Interlude: The Reinforcements

"You really are kind, Roboute," Konrad Curze Curze said.

"Don't laugh at me, Konrad Curze." Roboute Guilliman, his hair completely white, sighed with his eyes closed. "At least not now. You can mock me later."

"Why pick a particular time?" The Night Haunter suddenly smiled. "There's a line between mockery and sarcasm, and fundamentally, they are different."

"I have indeed made some sarcastic jokes in the past, but I have never really let ridicule and sarcasm become something that would make you angry."

"Besides, Roboute, if I really wanted to do this to you, I could do it anytime. But right now, I'm not letting that side of my nature get involved."

He looked at his brother, his gaze straight and sharp, like two blades. It deeply stung the face of the commander of the Thirteenth Legion, forcing him to open his eyes and reveal an expression that was both helpless and amused.

Only at this moment did Konrad Curze Curze finally withdraw his gaze with satisfaction.

"So, what are you doing now?" Roboute Guilliman asked pointedly.

"I'm worried about you," Konrad Curze Curze replied softly. "I wanted to know if you were alright, Roboute."

Roboute Guilliman did not answer that question, not because he did not want to, but because he could not.

His Stone mental defenses seemed to waver somewhat in the face of this sudden remark. Or perhaps it was because of something Konrad Curze Curze had said earlier.

Despite the flippant tone and the fact that it seemed more like a joke than a genuine expression of emotion, at that moment, the face of the Thirteenth Legion Commander did indeed appear gentle and sorrowful.

Although it only lasted for less than half a second, for the others present, that half a second was enough for them to fully remember what they saw.

But they didn't say anything either.

"Roboute?" the Night Haunter pressed. "Are you alright?"

Roboute Guilliman took a deep breath, his expression returning to calm.

At this moment, his face, beneath his full head of white hair, displayed a weariness beyond the comprehension of ordinary people. The light shone directly down, sliding naturally down his already torn hair, bringing an air of dejection.

"I'm perfectly fine," Roboute Guilliman said slowly.

His tone was extremely calm and rational, showing no sign that he had just recently ordered his homeland to be shattered and turned into swirling dust in the universe.

His words are certainly not very credible, but look at the others around this round table.

Perturabo, Angron, Kolus Corax, Vulkan, Konrad Curze Curze. They had each experienced one or more nightmares, and therefore understood what Roboute Guilliman's few words truly meant.

A moment of silence fell.

"We were led here," Perturabo said coldly, choosing to break the silence. The Lord of Iron seemed unchanged from before, neither in appearance nor in tone of voice.

"What do you mean, brother?" Vulkan immediately pressed.

The Lord of Drakes didn't truly want the answer to this question; some things had already been answered during his last resurrection. The Night Lords' ritual far exceeded the realm of so-called "spells"; seemingly exorcism, it was actually a journey through the Warp with his consciousness.

Vulkan had seen and learned a great deal, yet he remained unchanged. His questioning at this moment was merely a way to liven up the atmosphere.

"Can't you tell, Vulkan?"

Perturabo frowned and, in his usual tone, did one of the things he would never have done before—he actually began to explain for his brothers.

"Have two fleets ever met in Warp before? Not to mention there are three of us. Besides, the places we each chose to jump to Mandeville Point are worlds apart."

Even if everything in the Warp can be explained by the enigmatic word "divine will," we cannot simply attribute this unprecedented and likely unparalleled event to mere coincidence. There must be someone guiding us from behind the scenes.

"It's my father," Roboute Guilliman finished his sentence. "There's no one else but him."

Perturabo glanced at him and said, "You sound as if you're trying to portray him as an omnipotent god."

That's not what I meant.

"But that's exactly what you're hearing," Perturabo repeated slowly.

His attitude was quite cold, so a black-haired giant at the other end of the long table spoke up.

Before this, he had been sitting quietly in his seat, his back pressed against the marble chair back, his hands resting on his thighs, his sharp fingernails and sturdy leg armor rubbing against each other, making a soft, monotonous sound.

This was the first time he had truly voiced his opinion since the meeting began. Before this, he was practically a ghost.

"That's not what he meant, Perturabo," Corius Corax said.

"He has his own mouth," the Lord of Iron sneered. "And he clearly doesn't need your help, Raven."

"It's not up to you."

"Is that so? Well then, but Roboute Guilliman is far from being so fragile as to be brought down by a few words. He's much tougher than the so-called political leaders you used to know. So you'd better not talk to me like that again. He hasn't been wronged in any way."

"You're angry," Corax nodded quietly. "Therefore, I forgive your temper."

He deliberately emphasized the pronunciation of the word "therefore".

