Mother?
3: Chapter 3: Father…
Mother?
Silence.
Within the Correction Temple, only the sound of the wind pouring through the hole in the dome remained, along with the increasingly faint wail from Cawl’s cooling system—it sounded like a machine sobbing.
In the center of the platform, the blonde girl held her head, maintaining a “let me be quiet” posture.
The halo above her head rotated dimly, and the golden energy wings on her back drooped feebly.
Her entire being radiated a bewildered aura of “Who am I, where am I, and why did I become like this?” Finally, she looked up.
Her large azure eyes blinked as her gaze searched through the crowd, eventually locking onto the most prominent suit of Terminator armor.
“You…” she spoke, her voice still so soft and sweet, like a freshly baked honey cake, “Are you…
Calgar?” At that moment, Calgar’s brain underwent the following process: 0.1 seconds: Sound wave pattern identified.
Confirmed as Gothic language, Macragge accent, correct grammar.
0.2 seconds: Voiceprint analysis.
Voice timbre match with the Primarch’s voiceprint in the database: 0.7%—wait, 0.7%?
0.3 seconds: Visual confirmation.
Target height 1.65 meters, estimated weight 40 kilograms, distinct female physiological characteristics, blonde hair, blue eyes, energy halo above head, energy wings on back.
Physiological data match with Primarch Roboute Guilliman (Male, 3.5 meters, approx 1.2 tons, brown hair): -300%.
0.4 seconds: Logical conflict.
Target identifies as Guilliman, cognition correct, but physiological data completely inconsistent.
0.5 seconds: Emotional module overload.
Loyalty, confusion, protective instinct, bewilderment, more confusion, omen of world-view collapse.
0.6 seconds: Gene-seed reaction.
Detected resonance at the genetic level—it truly is the Primarch!
But why a girl?!
0.7 seconds: Social protocol search.
Searching protocol library for “How to face an awakened Primarch”—1327 entries found.
Searching for “How to face a Primarch who turned into a little girl”—0 entries found.
0.8 seconds: Emergency backup protocol initiated.
Adopting highest-specification etiquette, but the address…
the address…
0.9 seconds: CPU (Brain) completely fried.
“Mother!” Calgar blurted out, his Terminator armor hitting the ground with a loud “clack” as he knelt on one knee, his form so perfect it could be recorded into a recruit’s training manual, “No!
Wait!
Father!” He froze.
His face twitched beneath his tactical helmet.
He wanted to punch himself—if only he weren’t wearing the helmet.
Calgar’s inner theater was staging a frantic performance: Where is my father?
Where did my massive father go?
The father who was 3.5 meters tall, who could punch through tank armor, whose writing gave even the Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus a headache, and who managed five hundred worlds while finding time to reform the administrative system of the Imperium?!
Why is he a…
little girl now?
And a little girl with a glowing head?
And her voice is so…
soft?
By the Emperor, I don’t even dare speak loudly for fear of scaring her—wait, why am I afraid of scaring the Primarch?
The Primarch should be scaring me—but she looks like she’d cry if someone punched her—no, she’s the Primarch, she’d be the one making me cry with a punch—but her size—ah— By the Gene-seed, Chief Librarian Tigurius said people occasionally experience cognitive dissonance; am I about to mutate?
Should I go to the Apothecary for an exam?
But if the Apothecary sees this scene, would he check himself first?
And this halo!
These wings!
Are these things a Primarch should have?
It’s not written in the Codex!
Out of the Emperor’s twenty sons, I haven’t heard of anyone besides Sanguinius awakening as an angel!
And even if it were an angel, it wouldn’t be this model!
Mother?
Father?
What should I call her?
Are there relevant clauses in the Codex?
Does the Ultramarines’ dogma mention this?
Do the laws of Macragge have a regulation?
Is it too late to write to the Adeptus Arbites on Terra and ask?
Calm down, Calgar, calm down.
You are the Lord of Macragge, Captain of the Second Company, Chapter Master.
You have faced Ork Warlords, fought Tyranid swarms, and resisted Chaos invasions.
You can handle this.
You can.
You can…
No, I can’t handle this, AHHHHH— External time: 1.2 seconds have passed.
Calgar remained kneeling there, like a blue statue.
On the platform, the blonde girl tilted her head.
This movement caused her golden hair to slide over her spaulders, and her halo tilted slightly with the motion.
The expression on her face shifted from bewilderment to deeper confusion, mixed with a hint of…
being wronged?
“Mother?
Father?” She repeated the two words, her soft voice exceptionally clear in the silence.
“I…
I remember I am Roboute Guilliman.
Primarch of the 13th Legion.
