The Happy Chancellor

Amidst the swirling red sand and dust, a faint yet incredibly resilient light, as pure as a newly born star, slowly coalesced, took shape, and grew.

Like the first ray of dawn piercing through the Chaos at the beginning of time, like the first tender sprout breaking through the solid ice on the permafrost.

Angron's figure gradually became clearer in the light.

First, the outline.

The warrior's steady, mountain-like silhouette was outlined in the interplay of light and dust.

Then comes flesh and blood.

Brand new flesh and blood, free from any curse marks and purely woven from the essence of life, covered the reconstructed bones.

Finally, there is consciousness.

The eyes that slowly opened were no longer blood-red with rage, but clear, warm, and like the crimson gold of Nuceria's homeland at dusk.

He stood there, shirtless, his new skin glowing with a healthy, bronze luster in the afterglow of the setting sun.

The four jagged indentations on the sides of his skull have now completely healed, turning into four faint, silvery old marks, like the glorious tattoos of ancient tribal warriors.

He looked down at his hands.

Those hands had torn apart countless lives, were stained with the ashes of their mother planet, and were stained with eternal blood in the realm of Khorne.

Now, those hands are clean.

It's not cleanliness in a physical sense, but a cleansing of the soul.

He slowly clenched his fist.

A new kind of power surged through my veins, a power unlike any I'd ever felt before.

It was no longer an impulse to destroy, no longer fuel for anger, but a pure sense of presence, like that of a newborn baby grasping its mother's finger for the first time.

He raised his head and looked at Guilliman, who was standing quietly not far away.

His lips moved.

A thousand words stuck in my throat, finally turning into a hoarse, soft murmur, as if waking from a long, ancient dream:

"I'm back."

Guilliman stared at him for a very long time.

Then--

A radiant smile bloomed on that cold, hard face.

"I knew you could do it, bro!"

He strode forward, each step kicking up dust, his cloak fluttering behind him.

"I believe you! We all believe you!"

Guilliman smiled and stepped forward, a blue-white ball of light appearing in his hand!

It was an eternal light, constantly intertwining and rotating, seemingly representing the beginning of life once again.

Gentle yet undeniable, it seems to absorb the entire afterglow of dusk.

It intertwines and rotates, like a miniature Milky Way dancing in the palm of your hand, or like the first pulse of life beating in the womb.

Each rotation creates subtle ripples in the surrounding space.

That is the projection of Law of Eternity onto the material world; it is a power of existence that transcends life and death and crosses dimensions.

Guilliman stared at the ball of light in his palm, his voice low and solemn.

He raised his head, looking directly into Angron's crimson-gold eyes, his gaze piercing:

"I, Guilliman, declare once again, the Son of War, swearing before the history of mankind— the God of Emotion and Strife has endured his trials!"

The eternal blue-white light shone ever brighter and more intensely in his palm, as if in response to his words.

"Come back, my brothers! Come back, let us once again contribute to the greatness of humanity!"

Guilliman's voice was like thunder, shaking the soul of every listener.

"This is precisely the meaning of our existence."

We are born from the immense tides of human emotion, and we will surely dedicate ourselves to this great cause once again!

His gaze swept over the densely packed warriors in the arena.

The gaze swept over the kneeling World Eaters, over the awe-inspiring Ultramarines and Adeptus Custodes, and finally landed on Angron:

"This time there was no Chaos Gods, no one else's instructions, and not even our father's request."

"You, me, and us—the gods of mankind—will do what is ought to be done for mankind!"

After he finished speaking, all was silent.

Only that eternal blue-white light burned quietly in his palm, like a response, like a summons, like the gate of new life.

Faraway Terra, the sacred Golden Throne Palace.

Amidst the eternal, unchanging hum, lies that withered, mummified corpse, revered as a deity by the world.

That broken shell, which hadn't made any unnecessary movements for ten thousand years, sustaining the human race solely through endless suffering—

It trembled slightly.

That tremor was so subtle that it was almost imperceptible.

But the golden Psionic Energy dust surrounding the throne rippled like a stone thrown into a lake.

Malcador, the one who had just awakened from a millennium-long slumber and resumed his Sigillite over the Imperium, slowly turned around and looked at the throne.

His face showed neither shock nor worry.

There was only an indescribable, gratifying smile, like watching your most prized work finally shine.

"My lord, why are you so agitated?"

Upon the throne, the eternal Black Sun, representing the endless suffering and responsibility of the Master of Mankind, shone faintly.

Malcador seemed to sense the emotions surging within that light—a complex and indescribable throbbing that had never been felt before.

He laughed, a laugh like that of a wise man who had seen through all the mysteries:

Is it because your son—does he do better than you?

The Black Sun's light suddenly froze.

Malcador continued calmly:

"You've always said that the Son of War are only responsible for war."

He is your knife, your sword, the sharpest weapon in your hand.

You gave him Five Hundred Worlds, an endless army, and a mind capable of scheming for eternity, but... you never expected him to be 'human'."

He shook his head, his smile growing even deeper:

"But it seems you're wrong."

"His responsibilities go far beyond these simple matters."

Malcador's gaze seemed to pierce through endless void, landing on the distant Arena of Baal, and on those two figures:

He is your best child.

What did he inherit?

Love for humanity, aspirations for the future, and hope for this era...

It's hard to believe that these things were actually inherited from you.

The Black Sun swayed even more violently.

The golden Psionic Energy dust seemed to boil, swirling and surging within the hall.

Malcador was smiling broadly.

I'm really happy.

He liked seeing this.

I like to see that monarch, who carries everything on his shoulders, treats everyone as pawns, and has completely stripped himself of his humanity, finally reveal a slight flaw.

It wasn't because of any grand victory, nor because of any strategic success.

He did what a father couldn't do, just because of his son.