My Own Father!

"Father--!!!"

A heart-wrenching cry, filled with endless grievances and sorrow, burst forth from the breathing chamber of the Huron Blackheart helmet.

The sound was so shrill, the emotions so surging, as if it were about to unleash all the pent-up emotions that had been building up in the chest for thousands of years.

"I was really wrong, Dad! I know I did wrong! I know exactly what I did wrong!"

But I... but I can't help it, Dad!!!

Tears, yes, murky liquid mixed with the dust of long battles and indescribable emotions, actually flowed from the gaps at the edge of his helmet visor.

Several clear wet streaks were slashed across the crimson armor.

His shoulders were trembling violently.

That demeanor hardly resembled that of the cunning and ruthless Red Corsairs warlord who once dominated the Imperium Nihilus.

It's clearly like a child who has suffered a great injustice outside and has finally found a parent to rely on.

Guilliman lowered his right hand, which had been slightly raised out of vigilance.

He looked down at his "son," who was clinging tightly to his leg and sobbing uncontrollably.

The face beneath the Helm of Dominion was obscured by shadows and the outline of the armor, making it impossible to discern the expression.

Only those deep blue eyes, like a frozen lake, reflected the figure of the Huron Blackheart, now so humble as to be reduced to dust.

He wanted to hear it.

Listen to what this "rebellious son," who betrayed the Imperium, betrayed the Astartes Codex, and betrayed all the order he represented, has to say.

Is it just a clever and deceitful excuse?

Is this a desperate plea for mercy?

Or... something else?

Huron Blackheart seemed to sense the silent yet heavy gaze from above.

He held on tighter, as if afraid that if he let go, this last "lifeline" and "confidant" would disappear.

He looked up at Guilliman with teary eyes (the sorrow was palpable even through his eyepiece).

Her voice choked with emotion, but she tried her best to remain clear:

"Father! I know I deserve to die! I... I was born from your Gene-seed! I am the Chapter Master of the Astral Claws!"

I was supposed to be the Imperium's sharpest sword, an extension of Ultramar's glory! But I... but I betrayed the Imperium! I deserve to die! I truly deserve to die!"

He pounded his chest armor hard, making a dull thud, to show the sincerity of his repentance.

"Many Red Corsairs ...many members of the Astral Claws, many who later followed me, or other traitorous Chapter struggling in the Maelstrom ...they didn't deserve this, Father!"

He practically roared those words, filled with deep pain and indignation.

"Many of them, at the beginning, just... just wanted to survive!"

All I wanted was to preserve a sliver of blood in my own Chapter amidst this hellish Maelstrom, and to safeguard a little peace for those poor mortals behind the defensive line!

They weren't born wanting to be traitors!

He loosened his grip slightly, but remained kneeling, looking up at Guilliman.

His eyes were filled with complex and indescribable emotions.

"Father, if you want to kill someone, then kill me!" The voice of the Huron Blackheart suddenly rose, carrying a resolute determination.

"I, Huron Blackheart, am a worthless life, having struggled on the edge of the Warp for over a thousand years. I've had enough! I have no meaning! Kill me, give the Imperium an explanation, give... give you an explanation!"

He paused, took a deep breath, as if using all his strength.

He spoke each word with gritted teeth:

"But! I swear to you! I swear by the Gene-seed that originated from you! I swear by my remaining faith in the Emperor, in humanity!"

"I, Huron Blackheart, although I betrayed that... ' Imperium ' controlled by a bunch of bureaucrats and idiots! But I absolutely, absolutely did not betray you! Nor did I betray the Emperor!"

At that moment, a near-obsessive light, a mixture of pride and pain, shone in his eyes.

That wasn't a complete lie, or at least, not entirely.

Through his distorted logic and millennia-long struggle for survival, he did indeed separate himself from the "corrupt Imperium bureaucracy."

This is a paradox, a distorted loyalty that grows out of despair and betrayal.

He became more and more agitated as he spoke, as if he had found an outlet for his emotions:

Yes! I betrayed them! But so what?!

Father! Open your eyes and look! Look at those High Lords of Terra who have sat in the shadow of the Golden Throne for the past ten thousand years!

Are the mistakes they made, the losses they brought to the Imperium, any less than my Huron Blackheart?!

No! Much more than I have! So much more that it's impossible to count!

When the High Lords were mentioned, the Huron Blackheart's tone instantly became filled with deep-seated resentment and contempt.

That was resentment that had been building up for over a thousand years.

"Ultimately, their sins are far greater than mine! And I..." His voice trailed off, tinged with a hint of utter grievance and a sob.

"The only 'wrong thing' I did, in the eyes of those high and mighty lords, was simply not paying taxes to the Imperium on time!"

The words "pay taxes" seemed to ignite his last shred of reason, instantly transforming his grievances into rage.

"Damn it! This is Maelstrom! Dad! This is Maelstrom!!"

He waved his arm, pointing to the eternally rotating, strangely colored Warp Storm outside the observation window.

His voice was hoarse from excitement.

"Chaos Daemons crawl out of the storm every moment! Fleets of traitors roam the area! Aliens lurk in the Xenos!"

The entire star system is in complete chaos, like a ravaged anthill! We, the Astral Claws, the Lamenters, and all those others struggling to stay afloat here... how are we going to pay our taxes?!

"Our meager supplies, the resources we dug out of the ruins, are not used to reinforce our defenses, repair our warships, or even to equip the boys or treat their wounds."

"Are we supposed to send it all the way to Terra, through the blockade of demons and pirates, to feed those incompetent parasites?!"

He suddenly pointed to his chest, then to the void, as if questioning an invisible court.

"What do we do then?! What about our brothers in the Astral Claws?! What about our brothers in the Lamenters?! Should we all just give up and die?!"

"Should we just open our defenses and let the demons break out, or starve and die in this hellhole, just to make those Terra lords' tax returns look a little better?!"

"Even at this moment, Father! I, Huron Blackheart, still feel this from the bottom of my heart."

Those High Lords, every single one of them, are idiots who hinder the Imperium's survival and development! Fools! The Imperium's cancer!"

This sentence, which had been held back for a thousand years, roared countless times within the Red Corsairs, and cursed between desperate battles, was finally shouted out in front of the Primarch and the Imperial Regent.

After shouting, he seemed to have all his strength drained away and collapsed back to his knees.

But the arms that were clinging to Guilliman's thigh did not loosen, and he was just breathing heavily.

His chest heaved violently.

Only the low hum of the servers and life support systems could be heard.

Calgar and Sigismund exchanged a very complicated look.

They saw shock, absurdity, and a hint of... indescribable emotion in each other's eyes.

Huron Blackheart's words were vulgar, extreme, and full of attempts to exonerate himself.

However, it cannot be denied that it contains some... realities that are not entirely dismissible.

The cruelty of the Maelstrom, the rigidity and corruption of the Imperium bureaucracy—these were all painful points they were well aware of, and some had even experienced firsthand.

The Huron Blackheart seemed to realize that his final roar had been too intense.

In order to survive, he had to adopt a "softer" attitude.