“The mirror needs to be bigger!
I want to see my whole body!” As that soft, slightly temperamental shout echoed down the hallway, inside the temporarily cleared lounge of the Correction Temple, Guilliman—or rather, Lin Chen, who was currently controlling this body—leaned against the heavy adamantine door and slowly slid down to sit on the floor.
“Ha…
haha…” She looked down at her hands, which were clearly those of a young girl and encased in a downsized version of power armor gauntlets, letting out a series of dry, nearly broken laughs.
“I transmigrated.
I really did…
and it’s in this freaking way…” A few minutes ago, on the platform of the Correction Temple.
Just as Guilliman was falling into chaos because of her new form and trying to put on the air of a Primarch to issue orders, a deeper sense of dizziness originating from the soul level hit her without warning.
It wasn’t a physical faint, but a sort of “handover.” It was like a screen suddenly going black and then switching user accounts.
When “he” opened his eyes again, control of the body had changed hands.
The vast, star-like sea of memories, knowledge, strategic thinking, and administrative abilities belonging to Roboute Guilliman remained accessible like a massive, read-only cloud database.
However, the person sitting at the terminal was now that unlucky guy who had hit his head and died in his apartment because an Emperor figurine glowed mysteriously— Lin Chen.
A veteran Warhammer fan.
A decade-long lore enthusiast.
He had dreamed of transmigrating as Guilliman to save the Imperium of Man.
Now the dream had come true, but there was a bit of a problem with the packaging.
“I wanted Guilliman’s body, damn it!
Not a gender-swapped figurine version of Guilliman!” Guilliman buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled through her fingers, her soft tone now full of despair.
“Where’s the three-and-a-half-meter-tall, majestic Primarch?
Where’s the dominance to take down a Chaos Space Marine with one punch?
What about the Indomitus Crusade?
How am I supposed to go on a crusade like this?
Purify the Galaxy with cuteness?” She looked up, her large azure eyes filled with desperation.
These sharp eyes belonging to Guilliman, which had once seen through countless strategic blueprints, now appeared watery and misty because the “driver” had changed.
Paired with that overly exquisite face, the lethality was off the charts.
“And…” She tried moving her fingers and then attempted to “open” the memory bank named “Roboute Guilliman” in her mind.
Instantly, a massive amount of information came rushing in: The administrative structure of Macragge, the resource distribution of the Five Hundred Worlds, the detailed organization of the Ultramarines Chapter, the intricate bureaucracy of the Imperium, major historical events over the past ten thousand years…
Although he had slept for ten millennia, Guilliman’s consciousness in stasis seemed to have recorded the passage of time and fragments of incoming information in some way.
There were also his complex feelings for the Emperor, memories of his brothers, the pain of Horus’s betrayal, and worries about the current state of the Imperium…
And how to command a galactic war.
The feeling was strange.
It was like suddenly inheriting all the experience and micro-management skills of a world-class strategic game master.
You knew the stats of every unit, were familiar with the details of every map, understood the pros and cons of every tactic, and could even predict your opponent’s next move.
But this “knowledge” was cold and external, lacking the bone-deep intuition and iron will that could only be honed through personally experiencing countless bloody battles.
“Lord Guilliman?
Master Primarch?
Boss?” Lin Chen tried calling out in his mind.
“Are you there?
Give me a sign?
Let’s talk?
What’s the deal with the usage rights for this body?
Is it a roommate situation?
Are utilities included?” There was no response.
Only a deep “silence” filled with exhaustion and a massive sense of shame and indignation.
It wasn’t that there was nothing there; it was more like a devastated soul had curled up into the deepest part of its consciousness and hung a sign saying, “Do not disturb, burn incense if you need something.” After a while, a blurry “thought” floated over as if from a great distance, carrying a thick scent of self-doubt and social death: […No face left to live…] Lin Chen: “?” […Imagine…
meeting Lion…
no, don’t imagine it…] A blurry image appeared in the thought: A tall figure as majestic as a lion, wearing magnificent power armor, looking down at a 1.65-meter blonde loli.
