The First Primarch
Guilliman slammed his fist on the table and stood up abruptly!
With a loud bang, the oak table shattered into pieces with a single blow!
Countless parchment scrolls fell like snowflakes.
He grabbed the red robe draped over the back of the chair, flung it forcefully, and draped it over his shoulders!
The red of his robe, like a burning flame, like an inextinguishable hope, fluttered behind him!
He strode to the window and looked out at the gentle wind and rain.
The wind whipped his black hair and billowed his robes, while icy raindrops lashed his face—he did not use the power of the Material Universe to shield himself from the cold and the wind.
Only at this moment could he feel the precariousness of the Imperium of Man, and the coldness and despair endured by the hundreds of millions of people struggling to survive on the Imperium's borders.
But he did not despair.
Or rather, even in despair, he would never give up.
And because there are people like him, people don't feel hopeless!
"This really is... divine retribution!"
Guilliman spread his arms wide, looked up at the stormy night sky, and spoke in a loud, clear voice that pierced through the howling wind!
"What a vast universe!"
He sighed, a sigh that contained both awe for the vastness of the universe and an awareness of his own insignificance—even though he was the God of Matter, before the endless sea of stars and the countless worlds waiting to be saved, he was still just a human being.
A person who gets tired, confused, and powerless.
But he remained standing there.
With arms outstretched, facing the wind and rain, draped in a long robe, he resembled the ancient seafarers who stood at the bow of their ships, facing the raging waves.
"Will I use my fleet to conquer this vast and boundless starry sky?"
He muttered to himself, a smile playing on his lips.
The smile contained bitterness, self-deprecation, and also an almost frantic anticipation.
"It really is... both despairing and exciting!"
He burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the wind and rain, lingering for a long time.
"Prince, you should rest."
A voice came from behind, calm and respectful.
Guilliman did not turn back.
He knew it was the Adeptus Custodes —the Ninth Adeptus Custodes that had previously taken Horus Puff.
These Adeptus Custodes always appeared silently, like golden phantoms.
"Rest?" Guilliman continued, still gazing out the window. "I don't have time to rest."
The Adeptus Custodes were silent for a moment, then stepped forward and stood beside Guilliman at the window.
This is an overstepping of authority, an act of usurpation, something the Adeptus Custodes have never done in ten thousand years.
But the Ninth Adeptus Custodes did it.
Because he could no longer suppress the overwhelming emotions that were about to erupt within him.
Even though he was wholeheartedly loyal to the Emperor, he also loved the people the Emperor loved—the ordinary people struggling to survive within the Imperium's borders, the warriors fighting bloody battles on the front lines, and the Lord Regent standing by the window, facing the wind and rain, seemingly invincible yet clearly exhausted.
"What are we going to do next?" The Adeptus Custodes's voice trembled slightly, as if emotions that had been dormant for millennia had finally found an outlet. "My prince? My... king?"
Guilliman turned his head and looked at him.
That one glance stunned the Adeptus Custodes.
Because he saw flames in those eyes.
It's not exhaustion, not confusion, not helplessness.
It is a burning, inextinguishable flame of hope, powerful enough to illuminate the entire Milky Way.
Guilliman smiled.
That smile was as radiant as the dawn sun, dispelling the wind and rain, dispelling the gloom, and dispelling all the uncertainty weighing on my heart.
"Make the mountains bow down!"
His voice was not loud, yet it was like a verdict, a vow, or indelible words etched on the monument of history:
"Make way for the river!"
The wind has stopped.
The rain has stopped.
Or rather, Guilliman no longer needed them.
He turned around and strode out of the study.
His long red robe billowed behind him, like an unyielding battle flag.
The Adeptus Custodes stood still, watching the departing figure.
He suddenly understood.
I understand why this person is called the "Son of War".
