Guilliman was frightened by Curze’s proximity and shrank back into Sanguinius’s arms, her small face turning pale.
The Tenth Primarch, Ferrus Manus, the giant forged of steel and flesh, walked over.
His cold, metallic face showed no expression, but when his gaze fell upon Guilliman, it seemed to soften by a minute degree.
He raised his massive, shimmering silver mechanical hand and made a “measuring” gesture.
“Form changed, but the essence remains.
Little Thirteen,” Ferrus’s voice was like iron striking stone, blunt and direct, “the defensive capabilities of your current body may be insufficient.
Give me the data, and I will craft you a new set of armor.
Using the sturdiest alloys and the most precise power systems, I will ensure it is form-fitting, flexible, and…
suited to your current aesthetic.” He paused, seemingly deliberating his words, “Perhaps, it could be made in a tasset style?
I will reference Fulgrim’s designs, but it will be more practical.” Not far away, the Eighteenth Primarch, Vulkan, that massive and warm black giant like a volcano, also walked over.
His face wore a simple, gentle, and pure smile, and he held an object covered in velvet.
He arrived and carefully lifted the velvet.
Inside was a sword.
But not the massive blades the Primarchs were accustomed to.
This was a lady’s hand-and-a-half sword, delicately shaped, with graceful lines and a significantly reduced scale.
The blade shimmered with a deep blue metallic luster, the hilt was wrapped in soft leather, and the crossguard was engraved with exquisite flame and aquila patterns.
Though small, anyone could feel the astonishing craftsmanship and power Vulkan had poured into it.
“Little Thirteen,” Vulkan’s voice was low and warm, like magma surging from the earth’s core, “it is good that you have awakened.
Your brother has nothing much to give, so I forged a little something for you.
Keep it for self-defense.
Don’t let its size fool you; it’s very sturdy.
If anyone bullies you…” He smiled gently, but a daunting light flashed in his eyes, “tell your brother, and I will help you…
‘persuade’ them to leave.” Perhaps most surprising of all was the Twelfth Primarch, Angron.
The red giant, tormented by the Butcher’s Nails and forever consumed by rage and pain, was standing quietly a short distance away.
He did not approach like the other Primarchs but merely watched the small Guilliman being held by Sanguinius.
Those blood-red eyes, which were always filled with fury and agony, now appeared…
somewhat calm, even carrying a hint of confusion.
He raised his hand and touched his head, which was embedded with the nails that constantly sent waves of agony and roaring into his mind.
He breathed heavily a few times, then, in an extremely raspy, strained tone that was unexpectedly devoid of much rage, he growled: “Thir…
Thirteen.
Tha…
Thank you.” He touched his head again, his expression even more confused.
“You…
are here.
The voices of those nails in my head…
seem…
quieter?
It’s not…
as loud?” He shook his massive head, seemingly confirming, “I…
think I can think normally?
Even…
want to eat?
Rest?” Had Angron’s Butcher’s Nails temporarily malfunctioned because of Guilliman’s “cuteness” or some pure light of order radiating from her?!
This discovery left the nearby Primarchs (including Sanguinius) with expressions of astonishment.
The Fourteenth Primarch, Mortarion, dragged his heavy footsteps over, carrying a faint, not unpleasant scent of herbs mixed with decay.
The Death Guard Primarch, behind his respirator, looked at Guilliman with his dull eyes.
After a moment of silence, he used his deep, muffled voice to utter a term that petrified everyone (including Guilliman): “Guilliman…
sister.” Guilliman shuddered violently in Sanguinius’s arms.
The Fifteenth Primarch, Magnus, had eyes shining with intense curiosity and an urge to record.
He produced a roll of ancient parchment and a quill from somewhere and was writing furiously at an astonishing speed, muttering to himself: “Incredible…
incomprehensible…
but it has truly happened!
Guilliman, the Thirteenth Primarch, returned from slumber, form transformed into a juvenile state resembling a human girl, accompanied by the manifestation of pure Order-aligned energy…
This phenomenon is worthy of being recorded in the annals of the Imperium, the history of psychic research, and even the theory of biological evolution!
It must be recorded in detail!
Every detail!
Oh, look at the rotation frequency of that halo and its correlation with emotional fluctuations…” The Seventeenth Primarch, Lorgar, leader of the Word Bearers, wore an expression of piety and emotion.
He clasped his hands together, looked up at the void, and said in his inflammatory, sermonizing tone: “This is a miracle!
Without a doubt!
It is the Emperor’s grace descending upon His loyal Thirteenth Son!
It is the latest manifestation of His love for humanity!
Look at this holy radiance, this perfect form, this aura of compassion capable of soothing all pain and rage!
I must write a new chapter for the Codex!
‘On the Awakening and Redemption of the Holy Maiden Guilliman’…
Yes, that is a good title!” The Nineteenth Primarch, Corax, appeared silently beside Sanguinius like a true shadow.
His eyes, which gleamed faintly in the shadows, watched Guilliman, his voice soft and ethereal: “Guilliman…
sister…
the world outside is very noisy, very bright, and full of people.
Do you want to hear a story?
A story about how shadows whisper, about how to disappear, about…
how to find peace in the darkest of places.” The most headache-inducing ones were perhaps the last two.
Alpharius and Omegon.
The two figures, wearing identical armor with their faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods, appeared on either side of Sanguinius at some unknown moment.
They spoke simultaneously, their voices overlapping, with an identical, mischievous tone: “Guilliman~” “Guess.” “Between the two of us.” “Which one is Alpha?” “Which one is Omegon?” “There is a prize if you guess right~” “But if you guess wrong…” “You have to play ‘Guess Who I Am’ with us for the whole day~” Held by Sanguinius, surrounded by a group of brothers (and younger brothers), listening to their chattering, overly “caring” words, and feeling the gazes cast from all directions—so rich in meaning that they made her scalp tingle—Guilliman felt as if she were suffocating.
Shame, embarrassment, helplessness, collapse…
a tapestry of emotions intertwined.
Finally, she could bear it no longer, and from within Sanguinius’s warm embrace, she let out a tearful, soft, and sweet cry: “Help—!!!
Someone save me—!!!
Mama—!!!” She had subconsciously shouted that affectionate title for her mortal adoptive mother that circulated within the Ultramarines Legion.
Just as this chaotic, noisy scene, filled with “care” in every sense, was about to reach its peak—the doors to the banquet hall were pushed open once again.
Two figures, one after the other, walked in.
Walking in front was a tall figure draped in a simple white robe, yet exuding an intangible pressure, as if the collective will and glory of humanity had condensed within him.
His face was shrouded in a layer of soft light, making it difficult to look directly at him; only those eyes, which seemed to contain endless wisdom and vicissitudes, were clearly visible.
It was the Emperor of Mankind, the avatar walking among mortals.
Half a step behind the Emperor was the Regent of the Imperium, Malcador, wearing a dark robe, with an aged and stern face, holding a data-staff in his hand.