He Was Not Left with Nothing

With just a fleeting glance, that supreme power, as if it could command the stars and reshape Destiny, was deeply imprinted on his soul.

Even today, looking back, that "glory" still seems to bring a touch of illusory "warmth".

But beneath that "warmth" lies a bone-chilling cold.

Because he and thousands of Thunder Warriors soon experienced firsthand that glorious "other side".

When they are no longer needed, when there are more "perfect" and more "stable" alternatives.

These are their "early works," created after decades of fighting for the Emperor, sacrificing their blood, suffering, and even humanity.

They were then "recycled" and "disposed of" in large quantities and ruthlessly, just like old weapons.

Having survived by sheer luck, endured countless hardships, slumbered and awoke, been transformed and reborn, established Chapter, and become a hound of the High Lords...

He has traveled so far, lived so long, his hands stained with blood and sin, yet deep within his heart, he is always haunted by that chilling question that has remained since ten thousand years ago:

"Emperor... what am I, what are we...?"

Is it a tool? Is it a consumable? Is it... an error?

This question, which no one could answer and which he had never asked aloud, became exceptionally clear in his dying, hazy state.

He even felt a ridiculous longing: if he could see that radiance again, even just a distant, cold glimpse... would he understand?

"Still... muttering something to himself?"

The voice of Slaaneshi Daemon grew louder as it gracefully approached, preparing to deliver the final blow. "The last words of a loser are always so sentimental."

Don't worry, no one will remember you, and no one will come to help you.

You have nothing left...

It raised its four arms of sharp blades, and a deadly aura began to gather.

Moloc closed his eyes.

The last vestige of resistance vanished.

However--

The expected dull thud that struck the wall did not occur.

Instead, there is a sudden, stagnant feeling of weightlessness.

An incredibly powerful, stable, and gentle force caught his flying body from behind.

Immediately afterwards, a large hand covered in cold metal, yet containing endless vitality and power, gently grasped the junction between his nape and shoulder armor.

Like grabbing the scruff of a large cat's neck, with absolute control, I steadily and easily stopped his backward flight.

Moloc's remaining consciousness felt himself being embraced in an incredibly solid hold.

It wasn't a gentle embrace, but a support full of protective intent and absolute strength.

Then, a calm, steady voice, seemingly capable of suppressing the clamor of the entire battlefield, rang out.

The sound rang out above his head, clearly reaching his soon-to-be-silent auditory processor, and echoing throughout this crumbling defense line:

"He still has me."

The four blades raised high by the Slaaneshi Daemon were imbued with Psionic Energy at their peak, and their bewitching purple light almost stung Moloc's closed eyelids.

It revels in the surrender of its prey, preparing to embellish the slaughter as a despairing tribute to the dark prince.

However, the declaration "He still has me" was like the Rock thrown into calm water, shattering its carefully cultivated sense of control and pleasure.

It was stunned.

It wasn't the content of the words, but the undeniable, absolute presence contained in the voice, and... the essential power that held Moloc up.

It sent a shiver of instinct through its sensitive soul, which yearned for the ultimate experience.

But the other party did not give it any time to understand or react.

"As long as I am here, humanity will not be nothing."

The being spoke with such majesty that Moloc listened intently, his eyes fixed solely on the figure before him.

The same golden radiance!

The same majesty, the same unparalleled dominance, yet completely different.

This is gentle light, unlike that cold gold; this is warm light.

The Slaaneshi Daemon had sensed something was wrong, but it was too late to defend itself or even stop it.

They didn't even see where the attack came from.

It was just a pure force, as if space itself had transformed into an invisible giant hammer, crushing everything in the most direct and domineering way.

The Slaaneshi Daemon's elegant, slender body, along with its four arms shimmering with alluring light, its four hooves intertwined with perfection and blasphemy, and the frozen, astonished expression on its face.

In a fraction of a second—it collapsed with a deafening roar!

The Warp Essence and material carrier that constitute its existence were completely shattered and annihilated at the structural level by an irresistible force of law.

It turned into a rapidly dissipating, shimmering purple dust.

In the center of the dissipating dust, the figure became clearly visible.

Robert Guilliman stood there, as if he had always been there.

He withdrew his right fist, which he had just casually swung out, and there wasn't even a speck of dirt on the surface of his fist.

He was clad in blue and gold armor, his scarlet cloak slowly draped over him amidst the invisible aftershocks of energy.

Above the ruins, a sliver of sunlight pierced through the thick, polluted clouds and fell upon him, gilding him with a dazzling golden edge.

It made him seem as if he had stepped out of an ancient holy statue, majestic, sacred, and yet with an approachable radiance.

He turned slightly to the side, his gaze falling on Moloc, who was being supported by one hand and was barely standing.

Those eyes— Moloc saw them at extremely close range—were a deep azure blue, like the legendary ocean.

"Raise your heads, soldiers."

"As I said, with me here, you are not without anything."