The Central Hub continued.
A voice rang out, hoarse and carrying a hint of confusion, but it did not sound old. The Primarchs exchanged glances, all meeting what came next with silence.
They wanted to listen quietly.
As for The Emperor, he simply regulated his breathing calmly. Methodically, he even had the presence of mind to close his eyes and sense the fruit of his labor.
He was a Psionic, and his lifespan was almost as long as human history itself, but that did not mean he could use a friend's spell at will.
In fact, strictly speaking, that spell had already transcended the level of a "technique."
[Am I still alive?]
[Yes, I am still alive. Can I still think? I can.]
[Are you watching? I do not know. My lord has given me no answer, and he cannot see these blurred, unclear futures either. Where had I written to...? Ah, yes.]
[Rogal Dorn.]
[Yes, Rogal Dorn. He was spat on by us, cursed by us, and before that, he was one of the withdrawn and gloomy members among the Primarchs. Even so, he was worthy of respect. He protected humanity, many humans. That is beyond dispute.]
[My thoughts are so chaotic. What am I supposed to write, my lord? I need your revelation. What? Ah, yes, I remember now, yes, Scharaut. The Scharaut System, a small human federation, refused to accept the Imperium's integration.]
[Warmaster Horus invited three of his brothers, Fulgrim, Konrad Curze, Rogal Dorn. Together they attacked this world, and Scharaut's originally impregnable defenses immediately began to fall one by one.]
[Only three months later, they surrendered to the Imperium. Yes, these are all things I must write down, but I.]
The projection changed, and an image appeared abruptly. A man draped in a white robe,