Roboute Guilliman sighed, raised his hands, and his armor began to exert force, placing his fingers, carrying a power capable of crushing steel, on either side of his temples.

He began to exploit that crucial weakness, and immediately cut Perturabo off with a loud remark. "I think we should get to the point as soon as possible—"

He turned to look at the other person who had remained silent.

" --Angron?" Roboute Guilliman coughed. "What are your opinions on the plans for returning and providing support?"

The son of the mountains from Nuceria slowly raised his head.

His face remained hidden in the shadows, the lights above the Primarch' heads not shining on him, perhaps deliberately avoiding him, but in any case, Angron remained in darkness.

Of course, this didn't stop his brothers from observing his face at that moment, so their expressions quickly changed.

"I have no objections," Angron said hoarsely. "I don't care about tactical arrangements or anything else; I have only one request: I want you to let me and my legion be the vanguard."

"Absolutely impossible," Perturabo said firmly. "The current state of the Sol System must be extremely dire, and if Konrad Curze's predictions are true—"

He pointed to the Night Haunter, who then stood up dramatically and bowed to the crowd.

"--Then Terra is probably already engulfed in flames. No offense intended, Angron, you and your legion are first-rate warriors, but if we want to win, we must let my legion take on this responsibility."

"Why?" Angron asked simply and calmly.

"Because the garrison within the Sol System is held by Rogal Dorn and his sons," Perturabo replied coldly. "Only my legion and I can discern at a glance where they have laid traps and where they have left backup plans."

"Let's not argue about these specifics," Vulkan said, his head throbbing. "The situation within the Sol System is still unknown; we should focus on more practical matters."

"For example?" Roboute Guilliman asked.

He wouldn't say it outright, but he was genuinely pleased that Vulkan had brought it up.

"For example, what exactly is causing the Astronomican's dimming and instability?" Kolus Corax pointed out incisively. "It concerns whether we can safely leave the Warp."

His words immediately drew the Primarch's attention in a completely new direction—in recent days, the Navigators had not performed satisfactorily in their duties and had submitted many disturbing reports.

In both their reports and oral accounts, they mentioned one word multiple times.

Combustion.

The word seemed to possess a certain magic, being mentioned by different people in multiple conversations. Some said Terra was burning, some said everything in front of them was burning, and some even went so far as to shout on the bridge that the Astronomican was burning.

This is obviously nonsense, and a nonsense that defies common sense. The Astronomican is inherently "burning," otherwise, where would its light come from?

However, ever since the Emperor completed the construction of the Astronomican and the Navigator Houses were granted special privileges within the Imperium, countless Navigators have experienced hallucinations due to the terrifying sights of the Warp.

Their mental state is worrying, which is certainly not surprising, but this is the first time such a large-scale collective "madness" has occurred.

Not to mention the Psyker's helplessness in this matter. Neither the Librarian, which had been abandoned but was now rehired, nor the so-called "expert consultation" from the Night Lords Third Company could come to any useful conclusions.

Under such circumstances, the safety of leaving the Warp becomes a concern. The question of whether they can reach Terra by following the flight path is intentionally or unintentionally ignored.

"This is indeed a serious problem," Roboute Guilliman said seriously. "But I think—"

He couldn't finish his sentence, or even continue.

A burst of supernatural, distorted noise interrupted his words, followed by a violent jolt.

The lights suddenly went out, the pressure gauge on the wall shattered instantly, and every readable reading went through a terrifying cycle of rise and fall, as if experiencing a muscle spasm.

The Primarch's keen senses began to be challenged together, and in that instant, a million different voices flooded into their minds.

These sounds were indistinguishable, meant to be noise, ignored in that terrifying moment. But they were, after all, Primarch; they heard every word clearly, every dying cry, every battle roar, and every howl.

The lights slowly came on.

Perturabo silently wiped the blood from his nose, strode up from his seat, rushed to Angron's side, and rescued him from the terrible trembling.

The son of the mountains, his eyes tightly shut, let out a low growl before he could even express his gratitude. He lunged at the long table, his eyes wide with rage, his left hand outstretched. He seized a scepter, forcing back an old man standing in the middle of the round table by half a step.

But the man was forced back a few steps by Angron's immense strength, and two long arms covered in blue and gold armor caught him steadily.

Konrad Curze Curze greeted him softly, "Hello, Malcador."

A huge commotion erupted around the round table.

"For now—" the Sigillites the seal sighed. "—Please be quiet for a moment, my esteemed heroes. And you, Lord Angron, would you mind returning my scepter?"

The Angron lowered his head in confusion, waved the scepter with his left hand, and then walked over and handed it back to the Sigillites.

