The two seemed to have just finished months of incomparably heavy government meetings, and there was a hint of imperceptible fatigue between their brows.
However, when they stepped into the banquet hall and saw the scene before them—the Emperor’s footsteps faltered.
The data-staff in Malcador’s hand shook almost imperceptibly.
What did they see?
They saw their own group of “sons”—whether majestic, wild, reclusive, or unruly—the most powerful Primarchs of the Imperium of Man, those demigod warriors feared across the galaxy—now huddled together like children around a candy jar.
In the middle was Sanguinius, who was holding a…
small, golden-haired, winged, haloed, skirt-wearing, teary-eyed girl with a look of loving kindness.
Dorn and Perturabo were glaring at each other over two vastly different “strollers,” almost about to fight.
Khan was holding a pink rocking horse.
Leman Russ was clutching a barrel of ale.
Konrad Curze was smiling sinisterly.
Ferrus Manus was measuring dimensions.
Vulkan was holding a small sword.
Angron was scratching his head in confusion.
Mortarion shouted “Sister.” Magnus was frantically recording.
Lorgar was praying devoutly.
Corax was whispering softly.
Alpharius and Omegon were playing a guessing game.
And the girl surrounded in the middle was looking towards the door, towards the Emperor, with a pleading gaze, her eyes brimming with tears, while still calling out “Mama”…
The Emperor: “…” Malcador: “…” Time seemed to stretch at this moment.
The Emperor’s face, shrouded in light, seemed to turn slightly towards Malcador.
Without speaking, a highly subtle psychic transmission, perceptible only to the two of them, rang out in Malcador’s consciousness: [Malcador.] The Emperor’s voice sounded…
a bit hollow, a bit confused, and even carried a hint of a rare emotion suspected to be “mental exhaustion.” [What is this situation?] [If my perception is correct…
that one in the middle…
is Guilliman?
Roboute Guilliman?
My thirteenth Primarch?] [How did he…
become…
like this?] The muscles in Malcador’s aged cheeks twitched.
He forced himself to remain calm and responded with psychic power as well, his voice filled with extreme embarrassment and uncertainty: [My Lord…
judging by the genetic characteristics and psychic imprint…
indeed, it is undoubtedly Guilliman.] [As for the morphological change…
according to preliminary observation, the order energy radiating from her body surface is extremely pure, ruling out the possibility of large-scale Warp contamination.
But such a drastic physiological restructuring…] He paused, biting the bullet to offer a guess, [perhaps…
it was influenced by certain entities in the Warp?
For instance…
that Chaos God who presides over pleasure and beauty?] The Emperor was silent for a longer period.
[Slaanesh?] His psychic fluctuations seemed even more…
complex.
[So, my thirteenth son, who could write the Codex, manage the Five Hundred Worlds, handle politics, and although idealistic, was generally very reliable and could be called an excellent, multi-functional tool…] His gaze turned again to the little golden-haired girl who was held by Sanguinius and was currently looking at him timidly and tearfully.
[…is just gone like that?] […and then…
I have a…
daughter?] This realization seemed to cause the Emperor’s near-eternal mind to experience a brief crash.
He “looked” at Guilliman, looking at her appearance, which was the complete opposite of her previous majestic image—petite, exquisite, tearful, and pitifully endearing—and felt the radiance emanating from her, which was of the same origin as the psychic power of his Golden Throne but even softer and purer…
An extremely strange and bizarre feeling rippled through the Emperor’s consciousness, which was as vast as a sea of stars.
[…Daughter.] He repeated the word again, his psychic fluctuations carrying an indescribable…
novelty?
Curiosity?
Or even…
a faint, extremely weak softness that even he himself had not noticed?
[You need to change your “tool” mentality, My Lord.] Malcador sensed the Emperor’s subtle change and couldn’t help but remind (or perhaps tease) him, [When treating a daughter, perhaps…
you should show more care and thoughtfulness?] Just then, Guilliman, who was being held by Sanguinius, seemed to have finally grasped a lifeline.
She struggled hard, stretched out her little hand from the gap in Sanguinius’s wings, towards the Emperor, and shouted in that tearful, soft, and pitiful voice: “Fa…
Father!” This “Father” was called out with countless twists and turns, full of grievance and helplessness, instantly striking the softest (though perhaps originally non-existent) corner of the hearts of certain “old fathers” present.
Sanguinius subconsciously loosened his arms.
Guilliman took the opportunity to break free (slide) down, and with her short little legs, red-rimmed eyes, and flapping little wings, she stumbled (almost falling) as she “ran” towards the Emperor.
The Emperor’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly, but he did not dodge.