First, he froze, then the corners of his mouth curled up wildly: “Is this the Thirteenth Sister—cough cough…
Guilliman?
Why are you so…
cute?
Haha, let Big Brother see (reaches out to pinch her face).” Lin Chen: “???” […And Sanguinius…] The scene switched: An angel with massive wings on his back, handsome as a god, with eyes sparkling with surprise and the light of “discovering something adorable,” suddenly lunging forward: “Wow!
So cute!
Little Thirteen, let me give you a hug!
(Hugs tightly, rubbing his face against hers)” Guilliman (struggling hard in the imagination): “Let go of me!
You two meanies!” Lin Chen: “…” She felt the shame and despair radiating from the depths of her consciousness, almost tangible.
It seemed that for this Primarch, known for his rationality, majesty, and political skill, accepting a future as a “mascot” was more painful than being stabbed by Fulgrim again.
“Um…
Lord Guilliman?” Lin Chen said cautiously in her mind.
“How about you come out and take over for a bit?
I’m a little panicked…” [No.] The thought was decisive, even carrying a hint of self-abandonment.
[You are me, and I am you.
At least for now, this body is.
I give you the memories, I give you the abilities, and I give you the responsibility.
Think of the Imperium of Man, think of those people struggling in the darkness.] A mountain-like sense of responsibility, accompanied by those memories, weighed down on Guilliman’s heart once again.
It wasn’t moral kidnapping, but a near-instinctual desire to protect the human race, originating from the essence of a Primarch.
She couldn’t resist it.
“…But I’m like this now…” […It’s better than being dead.] Guilliman’s thought carried an exhaustion that had seen through the world.
“…You are me.
Use my memories and my abilities to do what I should do.
Appearance…
is not important.]” After a pause, a final weak message came through the thought, with a faint, buck-passing sense of relief: […I’m tired, I’m going to sleep for a while.
Try not to call me unless necessary.
Especially if Lion or Sanguinius really wake up…
you handle it.] Then, that part of the consciousness sank completely into the depths, truly going “offline.” Lin Chen: “…” Good grief, so you can’t accept reality and decided to just lie flat and sleep, dumping the mess…
oh no, the heavy responsibility of saving the Imperium of Man onto me, a fan who just transmigrated?
And “You are me”?
What kind of fusion is this!
This is clearly “The boss ran away, the intern takes over!” But complaints aside, Guilliman looked at her small hands, feeling the strength flowing through her body that far exceeded an ordinary person’s, as well as the knowledge in her mind that could be called the Galaxy’s top strategic think tank…
“Fine.” She sighed, her soft voice echoing in the empty lounge with a sense of resignation.
“Lord Guilliman, you sleep first.
I’ll take the shift.
But let’s agree, when you have time, you have to take over for me too.
I want to sleep as well…” In the depths of her consciousness, there was no response.
Only the peaceful waves of a deep slumber.
Guilliman leaned against the wall and slowly stood up.
She needed a mirror.
Urgently.
She needed to see exactly what she had become.
“Father, the mirror has been brought.” Calgar’s voice came from outside the door, lowered intentionally but still unable to hide a hint of strangeness.
Immediately following was the dull thud of a heavy object being carefully placed on the ground, and the mechanical sound of metal supports unfolding.
Guilliman took a deep breath and patted her face.
The soft and delicate touch made her feel conflicted.
“Come in.” The door slid open.
The first thing to enter wasn’t a person, but a massive standing mirror decorated with carvings of the Macragge Aquila and olive branches.
The mirror had clearly been rushed from some banquet hall or ceremonial room; it was nearly three meters tall and two meters wide.
It was carried and supported carefully, almost reverently, by four Ultramarines and placed in the center of the lounge.
Then, Calgar walked in.
His Terminator armor paused at the door for a fraction of a second as he seemingly decided whether to stand or kneel, finally choosing a somewhat stiff posture of standing at attention.
Behind him, several other Ultramarines—including First Captain Agemman, Chief Librarian Tigurius, and two members of the Honor Guard—followed.