"We're no heroes," Vulkan smile, a bitter and self-deprecating smile that was gradually becoming a common expression on his face. "But how did you get here, Malcador?"

"Without Father's decree, the Sigillites would surely not act on his own," Corax said calmly and steadily. "Then, those anomalies and our inexplicable collision with the Warp seem to have a reasonable explanation?"

He looked at Perturabo, the Lord of Iron, who indifferently made a gesture of surrender, then looked at Roboute Guilliman.

"It seems your prediction came true, Roboute," Perturabo said. "For a moment, I don't know whether to blame you or be surprised."

Roboute Guilliman did not answer, but only sighed.

The Sigillites ignored their words, simply took the scepter from Angron's hand, and then slowly floated down from the long table.

He had just been physically repelled by the power of the Angron, yet now he was behaving like a genuine Ghost. The edges of his black robe were even dancing in a supernatural way, quite provocative and unsettling.

Curze stood beside him with his hands behind his back, tilting his head and looking at him with great interest.

"What is it, Lord of Blades?" Malcador asked without looking up.

"That's a question we should be asking you," Curze replied with a smile. "The very Seal Sigillites himself has appeared on the Macragge's Honour —in the very center of our combined fleet. How did you get in, Malcador?"

The Sigillites looked up at him, and a sudden burst of brilliant golden Radiance flashed in his eyes. He didn't say anything more, nor did he need to; in a sense, that was the answer.

Roboute Guilliman's expression became even more complicated.

"Imperial Truth —ha." Curze nodded at him, smiling again. "You'll definitely write a new book about this after today, brother."

"More than that," Corax chimed in. "At least three."

"I'll bet four books," Vulkan said.

"Six books," Perturabo said.

"Don't write a single one, Roboute. Teach these guys a lesson." The one-armed Nuceria grinned and tugged at his collar. "They've gone too far, don't you think?"

Roboute Guilliman looked around, calmly scanning each of his brothers, and then said, "No, I'm going to write ten."

"It's good to see that you still have a sense of humor under such circumstances." The Sigillites touched the ground twice with his scepter, then spoke slowly. "This means that although you have gone through hardships, you have not lost those precious qualities, which is very good."

"Are you here to preach, old man?" Konrad Curze Curze asked.

The Sigillites looked up at him again, and this time, his silence lasted longer than before. He and the Night Haunter stared at each other, and a terrifying struggle began in the silence.

They each held a sharp knife, plunging it deep into the other's heart, beginning to uncover the bloody truth. They wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted. This terrible battle of wills lasted for several minutes before finally coming to the Veil.

Konrad Curze Curze exhaled a long, cold breath, took a few steps back, and sat back in his chair. He hung his head, bent over, his hands resting on his knees, his scarlet cloak trailing down to his ankles.

"He still did it, didn't he?" he asked.

"Which one are you asking about?" the Sigillites seal asked with a strange smile.

The Primarch exchanged bewildered glances at this remark, and after a few seconds, some of them burst into laughter. Konrad Curze Curze also straightened up, leaned back in his chair, and smiled silently.

"In short, I'm just a messenger."

After the laughter subsided, the Sigillites the seal composed himself, adopting a serious expression, and spoke as follows.

"I will tell you everything, and I will fulfill my duty."

"Your duties?" Perturabo asked, frowning. "More than your duties, I'd like to know—"

"--I will tell you, Perturabo, I will tell you everything," Malcador interrupted him calmly. "But until then, I hope you can always maintain this sense of humor that allows you to laugh heartily even in adversity."

"No one on Terra now possesses this quality."

The scepter was raised and then lowered again, bursting forth with a blinding golden light.

--

Konrad Curze Curze stepped out of the shadows.

He arrived at a room, a room on the Nightfall that had been sealed off for some time, its interior furnishings completely unchanged.

The documents and Dataslate remain in the place the room's owner had deliberately placed when he left, and three chairs of different sizes are placed in the corner of the room, arranged securely in order.

A chair, even larger than these, was placed behind the table. Directly in front of it was a letter, pressed beneath a heavy fountain pen. The envelope was pure white, clearly written on specially selected stationery.

The lightning patterns on the Adamantium table flickered erratically, yet remained calmly still. Konrad Curze Curze looked at the letter for a while but chose not to open it. He walked to the corner of the room, took out the Primarch- sized chair, and placed it opposite the table.

Then, he took out a skull mask from his pocket.

He slowly put it on.

"So that's what it feels like," the Lord of Blades said. "I think I understand now."

He pulled out the chair, sat down slowly, and began to read the letter. Outside the porthole, the storms of the Warp roared incessantly.

Update complete. This chapter is 5200 words long. I owe 800 words, which I will pay back tomorrow.