The Demigod of Humanity
"Look at the state you're in now!"
Guilliman's disdain was almost palpable:
"I would rather face you from ten thousand years ago, the Fulgrim who, though arrogant enough to make you want to punch him, at least had two legs and two arms, and was like a human being."
What does this mean now?
A... snake tail?
He emphasized those words, as if they were something shameful and filthy.
"Oh my God!"
Guilliman even shook his head dramatically, his tone filled with an incredulous sense of "sympathy":
"This design is really... indescribable. Do you usually just 'slide' on the ground like this?"
What if you encounter... uh, I mean, some kind of 'obstacle'? Do you just 'crash' it head-on?
Does your 'elegance' and 'perfection' include dealing with this... hygiene issue?
The square was deathly silent.
Whether it was the angry soldiers, the terrified civilians, or the extremely tense Calgar and others.
They were all stunned into forgetting to breathe by the Primarch's sudden and extremely cunning "sharp tongue".
This... this is our Lord Regent?
That Lord Guilliman, known for his composure, wisdom, and authority?
On Fulgrim's handsome, twisted face, the muscles twitched uncontrollably a few times.
That's not right!
That's not how the script was written!
Is this guy really Robert Guilliman?
That serious, rigid, methodical, and utterly uninteresting ' Imperium bureaucrat'?
For the first time, he began to doubt his own judgment.
This guy slept for ten thousand years, did it ruin his brain?!
If I had known, I should have gone a little further in Istvaan and just killed him completely!
However, Guilliman's "appraisal" was not yet over.
He actually stepped down from the reviewing stand (a move that nearly made Calgar and the others' hearts jump out of their chests).
With leisurely steps, she slowly walked half a circle around the frozen figure of Fulgrim, her gaze mainly focused on his dazzling silver hair.
"Tsk tsk tsk,"
Guilliman let out an exaggerated exclamation and stopped to the side and slightly behind Fulgrim:
"Look at this hair, it's really well-maintained, much better looking than your tail."
So, what should I call you, brother? Or... should I call you 'sister'?
He deliberately dragged out the tone.
"Are you...?"
Guilliman leaned closer and lowered his voice, but it was enough for the Psionic Energy Fulgrim and the nearby Ultramarines with Ultramarines to hear him clearly:
"... Sometimes you'll even deliberately put on a... well, 'busty' look to get close to your 'master'?"
"Oh my god..."
He covered his forehead with his hand, looking as if he couldn't bear to look at him.
"Let me tell you, even in the most Chaos and taboo-free era of the Old Terra network 40,000 years ago, no one would be willing to click on that kind of 'curiosity-oriented' 'learning material'!"
"You're playing... that's really too fancy, Fulgrim, beyond my imagination."
He straightened up, finally drawing his conclusion, his voice clear and resonating throughout the room:
"Are you really still human? Oh, I almost forgot."
He gave a cold, sarcastic smile:
You're no longer that.
You, Fulgrim, are now nothing but... a damned, pathetic pervert."
Straightforward.
vulgar.
Show no mercy.
The most fundamental temptations and depravity of the Slaanesh realm are deconstructed and mocked in the most "down-to-earth" and "disgusting" way.
This is not a debate; it's stripping away the opponent's glamorous but decadent facade and pointing to their most despicable nature to laugh loudly.
Fulgrim: "..."
Dude, are you just chasing me around and yelling at me?
Is this how you Primarch?!
He had prepared for millennia a set of elaborate rhetoric to seduce, debate, and drag his opponents into traps of logic and senses.
Guilliman's unconventional and scathing remarks left them utterly defeated.
A long-forgotten emotion, belonging to "anger," began to grow in his twisted heart.
Forcibly suppressing the disorientation brought on by being "scolded," Fulgrim once again adopted the demeanor of an "elegant fallen one," though the temperature in his purple eyes had dropped considerably.
"It seems you're quite dissatisfied with the 'gift' I've prepared so carefully, my dear brother."
He deliberately emphasized the word "gift," his gaze sweeping over the still-glittering, false crown on the ground, which Guilliman had torn down and discarded.
Why?
He regained his seductive tone, his six arms swaying slightly, as if weaving an invisible spiderweb:
"You should have seen and felt it there... the ultimate glory, the unparalleled achievement, a satisfaction that would make any being succumb."
That's exactly what you crave deep down, isn't it?
To become humanity's sole faith, to sit on the supreme throne... why refuse?
Is it to highlight your laughable 'nobility'? For those ant-like mortals?
Fulgrim's voice gradually rose, becoming increasingly inflammatory. "Let them all sink into that beautiful illusion! There's no real difference!"
What they ultimately want is nothing more than 'happiness'! I can give them that, and so can you!
Together, we can create an eternal paradise of joy and contentment!
Why cling to that painful, struggling, and ugly 'reality'? That's the real cruelty!
He looked at Guilliman expectantly, the spark of debate rekindled in his purple eyes.
He excels at this; for millennia, he has corrupted countless souls with his "reasoning," from mortals to Space Marines, and even other Primarch.
He expected Guilliman to refute him, and then fall into his carefully woven linguistic trap, ultimately creating a rift in the clash of ideas, even if only a slight one, enough for Slaanesh's Whisper to slip in.
Guilliman's reaction disappointed him once again.
The Primarch merely glanced at him with an almost pitying look, then uttered a few words crisply:
"Because I'm here to become emperor!"