They quickly lined up by the door, their gazes…
wandering.
They wanted to look but didn’t dare stare; they were serious, but the corners of their mouths were twitching.
Everyone’s eyes were more or less focused on the small blue figure in the center of the room.
Guilliman didn’t have her energy wings unfurled now, and her halo was hidden.
She was just wearing that “basic” Primarch power armor, which had clearly been resized and had much softer lines.
Her long blonde hair was draped somewhat messily over her shoulders, with a few strands sticking to her cheeks, which were slightly flushed from nervousness and complex emotions.
She stood there, her posture a bit stiff, her hands unconsciously fiddling with the decorative ribbons hanging from the side of her armor’s waist.
Her large azure eyes looked at the mirror, then quickly looked away, and then she couldn’t help but look back.
It was a complex expression mixed with extreme curiosity, massive panic, a desire to die of shame, and a hint of “let me see clearly so I can die in peace.” Combined with her currently petite stature, exquisite face, and the slight sense of vulnerability she unconsciously radiated…
Under Calgar’s tactical mask, his Adam’s apple bobbed.
Stay calm, Calgar.
This is the Primarch.
The Gene-Father.
The hope of the Imperium.
Although she looks…
like a little recruit who just came off the training field, feeling wronged but trying to hold it together…
No!
This is the majestic Primarch!
But her eyes…
are they red?
Is she going to cry?
Who bullied her?!
Wait, she’s the Primarch herself, who could bully her…
but she just looks so sad…
Emperor above, what should I do?
The Codex didn’t teach this!
The inner thoughts of the other Ultramarines were much the same: Agemman tried his best to stare at the wall ahead, but his peripheral vision was out of control: “Father…
no, Mother…
wait…
she looks so small…
I really want to pat her head to comfort her…
No, that’s a great sacrilege!
But she really looks like a younger sister…” Tigurius, as the Chief Librarian, tried to perform a rational analysis: “Psychic waves are stable, but emotional fluctuations are intense.
There is a strong conflict in self-identity.
Psychological intervention is needed…
but what should I say?
‘Lord Primarch, please accept your new image’?
Will she scold me with that soft voice?
That doesn’t seem very intimidating…” The two Honor Guard members (exchanging glances): Look A: “What should we do?
I want to laugh but I can’t.” Look B: “Hold it in.
But really…
she’s a bit cute.” Look A: “Do you think we’ll have to change our name to ‘Mother’s Guard’ from now on?” Look B: “…Lap warning.” “Put…
put me down.” Guilliman’s voice rang out, still soft and sweet, but she tried her best to keep it steady.
“You all go out first.
I…
I need a bit of private space.” “Yes!
Primarch!” Calgar felt as if he had been granted a grand amnesty and immediately saluted.
Then, with a speed that almost struck sparks on the floor, he led his subordinates out.
Before the door closed, he took one last glance—seeing that small figure, step by step, moving toward the giant mirror with a slow and heavy gait, as if walking toward a judgment stand.
The door closed completely.
In the lounge, only Guilliman remained, along with that strange reflection in the mirror.
She finally stood before the mirror.
She looked up.
The person in the mirror also looked up.
Their eyes met.
Time seemed to freeze for a few seconds.
Then— “Ugh…” A suppressed, tearful sob escaped from Guilliman’s throat.
It wasn’t a loud wail, but a more fragmented, helpless whimper, like a wounded small animal.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Long golden hair, not a dull brownish-gold, but a brilliant, pure gold that looked as if it were woven from sunlight, with a strange emerald luster at the tips, cascading softly over her shoulders and back.
Her hair was very long, almost reaching her waist.
Her face was small and exquisite.
Her skin was so fair it was almost transparent, with no visible pores or blemishes.
Every feature seemed meticulously carved by the most demanding master artist: her eyebrows were long and elegant, her eyes large and round, with deep blue irises like the purest seas of Macragge, now shimmering with water as they filled with tears.
Her nose was small and straight, and her lips were a faint pink, slightly pouting because they were pressed tightly together.
