I Won

The smoke of battle had not yet cleared, and corpses littered the ground, but a strange "calm" enveloped the heart of this battlefield.

Guilliman stood atop the highest point of the ruins, his crimson cloak swaying gently in the breeze left by the Emperor's Psionic Energy and the calm air after the laws of matter had stabilized.

He took off his helmet, tucked it under his arm, revealing short, jet-black hair and a young face etched with the weight of responsibility that spans the Milky Way.

Those eyes, as blue as the clear sky of Ultramar, showed neither the weariness of a battle's end nor the arrogance of victory.

There was only a profound peace, as if what had just ended was not a fierce battle that determined the survival of the race.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze seemingly piercing through Terra's heavy atmosphere and solid barriers of reality, casting it into the ethereal yet omnipresent depths of the Warp.

"As you can see,"

He spoke, his voice not loud, yet it possessed a peculiar penetrating power, as if addressing an invisible audience before him:

"I, or rather, we, have won."

He believed that the four "audience members" could hear him.

I know that time means nothing to you.

You have eternal patience, waiting for humanity to err, waiting for us to split apart, waiting for us to be crushed by despair.

"A single failure, a major setback, could bring humanity to its doom, turning it into your eternal playthings or food."

Guilliman's tone remained calm, as if he were stating an objective fact.

He paused, his gaze sharpening, his voice becoming clearer, as if he were specifically reiterating or emphasizing a crucial clause:

"But, you four... please listen carefully, and please remember this."

"I assure you—even if one day I, Robert Guilliman, along with the ' Emperor of Mankind ' who sits on the throne, vanish from this Milky Way ... humanity will not perish."

A calm yet powerful smile slowly curved the corners of his lips.

"If I fall..." he said softly, as if reciting some kind of prophecy, "A million 'me's' will rise up."

Perhaps it is another warrior, another leader, another soul who ignites the flame of hope in despair.

Humanity may regress, bleed, and endure long nights, but the flame will never be extinguished.

His voice suddenly turned cold, carrying a hint of chilling mockery:

"And what about you?"

"If you fall... then there will be true, eternal silence."

No new Khorne will be born from peace, no second Tzeentch will be conceived from ignorance, no Nurgle will replace decay, and no Slaanesh will replace Pleasure.

Your ' Divinity ' is inextricably linked to the specific suffering and emotions of this Milky Way.

You are the embodiment of past nightmares, but certainly not the inevitable chapter of the future.

"Ha ha ha ha!"

Guilliman suddenly burst into laughter, a hearty laugh.

It even carried a childlike smugness, which seemed particularly out of place on this desolate battlefield, yet it was also incredibly self-righteous.

It was as if he were the one who held the eternal chips and sat calmly on the sidelines, the dealer.

The Warp fell into an eerie silence.

Four supreme wills, through an invisible the Veil, "watched" over the blue figure that could still be called "human."

He had just repelled the pawns they had jointly manipulated, purified their pollution, and even, in front of all humanity, invoked the projection of the being they feared most...

Now, how dare they issue such a "calm" declaration that is almost "provocative"?

On the Brass Throne, Khorne, whose rage burned eternally, unusually refrained from uttering a roar of praise for this "courage" or "art of war."

His vast consciousness, composed of endless war intentions, was exceptionally clear and calm at this moment.

He saw it very clearly.

"He... is not 'brave'."

Khorne's will flowed slowly, like cooled lava, and his voice carried an almost admiring caution. "That's something... more troublesome."

A kind of... fanaticism that firmly believes it represents some kind of 'inevitability' and is willing to use anything, including war itself, to defend that 'inevitability'.

The voice of the Blood God echoed within His domain, causing countless Khorne Daemons, who were either hacking at each other or waiting for the next war, to stop in their tracks and look up in bewilderment.

"Maybe..."

From within Khorne's will, a low, hoarse, yet utterly devoid of violence, chuckled softly:

"We... are going to have one more 'brother'."

The demons were even more bewildered.

"Sixth."

Khorne calmly announced, as if stating an imminent fact, "He is qualified."

The Warp was stirred by these words, creating even deeper ripples.

"Absurd!" Tzeentch's will shrieked immediately, his kaleidoscope of light flashing violently. "A human!"

The creation of a Material Universe!

Even... even a freak who stole part of the essence of the C'tan!

What right does he have to be ranked alongside us?!

What is his 'clerical role'?

'Hope'? 'Order'? Or just a ridiculous 'revival'?

These fragile concepts, how can they be worthy of...

Tzeentch's rebuttal came to an abrupt halt.

It was as if some deeper calculation, beyond the instinct of "everything changing," caused His will to pause and ponder for the first time.

After a long silence, Tzeentch's sharp voice rang out again, but this time it was much lower, carrying a hint of solemnity that even he himself didn't realize:

"... Assessing from the perspectives of 'possibility' and 'impact on reality'... he has indeed... preliminarily acquired... the rudiments of a certain 'status'."

Although the paths are completely different.

Nurgle let out a kind and slow sigh, like the gurgling of a rotting swamp. "I no longer dare to hope... to take him into my family."

Although I genuinely admired its vibrant vitality, much like admiring a perfectly ripe seed... unfortunately, the seed itself grew into a completely different tree.

If given the chance, I would certainly try to spread my father's gifts again... but he probably won't give me that opportunity again.

What a pity... My Garden of Nurgle is missing a child who was destined to be very 'cheerful'.

Slaanesh's will, with a playful chuckle, glided across the blade like silk. "You three, don't be in such a hurry to express your feelings or bestow titles."

Next time... let's wait until he can really withstand our 'seriously' prepared next round of 'greetings', okay?

His voice was languid, yet it concealed a murderous intent. "Don't you think so, the 'oldest,' the 'most patient' one?"

Nurgle did not answer immediately.

Deep within His eternally decaying yet ever-new realm lies a gigantic hand, covered in moss and flowers, flowing with honey and pus.

He was carefully holding a drop of liquid that was suspended in the air, shimmering with a faint but pure golden-blue luster.

That's Guilliman's blood.

The Dark Emperor's backstab was not entirely in vain; the moment the blade touched his body...

Ultimately, a very small number of drops of blood containing the essence of his life and Psionic Energy splattered out, and were quietly intercepted by Nurgle's all-pervasive "compassion" in a corner unnoticed by anyone.