How Many?

"..."

"?"

Malcador's laughter stopped.

His smile froze, his mouth slightly open, and his eyes stared intently at Guilliman.

... How many?

250,000?

Can you lend me half?

Does that mean... he has a total of 500,000 'super soldiers' of this level?

The number was so shocking that it momentarily stunned him.

Five hundred thousand... crossing the world with bare hands, blasting planets with fists...

Five hundred thousand?!

Seeing his teacher's shocked expression, Guilliman felt a surge of mischievous pleasure, but his face remained expressionless.

"Teacher, to be honest..."

The talent of Son of War, do you understand?

With just a little effort, I inexplicably have so many offspring.

Being physically strong and having good kidney and lower back health is what it is, there's nothing I can do about it~

Guilliman was not at all helpless.

Seeing Malcador's stunned expression, he felt incredibly satisfied!

That's right, I've worked so hard for this moment!

He gestured, "As for the number of offspring, it's just a little... a tiny bit more."

They're all quite healthy, their genes are stable, and the success rate of the modification... is alright.

It's more than just okay.

He seemed to have made up his mind, and lowered his voice. "Actually, if it weren't for the long distance from Ultramar to Terra and the time needed to assemble, I could give you another 250,000!"

We, master and apprentice, don't play games!

Malcador felt his Psionic Energy core was about to smoke from overcomputing: Could he... give him another 250,000?

"... So," his voice was hoarse, "How much do you actually have?"

Guilliman looked around, then leaned close to Malcador's ear and whispered:

"A fully-organized Ultramarines, ready to be deployed to the battlefield at any time... approximately one million."

In addition... there are many 'reserve' who have passed the initial screening and basic implantation, but have not yet been issued formal equipment...

I call them ' Blue-Skinned Ogryns,' and their numbers... are alright."

Malcador: "..."

He stood there, like a statue frozen in time.

Only his eyes, with pupils rapidly contracting and dilating, revealed the immense information tsunami and logical collapse he was experiencing internally.

One million... in organized units... and even more 'reserve'... blue-skinned... Ogryn?

Each word was like a heavy hammer blow, striking at the boundaries of his understanding of "military power".

A deathly silence enveloped the room.

After what felt like an eternity, Malcador slowly raised a hand and pointed at Guilliman.

His lips moved several times before he finally found his voice.

The voice was filled with endless emotion and a belated chill:

"... Robert Guilliman... you..."

He shook his head, suppressing all his complex emotions, which finally coalesced into a trembling question that went straight to the heart of the matter:

"Was it... if I hadn't agreed to nominate you as Lord Regent just now...?"

The next second, your million ' Blue-Skinned Ogryns '... will undergo a 'loyalty reconfirmation' and directly 'take over' Holy Terra?

Guilliman immediately flashed a perfectly standard, incredibly sincere smile, radiating the brilliance of Ultramar's integrity:

"Teacher, you're too kind."

My offspring's loyalty to the Imperium and the Emperor surpasses that of the stars.

They're just... more enthusiastic about practicing loyalty, and happen to be more 'solid'."

Looking at that smile, Malcador recalled his broken leg, and then thought of those million "relatively sturdy" "Blue-Skinned Ogryns"...

He suddenly felt that perhaps, the ten thousand years that the Emperor had sat on the Golden Throne weren't so unbearable after all?

At least, he doesn't have to face the troubles of this happiness, and a son who suddenly became so "rich" that even the old prime minister couldn't handle it.

My old friend, what would you think if you saw this?

If you weren't paralyzed like Hawking, you probably would have just pinned Robert to the Golden Throne.

How did you manage to give birth to such a precious baby?!

The passageway leading to the Throne Sanctum remained magnificent and solemn, its eternal gloom barely dispelled by the eternal fire and Psionic Energy glow.

Heavy footsteps echoed between the empty colonnades; this time, there were two.

Robert Guilliman walked with a steady gait, his blue-gold Power Armour gleaming with a cold, hard metallic sheen in the dim light, and his scarlet cape trailing behind him, gently brushing the cold ground with each step.