Her figure could still be discerned under the adjusted power armor.
Her shoulders were slender, her waist was narrow enough to be held in one hand, her breastplate had a clear curve, and her leg lines appeared long and well-proportioned under the well-fitting leg armor.
The overall proportions were perfect, but it was entirely the physique of a young girl, having nothing to do with a “Majestic Primarch.” Moreover, when her emotions fluctuated wildly, that faint golden halo above her head would uncontrollably emerge again, rotating slowly and sprinkling fine dust of light.
Between the gaps of the back shoulder armor, golden energy light-feather phantoms also faintly flowed.
“Who…
who is this…” She reached out, her hand trembling as she touched the mirror’s surface, feeling the cold sensation.
“Is this me?
Or…
Guilliman?” The blonde girl in the mirror performed the same action, tears rolling down her eyes and across her fair cheeks.
“It really is…
cute…” she murmured to herself, using the knowledge of aesthetics and tactical assessment from Guilliman’s memory bank to analyze objectively.
“From any aesthetic standard or affinity-building perspective, this image possesses extremely high’soft influence’ and ‘hostility threshold reduction’ characteristics, especially in non-combat situations.
But…” Her tears fell even harder.
“But I want deterrence!
Authority!
The kind of presence that makes Abaddon’s legs go weak when he sees me!
Not the kind of cuteness that makes a Keeper of Secrets want to ask ‘Can I take her home and display her?’ Waaaah…” She crouched down, burying her face in her knees, her small body curled into a ball, the power armor making a slight grinding sound.
The halo floated dimly above her head, trembling slightly with her sobs.
“What should I do…
I can’t go back…
I’ve really become a girl…
and I still have to save the Imperium…
Ugh…
Lord Guilliman, wake up…
I can’t do this job…” In the corridor outside the door.
The Ultramarines hadn’t actually left.
They stood outside the door like a row of blue statues.
The well-insulated adamantium door couldn’t completely block the suppressed, soft sobbing of a Primarch-level being from faintly drifting out.
Calgar’s body stiffened.
Agemman’s fists clenched.
Tigurius closed his eyes.
The two Honor Guard members looked at each other, both seeing intense pity and a strange “desire to protect” in the other’s eyes.
Their great Primarch, the Regent of the Imperium, on the first day of her awakening, after saving Macragge and perhaps even more places, was hiding in a room alone, crying…
at a mirror?
Just because she had turned into…
something so cute it was against the rules?
This was more heart-wrenching than hearing news of the Primarch’s defeat!
Finally, Calgar couldn’t take it anymore.
He took a deep breath, as if making a monumental decision, and raised his hand to knock on the door.
His voice was gentler than ever before, even carrying a hint of clumsy caution: “Fa…
Father?
Are you…
alright?” The crying inside the door stopped for a moment, and then a response came, thick with nasal congestion and sounding even more soft and pitiful: “…No.” Calgar’s heart felt as if it had been squeezed.
He spoke again, his tone even more firm: “Father, please do not worry.
No matter what you become, you are our Primarch, the Lord of Macragge, and the banner of the Ultramarines.
We, your loyal sons, will forever follow you, protect you, and support you.” He paused, as if feeling it wasn’t enough, and added with a powerful, clanging voice: “Even if the Galaxy overturns and Chaos shrouds the heavens, the oath of the Ultramarines remains unchanged.
We swear our lives to Lord Guilliman—regardless of…
form.” It was quiet inside the door for a while.
Then, the door slid open a crack.
A pair of red, rabbit-like deep blue eyes peeked timidly through the crack.
Golden hair hung by her cheeks, and tear stains were still wet on her face.
Guilliman looked at this group of hulking men outside the door—averaging two and a half meters in height, clad in heavy armor, and currently trying their best to soften their expressions (though it was hard to tell with their masks on).
The part of her that was Lin Chen screamed, “So much security!” while the part of her with Guilliman’s memories facepalmed, “What’s wrong with my Legion?” Her mixed emotions resulted in a warm current and a deeper sense of embarrassment.
