This Is Horus Puff

He knew who it was.

Although ten thousand years of slumber had blurred many memories, and although what he saw in the Warp seemed like a dream, he was absolutely certain—

That's Robert Guilliman.

The Thirteenth Primarch.

His brother.

Brothers who are alive, fighting, and still standing strong ten thousand years from now.

The lion's mouth curled up slightly.

It was a smile that hadn't been seen in a million years, a smile belonging to a warrior.

"Guilliman ..." he Whisper, his voice hoarse but firm, "You're still alive."

"That's wonderful. As long as you're alive, I'm not alone."

He leaned against the broken coffin and slowly stood up.

The ten-thousand-year slumber has come to an end.

The lion of Caliban has awakened.

The corridors of the Imperial Palace stretch endlessly, with towering columns on both sides carved with the glorious epic of the Imperium's ten thousand years of history.

Golden Psionic Energy lights flickered between the pillars, casting long, elongated shadows.

Guilliman walked with steady steps.

As he walked deeper into the palace, his blue-gold Power Armour gleamed warmly under the lamplight, and his scarlet cloak fluttered gently behind him.

He has been gone for a long time.

Having returned from the battlefield, from audiences at the throne, and from endless meetings and decisions, he was now simply wandering aimlessly.

The Adeptus Custodes Guards followed closely behind him like golden sculptures, silent and loyal.

Guilliman suddenly stopped.

Their gazes suddenly became somewhat unfocused, as if they had pierced through countless moments of time.

Then it coalesced again, and a smile appeared on his lips.

Welcome back, brother.

He spoke softly, his voice drifting across the endless Warp, reaching the person he wanted to convey it to.

The imperial Adeptus Custodes nearby were stunned, not understanding what the Lord Regent was talking about.

Guilliman turned his head to look at the tall Adeptus Custodes beside him, a thoughtful weariness in his eyes:

"Tell me... how long is long enough to be considered a long path to power?"

The Adeptus Custodes did not answer.

He didn't even show any change in expression; his gaze beneath the mask remained fixed straight ahead, as if he hadn't heard the question at all.

But Guilliman knew he had heard it.

How could the Adeptus Custodes not hear it?

These guys are the ultimate guards personally crafted by the Emperor; each one has the sensory ability to detect the frequency of a mosquito's wingbeats from a hundred meters away.

He just didn't dare to answer.

How should I answer this question?

The Adeptus Custodes were internally groaning. They couldn't very well tell the Lord Regent, "You're just one step away from the longest throne; just pull that guy off and sit on it!"

The Adeptus Custodes had no doubt that if he dared to say those words, he would be hit by the Emperor's Psionic Energy blast in the next second.

As for why it wasn't Guilliman who was beaten?

hehe.

A wave of unprecedented sorrow welled up in the hearts of the Adeptus Custodes.

That damned Emperor tells them every day that they are the most beloved offspring, their most loyal servants, and their unwavering comrades-in-arms.

It was all bullshit!

Last time, just last time!

For some reason, Guilliman came over and started joking with them.

They said things like, "Don't you Adeptus Custodes think that the Emperor might have been a little black-haired girl wearing exotic clothing 40,000 years ago?"

Then, the Lord Regent finished speaking, felt it was pointless, and turned to leave.

They were left standing there, looking at Adeptus Custodes other in bewilderment.

And the result?

As a result, the Emperor's Psionic Energy was pulled off that very night!

He even said righteously, "Why didn't the Adeptus Custodes stop Guilliman from joking with Chancellor Malcador?"

I heard everything clearly here, and you were just standing there watching? What use are you to me?!

Is there any way I can stop it?

Is there any way we can stop it?!

That's the Lord Regent! He's your son!

He is the Son of War! He is the god of the Material Universe!

What can we use to stop it? Our heads?!

If I hadn't realized he was the Lord Regent, my Power Halberd would have already stabbed him in the face!

If you don't stop it, you'll get hit by the Psionic Energy's slingshot; if you do stop it, you'll still get hit by the Psionic Energy's slingshot!

I'm going to get beaten up either way, I can't take this anymore!

The Adeptus Custodes groaned inwardly as the complete chain of logic played out in their minds in a loop at a speed of 0.1 milliseconds.

Then, his unchanging, resolute, and loyal expression reappeared beneath his visor—as if nothing had happened.

From now on, let's not call him the Emperor of Mankind anymore, let's just call him the Emperor of Big Penis.

He silently added one last complaint in his mind.

Of course, I only dare to think about these things in my head.

With the Adeptus Custodes's extraordinary mental processing abilities, these thoughts would only cycle through their minds once within 0.1 milliseconds.

The next second, he was still the same Heavenly Adeptus Custodes who loved the Master of Mankind so deeply, his gaze resolute, his posture upright, and his loyalty unwavering.

The Emperor's voice echoed faintly in his mind:

Don't think I don't know what you're thinking in 0.12 seconds.

Adeptus Custodes:...

Even Emperor are truly helpless.

There was no other way; humanity's hope lay before him, and there was only one Primarch, Robert.

What?

You're saying Sanguinius has also been resurrected?

And Angron and Magnus?

Those three are nothing!

Even if all three of them were together, they couldn't compare to Guilliman, an SSR character!

If the Emperor could stand up, he would surely pat Malcador on the shoulder and say with a solemn expression, "The Master of Mankind are only me and Guilliman."

As for the other Primarch?

Thugs.

They're all thugs.

Guilliman received no answer from the Adeptus Custodes, but he did not press the matter further.

He seemed to be just saying it casually, not expecting an answer.

He continued walking forward at a leisurely pace, as if he were truly just taking a stroll.

After walking a few steps, he suddenly stopped again.

He raised the object in his hand—an exquisite cardboard box tied with a gold and red ribbon, its surface printed with ornate Imperium Gothic script.

He untied the ribbon, opened the cardboard box, and took out a small, round, golden-yellow object that emitted an enticing sweet fragrance.

The people of the Imperium have absolutely no resistance to anything golden.

That golden color was like the holy light of Emperor, like the radiance of Golden Throne, like the eternally burning color of hope in countless Imperium propaganda posters.

The Adeptus Custodes almost instinctively raised their hands and took the golden cream puff that Guilliman handed them.

I named this thing -- Horus Puff.

Guilliman said with a smile as bright as a child who had just succeeded in a prank.