Old Friends Reunited

Following the ancient, almost forgotten court etiquette for audiences with the high-speed rail, he stepped back half a step with his right foot and lightly pressed his left hand against his right chest, near his heart.

His upper body leaned forward at an extremely standard and elegant angle, his head bowed, and his gaze respectfully fixed three steps in front of the throne base.

The entire movement was fluid and natural, without any hesitation, as if the past ten thousand years had not passed, and he was still the Sigillite reported on the affairs of the Milky Way to the monarch and offered advice every day.

"Supreme Master of Mankind, Eternal Star of Terra and Imperium, Your servant, Malcador, has been granted the incredible grace to return to Your throne."

His voice, though not loud, pierced the hum of the throne with clarity and steady rhythm, carrying a well-trained, courteous respect and profound emotion. "Greetings, Your Majesty."

On the throne, the withered body seemed to move almost imperceptibly.

From the direction of the eyes, covered in dust and crystals, it seemed as if a "gaze" beyond sight descended, heavily and slowly focusing on the bowing figure below the steps.

"... Macado..."

No longer the hoarse voice strained out during their previous conversation with Guilliman, this time the voice resonated deep within their consciousness. It was still filled with endless exhaustion, but beneath that exhaustion was a surging, almost uncontrollable shock, realization, and something like... a sudden crack in the surface of a frozen river, revealing the first ripples of spring water.

"Your physical form... your soul's imprint... this... is not an illusion..."

The Emperor's consciousness swept over Malcador, sensing the vibrant life force within that body and the familiar yet somehow different soul fluctuations, as well as the peculiar domain Guilliman had created that isolated his dissipating Psionic Energy.

"Robert's... doing it?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Guilliman bowed slightly to the side, "I have accomplished my mission."

Malcador remained bowed, not raising his head immediately, until he felt the vast, scrutinizing, and confirming intent enveloping him ease slightly, at which point he slowly straightened up.

He raised his head, finally daring to look at the unrecognizable face on the throne, a faint, bitter smile playing on his lips, a smile that held a thousand unspoken words.

"My old friend..."

Malcador's voice softened, abandoning strict formalities and carrying a heartfelt sigh that only his closest confidants could perceive, "Even in such dire straits, hope... still remains."

Your choice back then... to preserve the flame of human civilization at all costs, was ultimately the right one.

He shook his head slightly, as if recalling that incredibly dark moment that determined the Destiny the Milky Way:

"We ' Perpetual ' who have stolen so much time sometimes fall into doubt and cynicism because we have seen and experienced too much."

But humans... they always manage to struggle out astonishing possibilities from the edge of seemingly hopeless abysses, radiating a brilliance that surpasses the imagination of us 'old-fashioned' folks."

His gaze swept over Guilliman, who stood tall and imposing beside him, his eyes filled with satisfaction and a sense of "it really is so" understanding.

"To live and witness such a surprise,"

Malcador looked at the Emperor again, his voice firm yet warm, "Perhaps, that is the greatest meaning and joy for us old bones to continue existing."

The Emperor remained silent for several breaths, and the sorrowful and painful atmosphere that permeated the temple seemed to be slightly diluted by these words.

A deep and complex "emotion" - emotion, nostalgia, guilt, relief - is like a silent tide, gently lapping at the boundary of the material realm constructed by Guilliman.

"Just as you... said, my... old friend."

The Emperor's message conveyed clear acceptance and unquestionable joy. "Welcome... back."

Humans... are such a race.

Fragile... yet resilient; shortsighted... yet always able to look to the stars at crucial moments.

Their potential... their possibilities... have never truly disappointed me.

The Emperor's "gaze" swept over Guilliman once more, the meaning of which was self-evident.

Immediately, the intention became even more solemn, like an ancient seal about to be placed, proclaiming an unalterable decree:

"Malcador".

"Your subject is present."

The Sigillite immediately lowered their head slightly, their posture as respectful as ever.

"Robert Guilliman... my thirteenth son... will officially... succeed me."

The Emperor's will was like a heavy stone tablet, each word engraved on the plane of reality and Psionic Energy: "He will be the Imperium of Man... the only, legitimate... Lord Regent."

During the period when I am unable to personally manage state affairs... he will inherit my duties... exercise my authority... and rule the Imperium... all its lands and subjects."

The Psionic Energy dust in the temple seemed to quicken its flow and resonate subtly with the announcement.

"I... hope,"

The Emperor's thoughts fell upon Malcador, carrying a sense of entrustment and boundless trust. "Can you assist him with the same dedication... you once did for me?"

"Use your wisdom... your experience... your profound understanding of the Imperium... to assist him... in stabilizing the course of this... colossal ship."

Malcador listened quietly, his face showing no surprise.

The moment the Emperor finished speaking, he took a half step back again. This time, he slowly raised his hands and made a gesture of respect in front of him, placing his left hand on top of his right hand with his palms facing him, forming an ancient and solemn "receiving the mandate" ceremony.

His back was bent deeply, his head lowered, until the strands of hair on his forehead almost touched his loosely clasped hands.

This ceremony is older and more solemn than the audience ceremony just now, and is usually used only when receiving the most important appointments or entrustments from the monarch.

His voice, clear, steady, and filled with unquestionable loyalty and solemnity, resounded in the silent space guarded by the material realm:

"We will obey the imperial decree."

"As you wish--"

He paused briefly, then spoke each word carefully, as if making an oath:

"--My Majesty."

After speaking, he maintained the bowed posture for several breaths before slowly straightening up and raising his eyelids.

Their gazes first met the unseen gaze upon the throne, conveying an unwavering loyalty and tacit understanding;

He then turned to face Guilliman and bowed slightly again, this time in the standard manner of a subject facing the Lord Regent.

"As you wish, Your Lord Regent."

Malcador's voice was calm and even, yet it had already completed the transition of identity and the confirmation of responsibility.

Guilliman watched this scene, witnessing the profound understanding and entrustment between his father and teacher that transcended millennia of life and death, requiring no further words.

Looking at Malcador's impeccable, ingrained manners, I felt a complex mix of emotions.

He took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and nodded solemnly toward the throne and toward Malcador.

The relay of authority was completed silently and solemnly at this moment, in this most sacred and most painful temple of the human race.