She paused, whispering in an even softer voice, like a grandmother worrying about a grandchild traveling far away: “After all, sometimes, the most terrifying thing is not the enemy’s sword, but the…
excessive ‘care’ from one’s own people.” Four gazes—some greedy, some calculating, some angry, some pitying—met on the plane of the Warp and then diverged.
That small, golden figure on Macragge had, without knowing it, become a highly unique “new variable” of unknown priority on the Chaos Gods’ watch list.
The Realium, Macragge, Correction Temple Annex Lounge.
Guilliman was completely unaware of the undercurrents surging in the Warp (which was a good thing for now).
She had just finished a hearty lunch and felt her energy largely restored, as the Primarch’s superhuman metabolism was rapidly converting the food into power.
“Calgar,” she said, using a napkin to wipe her mouth for the last time, giving the order in a soft but clear voice, “prepare the bathwater.” Calgar immediately switched from “dining companion” mode to “execution” mode, straightening his body: “Yes, Father!” He turned and quickly issued orders through his tactical helmet’s internal channel.
But perhaps because the aftermath of the previous “cute critical hit” hadn’t faded yet, his instructions sounded a bit…
over the top: “Honour Guard First and Second Squads!
Immediately seal all passages leading to the Primarch’s private bath!
Execute maximum-level purification protocols!
Third Squad, inspect all bathroom facilities!
Ensure the water temperature is constant at 40 degrees Celsius, with an error margin of no more than 0.5 degrees!
Raise the water purification level to the highest military standard!
Fourth Squad, go to the logistics warehouse and retrieve all stocked…
cleaning supplies!
The gentlest ones!
The ones labeled’suitable for precision machinery or precious artifacts’!
Move!” A brief silence fell over the channel, followed by a series of “Received!” responses, but the background seemed to be mixed with some suppressed, confused gasps.
Guilliman listened to Calgar’s meticulous arrangements, her mouth twitching slightly.
It was just a bath, why was he making it sound like preparing for a surgical operation or performing a sacred anointing ritual for the Emperor’s effigy?
“Oh, right,” she remembered another key figure, “is Archmagos Cawl awake?
Regarding my…
form change, we need his professional analysis.” Calgar hesitated.
“Well…
Archmagos Cawl hasn’t stirred since the Servitors carried him back to his workshop.
However, the Adeptus Mechanicus’s redundant systems should ensure his life support.
He…
should be awake, right?” His tone was uncertain.
After all, personally witnessing the awakening ritual he had meticulously prepared for ten millennia result in a golden-haired loli instead of a mighty Primarch, such a shock might require some time for psychological reconstruction for any scholar, even a ten-thousand-year-old Mechanicus Archmagos.
Meanwhile, deep within the Correction Temple, in Belisarius Cawl’s private workshop, filled with various precision instruments, flickering data screens, and mechanical constructs of unknown purpose.
Cawl was not “lying down.” His massive mechanical body was secured to a specialized maintenance rig by several large maintenance Servitors’ mechanical arms, in a posture somewhat resembling a crab being held up.
His human left eye was still rolled back, but the red glow of his mechanical right eye had resumed its regular blinking, indicating that the main processor was struggling to reboot and process mountains of error logs and contradictory data.
On the workbench in front of him, a magnificent, complex power armor, the armor of fate, lay quietly.
It exuded a cold metallic sheen and faint energy fluctuations.
It was the gift he had meticulously prepared for ten millennia for the awakened Primarch Guilliman, integrating the most cutting-edge technology he could collect, develop, or even “borrow,” designed to help the Primarch cope with the harsh wars after his awakening.
The armor was designed according to Guilliman’s original 3.5-meter, majestic male physique.
Its lines were hard, its angles sharp, full of power and majesty.
The shoulder pads were broad, the chest plate thick, and the overall style was a perfect blend of strength and technology.
Cawl’s mechanical eye stared intently at this armor.
Then, his gaze, or rather his sensors, slowly moved downwards, falling upon a 3D model automatically generated by a holographic projector next to it, constructed from recently scanned data.
The model was of Guilliman, 1.65 meters tall, female, with golden hair, accompanied by an aura and wing energy characteristic diagram.
The two models were placed side by side.
Left: The majestic, rigid, oppressive Primarch armor.
Right: The petite, soft, golden-haired loli model with a halo and wings behind her.
Cawl’s processor once again emitted an overwhelmed hum and overheating alarm.
“Logic…
incompatible.” His synthetic voice was intermittent, with heavy static.
“Design parameters…
and end-user…
0.0001% match.
The armor of fate…
cannot be worn.
Requires…
complete redesign.
Workload…
equivalent to manufacturing a new set of Primarch armor.
Time…
unknown.
Resources…” The white of his human left eye seemed to show even more.
But this wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was that as his consciousness gradually cleared, the “persecution delusion mini-theater,” which had been temporarily blocked due to excessive shock, once again flooded his logical threads with clearer, more specific, and more despair-inducing details: [Scene One: The Ultramarines’ Inquisition] In a dark dungeon, he was suspended in mid-air by adamantium chains.
Chapter Master Calgar, holding a Power Scepter, had ice-cold eyes.
Around him stood a circle of Ultramarines with glowing red eyes.
Calgar’s voice was low and dangerous: “Archmagos Cawl…
was it you, with your blasphemous machinery, who turned our magnificent father into…
that?” (The word “that” was spat out through gritted teeth, as a holographic projection nearby played a looping image of Guilliman flapping her wings and eating dessert.) Cawl: “I can explain!
It was an unknown variable—” Calgar waved his hand, cutting him off: “Explain?
Save it for the Inquisition of Mars!
But before that…
brothers!” The surrounding Ultramarines all stepped forward, their Chainswords, Power Fists, and Meltaguns all activated, emitting a bloodthirsty hum.
Calgar (revealing a “benevolent” smile): “First, let’s…
disassemble him into ‘basic components.'”