Lord Regent of the Imperium.
I should have been sleeping on Macragge for ten thousand years, then awakened, and then…” She looked down at herself, her small hands feeling her breastplate, then pinching her own cheek.
“Then it seems I…
changed my appearance?” She looked up, her eyes wide and round, filled with ‘this isn’t funny.’ “Calgar, tell me, I’m not in a nightmare, am I?
Or is this an illusion of Chaos?
Or have I developed a cognitive disorder from sleeping too long?” She tried to stand up, but her movements were a bit clumsy—she needed to adapt to the proportions of her new body.
Her foot slipped, and she nearly fell; the energy wings on her back instinctively fluttered twice to maintain balance, making her look like a small bird learning to fly.
After steadying herself, she looked at Calgar with an expression that said, “Quick, tell me this is fake.” Calgar’s brain was still smoking.
“Father…
no, Primarch…” He finally regained the power of speech, though his grammar was a total mess.
“You are indeed Roboute Guilliman.
A genetic test—if Archmagos Cawl can still perform one—should be able to confirm it.
You slept for ten thousand years.
We have just awakened you.
As for your…
morphological change…” He paused, his tactical helmet turning toward the crashed Cawl, then toward the sword of the old one dropped on the ground by Yvraine, and finally back to Guilliman.
“This falls under…
an unplanned circumstance,” Calgar finally chose this phrasing.
Guilliman’s expression became even more aggrieved.
“Unplanned…” she repeated softly, then suddenly raised her volume—though even raised, it was still a soft and cute voice.
“This is completely unplanned to the point of being in another galaxy!
I went from three and a half meters to one meter sixty-five!
From male to female!
And I have extra decorations!” She pointed at the halo above her head and jumped, trying to reach it, but of course, she couldn’t.
“What exactly is this?
An energy projection?
A psychic manifestation?
Or some physical phenomenon I can’t understand?” She turned to Yvraine, who was still frozen there.
“Eldar!
Do you know what this is?” Yvraine’s body jolted, as if being forcibly awakened from a state of deep shock.
She stared at Guilliman, at that excessively exquisite face, at those large blue eyes full of confusion, and at that halo glowing slightly with her emotional fluctuations.
Yvraine’s inner thoughts: …So cute.
Wait, what am I thinking?
This is Guilliman.
A Primarch of the Imperium of Man.
A war machine who once commanded legions to slaughter Eldar worlds.
Theoretically, she should be a 3.5-meter giant with muscles that could crush Titan armor.
But why…
is she so small?
That face, that voice, that head-tilting movement…
No!
Yvraine!
You are the Emissary of Ynnead!
You are here to execute a mission to save two races!
Not to find a human Primarch cute!
But the way she fluttered her wings when she almost fell just now…
Stop it, brain!
But she looks so soft, I really want to poke her cheek to see if it’s real— Yvraine!
The Emissary of the Eldar God of Death took a deep breath—Eldar don’t actually need to breathe like humans, it was just a habitual action—and used all her self-control to keep her voice calm: “I…
do not know,” she said, her eyes darting around.
“The power of the God of Death can only purify Chaos corruption; it would not lead to…
the reshaping of…
physiological structures.
This is beyond my scope of knowledge.” “Then what’s going on?” Guilliman pointed at herself, a hint of a sob in her voice.
“How am I supposed to command a fleet?
How do I face my other Primarch brothers—if any of them are still awake?
How do I face the Emperor?
Am I supposed to say, ‘Father, I slept for ten thousand years and woke up as your daughter’?” The more she spoke, the more agitated she became, and she began pacing on the platform—small steps, a hurried rhythm, her wings flapping slightly with her movements.
“And this voice!” She stopped and cupped her face with her hands, trying to make her voice deeper.
“My original voice was like this—*ahem*—’I am Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, Lord Regent of the Imperium, I command you—'” But the voice that came out was still that of a soft girl, just with a bit of intentional raspiness, making it sound more like she was acting spoiled.
Guilliman froze.
She lowered her hands, her shoulders slumped, and even her halo dimmed a few shades.
“It’s over,” she said softly, with despair.
“I’ve really turned into a girl.
And this model of one, too.” Just as Guilliman fell into self-doubt, Calgar’s CPU overloaded, and Yvraine struggled internally, a third “clang” echoed in the temple.
It wasn’t a weapon dropping, but the sound of a heavy metallic body hitting the floor.
Belisarius Cawl, Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, a sage who had lived for ten thousand years and the chief designer of the Primarch Awakening Project, finally had his processors completely collapse after experiencing the triple shock of “Primarch Awakens” → “Primarch Purifies Chaos” → “Primarch Turns into a Blonde Loli.” The entire man—or rather, the entire machine—toppled straight backward, hitting the ground and kicking up a cloud of dust.
