Are You Mocking Me?

The Adeptus Custodes standing nearby, those eternally unchanging warriors like golden statues, all involuntarily lowered their heads at that moment.

They dared not look at Malcador's smile, much less at the swaying Black Sun —but they could sense that something was quietly changing within this eternally silent temple.

Malcador very happy.

He laughed heartily.

Even the Adeptus Custodes standing nearby lowered their heads.

This prime minister from ten thousand years ago is genuinely happy at this moment!

He enjoyed seeing his monarch sons enjoying each other's company.

It wasn't because he liked the warm atmosphere at home, or at least not simply because he liked those things.

Because Malcador knew perfectly well that these children, these so-called offspring of Emperor of Mankind, were all true gods belonging to humanity!

They were originally adrift in the Warp, without thought, without will, without goal, and without future!

The Emperor used his power and the help of the Chaos Gods to retrieve these twenty-one Primarch from the Chaos and give them physical bodies.

They should have been given souls by the Emperor, but these Primarch were lost, and they had no help from the Master of Mankind.

Could these gods of humanity truly be born as human beings?

It now appears that only one person has truly lived as a human being to this day.

The thirteenth symbolizes hope, Robert symbolizes the future, and Guilliman symbolizes humanity!

How wonderful, Your Majesty!

Perhaps we shouldn't have interfered in the first place.

Even without our help, these children would probably be like the Eldar gods—some mischievous, but genuinely loving.

Just like the current thirteenth brother, he has truly walked among people as a human being.

Are you mocking me, Malcador?

The Emperor's voice drifted over, audible only to Malcador.

The voice was no longer the initial metallic, hoarse, and weary sound, but instead carried a deep, almost self-mocking tone that was unprecedented in history.

Those were the Black Sun's words of self-reproach.

Malcador burst into laughter at the Emperor's words!

"What are you saying, my king?!"

Malcador stopped laughing, staring intently at the swaying Black Sun:

"This is the best ending! This is the perfect answer!"

He took a step forward, his aged yet upright figure seemingly bathed in a radiant glow amidst the golden dust.

"After ten thousand years, humanity's god—once again bursts forth with a brilliance belonging to humankind!"

His voice carried an all-knowing clarity:

"You cannot do it, Your Majesty."

Even if you personally teach you, you still can't do it!

"Because you've stripped yourself away too completely."

You have molded yourself into a symbol, a concept, an eternally burning torch... but you have forgotten that the torch is warm because it was once a bonfire in the hands of an ordinary person.

Malcador's voice softened, carrying the deep affection and understanding of a lifelong friend:

"Let them do it themselves."

The gods of mankind will ultimately shine for mankind.

He gazed at the swaying Black Sun and whispered:

Just like you.

silence.

A long, timeless silence.

Then--

For the first time, the light of the Black Sun softened.

It was no longer that blinding, scorching intensity, but a gentle tranquility, like the last glimmer of light in the eyes of an old man in his twilight years.

"... you're right."

The Emperor's voice came, no longer a hoarse struggle, but a calm, as if relieved after a tremendous burden had been lifted:

"They... have their own way out."

After a moment of silence, the voice rang out again, this time with a tone that Malcador thousand years—a tone almost human:

"But if you've made a mistake, you've made a mistake."

Malcador's pupils constricted.

"Angron needs to admit his mistake."

That was the duty he had to bear, the past he had to carry, the judgment he had to face as a warrior, as the Primarch, as a fallen soul.

The Black Sun's light suddenly brightened, but it was no longer the cold, unquestionable divine light; instead, it was a warm, decisive human light.

"But by the same token--"

"I should also take responsibility for my mistakes."

Malcador suddenly looked up, stunned and frozen in place!

He looked at the desiccated corpse on the Golden Throne.

That unchanging, withered, fossil-like body lay there, half-dead, without any expression or movement.

But at this moment, in Malcador's perception, there was something inside that body—

It's alive.

More like a human being than at any moment in the past ten thousand years!

"I will make up for my mistake!"

Golden Psionic Energy light rose from the Black Sun!

It's no longer the consumable output used to maintain the Astronomican and resist Chaos, but rather something condensed to the extreme, pure to the extreme, without any impurities or purpose—

A gift.

That beam of light traversed endless void, ignoring distance, dimensions, and the obstruction of Warp Storm and Chaos realms.

Like a golden arrow forged from humanity's millennia-long faith, it shot straight toward Baal!

The sky above Terra was filled with swirling clouds.

The clouds were drawn together by an invisible force, forming a golden tornado that blotted out the sky!

The air currents surged and thunder roared; every living being on the planet who looked up at the sky, no matter where they were, witnessed this miraculous scene.

Then--

A golden beam of light shot down from the sky!

It pierced straight and precisely through the clouds, through the atmosphere, and through the endless void.

It landed in the center of the arena, landing on Angron, who had just taken human form and was still trembling in the dim light!

The light was as vast as the sea, yet without the slightest oppression; as blazing as the sun, yet as warm as a mother's hand.

It meant nothing else, no command, no blessing, no condescending judgment.

It merely symbolizes humanity's hope.

Angron was bathed in that golden light, and his newborn body seemed to be infused with the final and most crucial cornerstone of his soul.

The golden light did not conflict with any of the power within him, nor did it attempt to transform, define, or bind him.

It merely fills the gap.

To fill the chasm torn apart by anger over millennia, to fill the void corroded by the Butcher's Nails, to fill the last vestige of human attachment abandoned by self-exile.

Angron closed his eyes.

He sensed something contained within that light.

That was the guilt that my father had carried alone for thousands of years, a guilt he had never spoken of to anyone.

That was a father's love that was heavier and more real than any language—even though that love had been distorted beyond recognition by power, responsibility, and grand narratives.

He understood.

It wasn't about forgiveness—forgiveness takes time, a long period of time that belongs to the future—but at least, he understood.

Seeing the golden light shooting down from the sky, Guilliman smiled.

That smile held weariness, relief, joy at his father finally taking this step, and satisfaction at his brother's return home intact.

He will press eternity into Angron's body.

He gently pressed the long-swirling, blue-white eternal light in his palm into Angron's chest.

"Buzz--!"

The moment the light entered, a buzzing sound that pierced through dimensions resounded.

It was not pain, not shock, but a deeper resonance, like the universe itself finally completing a precise puzzle piece.

The eternal blue-white light and the golden light of hope intertwine, merge, and reshape within Angron!

This moment-

Everything is ready!