“Calgar…” she said softly, her voice tender and husky from crying, “Thank you.” This “thank you,” combined with that tear-stained, pitiful little face and those red eyes and nose…
Boom!
The collective will of the Ultramarines suffered a critical hit.
Calgar’s face under his tactical helmet instantly flushed red (luckily no one could see).
He snapped his body straight and responded almost with a roar: “This is our duty!
Father…
Lord!
Please take care of yourself!
Macragge needs you!
The Imperium needs you!” Fearing he might do something inappropriate if he stayed longer (like wanting to hand her a handkerchief), he quickly took a step back and awkwardly changed the subject: “The…
the food is almost ready!
Father, you must be hungry!
We’ll go check on the progress right now!” After saying that, without waiting for a response, he immediately turned and, with a pace that was nearly a run, led the other equally absent-minded Ultramarines in a clanging, rapid retreat down the corridor.
After running a long distance, Calgar didn’t stop until they turned a corner.
He leaned against the wall, pressing a handprint into the metal, and let out a long, trembling breath.
Agemman leaned in and asked softly: “Chapter Master…
should we have been more specific with our comfort just now?
Like…
a pat on the shoulder?” Calgar snapped his head toward him, the red light of his tactical lenses flickering: “Agemman.” “Yes!” “Add fifty more laps.
Now.” “…Yes.” Agemman ran off dejectedly.
Tigurius walked over, looking thoughtful: “Chapter Master, the Primarch’s emotional fluctuations just now…
were very intense.
Also, the psychic readings showed brief abnormalities during the crying, as if two consciousness fluctuations were alternating…
though it stabilized quickly with one as the dominant.
Perhaps this explains the reason for the morphological change?” Calgar clutched his helmet: “Chief Librarian, don’t analyze this with me right now.
I only need to know if the one inside is our true Primarch and if she is worthy of our loyalty.” Tigurius was silent for a second and nodded: “The genetic resonance is beyond doubt.
The essence of the will indeed belongs to Lord Guilliman.
As for loyalty…
my answer is affirmative.” “That’s enough then.” Calgar stood straight, regaining his dignity as Chapter Master.
“Other matters can wait.
Now, we go to the kitchen.
Ensure that the Primarch’s first meal is the best Macragge has to offer.” He stepped forward, but after a few steps, he suddenly paused and muttered in a voice only he could hear: “…Just now…
did I accidentally call her ‘Mother’ again?
Luckily she didn’t notice…
No, she definitely noticed…
Oh Emperor…” From the end of the corridor, Guilliman’s nasal shout faintly drifted: “Take the mirror away!
It’s too big and takes up too much space!” Then came a soft complaint: “Also, I want to bathe!
I’ve been wearing this power armor for ten thousand years!
Is there any hot water?” Calgar quickened his pace.
“Quick!
Prepare bathing facilities!
Highest specifications!
Adjust the water temperature!
Fragrance…
no, the Primarch might not like fragrance.
Prepare cleaning oil?
No, that’s for machinery…
Damn it, does the Codex have anything written about how to serve a maiden-form Primarch’s bath?!” His voice, tinged with a breakdown, gradually faded away.
Inside the lounge, Guilliman closed the door and leaned against it.
Listening to the panicked commotion outside, she couldn’t help but let out a “pfft” sound, both crying and laughing.
“Forget it.” She wiped away her tears and looked at the blonde girl in the mirror with red eyes who was inexplicably cute, clenching her small fists.
“Lord Guilliman was right.
I am who I am.
I have the memories, the ability, and a group of subordinates who seem a bit too adorable.” “The Imperium of Man, right?
Abaddon, right?
Chaos, right?” She tried to make a “fierce” expression at the mirror, but the result was just her cheeks puffing out, looking more like she was acting cute.
“Just you wait.” She said the “toughest” words in her softest voice, “I, Guilliman, will sooner or later…
moe you all to death!
No, I mean, beat you up!” Deep in her consciousness, there seemed to be a very faint, helpless sigh.
[…Good luck.]