I'll Go Mad

Robert Guilliman, Lord of Macragge, Lord Regent of Ultramar, and Son of War who strikes fear into the hearts of Chaos ' minions.

At this moment, he was sprawled behind his giant desk, carved from a single piece of obsidian, in a posture completely out of character for him.

The table was piled high with paper documents.

(He insists on using physical documents for certain important matters, believing that this gives decisions "weight.")

The constantly flashing strategic Dataslate and the various report scrolls from the Five Hundred Worlds almost overwhelmed him.

He ran his hands through his meticulously styled black hair, his handsome face contorted in pain.

The blue eyes burned with a fury that was not the kind of anger one displays when facing an enemy, but rather a kind of... restrained, overwhelming, and almost frantic restlessness.

"I can't wait any longer!"

He suddenly growled, the sound echoing in the well-insulated office:

"My people eagerly await a better life, and hope that humanity will be great again!"

As their king, I have a duty to drive all of this forward, to fight, to explore, and to bring light to the darkest places!

Instead of --

He suddenly grabbed a ceramic water glass with the Macragge emblem on it and slammed it hard onto the thick carpeted floor.

"Clang!"

The water glass shattered, splashing water everywhere.

However, just as the water droplet was about to splash onto the nearest pile of documents, a very faint, almost invisible golden-blue halo flashed across the desktop.

All the splashing water droplets seemed to hit an invisible barrier, strangely curving around a corner and landing precisely on the carpet, without even wetting the edge of a single piece of paper.

Even in moments of rage and loss of control, the Primarch's deep-seated sense of control and obsessive sense of responsibility still unconsciously come into play.

Guilliman didn't even glance at the mess on the floor; he looked up, his gaze piercingly fixed on the other end of the office.

The "culprit" was nestled in a comfortable high-backed armchair, engrossed in reading a thick ancient book.

His Chapter Master, one of his most trusted sons, Calgar.

"... If I continue to sit behind this damned, soul-sucking desk..."

Dealing with this endless mess of mineral quotas, tax tweaks, border disputes between two Agri World, and some remote outpost's request for an extra ration of toilet cleaner...

Guilliman's voice was forced out through clenched teeth, carrying a chilling sincerity:

"Calgar, I promise, I'm really going crazy!"

I promise!"

Calgar finally managed to turn his attention away from the book, "Hydrological Management and Macro-ecological Balance Hypothesis in Old Terra".

He raised his head, his face, weathered by war and crisscrossed with scars, still resolute.

At this moment, there was a calmness, even a barely perceptible hint of... "I knew this would happen."

At his waist was the Psionic Energy sword, forged by Guilliman himself, its blade gleaming with a blue-gold light like starlight.

His movements gently touched the back of the chair, producing a pleasant hum.

"Father."

Calgar's voice was steady, his logic as clear as a lawyer presenting evidence in court:

Even if you express your demands in such an emotional manner, I cannot help you with today's official business.

He specifically emphasized the word "today".

"We agreed that each person would handle it for one day."

Yesterday, I had already 'worked my butt off' to finish the work; those were your exact words at the time.

I finished all the tasks on my to-do list and even reviewed three additional reports on the control of new corn pests.

Today's rest is a deserved, reasonable, and personally promised 'reward' for me.

He straightened his chest, and the joints of his Power Armour made a slight grinding sound, as if to confirm his point.

"This is what you taught us: 'Everyone, regardless of status, should have their own undisturbed time for rest and reflection; this is the foundation for maintaining mental health and creativity.'"

He recited Guilliman's speech within the legion word for word, his eyes innocent yet resolute.

Guilliman's brows furrowed deeply, forming a deep furrow.

Damn it!

He cursed inwardly.

This kid is getting harder and harder to fool!

He clearly remembered that not long ago, all he had to do was issue a vague command as the Gene-Father, or say something like, "Calgar, I need you."

This Chapter Master, loyal to the core, would immediately drop everything and, like the most diligent worker bee, immerse himself in administrative affairs without complaint.

The problem lies in the fact that I recently tried to improve the overall cultural literacy and independent thinking ability of the legion.

They were indeed instilled with a lot of "advanced concepts" about "personal freedom," "development of interests and hobbies," and "work-life balance."

To everyone's surprise, Calgar not only listened but also quickly found her own "hobby"—reading.

From obscure technical manuals to ancient philosophical treatises, from war histories to poetry anthologies.

He accepted almost anything offered and genuinely fell in love with the fulfilling feeling of "loading knowledge into the brain like ammunition."

What's more "troublesome" is that reading seems to have genuinely awakened some of his critical thinking skills.

He now firmly believes that everyone has a sacred and inviolable right to rest, and any unreasonable extra work demands are a violation of this right.

Even if the demands come from his god-like Gene-Father!

Of course, his admiration for Guilliman did not diminish in the slightest.

He firmly believed that true respect and love also included helping his father adhere to the good principles he himself had set.

In short: You can't work by voluntarily!

Ultramarines will never be slaves!

Unless, of course, Dad displays some indescribable, soul-stirring... "care".

Seeing Calgar's unwavering stance, Guilliman's mind raced.

Force won't work, commands are ineffective, and trying to reason with them will only result in them using their own past statements to shut you down...

Suddenly, the tense anger on his face melted away like spring snow.

His lips parted to the sides, revealing a smile that was both radiant and tinged with endless helplessness and loneliness.

"Ah... if that's the case..."

Guilliman leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling painted with the Ultramar star map.

The sound was drawn out, filled with dramatic frustration:

"Then... there's really no other way."

He sighed, a sigh so heavy it seemed to crush the stars.

"Really..."

He began to talk to himself, his voice not loud, but just loud enough for Calgar to hear every word clearly:

"I was originally thinking of having my most outstanding, resourceful, and proudest son help me with these headaches and trivial matters."

After all, only he possesses the wisdom and courage to make decisions that best serve the long-term interests of Ultramar, just as I have...

It's a pity he wasn't willing to help my aging father, who had worried himself sick over his people.

He turned his head and gazed at Calgar with his azure eyes, which seemed to be veiled with a light mist.

"I... love him so much."

Guilliman's voice softened, carrying a warm and melancholic feeling of reminiscence:

"When he was a child... I mean, when he first became my son, I wanted to give him the very best."

I specially forged a Psionic Energy sword for him, hoping it would help him slay all powerful enemies and return safely;

I personally participated in the design of his new Power Armour, repeatedly adjusting the curvature of every joint, all to make him more agile on the battlefield and reduce the burden in the slightest...

I love my sons so much, every single one of them."

He sighed again, this time softer, yet with a deeper sense of loneliness:

"Alas, I love them, but unfortunately, in the end, these heavy responsibilities still have to be borne by my old bones..."

Tell me, what am I doing sitting here every day, dealing with these seemingly endless tasks?

He sat up slightly, his gaze fixed on the bustling cityscape of Macragge outside the window. His profile, illuminated by the starlight, appeared strong yet tinged with weariness.

"Isn't it all so that they, and all those who believe in me, can live a more stable, prosperous, and hopeful life?"

"Never mind, I won't talk about it... It's all I should do."

He covered his head again, no longer looking at Calgar.

But that slightly hunched back, that complex aura that flowed from between his fingers, a mixture of grievance, helplessness, resilience, and a hint of "the bitterness of an old father who is not understood."

Like an invisible Psionic Energy shockwave, it struck Calgar's mental defenses with pinpoint accuracy.