Not because of his strength, not because of his wisdom, not even because of his bloodline—
Rather, it's because no matter how many mountains and treacherous obstacles lie ahead, no matter how many rivers and streams block the way,
He would walk over there.
Make the mountains bow down.
Let the river make way.
The Adeptus Custodes took a deep breath and straightened their chests.
He strode after the red-clad figure, his steps firm and without the slightest tremor.
"Boom--!!!"
The cover was completely lifted.
The heavy Adamantium plate slammed onto the ground with a dull thud, making the entire chamber vibrate!
Lion Johnson sat up from the coffin.
Her bare upper body was revealed in the dark blue and golden light.
His skin was so pale it was almost transparent, and the veins and bones beneath were faintly visible.
His muscles had atrophied to the point that he was almost just a skeleton; those once godlike, perfect lines were now nothing but skin and bones.
His body was covered with a network of old wounds, like a map.
Konrad Curze's claw marks stretched from his left shoulder to his right abdomen, Luther's sword wound left a gruesome scar on his chest.
And those long-forgotten marks from the Great Crusade era, each one telling a story of past battles and glory.
But what's most striking is his eyes.
Those eyes slowly opened, and deep within their pupils, a gray light, like a dormant volcano, was awakening.
It wasn't the gold of Emperor, nor the azure of Guilliman, but the grey-green of the Caliban Lion, like the shadows deep in an ancient forest.
The light was cold, sharp, and scrutinizing, as if it could pierce through all pretense and lies.
He looked down at his hands.
Those hands were as withered as old trees, with distinct joints and bulging veins.
He tried to clench his fist--
Pain!
But he didn't stop.
He gritted his teeth, using his willpower to fight against every protest his body made, and little by little, he curled his fingers.
When his fingertips finally touched his palm, that familiar, warrior-like touch brought a slight smile to his lips—a very faint, almost imperceptible curve.
It's still there.
He thought.
I'm still here.
Then, he braced himself against the edge of the coffin and stood up.
My legs were trembling violently, barely able to support my weight.
But he remained standing, just as he had during his first hunt in the Caliban jungle ten thousand years ago—even when he was covered in wounds and on the verge of death, he would never fall.
The Watchers in the Dark all knelt down.
Their small bodies lay prostrate on the ground, their cloaks completely covering them, like submissive subjects.
The deep blue light still flickered, but now it clearly carried a certain emotion—a silent, ecstatic joy at finally being rewarded after ten thousand years of protection.
Lion looked at them.
He remembers them.
They were there when he was a child.
They guard Caliban's secrets, the traditions of the Dark Angels, and the mission entrusted to him by the Emperor.
They never speak, never express emotions, but silently and eternally guard them.
"Thank you," he said.
The voice was so hoarse it was almost incoherent, like sand rubbing together or rusty iron tearing apart.
But those were indeed words, the first words spoken in ten thousand years.
The Watchers in the Dark trembled slightly.
There were clearly tears in that trembling—even though they didn't shed tears.
Lion stopped looking at them.
He turned toward the only exit from the secret chamber—the heavy, Adamantium shrouded in a ghostly blue light.
Light was filtering in from there.
It wasn't the ghostly blue light of runes, but a red, shimmering, warning light representing war and crisis.
He was all too familiar with the frequency of that light—it was an emergency signal when under siege, a desperate light that would illuminate the legion when it was on the verge of collapse.
His legion.
They are under siege.
Lion took a deep breath, and then took a step.
On his first step, he almost fell.
The excruciating pain in his legs made his vision blur, but he steadied himself by holding onto the edge of the coffin.
The second step was that he began to get used to the pain.
Or rather, he began to learn to ignore it.
Step three, step four, step five...
By the time he reached the door, his steps had barely regained their steady pace.
Despite each step draining his remaining strength, and despite the possibility of new wounds reopening every second, he continued walking, as if he had never stopped for millennia.
He reached out and pressed his hand against the door.
The door swung open with a bang the instant it sensed his touch.