His mechanical arms splayed out feebly, his human left eye rolled back, and the red light of his mechanical right eye flickered slower and slower, eventually becoming a regular, slow pulse—the Adeptus Mechanicus’ “Critical Failure/System Crash” warning signal.
But Cawl’s consciousness (or what remained of it) was still making a final struggle: Cawl’s Persecution Delusion Scenario: Logical error.
Logical error.
Logical error.
All data anomalous.
All predictive models failed.
All contingency plans void.
Cause analysis: Unknown variable intervened in the awakening ritual.
Variable nature: Undetectable.
Variable source: Untraceable.
Variable impact: Converted Primarch Guilliman (male, 3.5m) into an unknown form (female, 1.65m, accompanied by energy signatures).
Conclusion: Awakening ritual failed.
No, partially successful but with major deviation.
Deviation level: World-ending.
Responsibility assessment: This Archmagos is the chief designer of the ritual.
Responsibility ratio: 100%.
Consequence prediction: The wrath of the Ultramarines.
Chapter Master Calgar will hang me up.
No, dismantle me into parts.
No, hang me up then dismantle me into parts.
He will say in that deep voice: “It was you who made our father like this.” Then the other Ultramarines will charge over, using power fists, Chainswords, and Bolters to tear me limb from limb.
My mechanical arms will be stripped off as trophies, my processors will be turned into servoskulls, and my human parts will be— The judgment of Mars.
The Adeptus Mechanicus will convene a grand council.
I will be accused of “profaning the Emperor’s heir,” “twisting sacred genes,” and “creating non-humanoid constructs.” I will be stripped of all titles, my knowledge will be deleted, my chassis will be melted down, and my name will be wiped from all records.
Oh, Omnissiah, they will say I am a heretic— The reaction of Terra.
What would the Emperor think (if He could still react)?
How would the High Lords council judge?
How would the Inquisition handle it?
The Ordo Malleus might think this is Chaos corruption, the Ordo Xenos might think this is an Aeldari conspiracy, the Ordo Malleus and Ordo Xenos will start fighting over jurisdiction, and then burn me together— The reaction of other Primarchs.
If Leman Russ wakes up, he will laugh and kick me like a ball.
If Sanguinius were still alive, he would look at me with sad eyes and execute me personally.
If Vulkan…
he would hold me in his arms and say “It’s okay,” then crush me.
If Johnson…
he would…
(cannot imagine civilized barbarian).
Reboot protocol initiated.
Forced reboot.
Three, two, one— Cawl’s mechanical eyes flashed red.
His human part was still in a coma, but the mechanical system had finished rebooting.
He “looked” around: Guilliman was still in place, looking at him pitifully with those big blue eyes.
Calgar was still kneeling, his tactical helmet trembling slightly.
Yvraine had picked up the sword of the old one, but her gaze was still drifting.
The other Ultramarines were still in a state of collective petrification.
A series of static noises came from Cawl’s vocalizer, then turned into a stuttering mechanical voice: “Don’t…
tear…
me…
apart…
I…
can…
explain…” He paused, realized what he had said, and hurriedly corrected himself: “I mean…
the situation can be analyzed…
data can be studied…
solutions can be…
sought…” His voice grew quieter, because Guilliman walked over.
Small, 1.65 meters tall, she looked like a child in front of Cawl’s massive mechanical chassis.
She crouched down, moving a bit clumsily because she wasn’t used to the new center of gravity of her power armor, tilting her head to look at Cawl’s wide-eyed human eyes.
“Archmagos Cawl?” She asked with that soft, sweet voice, “Are you okay?” Cawl’s processor temperature soared again.
She called me Archmagos.
The voice is so soft.
The expression is so worried.
She looks so small.
Is she really Guilliman?
But the gene resonance confirms it is the Primarch.
So this is Guilliman.
But how can Guilliman be so…
cute.
No, majestic.
No, cute.
No— “System…
overload…” Cawl finally chose to tell the truth, “Needs…
cooling…
and…
re-analysis…” “Oh.” Guilliman nodded, her halo floating up and down with her movements, “Then you rest first.
When you recover, we will study why I became like this.” She stood up and turned to Calgar, her expression turning serious—or rather, trying to be serious.
Her round cheeks were trying to tighten, her eyebrows furrowed, and her lips pursed, but because her features were too delicate, she looked more like she was pouting.
“Chapter Master Calgar.” She tried to speak in a majestic tone, but the effect…
was subtle.
“Yes!
