We Were Truly Wrong
He looked up again, and tears welled up once more.
The voice became choked with emotion and earnest:
"Father... I know I was wrong, I know we were all wrong... I shouldn't have gone down this path, I shouldn't have brought shame upon the Astral Claws ..."
But Father, please look at those High Lords sitting on Terra, deciding the Destiny of the Imperium. Are they really... without a single fault?"
He proceeded cautiously yet relentlessly, attempting to shift the focus of the issue from "personal betrayal" to "systemic flaws."
"Father, I know your power and wisdom. You can see the future ten thousand years from now and plan the blueprint for the Milky Way... but we are not as powerful as you!"
"We are just ordinary Astartes, with a small Imperialis Militia, damaged warships, and insufficient supplies. With this meager strength, we have struggled to survive for over a thousand years in this hellish Maelstrom!"
"We've held on for over a thousand years, Father!"
He repeated it, his voice filled with a sense of tragic grandeur.
"Just to... just to at least hold this dilapidated defensive line, so that the demons and madmen inside don't pour out and wreak havoc on the other territories of the Imperium!"
At least, for the past thousand years, in this godforsaken place, we... we truly feel we haven't done anything entirely wrong! Your Gene-seed, brothers of the Astral Claws, have truly... truly done their utmost!"
The Huron Blackheart knelt there, clinging to Guilliman's leg, as if he wanted to pour out all the grievances, struggles, anger, and twisted "loyalty" he had accumulated over thousands of years.
Then, he did something even more astonishing.
He released his grip on Guilliman's leg and, swaying but with unusual determination, stood up.
Although his figure was still somewhat hunched, and his armor was covered in tear stains and dust, he stood up straight.
He faced Guilliman, the Gene-Father who was much taller than him and whose aura was like a mountain, without any defensive posture.
Instead, he raised his hand and grabbed the buckle on his helmet.
With a soft "click," he removed his helmet and tossed it onto the Adamantium floor beside him, making a clattering sound.
His face, weathered and scarred, still revealed a resolute outline.
His hair was messy and gray, and his eyes were sunken.
But those eyes now burned with a flame that was a mixture of despair, pleading, and the last vestige of pride.
He stepped forward, completely exposing his neck to Guilliman's reach without any warning.
Then he raised his hand, pointed to his temple, and then to his neck.
"Father!"
His voice was no longer choked with emotion, but became unusually calm, even carrying an almost ritualistic solemnity.
"You can kill me anytime, anywhere. If you want, I believe you can easily twist my head off my neck like plucking a fruit!"
He slightly raised his chin, revealing his vulnerable throat.
"You can pick them now!"
He closed his eyes and straightened his spine.
That posture of offering its neck for execution actually carried a resolute air of "absolutely no resistance."
"I, Huron Blackheart, hereby guarantee that I will not utter a word against it!"
He spoke these words with great passion and unwavering determination.
There was no trembling, no hesitation, as if they had already disregarded life and death, seeking only "understanding" or "liberation".
This sudden change, this desperate act of risking one's life, caused Guilliman's eyes to flicker.
Even Calgar and Sicarius, who had been silently on guard the whole time, were stunned again.
Calgar glanced quickly at Sicarius, and a series of silent "conversations" flashed across the Psionic Energy communication channel:
Calgar: "No, brother, what's this traitor up to? A ruse? A feigned retreat to advance?"
Sicarius: "Is his acting too realistic, or... is he really relying on something, or is he truly determined to die?"
Calgar (frowning): "Regardless of the reason, this boy is cunning and not to be underestimated. Look at his 'loyal minister dying for his principles' act!"
Sicarius (nodding slightly): "He's trying to win over the Primarch with the logic of 'loyalty to you personally, not to the corrupt Imperium.' Dangerous."
The two exchanged glances again, both seeing a deeper wariness in each other's eyes, and a hint of... barely perceptible "competition".
Calgar (with sharp eyes): "This boy has great ambitions! After betraying the Imperium, he still wants to use these sweet words and a tragic performance to influence the Gene-Father ' judgment, attempting to regain... some kind of recognition? Or even status?"
Sicarius (with icy eyes): "Hmph. Our loyalty to our father and the Imperium was forged in battle, sword by sword, and tempered in hardship, fist by fist. How could it be inferior to the treacherous words of this traitor before his death?"
They all felt a subtle sense of "threat".
It wasn't about force, but rather something else... a threat to the Primarch's "position."
Whether genuine or not, Huron Blackheart's performance was undoubtedly a drastic attempt to probe Guilliman's deep-seated contradictions about "loyalty," "betrayal," and "the nature of the Imperium."
