Miracle

He accomplished many miracles: reclaiming Macragge, restoring Ultramar, and granting his offspring greater power.

He dreamed of leading his legions across the stars, punishing traitors, redeeming those who could be redeemed, and restoring order and glory to the Imperium.

"You're a damn bastard, Guilliman ..." Willpower chuckled bitterly to himself.

He had to admit that he was indeed influenced by the essence of the original owner of this body.

Even now, a second before the execution was decided, an absurd yet warm vision would uncontrollably appear in his mind: a long banquet table with twenty (or perhaps more) seats, where all his brothers—whether loyal or rebellious—would be sitting.

There was no war, no scheming, and no betrayal.

It was simply a pleasant and harmonious meal...

This is perhaps the deepest and most impossible dream that Robert Guilliman, the Lord Regent, had during his millennia-long slumber.

This dream, now like a faint poison, has seeped into an even colder will.

"But...you can no longer influence me." Guilliman slowly shook his head, his eyes regaining their resolve, even carrying a hint of resolute sorrow. "Even 'I' myself can no longer influence this decision."

He sighed, a sigh that was exceptionally clear in the silent Warp.

Then, he completely released the suppression of the boiling anger within him.

The essence of the Son of War, the Primarch's hatred for traitors, his heartache for his brothers who have gone astray, his rage at what cannot be undone... all burst forth like a flood, completely merging with his own Psionic Energy and the Emperor's blessing!

The blue-gold flames suddenly surged, their color deepening, and the edges even taking on a dark red hue, symbolizing extreme fury and destruction!

His aura surged again, filled with a resolute determination as if everything would perish together.

He looked at Magnus on the ground, who was mostly enveloped in Tzeentch's azure Psionic Energy, with only a sliver of his self remaining, twitching weakly.

His gaze was complex, but it ultimately transformed into pure compassion and resolve.

"Let's... bring it to an end, brother."

The Emperor's Sword was raised once more. This time, the flames on the sword were no longer pure gold, but a blue-gold with dark red edges, in sync with the flames surrounding Guilliman!

An aura of destruction locked onto Magnus's core essence.

"You are destined..."

The sword, carrying the will to sever millennia of grudges and end endless tragedy, crashed down!

"... will be killed by me."

For humanity.

For the Imperium.

And also for... your long-dead, true self.

Tzeentch's shriek reached its peak, attempting a final act of obstruction.

But Guilliman's sword strike no longer contained a simple purification; it was an end that combined all of Guilliman's regrets, anger, and final realization.

This is the Lord Regent's verdict.

This is the revenge of the Son of War.

This is... a belated, merciful end, offered by one brother to another.

The sword that should have severed the soul and ended the tragedy never fell.

Because Magnus —or rather, the body that once belonged to Magnus —rose up.

There was no roaring, no shouting, not even any unnecessary movements.

He simply rose slowly, in a steady manner that defied the laws of physics and the common sense of Psionic Energy, from the void of the Warp's "ground".

The fractured spine emitted a teeth-grinding "crack" sound, not the sound of healing, but the sound of being forcibly straightened, infused, and reinforced by a more primal and violent Chaos energy.

Azure, crimson, pinkish-purple, and dark green—four distinct and conflicting Chaos energies—were strangely intertwined at this moment, like the roughest cables, binding and reshaping his spine and even his entire body.

He stood ramrod straight, even more "upright" than before his downfall.

But that upright posture lacked any vitality or glory; it possessed only a suffocating, unnatural, perfect rigidity, like a puppet controlled by four invisible strings.

Then, something terrifying happened.

The Psionic Energy surrounding Magnus began to surge wildly and uncontrollably.

It was no longer the azure aura unique to the Thousand Sons, imbued with a sense of inquiry and mystery; instead, it was a mixture of Khorne's raging crimson, Slaanesh's alluring pinkish-purple, Nurgle's decaying dark green, and Tzeentch's primal, eerie blue.

The four colors erode and tear at each other, yet are compelled by some higher-level will.

Maintaining an extremely unstable balance, they eventually coalesced into a turbid, viscous vortex of Chaos Psionic Energy, exuding endless malice and destructive aura.

The Magnus's Blade in his hand—the staff-sword that Guilliman had just bent with his bare hands.

At this moment, it also emitted a humming sound that mingled with pain and Pleasure under the infusion of the four-colored energy.

The blade twisted and lengthened on its own, and countless blasphemous runes emerged from the void and were imprinted on it.

The blade is no longer purely sharp, but rather teems with miniature temporal turbulence, bloodthirsty desires, decadent Pleasure, and an eternal, decaying curse.

It was no longer just a weapon, but became a temporary vessel for the powers of the Four Gods.

A weapon that, in a truly meaningful sense, could threaten Guilliman's body, which had been enhanced by both the power of the Emperor and the essence of mystery.

The Godslayer Blade.

Guilliman's pupils contracted slightly at that moment.

For the first time, he truly and closely felt the terror of the power of the four Chaos Gods gathering and empowering one person at the same time.

It was an indescribable sense of oppression.

It was as if it contained the deepest malice in the entire Warp, and the most extreme negative emotion of all intelligent life.

The concepts of decay and destruction that existed since the beginning of the universe were forcibly crammed into a "container" and directed towards it.

The air became thick and sticky, and the perception of time and space began to distort. It was as if endless sounds of fighting, lewd moans, painful cries, and mad babbling could be heard all at once.

He suddenly understood.

Now I understand what the Emperor felt ten thousand years ago, aboard the Vengeful Spirit, when he faced Horus, who was blessed by the four gods and whose power had reached its peak.

It's not simply about being "powerful," but rather a fundamental form of pollution and subversion.

It is the trembling and lamentation of order, logic, and the meaning of existence themselves in the face of a higher-order concept of Chaos.

No wonder... no wonder even Perpetual like Emperor, who transcend mortal understanding, could achieve such things.

Even the supreme being that embodies the collective hope of humanity's subconscious will be severely wounded in the face of such power, ultimately paying the price of eternal depletion.

Only by binding oneself to the Golden Throne can one maintain the fragile the Veil of the Realspace.

"So that's how it is." A chilling realization flashed through Guilliman's mind.

He looked at the "standing" body before him, at the "eyes" that were once full of wisdom and obsession, but now only had empty, spinning vortexes of four-colored energy.

The last vestige of regret and fantasy surrounding Robert Guilliman in my heart was completely extinguished.