That faint ripple of gratification deep within her consciousness was like a grain of dust cast into an ancient well; it vanished in an instant, leaving behind a deeper silence that feigned sleep.
Guilliman called out tentatively in her mind, “Lord Guilliman?
You…
you woke up for a second just now, didn’t you?
You seem to be in a better mood?
So…
can we swap shifts?
I want to go see the scenery in the depths of our consciousness, or maybe just take a nap!” Dead silence.
There wasn’t even a ripple of thought pretending to snore.
It was as if that flicker of gratification had been a mere illusion, or perhaps just the cold capitalist mindset of ‘it’s great to see the tool-person starting to work of their own accord.’ Guilliman waited for a few seconds, and once she was certain the original Guilliman was dead set on being a hands-off boss, she could only sigh and accept her fate.
“Sigh…
fine.
You just sleep peacefully, old man.
Bathing, meetings, saving the galaxy—I’ll do it all,” she muttered under her breath, her tone filled with resentment.
“When you finally wake up and find the Imperium of Man worshipping ‘Magical Girl Guilliman,’ don’t blame me…” Imagining that scene, Guilliman shuddered.
No, she absolutely couldn’t let things progress to that point!
She had to maintain at least a baseline of Primarch dignity!
At least…
in public!
Just as Guilliman made up her mind and began to ponder how to establish authority with her 1.65-meter loli body, she was unaware—or rather, her current power level was insufficient to clearly perceive—that on the “other side” of the real universe, deep within the boiling madness and frenzied colors of the Warp, several gazes beyond mortal measure had already turned toward Macragge, focusing on the Correction Temple, focusing on…
her.
In a place within the Warp where time and logic both fail—or rather, “everywhere”—indescribable “scenes” were unfolding.
If one had to use human intellect to understand it, it might be seen as four vastly different “thrones” or “realms” “stitched” together in a way that defied all physical laws, conducting an atypical “exchange.” The throne-realm of Slaanesh was the crystallization of ultimate sensory revelry and twisted aesthetics.
It was filled with a cloying scent that was sickeningly sweet, music both jarring and mesmerizing, and ever-shifting forms and colors that challenged the boundaries of sanity.
At this moment, that perfect figure of ambiguous gender, condensed from countless fallen souls and concepts of pleasure, was “watching” Macragge with a portion of its millions of eyes.
A sigh (or rather, a melody) that mixed surprise, ecstasy, and pure possessiveness rang out: “Wow~~~~” Slaanesh’s voice was like the harmony of billions of instruments, yet also like a lover’s whisper intertwined with a masochist’s wail.
“Look at this little surprise~ How exquisite!
How pure!
This golden radiance, this soft and sweet voice, this little expression of shame and indignation while struggling~ And that halo!
Those wings!
It’s simply art!
The perfect base for a new collectible!” An arm made of pearls and tears “reached out,” as if wanting to touch across the void, its tone becoming fervent, even obsessed: “I want it!
I want it so much!
Bring her to me!
I will personally weave the most magnificent silks for her, teach her the sweetest carols, and make her the most dazzling pearl in my palace!
Will she cry?
Will she be afraid?
Oh~ that would be even better!” Tzeentch’s realm was like an infinitely nested, constantly self-negating and rebuilding kaleidoscopic labyrinth.
Flickering eldritch flames, flying runes, and whispered knowledge and lies composed everything here.
That ever-changing, bird-headed demonic silhouette “turned” slightly, as if observing countless possible timelines simultaneously.
“Interesting.” Tzeentch’s voice was the superposition of countless intellectual whispers, full of calculation and cold curiosity.
“A variable.
A massive, unforeseen variable.
The awakening of Roboute Guilliman was a high-probability event within established parameters, but ‘this form’…
the probability is lower than 0.0000…
(infinite loop) 1%.” Countless runes flickering with blue fire flickered in and out of existence around it, rapidly calculating and deducing: “Source unknown.
Energy nature…
highly ordered, nearly absolute, possessing ‘erasure’ characteristics toward Warp entities.
Threat level: requires reassessment.
Utility: unknown, but there is room for manipulation.” Tzeentch’s “gaze” seemed to penetrate layers of reality, attempting to analyze the essence of that white light and the origin of the halo and wings on Guilliman: “Is this a new trick from that human wreck sitting on the Golden Throne?
Or…
intervention from an even older, more external existence?” It emitted an unidentifiable sound, like gears grinding yet also like a crow’s cackle: “Whatever it is, an unexpected piece has appeared on the chessboard.
The game…
has become more interesting.” Khorne’s realm was an eternal battlefield, a sea of blood, and a mountain of piled skulls.
The colors of brass and black iron dominated all, and the air was thick with the never-dissipating scent of gore and smoke.
A massive shadow, clad in heavy plate armor with long horns growing from its head, sat upon a throne built from the skulls of countless champions.
“…Hmph!” Khorne’s roar was like the condensed sound of billions of wars, causing the nearby Warp energy to wail.
“A warrior!
To become such a soft and squishy thing!
It is a disgrace!
A desecration of blood and glory!” His fury made the sea of blood beneath him boil and the mountain of skulls shake: “Guilliman!
I remember that brat!
He had some skill; he should have been fun to hack apart!
But now…” Khorne’s “gaze” was filled with pure disdain and anger.
“A sissy!
A glowing little runt!
This thing can fight?!
This thing can make blood flow and skulls roll?!
A waste!” He swung the giant axe in his hand, which seemed forged from solidified rage and hatred, shattering the remains of a nearby floating daemon world: “Find them!
No matter which bastard is behind this, drag them out!
I will throw their soul into the blood-grinder for ten thousand years!
And that little runt Guilliman…
since he’s become useless, then crush him early, don’t let him get in the way on the battlefield!” Nurgle’s garden was full of rotting vitality, viscous affection, and the fragrance of billions of plagues.
The Grandfather, fat as a mountain and dripping with pus and blessings, was happily stirring his massive cauldron that birthed countless “gifts.” And upon Nurgle’s broad shoulder, covered in sores and flowers, sat a relatively “diminutive” female figure radiating a dual aura of tranquility and withering—Isha, Nurgle’s companion, the Goddess of Life and Harvest.
Khorne’s roar even reached this “peaceful” realm, but Nurgle only let out a gurgling, benevolent laugh and continued stirring his plague soup.
Isha, however, “looked” toward Macragge with her gentle yet deep eyes that seemed to have seen the entirety of life’s cycle.
Her gaze seemed to hold something different compared to the other three gods.
“What a lovely child…” Isha’s voice was soft, like an autumn breeze brushing through withered leaves, carrying a motherly pity and a hint of worry.
“Such pure light…
such a tender form…
yet thrown into this most cruel and darkest of cosmic furnaces.” She sighed softly, and that sigh caused a patch of rotting roses in the garden to accelerate their transformation into fertile soil.
“Roboute…
no, perhaps it is time to call her by a new name.
Can she adapt?
Can she use those small hands to shoulder the mountain-like responsibility she is destined to bear?
Can she protect this…
unexpected ‘gift’ of hers while surrounded by those ravenous wolves?” Nurgle gurgled, “Growth~ change~ they are all processes of life~ The loving Grandfather welcomes all children~ Come to my garden~ There is eternal care and a warm embrace here~ No one will mind your appearance~” Isha gently patted Nurgle’s massive, slimy arm and shook her head.
“No, dear, she won’t come.
Her light is fundamentally different from our garden.
I only hope that the storms of this galaxy do not break this unexpectedly sprouted bud too early.”