still carrying the wild aura of Fenris.
“Little Thirteen!
Waking up calls for a celebration!
Come, try some of the best mead from our Fenris!
One sip, and I guarantee you’ll forget all your troubles!
Uh, although you might have to drink from a cup; this barrel is a bit big for you right now, hahaha!” As he spoke, he started looking for a cup to pour the drink for Guilliman.
“Russ!
Stop!” A voice as melodious as heavenly music, yet filled with reproach, rang out.
The Ninth Primarch, Sanguinius, unfurled his massive, snow-white wings and descended like a guardian angel.
His peerlessly handsome face wore an expression of disapproval as he stopped Russ.
“That mead of yours is strong enough to knock out a newly augmented recruit!
How can you let Little Thirteen drink that now?
She is still a child!” He turned to Guilliman, his expression instantly changing from reproach to immense tenderness and love; his gaze could melt ten-thousand-year-old ice.
He bent down and, with extreme naturalness, scooped up the small, bewildered Guilliman in his arms.
With those arms that had torn apart countless demons, he carefully cradled her, gently wrapping her petite body with his snowy, warm wings, as if shielding her from all “dangers” and “bad influences” of the outside world.
“Don’t be afraid, Little Thirteen.” Sanguinius’s voice was so sweet it could drip honey.
He lowered his head and rubbed his cheek against Guilliman’s golden hair.
“With your brother here, no one can bully you.
You are not to drink Russ’s mead, Khan’s rocking horse is unsafe, and Dorn and Perturabo’s vehicles…
well, they look uncomfortable.
Just stay here with your brother; it’s the safest and warmest place.” Guilliman was held tightly by Sanguinius, wrapped in warm, fluffy wings, with only her small head poking out.
She struggled a little, but Sanguinius’s embrace (and wings) were gentle yet firm.
“Brother, Brother Sanguinius…
it’s so hot…
let me go…” Her soft, sweet voice came out from between the feathers, muffled and devoid of any intimidation, sounding more like a spoiled child.
“No, I won’t.” Sanguinius laughed even more happily and held her tighter.
“Little Thirteen is so cute; Brother wants to hold you for a while longer.
You were always so stern talking about work before, but now, this is so much better.” The Eighth Primarch, Konrad Curze, emerged from the shadows like a ghost, his pale, gaunt face bearing a neurotic and intrigued smile.
He leaned close to Guilliman, who was being held by Sanguinius, and whispered in a raspy voice that sounded like a serpent flicking its tongue: “Little Thirteen…
do you want to play a game with your brother?
A riddle.
Guess what the next servant to walk through that door fears most deep down in their heart?
Or…
guess why you turned into this?
The answer might be very interesting…”