Primarch!” Calgar instinctively straightened his back—though he was still kneeling.
“First, I need a full-body mirror.
The bigger the better.” “Uh…
Yes!” “Second, summon all the high-ranking officials of Macragge.
But before I am ready, do not let anyone see how I look now.
This is an order.” “Understood!” “Third…” Guilliman looked down at herself, her shoulders slumped again, “Third, find me some…
fitting clothes.
Power armor is fine, but it must be female-style.
Also, can this halo and wings be turned off?
Constantly glowing seems to consume a lot of energy…” The wings behind her seemed to understand, disappearing with a “pop.” The halo above her head also dimmed until it was almost invisible.
Guilliman paused, then tried to concentrate.
A few seconds later, the wings “whooshed” and spread out again, and the halo lit up again.
She tried again, and they disappeared once more.
“Well, at least I can control it.” She muttered, then looked at Calgar again, “Execute the order, Chapter Master.” “By your command!
Primarch…
my lady…” Calgar stood up, the joints of his Terminator armor making hydraulic sounds.
He turned to the other Ultramarines and gave orders on the tactical helmet’s communication channel—but forgot to switch to a private channel, so the whole temple heard his orders: “Attention everyone!
The Primarch has awakened!
Execute orders immediately!
First Squad, go get a mirror!
The biggest one!
Second Squad, notify the Planetary Governor, the fleet commander, and the chapter leadership, convene an emergency meeting!
Third Squad, go…
go…” He got stuck.
“Go to the logistics department.” Guilliman whispered a reminder, but the voice was captured by the tactical helmet’s amplifier, “Find female-style skirts.
Or something that can be altered.
I probably…
wear the smallest size?” Calgar nodded stiffly, then added: “And…
the confidentiality protocol.
No one is to leak the Primarch’s…
new form.
Offenders will be dealt with by military law!” The Ultramarines looked at each other.
Agemman whispered to Tigurius: “Chief Librarian, what should we call the Primarch?
Still call her ‘Father’?” Tigurius’s mouth twitched: “According to the Codex, the Primarch is indeed our gene-father.
But the current physiological form…” “Then call her ‘Mother’?” Another warrior interjected.
“But the Primarch’s consciousness is male—at least it was originally.” “Then call her ‘Parent’?” “Sounds like some kind of agricultural machine on an Agri-world.” “Quiet!” Calgar roared, then turned to Guilliman, his tone instantly becoming respectful, “Primarch, how do you wish for us to address you?” Guilliman (temporarily) fell into deep thought.
She crossed her arms, tilted her head, and the halo rotated slowly.
This posture was held for ten seconds, then she raised her head and said in that soft but firm voice: “In public, just call me Guilliman.
In private…
whatever.
Since I am like this now…” She sighed, her voice full of helplessness: “Call me ‘Guilliman’ is fine.
The pronunciation is similar.
Let’s leave it at that.” She turned, trying to take a majestic step toward the temple exit, but on the first step, she almost tripped over her own feet because she wasn’t used to the proportions of her new body.
“Ahem.” She pretended nothing happened and adjusted her pace to continue walking, but her back view looked like she was saying “I want to be alone.” Calgar looked at that small, golden back with a halo floating above its head, the face under his tactical helmet twitching again.
He looked at Cawl, who was still on the ground.
He looked at Yvraine, who was still dazed.
He looked at a group of Ultramarines with blank expressions.
Then, the Lord of Macragge, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, Calgar, who had been baptized by countless wars, slowly raised his hand, pressed his tactical helmet, and muttered in a voice only he could hear: “The Emperor is above…
I can’t live like this…” In the distance, Guilliman, who had already walked to the door, suddenly looked back: “By the way, Calgar.” “Yes!
Primarch!” “I’m hungry.
Slept for so long, it’s normal.
Prepare some food for me.
No military rations, I want real food.
What are the specialties of Macragge?” “…Yes, I will arrange it immediately.” Guilliman nodded and turned to continue walking.
This time she walked very steadily, but the energy wings behind her unconsciously popped out again, flapping with her steps.
Like a proud, miniature, golden bird.
In the temple, silence fell again.
After a long time, Agemman whispered: “Chapter Master…
the Primarch…
her wings are showing.” Calgar closed his eyes (though no one could see it behind the helmet): “I saw it.” “They are actually…
quite cute?” “Agemman.” “Yes!” “Go run one hundred laps.
Now.” “…Yes.” In the distance, Guilliman’s voice came from the corridor, soft and sweet, echoing in the empty temple: “The mirror needs to be a big one!
I need to see my whole body!” Calgar’s hand pressing on his helmet pressed down harder.