However, the next second, the Huron Blackheart opened his eyes and said another sentence that caused Calgar, Sigismund, and even the ever-silent Guilliman to suddenly experience even stronger emotional fluctuations.
The gaze of the Huron Blackheart was no longer humble or sorrowful, but rather unusually earnest, even carrying a frankness akin to that of a loyal minister, unafraid of offending the emperor.
He looked directly into Guilliman's eyes, hidden in the shadow of his helmet.
The voice was clear and powerful, each word sounding like it was striking the Adamantium floor of the bridge:
"Father!"
He no longer used the more affectionate, even pitiful, term "Dad," but instead adopted the more formal and somber "Father."
"The Imperium... shouldn't be like this!"
His words were like a key, suddenly thrusting into a lock that had been rusted for millennia.
"Was the Imperium like this ten thousand years ago?! Back when you and... and the other Primarch were still alive, when the Emperor still roamed Terra?!"
He took a step forward, and although he was still in Guilliman's shadow, his aura seemed to be rising.
"I did nothing wrong! I, the Huron Blackheart, am right on this point!"
He practically roared those words, the veins on his neck bulging.
"Yes! I betrayed the Imperium controlled by those High Lords of Terra! You want to kill me? You can kill me now! I will not resist!"
He reiterated his "desire to die" stance.
But then, the tone shifted abruptly, like the sharpest spear:
"But I can assure you—with all my might—that I have not betrayed the Emperor who sits on the Golden Throne! Nor have I betrayed you, my Gene-Father, Roboute Guilliman!"
He pointed to the eternally spinning Maelstrom outside the window, his voice trembling with excitement:
"Have I ever affected the Macragge Five Hundred Worlds? Have I ever attacked the borders of Ultramar? Have I ever disrupted the operation of the Imperium core sector?"
No! I didn't! I, Huron Blackheart, may have a terrible reputation as Red Corsairs, but our main targets for plunder and conflict are the Chaos forces within the Maelstrom, the Xenos pirates, and other traitors!
We even... even to the best of our ability, ensured order and basic survival for the people on those Imperium planets near the Maelstrom!
"Anyone can accuse me of being a traitor! Anyone can say I haven't inherited the spirit of the Astartes Codex! But you yourself, Father!"
He suddenly pointed at Guilliman, then at his own heart.
His gaze was intense, as if trying to burn through all pretense and pretense.
"You yourself, with your eyes that can see through strategy and people's hearts, and can plan the future of the Milky Way, take a look for yourself!"
"I, Huron Blackheart, Astral Claws I led, in this Maelstrom for the past thousand years, truly inherited the will of responsibility, protection, and pragmatism you taught us back then?!"
"We may have used the wrong methods, gone astray, been forced to stain our hands with blood we shouldn't have, and been branded as traitors... But what about our core? Father!"
Has that core that, even in dire straits, still thought of 'holding this place' and 'ensuring the survival of those behind us,' truly... been completely extinguished?!
Calgar and Sicarius:!!!
The two even avoided eye contact this time, their shock barely concealed.
Seriously, man! Are you that brave?!
This is a direct challenge to the Imperium's millennia-old system, the legitimacy of the High Lords of Terra, and even... the legitimacy of the "Imperium" that the Gene-Father has upheld since his awakening?!
Moreover, he actually packaged himself as a tragic hero who "persisted on the correct core while walking the wrong path"? A "loyal minister" forced to rebel by a corrupt system?
This move is no longer a simple plea for mercy or defense, but a bold "accusation" and "defense" that has risen to the ideological level.
He is trying to redefine "loyalty" and "betrayal".
This places Guilliman in a position where a profound value judgment must be made: is it about upholding the already rigid and seriously problematic "status quo of the Imperium"?
Or should we endorse those behaviors that, under extreme circumstances, distort the realization of a certain primitive "Imperium ideal"?
Huron Blackheart was panting heavily, his chest heaving violently, staring intently at Guilliman.
He knew that he had said everything he could say, everything he dared to say, and even everything he dared not say.
He staked his life, his reputation, and everything he had accumulated over the past thousand years on these words.
Success might allow one to escape from a desperate situation, or even gain some unexpected "understanding" or "reassessment".
Defeat means immediate execution, with no hope of redemption.
But he doesn't regret it.
These words had been bottled up in his heart, and in the hearts of all the "traitors" and "marginalized people" struggling in the Maelstrom and the Imperium Nihilus for far too long.
Time seemed to stand still on the bridge.
All eyes were focused on the Red Corsairs warlord who had knelt down, stood up again, delivered a passionate speech, and then waited for trial.
The focus is more on that silent, imposing blue giant.
Oh dear, Dad forgot about playing.
I almost forgot the most important thing!
Happy New Year to all my fellow book lovers!