I Know, Of Course

"Killers, slaughterers."

The Blood God's most beloved mad dog... oh, sorry, it's 'Warrior'.

Cypher's tone carried a scholarly yet maliciously analytical quality. "You have plenty of 'legends' to your name."

The most interesting one is... you will be 'without time', or rather, completely randomly, at 'the eighth day, the eighth hour, the eighth minute, and the eighth second'.

It can be refreshed in any corner of the Milky Way, on any battlefield.

Ha! That probability sounds far-fetched, but actually... if you spend enough time in that hellish place Warp, you'll find that the probability is actually quite high."

He seemed to be recalling something, a complex light flashing in his eyes. "I... I often 'bump into' you."

Across distorted dimensions, through the boiling river of blood, I see you there, hacking and slashing, roaring, reveling... or enduring eternal rage.

Cypher shrugged, his tone shifting to a feigned regret. "It's a pity, the 'protective measures' back then were never very good."

Warp Storm, interference from the Chaos Warband, my own personal troubles... all of these have prevented me from ever truly getting close to you, from 'taking a good look' at you.

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the outside of the cell, his voice suddenly becoming clear and sharp, "But things are different now! Haha!"

He suddenly raised his arm, with an almost theatrical gesture, and pointed out the transparent observation window of the cell to the figure standing solemnly like a steel statue!

There, in perfect formation, like the most precise geometric array, stood a full twenty Ultramarines!

They were not ordinary blue-armored warriors.

Each of them was more robust and tall, their Power Armour etched with more emblems of honor and battle scars.

What's most striking is the color of their helmets—pure, flawless white.

This is the emblem of the Primarch Honor Guard.

He is the Ultramarines Legion, selected through the most rigorous process, having experienced countless fierce battles, and whose loyalty to the Gene-Father and his own martial arts skills have reached their peak!

These white-helmeted guards were as silent as mountains, their eyes behind their visors like the most sophisticated scanners.

The monitor was constantly focused on Cypher in the cell, not missing a single twitch of his muscles or a rise and fall of his breath.

They can even operate in extremely precise "shifts"—always maintaining more than ten pairs of eyes focused simultaneously to ensure there are no blind spots in surveillance.

It is said that any one of them could easily defeat a dozen ordinary Ultramarines brothers in a head-on battle.

If we were to convert their terrifying combat power into that of Imperium Space Marines legion that hadn't undergone rigorous training and was only equipped with ordinary gear...

That would be a despairing number—one person could slaughter tens of thousands!

Even Primarch like Angron are known for their ferocious fighting prowess.

If it is in good condition and not restrained.

Facing an attack from five or six white-helmeted guards at the same time, one would likely be caught in a fierce battle, and could easily be suppressed or injured if not careful.

And now, there are a full twenty!

Like twenty peerless blades drawn from their sheaths, ready to drink blood, they hung overhead, solely to guard the two prisoners.

Their very existence is a silent, suffocating deterrent.

They can maintain a state of alert with machine-like precision, and are said to be able to keep their eyepiece sensors open for up to a year without going into deep sleep.

Not to mention that the most stringent rotation system is in place to ensure that prisoners in the cells are always under the watchful eyes of at least ten cold, piercing gazes.

Cypher looked at the white helmets and felt the tangible pressure of their gazes, the forced "relaxation" on his lips completely crumbled, turning into a deep despair.

"If... if even one person's gaze, for even a second, didn't fall upon me..."

Cypher murmured to himself, as if speaking to himself, yet also as if accusing someone, "I'm confident I can tear open even the smallest Warp Rift..."

Even if only one of my fingers can escape... I have a plan for the future...

He slumped down, letting his arms drop, and slid back against the cold wall to sit down.

"That Lord Regent... Lord Guilliman..."

Cypher's voice was filled with complex emotions: awe, fear, and the helplessness of being completely seen through.

"I originally thought... he was a kind guy."

At least they're more reasonable than those lunatics in the Imperial Inquisition and those fanatics of the Ecclesiarchy; they'll be more considerate of people like us...

The ancient bloodline of 'repentance and turning back' allows for leniency, offering a sliver of trust and opportunity.

He shook his head with a wry smile, his eyes vacant. "It turns out... he was indeed merciful."

He didn't throw me directly into the Forge of Souls, or hand me over to those Inquisitor eager to stain their resumes with the blood of ancient traitors.

He even gave me this relatively 'decent' cell, without instruments of torture or daily Psionic Energy interrogations."

"But..."

Cypher's voice suddenly became shrill, filled with frustration:

"He is indeed meticulous! Extremely meticulous!"

Too meticulous...

He pointed sharply at the white-helmeted guards outside the window. "Look at them!"

Twenty!

Twenty Primarch Guards!

Just to keep an eye on me!

And this damn wall that Psionic Energy echoes!

There are also countless layers of Stasis Field and physical locks outside!

He... he never believed me from beginning to end!

Not even a tiny bit!

He meticulously calculated, deduced, and questioned every single word I said in his mind, which was even more complex than the main planet Ultramar!

The 'mercy' he showed me was based on observation under absolute control!

The 'opportunity' he gave me was a specimen displayed locked in a titanium coffin!

Cypher's voice echoed in the cell, carrying millennia of accumulated resentment and the despair of having nowhere to escape.

Just then, in another corner of the cell.

The crimson figure, which had remained as silent as a rock, let out a very faint, yet clearly audible, sneer in the stillness.

The laughter was short, dry, and full of undisguised sarcasm.

It wasn't about Cypher's predicament, but rather about a certain... naiveté and foolishness revealed in his words.

Angron didn't even look up, remaining curled up, but that sneer, like an icicle, pierced through Cypher's agitated emotions.

He was mocking Cypher.

They mocked the descendants of this "first brother," who were so foolish as to think they could outsmart "that brother" and bargain with him.

Even Angron, tormented by the Butcher's Nails, dominated by millennia of rage, and whose mind often falls into Chaos.

In certain moments of lucidity, I also clearly recognized a fact:

Even at his peak, blessed by the Four Chaos Gods, he had absolutely no chance of defeating the returning Robert Guilliman.

That brother's existence itself has transcended the realm of ordinary Primarch, stepping into an incomprehensible domain.

His power is unparalleled.

Whether it's the incredible manipulation and power of matter in the Realspace, or the terrifying Psionic Energy in the Warp that can intrude and summon souls.

Guilliman has demonstrated absolute strength that transcends this era and may even surpass past understanding.

In his presence, any attempt to scheme, beg for mercy, or try to exploit information asymmetry for freedom seems so childish and laughable.

Angron even felt that the fact that Cypher was able to be imprisoned here alive, instead of being "disposed of" by Guilliman, was already a testament to his brother's "mercy" and "meticulousness."

"You... should keep quiet."

A voice suddenly rang out, low and hoarse, like the friction of sand and gravel, yet surprisingly calm, without the usual roar and fury.

It was Angron who spoke.

He actually spoke up first, and it was to Cypher, the "junior" he had previously looked down upon.

Even more unbelievable was that his tone contained no anger, no murderous intent, only a deep, almost weary... admonition?