He Is Calling Me
He is calling me.
As that magnificent, warm, and urgent Psionic Energy wave penetrated the warship and echoed through the cabins.
All the relaxed smiles on Robert Guilliman's face vanished instantly, replaced by an intense solemnity and an almost fatalistic acceptance.
He slowly stood up, his gaze seemingly piercing through the thick hull and the raging Warp fog, reaching straight to his burning homeland.
He needed to establish a stable channel for his father's thoughts.
Guilliman did not use any Psionic Energy power.
In the depths of the Warp, the Emperor's Psionic Energy is already as conspicuous as a lighthouse; adding a Psionic Energy signal would be like lighting a torch in a storm, easily attracting unnecessary trouble.
Those Chaos Gods, who are as worthless as shit, are now beyond Guilliman's reach. He had slapped them before, but that had given him a long-lasting sense of satisfaction.
He chose a purer, more domineering approach.
He simply swung his right arm lightly.
It wasn't a fighting stance, but rather a casual gesture, as if brushing away dust in front of him.
However, with this seemingly simple wave, an invisible and terrifying force, purely derived from the Material Universe, suddenly erupted!
That was the manifestation of the Primarch's pure vital energy and control over the laws of physics, enough to smash small satellites.
This force resonated and spread throughout him, not to destroy, but to reshape.
In an instant, the space within a ten-meter radius centered on him was forcibly "frozen".
The faint ripples of Warp were smoothed out, physical constants were anchored, and the passage of light, sound, and even time seemed to become more stable and clear.
This place has temporarily become an "island" in the Realspace, an absolute domain sufficient to isolate most Warp interference.
"I need some private space, Yvraine," Guilliman said, his gaze still fixed on the void.
Yvraine had already dropped all her teasing. She stood up nimbly without hesitation. "Of course. The will of the Master of Mankind... even as a projection, is not something that others can easily bear."
That was the corrupting power of the Fifth Chaos Gods; Yvraine believed that Guilliman's power could suppress the Emperor's Psionic Energy influence.
But who would enjoy sitting next to a nuclear bomb when they have nothing to do?
Even if you know it won't explode, it's still scary enough.
She wasn't one of those Astartes lads who got all fired up at the sight of golden light.
The hatch closed behind her. Now, only Guilliman remained in the room, along with the increasingly clear consciousness emanating from the Golden Throne within the realm of qi and blood.
That thought was no longer merely a vague fluctuation, but began to coalesce into directly understandable, urgent "words" that resonated in Guilliman's mind:
"Son—help! Help him quickly!"
The intensity of his intention and the directness of his emotions startled Guilliman slightly.
He could almost "see" deep within the palace, where the mummified corpse, who had sat upright for millennia, was trying to twitch its lips in anxiety.
Immediately afterwards, even clearer "images" and "feelings" surged forth:
The golden defensive line trembled and wore down under the relentless crimson tide; the flickering light at the edge of the Sisters of Silence's Force Field; and that deepest, almost painful, worry—
"If the fighting continues, my Adeptus Custodes will suffer casualties! Do you know how much each one costs?! They're all custom-made! Handcrafted! Ten-thousand-year warranty!"
Guilliman almost couldn't help but sigh and rub his forehead.
He responded helplessly to the invisible force in the air, his tone like that of someone comforting an anxious old father:
"I'm already traveling at full speed, aren't I? Let them hold on a little longer, just a little longer."
But the Emperor's will persisted, conveying more brutal details of the battlefield, and time grew increasingly urgent.
Guilliman didn't delay any longer. He raised his voice and ordered towards the door, "Get the Navigator here immediately!"
The heavy Adamantium opened again, revealing a Navigator dressed in a heavy robe, his third eye (the Navigator's Eye) covered by an exquisite eye patch.
He was practically staggered as Calgar and Sicarius "escorted" him in.
The moment the door opened, the condensed, almost tangible Emperor Psionic Energy within the cabin could not be completely obscured; wisps of golden light shone through, illuminating the Navigator's pale face.
The Navigator trembled violently; beneath the blindfold on his forehead, his Psionic Energy eye became intensely bloodshot and burning hot with excitement.
He "saw" it! Not with his physical eyes, but with the spiritual sense of the Navigator's bloodline—the supreme radiance of the Master of Mankind so close!
His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees with a thud, his voice trembling with ecstasy and awe. "Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor!"
Guilliman, having no time to dwell on his excitement, asked directly, "Given the current state of the Macragge's Honour, and excluding all interference, how long would it take at the fastest to reach Terra's anchored orbit?"
The Navigator suppressed the overwhelming sense of happiness that nearly made him faint, and rapidly mobilized all his knowledge, combining the warship's current coordinates, Warp flow patterns, the instability coefficient at the edge of the Great Rift, and the guidance of Emperor Radiance, to perform an overload of mental calculations.
A few seconds later, he looked up and answered in the most certain tone:
"Reporting to my lord! Eliminate all risks, absolute safety is our top priority... Nine hours! In nine hours, we will surely be bathed in the light of Holy Terra!"
Nine hours...
Guilliman repeated to himself, his brow furrowed slightly.
This number has an ominous coincidence with the "unexpected" delay he encountered during the Warmaster's rebellion that changed everything ten thousand years ago.
He could clearly feel the intense anxiety in the Emperor's thoughts. "Nine hours? My Adeptus Custodes Guard figurine is going to get the paint scratched off!"
That's enough.
Guilliman waved his hand, making a decision—both to the Navigator and to the anxious thought within him—"Don't rush me, Dad. I'll go myself."
His tone was relaxed, yet carried an undeniable power:
"The army is sailing as planned. As for me... it'll only take a few minutes."
The Robert Guilliman of today is no longer the Primarch from ten thousand years ago who was "merely" skilled in politics and strategy.
He absorbed the legacy and power of Vitrim, and his life essence and physical strength had already undergone immeasurable evolution and multiplication.
Crossing Warp fault lines with his physical body and achieving ultra-high-speed interstellar leaps in the Realspace is no longer a difficult task for him.
The fleet needs to navigate cautiously for nine hours from its current coordinates to Terra.
As for Guilliman at full power? Three minutes is enough.
He originally planned to lead his loyal legions in a grand offensive to announce his return and revitalize the morale of the Imperium.
But now, faced with his father's "cry for help" and Terra's perilous situation, he decides to try a different approach.
I'm not pretending anymore.
I am Robert Guilliman, the Regent of the Imperial Regent.
I alone am an army of thousands.
When this decision was clearly transmitted back through thought, the anxiety that had almost solidified on the Golden Throne instantly vanished.
Instead, there was an almost "laissez-faire" ease and absolute trust:
Oh, that's alright then.
As for the army of Chaos Gods, are they all from out of town?
It doesn't matter, my son will handle it.
This was followed by a series of smug expressions, as if he were riding on his son's coattails to gain status.
Trajann! Did you hear me? Close the gate! Close the gates of Terra properly! Get ready to release the Lord Regent!
Let my son handle this! He can slaughter those bastards nine times over! Yes, a full nine times!