The small, golden figure, like a fledgling returning to the nest, threw herself into the area below the Emperor’s knees (the height difference was simply too great) of his simple white robe, stretched out her arms, and hugged the Emperor’s calf tightly.
She looked up, her emerald eyes brimming with tears, looking at the Emperor’s face shrouded in light, where his expression was hard to see (in reality, she could only see his chest and abdomen), and asked in the most pitiful, helpless, and answer-desiring tone: “Father…
can I…
can I change back?
Change back to how I was before?” The Emperor: “…” He looked down (this action seemed a bit foreign to his current avatar), looking at his “daughter” who was tightly “hanging” on his leg, a small ball, crying with pear blossoms in the rain, and radiating pure light.
Silence.
A long silence.
Then, the Emperor’s majestic, calm, yet seemingly carrying a trace of an extremely, extremely subtle temperature different from before, voice sounded: “It is difficult.” Concise and comprehensive.
But it did not seem like a complete denial.
“Wuu wuu…” Guilliman’s tears finally fell, burying her little face in the Emperor’s robe, her shoulders heaving, “What should I do…
Father…
what should I do…” Watching his “daughter” cry so sadly, before the Emperor could react—or rather, the Emperor was still crashing while thinking about the unprecedented topic of “how to coax a crying daughter” (as everyone knows, the Emperor’s emotional intelligence is comparable to a banana)—the Primarchs around them instantly overflowed with paternal (fraternal) love!
“Don’t cry, little thirteenth sister!” “Big brother is here!” “Whoever dares to laugh at you, I will beat them up!” “It’s fine if you don’t change back!” “Big brother will protect you!” “Big brother will make you a new dress/new armor/new toy!” “Big brother will take you for a ride/for a drink/tell you stories/play guessing games!” “Don’t be afraid, sister!” The Primarchs’ chattering words of comfort rang out again, full of protectiveness and doting.
Dorn and Perturabo even temporarily put aside their dispute over the strollers, stepping forward simultaneously to form a barrier between Guilliman and the “outside world” with their bodies (and their strollers), although this barrier looked a bit comical.
The Emperor looked at the scene before him, which was even more chaotic but had an unexpectedly unified core goal, and felt the subtle vibration of sobbing on his leg; no one could know the expression under the light.
Only Malcador seemed to vaguely see that the Emperor’s fingers hanging at his side moved almost imperceptibly and extremely slightly, as if wanting to lift up to touch that little golden head, but in the end, it stopped.
[…] […Very well.] [At least…] [It looks quite lively.] The Emperor’s last psychic thought was drowned out by the noise of the Primarchs’ “care.” [The scene, at this moment, stops abruptly and slowly fades out.] In the Strategium, there was silence.
The holographic star map operated silently, and the data streams refreshed quietly.
Guilliman sat on a chair that was too high for her, her calves dangling in the air, her emerald eyes somewhat unfocused, as if she were still immersed in the absurd, information-overloaded “family portrait” mental play that had just occurred.
For a long time, she slowly and deeply took a breath and then slowly exhaled.
“…” In her consciousness, towards that sea of consciousness that had just finished playing the super-long “social death fantasy drama” and was currently radiating intense waves of “life is meaningless” and “shame and despair,” she made a speechless retort: “Lord Guilliman…
you…
are too good at imagining things, aren’t you?” “This plot, these details, these character interactions…
it is truly a loss to the Imperial literary world that you don’t write plays or draw comics.” She paused and added, “However, the part where Dorn and Perturabo can’t stand each other, even competing over making a stroller for their ‘little sister,’ and threatening each other with name changes…
that part of the restoration is truly ridiculously high.” In the sea of consciousness, the will fluctuations of Guilliman himself rose and fell violently, eventually converging into a thought filled with endless shame, despair, and a hint of…
choked sobs: […I…
have no face to live on…] […I miss Mama…] Then, the fluctuations rapidly weakened and subsided, sinking back into the deep sea of pretending (or perhaps truly wanting) to sleep, leaving behind only an aura of “I’m shutting down, don’t bother me.” Guilliman was speechless again.
Fine, you old man, keep shutting down.
This mess, this meeting, I’ll have to handle it.
She shook her head, dispelling those absurd yet “warm” images from her mind, refocusing her attention back to reality, back to the people standing solemnly in the Strategium, back to Calgar’s face full of guilt and expectation, and back to the glaring red and yellow on the holographic star map.
“Forget it.” She whispered to herself, in a voice only she could hear.
Then, she raised her head, her emerald eyes becoming clear and firm again.
She scanned everyone present, looking at the concern and confusion that had not yet completely faded from their faces due to her brief distraction (which was actually digesting Guilliman’s brain-imagination), and declared clearly in that soft yet unquestionable voice: “Continue the meeting.”