Relics of a Bygone Era

Inside the temple, the concept of time becomes blurred.

The Emperor and Malcador, two beings whose fates have been intertwined since the dawn of human Destiny, are finally able to "talk" again after ten thousand years of separation.

Their conversation didn't need to be loud; the flow of their thoughts carried the weight of millennia of history, unfulfilled ambitions, and profound sacrifices.

And those bitter secrets about eternity and responsibility that only they could understand.

The Whisper of Psionic Energy formed a hazy halo at the edge of the material realm constructed by Guilliman, like the secret echoes of two ancient souls deep within the river of time.

Guilliman stood quietly to one side, like the most loyal guard, or like a bridge connecting two eras.

He listened to those fragmented exchanges, filled with a heavy sense of history, and felt the profound affection and endless regret contained within them.

At first, he approached them with reverence, trying to decipher the fragments of information that contained the oldest secrets of human civilization.

But soon, a subtle sense of alienation welled up in my heart.

Relics from two old eras...

This idea is not meant to be disrespectful, but rather reflects a certain understanding of reality.

The Emperor and Malcador, their way of thinking, their attachment to certain ancient promises, and their perspective on the Milky Way, still bear the deep imprint of the Great Crusade and even earlier eras.

Guilliman, despite also experiencing millennia of slumber, has always focused on the "present" and the "future"—how to carve out a path for humanity amidst a fragmented reality.

Those ancient secrets, those sighs and lamentations among the Perpetual, seemed not to be the most pressing matters for him at this moment.

He glanced at the withered figure on the throne, then looked at Malcador beside him, who was immersed in communicating with his former master, his expression sometimes solemn and sometimes sighing.

He could sense that they needed time.

We need an undisturbed space to fill the void created by millennia of separation, and to recalibrate our positions and understanding in this new era.

Let them talk.

Guilliman made a decision in his heart.

He still needs to sort out the myriad affairs of politics, military affairs, and the Imperium.

This place belongs to both the "past" and "eternity".

He quietly withdrew the material domain he was maintaining, and the gentle sense of oppression began to permeate again, but for Malcador in his current state, it was already within a tolerable range.

Guilliman bowed slightly toward the throne, then gave Malcador a look that said, "I'll be leaving now."

Malcador was focused on communicating with the Emperor telepathically, giving only a barely perceptible nod, his gaze never leaving the throne.

Guilliman turned and, with steady steps, once again traversed the temple shrouded in golden dust. The heavy doors closed silently behind him, shutting out the Whisper of the two ancient souls within.

Returning to the simple room in the palace grounds that he had temporarily requisitioned as his residence, Guilliman did indeed feel a long-lost weariness that originated from the depths of his spirit.

This kind of fatigue is not because the body needs sleep, but more like a deep longing for "relaxation" and "normalcy" after a prolonged period of high intensity and high pressure.

He missed the large, softly woven bed in the Ultramar Palace, the size of the Primarch, and the feeling of temporarily relieving himself of the burdens of the Milky Way when he closed his eyes—even if only for a moment.

He pushed open the door. The room was dimly lit, with only a few rays of light from the eternal city of Terra shining through the window.

He walked straight to the bedside, instinctively wanting to throw his heavy body into the bed, which was a little small for him but at least provided some support.

However, his hand stopped moving as soon as it touched the edge of the bed.

In the darkness, a pair of long, slender legs, gleaming like ivory in the dim light, were casually crossed and placed in the center of his bed.

Looking upwards, one sees a graceful figure draped in the delicate and magnificent attire of the Eldar, with long, silvery-white hair flowing like moonlight over her shoulders and the pillow.

Yvraine, the prophet and leader of the Reaper Host, leaned against the headboard of his bed, one hand supporting her chin. Her long, narrow, and lively eyes gleamed with a mischievous and cunning light in the dim light, like a nocturnal feline locking onto its prey.

"Oh? Our Regent, who's been so busy with Lord Regent and just reclaimed Terra, finally has time to return to his lair?"

Yvraine's voice was as soft as a night breeze, yet carried a clear hint of mockery.

Guilliman stopped what he was doing, stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, his Power Armour gleaming a cold, hard blue-gold in the dim light.

His face didn't show much surprise, but rather helplessness and a hint of annoyance at being disturbed.

"I remember I should have had my attendants arrange a special guest room for you and your entourage, one that conforms to Eldar customs."

Guilliman's tone was flat, revealing neither joy nor anger, "I have also clearly instructed the Adeptus Custodes that as long as you do not set foot in the absolute forbidden zone of the palace, they will not show any hostility towards you."

So, Ms. Yvraine, could you explain why you're in my room and... occupying my bed?

He tilted his head and offered a metaphor that Aeldari Farseer somewhat bewildered. "Do you enjoy 'Nutriton' (NTR) plots, Yvraine?"

Yvraine blinked, clearly not understanding the specific term that originated from the ancient Terra online culture.

"Mouthmen? You mean those Khorne demons who follow Khorne?" She frowned her delicate eyebrows. "Of course I don't like them."

They are ugly and stupid; all they know is how to roar and kill.

As she spoke, she displayed one bare foot with a beautiful arch.

He lifted it up directly, and lightly, with a hint of provocation, stepped on Guilliman's Power Armour, right where the Imperial Aquila relief was.

Guilliman glanced down at the slender foot resting on his breastplate, then looked up at Yvraine's smiling face, and pursed his lips:

"If Belisarius Cawl saw how you treated the ' Armor of Destiny ' that he had painstakingly designed and built, he would absolutely go mad."

Every line on it embodies his devotion to the Adeptus Mechanicus and his reverence for the Primarch.

"This armor is hard and cold, and it's covered in all sorts of battlefield dust, Xenos blood, and Warp grime,"

Yvraine pouted, not only failing to move her foot, but also lightly tapping the cold Ceramite with her toe. "Can't I even step on it?"

I didn't mind that it might get my feet dirty."