Beside him stood Malcador, dressed in a simple yet impeccably tailored dark gray Psionic Energy robe.

The clothes were prepared by Guilliman on short notice. Although not luxurious, the materials and workmanship were top-notch, perfectly complementing the reborn and composed figure of the Sigillite.

He walked with a measured pace, maintaining a half-body distance from Guilliman, showing both respect and independence.

Each step was taken with extreme steadiness, as if measured with precision.

The ecstasy or mockery he had shown in his room was nowhere to be seen on his face.

All that remained was a tranquility and solemnity that had been precipitated over millennia, and a complex, almost trepidation, glimmer in the depths of his eyes, a glimmer that could not be completely concealed.

The closer one gets to that door that isolates the most extreme pain and heaviest responsibility in the universe, the more terrifying the Psionic Energy pressure permeating the air becomes.

It was not that the Emperor intended to do it, but rather that the residual effects of the immense power that sustained the human race were enough to break the minds of ordinary Psyker and twist steel.

Malcador frowned slightly. He felt his newly formed, not yet fully stable Psionic Energy tremble slightly in this environment, like a candle flickering in the wind.

It's not unbearable, but it will greatly interfere with perception and communication.

Guilliman sensed his discomfort and stopped ten steps away from the giant door.

"My father's power is so immense that it unintentionally creates a domain."

Guilliman explained in a low voice, his voice somewhat muffled under the pressure of Psionic Energy, "Under normal circumstances, almost no one but me can have a clear 'conversation' with him here."

He turned to Malcador, their eyes meeting in a knowing glance.

Then, Guilliman took a light breath and did not make any exaggerated movements.

Simply place your feet firmly on the ground and let your mind sink into the newly born authority within your body, which is closely connected to the rhythm of the Material Universe.

Silently, a completely different "domain" quietly unfolded around him.

There was no golden light, no ripples of Psionic Energy.

It's more like a subtle shift in "presence," a direct feeling that "reality" is being reinforced and clarified.

The air was filled with turbulent Psionic Energy, which had been flowing like heavy mercury, and was originally everywhere.

When it reached an area with a radius of about five meters around Guilliman, it was as if it had encountered an invisible dam and was gently but firmly "pushed away".

It's not about confrontation or elimination, but rather about creating a "calm waters" for that overwhelming force.

Within these waters, the laws of physics revert to their most stable and "normal" form, and Psionic Energy interference is minimized.

Malcador immediately felt a lightness throughout his body.

The suffocating sense of oppression quickly subsided, and the seemingly endless Whisper and wails of Psionic Energy in my ears became distant and blurred.

His newly generated Psionic Energy stabilized, and his senses became incredibly clear.

He could even smell the dust and ancient stone in the air, and hear his own steady heartbeat and breathing.

Control over the material realm... with such effortless ease.

Malcador was inwardly shocked, but outwardly remained calm, merely nodding slightly to Guilliman to show his gratitude and understanding.

This method has already exceeded his conventional understanding of "power".

Guilliman responded with a faint smile and was the first to push open the enormous, heavy door that depicted the epic history of mankind.

The Golden Throne Sanctum remained unchanged, filled with a sense of tragedy and eternal torment.

A buzzing sound filled the background as golden Psionic Energy dust swirled slowly like mist.

At the very center of all this, upon that enormous, intricately structured throne, lay the withered, silent remains of the Master of Mankind.

Malcador paused almost imperceptibly.

Although he already knew His Majesty's situation over the past ten thousand years from Guilliman.

But witnessing this "existence," which was even more shocking than the most tragic sacrifices in his memory, still struck the depths of his soul like a heavy hammer.

Those once radiant friends and rulers, brimming with wisdom, strength, and boundless spirit, are now imprisoned here, emaciated and consumed by pain and duty.

But he quickly regained his composure.

His long-standing composure as a prime minister, coupled with the significance of this "reunion," allowed him to suppress all his turbulent emotions.

He followed Guilliman steadily through the swirling golden dust, arriving at the foot of the throne, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with Guilliman, and then took a step forward.