You Disappoint Me

Deep within the Macragge's Honour, in a cabin specifically designed to imprison special beings, the air was frozen like amber.

Instead of the iron bars and chains of a typical prison, there are layers upon layers of void shields, arrays of anti- Psionic Energy runes, and energy fields inscribed with the prayers of the Imperial Cult.

The walls are made of a special silver-gray alloy, with fine electrical ripples constantly flowing across its surface. This is a suppression matrix personally designed by Guilliman, powerful enough to make any Warp entity unable to move an inch within it.

Magnus sat on the floor in the center of the cabin.

He was not bound.

Their posture didn't resemble that of a prisoner.

They resembled monks in meditation.

The single eye that had once gazed upon endless knowledge and glimpsed the truth of the universe now stared blankly into the void, its gaze unfocused.

His massive frame—tall even among Primarch —was now slightly hunched, as if carrying an unseen burden on his shoulders.

His limbs are intact.

Guilliman's medical team used state-of-the-art technology to repair his body; all the wounds he sustained in battle have healed completely, leaving no scars.

Her rosy skin regained its former luster, and her long, bronze-colored hair cascaded over her shoulders, each strand resembling molten metal.

Outwardly, he remains the proud Primarch of the Thousand Sons, the scholar and mage known as the "Lord of Dawn."

But inside, everything is broken.

Magnus had no idea what he was thinking.

Or rather, he was thinking about everything, and yet he wasn't thinking about anything at all.

Fragments of memory churned in my mind, like pages in a storm:

Prospero's library, containing centuries of collected texts, was reduced to ashes in the flames.

His father said to him in the throne room of Terra, "You were the son on whom I placed the greatest hopes."

His brothers looked at him with suspicion, especially Lion, who always stared at him with that cold, scrutinizing gaze.

Then came a foolish attempt, a presumptuous "warning," that pierced the protective Webway that the father had personally laid out.

betray.

escape.

They made a deal with the gods of the Warp in exchange for power and the continuation of their offspring.

Ten thousand years of war, ten thousand years of depravity, ten thousand years living in self-deception of a "noble purpose".

Until Guilliman's fist shattered it all.

That wasn't an ordinary attack.

With each powerful blow, each collision, Guilliman's power carried something—not Psionic Energy, not witchcraft, but a pure Material Universe truth, an overwhelming "reality."

Before that power, Magnus's knowledge accumulated over millennia, the power he gained through bargaining with the gods, and all his pride and arrogance shattered like glass.

Even more terrifying, fragments of his memories flowed into his consciousness during those attacks.

He saw himself as Guilliman saw himself: not a tragic hero forced down the wrong path, but a conceited, foolish, and perpetually wrong child.

A coward who, after making a mistake, refuses to bear the consequences and instead repeats the same mistake, using even deeper errors to cover up the previous ones.

He saw the current wretched state of the Thousand Sons —no, not a legion, but a group of pathetic remnants of witchcraft, their souls bound within their armor, enduring eternal torment.

That was the result of his "salvation".

He saw the despair of the Imperium of Man, the waning Psionic Energy flames of his father on the Golden Throne, and the cries of countless worlds ravaged by Chaos and Xenos.

And all of this, when traced back to its source, owes some credit to him.

"I've spent my whole life making mistakes."

Magnus muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the silent cabin, sounding particularly hollow.

That's settled then.

Accept your Destiny.

To stand trial.

They accepted being taken back to Terra as prisoners, bound to the Golden Throne, and became one of the "fuels" to sustain human civilization.

At least in this way, his existence still has one last bit of value.

At least this way, he won't have to face choices or bear the consequences anymore.

Footsteps approached.

These were not ordinary footsteps.

That was the sound of the Power Armour boots striking the alloy floor—heavy, steady, and filled with an unquestionable sense of authority.

Each step is precisely spaced, like a metronome.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Magnus raised his head.

The hatch slid open silently, revealing a giant standing outside.

Robert Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar, Primarch the Ultramarines, Imperial Regent.

He wore the "Armor of Fate," a set of Power Armour meticulously designed by the Belisarius Cawl, its blue and gold paint gleaming with a cold luster under the cabin lights.

Each plate of armor fits his majestic body perfectly, showcasing both the power of a warrior and the majesty of a ruler.

But his attire today was somewhat unusual.

First, the cape.

The red velvet cloak that originally symbolized the regency was gone, replaced by a deep red cloak with a unique texture.

It looks like it's made from the skin of some kind of creature, with fine scaly textures on the surface, and a dark, blood-red sheen when light refracts.

The edges of the cloak were irregular, as if it had been forcibly torn off, and some parts still had charred marks, as if it had been scorched by flames.

The most striking feature is the decoration on the right shoulder of the cape—or rather, it's not a decoration, but a complete demon head.

The head had been carefully preserved, retaining its grotesque features from its time in life: a twisted bull's head shape, with its massive curved horns covered in scratches from battle.

Dark red embers still flickered deep within the hollow eye sockets, as if the person was not yet completely dead; in the gaping mouth, layers of sharp teeth maintained their final roaring posture.

Magnus recognized the head.

Skarbrand.

One of Khorne's most favored Greater Daemon, the most violent and bloodthirsty Bloodthirster under the command of the Blood God, who has caused massacres of mountains of corpses and seas of blood in countless worlds.

Even in The Daemon Prince, Skarbrand is known for its indestructibility—its nature is deeply bound to the divinity of the Blood God, allowing it to quickly return after each banishment.

Now, its skin has become a cloak, and its head has become a shoulder ornament.

Magnus's silent heart clenched violently a few times.

His lips twitched uncontrollably, and his single eye widened as he stared in disbelief at the scene before him.

How come he doesn't remember this guy... having such taste?

What was Guilliman like 10,000 years ago?

Rigorous, rational, methodical, even somewhat rigid.

His attire was always both polite and practical, without any superfluous decorations or exaggerated displays.

He was a Archon, a commander, and a gentleman.

And the person in front of me...

He wore a cloak made of demon skin, carried the head of the Bloodthirster on his shoulder, a white fur scarf casually draped around his neck, and his Laurel Crown had been removed.

Magnus noticed that Guilliman casually held the Laurel Crown, a symbol of his regency, in his left hand, as if it were merely an inconvenient object.

Wild.

overbearing.

It exudes an aura of almost savage Conquest.

Anyone who didn't know better would think that the person standing here was Angron —no, even if it were Angron, they wouldn't display their spoils in this way.

Angron would only tear his enemies to shreds; he wouldn't bother to make a cloak out of their hide to wear.

This is a more composed and deliberate presentation.

A declaration.

"I hunted down your most powerful being and used its remains as decoration."