I Don't Know

A soft candlelight was lit.

It was the darkest corner deep within the Imperial Palace, behind layers of the Veil that even the eternal radiance of the Golden Throne could not penetrate, a small, almost rudimentary study.

There were no ornate decorations, no elaborate carvings, only a long oak table, several rows of bookshelves crammed with ancient scrolls, and a candlestick that never went out, emitting a soft glow.

Guilliman sat at one end of the long table, hunched over and reading through the mountain of government documents.

His pen tip glided across the parchment, making a soft, rustling sound that was exceptionally clear in the silence, like fragments of time unnoticed for ten thousand years.

Before him lay a tall, mummified corpse.

The Emperor lay there on the Golden Throne —a throne that was "extended" there by some unseen force, or rather, Guilliman's study was located in a side room of the throne room.

They were ten steps apart, yet it felt as if they were separated by the silence of the entire Milky Way.

The mummified corpse's eye sockets were empty, yet there was a clear "gaze" fixed on Guilliman.

"You are distressed, my son."

The Emperor's voice echoed softly, no longer Psychic Shockwave, but a real sound squeezed from those parched lips—this kind of "dialogue" had become possible ever since Guilliman partially repaired the Emperor's vocal cords and respiratory system with his atomic powers.

Guilliman did not look up.

His pen continued to move across the paper, his movements unchanged, his posture calm, just as he always had.

"Let me guess," the Emperor continued, his voice hoarse like weathered rock, yet carrying a certain weathered quality that seemed to have pierced through the ages, "or rather, let me speculate based on my past experience—"

He paused.

You're worried.

"I'm worried that I... won't be able to save the entire Imperium of Man."

The brushstrokes stopped.

Guilliman stood frozen in place, his hand holding the quill pen suspended in mid-air.

He didn't speak, nor did he even look up, but that momentary pause was the best answer.

After a long while, he continued writing.

But the Emperor's voice did not stop.

"Every Master of Mankind does this."

The voice was soft and gentle, like a supreme king patiently guiding his teachings, or perhaps it wasn't speaking, but rather offering salvation to all beings. "We worry too much, think too much, carry too much burden... to the point that we feel powerless."

Guilliman finally raised his head.

His face was half-lit and half-shadowed in the candlelight, and something flickered faintly in the depths of his azure eyes.

Those weren't tears; the Primarch doesn't shed tears—or rather, it hasn't shed tears for a very, very long time.

It was something deeper than tears, a weariness buried deep in the heart, never spoken of to anyone.

"The Imperium of Man is too large."

He spoke, his voice calm, yet with a barely perceptible hoarseness.

"Too big."

He repeated it again.

"It's too big, so big that... it makes both those who want to destroy it and those who want to save it feel despair."

He put down his pen, stood up, and walked to the window.

The window had no glass, only a heavy stone frame, outside which lay Terra's eternal night sky—or rather, a simulated night sky.

The real Terra no longer has a starry sky, only endless city lights and smog formed from industrial waste gas.

"I can do many things."

Guilliman's voice drifted in from the window, calm as if stating a fact unrelated to himself. "Now, with only my body, I can traverse the Milky Way."

No being in the Realspace can truly stand against me—except for those damned C'tan."

He paused.

Even those C'tan are now sealed away by the Necrons.

He turned around and looked at the mummified corpse on the throne, a rare look of confusion appearing in his eyes for the first time.

But I still... feel powerless.

That confusion was like a pebble thrown into still water, creating ripples in his eyes.

"The Imperium is too big, too big."

It was so vast that it filled me with despair, so vast that even using my own nature as a ' Son of War,' I couldn't conceive of a way to save the Imperium.

His voice lowered, becoming so low that only he could hear it:

"I don't know... where to go."

Golden light quietly enveloped him.

It wasn't a dazzling, scorching, judgmental light, but a warm, gentle light, like an embrace.

With the last vestiges of his strength that sustained humanity, the Emperor gently and carefully embraced his son.

"Where should we go next, Father?"

Guilliman asked in a low voice.

He simply couldn't find the answer.

In this era of Four Chaos Gods, with Xenos stirring and Imperium crumbling, at a time when he possessed superhuman power yet still couldn't turn the tide—he needed an answer.

Even if it's just in one direction.

Outside the gates of the Imperial Palace, a fierce wind howled.

The wind, having passed through numerous corridors and layers of palaces, finally reached this small study, leaving only a faint sob.

But within that sob, there was clearly the lingering echo of thunder, as if a storm was brewing in the distance.

A faint voice came from the direction of the throne:

"I have no idea..."

The voice was filled with such helplessness, as helpless as a father trapped in eternal pain, who could only give the most honest, and also the cruelest, answer to his son's question.

But there was also a sense of determination in that voice.

What kind of unwavering determination was that?

The unwavering determination to do something even when it seems impossible.

The determination to do something even when you know it's impossible.

A steadfast resolve to go nowhere, even knowing death is inevitable!

A steadfast determination to face inevitable defeat!

Guilliman was stunned.

He looked at the throne, at the unchanging mummified corpse, at the empty eye sockets.

Deep within those eye sockets, something was clearly burning—not Psionic Energy, not divine power, but a flame more ancient and more resilient than anything else, a flame belonging to "humanity".

Yes, you didn't know.

Guilliman said silently to himself.

If you had known, the Imperium of Man wouldn't have turned out this way.

If you had known, Horus would not have rebelled.

If you knew, we Primarch would not have scattered, fallen, and slaughtered one another.

If you knew, ten thousand years of darkness wouldn't have been so long.

you do not know.

but--

Even if you didn't know it, you still did it.

Even if you don't know where the road ahead is, you still walk on.

Even if you don't know if it all has any meaning, you still burned yourself out, becoming a beacon that illuminates humanity for thousands of years.