Can I Do It?
"Instructor, can I do it?"
Guilliman closed his eyes.
What was he thinking?
He thought of the dawn of the Five Hundred Worlds, of the second homeland of the Imperium he had built with his own hands, and of the people who lived and worked in peace and contentment in his ideal land.
That should have been humanity's future—reason, order, prosperity, and progress.
He thought of Calth, and how that once brilliant planet had been reduced to ashes in the flames of rebellion.
He thought of his brothers who had followed him for a century, how they fell one by one under the traitor's blade.
He thought of his father, and of that figure walking across the scorched earth during the Unification Wars.
At that time, my father was not yet a god; he wore armor and spoke of humanity's future to the ragged people in the wilderness.
He said that humanity should be great, humanity can be great, and humanity will surely be great.
He thought of the Thunder Warriors, those warriors created only to be abandoned.
They shed their last drop of blood for humanity, yet were buried in the dust of history after their victory.
Did they ever regret it?
Did they still believe in that great promise about humanity in their final moments?
He thought of the years spent exploring the stars, and of the countless Space Marines lay buried in alien lands.
They were far from their homeland, buried on a desolate planet without even a name, their remains eroded by alien winds and sands for millennia.
Did they foresee the Imperium of today?
The Imperium of Today--
Bureaucracy is bloated, doctrines are rigid, Ecclesiarchy is rampant, and the people are living in misery.
Humans live in fear, pray in darkness, and die in ignorance.
The light of the Astronomican still shines, but the people under that light have long forgotten what human dignity is.
Is this the Imperium Father wanted?
Is this the Imperium that the Thunder Warriors won with their lives?
Is this the final resting place for the souls of millions of Expeditionary Force?
Guilliman's fingers gripped the armrests tightly, and the throne, forged from gold and iron, groaned under his weight.
He thought of Horus.
That older brother he once truly respected and loved.
The brother who shielded him from countless fatal blows during his years of expeditions.
The traitor who ultimately plunged the sword into his father's heart.
Horus's rebellion was not merely a power struggle, but a betrayal of ideals.
It tore the Legion apart, it tore the Imperium apart, it tore apart all of humanity's hope for the future.
After that, the Imperium, which should have been on a great journey of great progress, stepped into an abyss that would last for ten thousand years.
A deep abyss that has existed for millennia.
Ten thousand years.
How did humanity survive ten thousand years of darkness?
How did they manage to survive?
Guilliman suddenly opened his eyes.
Outside the palace, the wind and rain intensified.
Ten thousand Adeptus Custodes stood solemnly in the wind and rain, their golden armor gleaming even brighter as it was washed by the rain.
They were once the Emperor's personal guards, protecting every corner of this palace for thousands of years.
At this moment, they are guarding the palace, and also protecting those outside the palace who are eagerly waiting in the wind and rain.
Three thousand Grey Knights stood silently like a forest.
They are humanity's most elite warriors, and the demons' most feared adversaries.
They knew who was sitting in the hall at that moment—not the Emperor, but more powerful than the Emperor.
They were that man's Chapter, carrying humanity's last hope.
The Adeptus Custodes and the Grey Knights stood side by side, letting the gale-force winds and rain lash their armor.
They did not retreat into the palace to take shelter from the rain, because outside the palace, their compatriots were getting soaked.
The Master of Mankind loves mankind.
If the people outside also suffer from the wind and rain, they will not allow themselves to be protected by the palace's dome.
Humanity will always be with humanity.
Inside the palace, the three brothers sat side by side.
Sanguinius stood before the temple gate, his angelic face etched with anxiety.
His gaze repeatedly drifted into the depths of the hall, toward the blue figure sitting alone beneath the throne.
He wanted to go over to his lonely brother, to offer him some comfort, and to tell him—you are not alone, your brother is still here.
But a hand grabbed him.
Angron's hand.
That hand, once stained with blood, was now unusually steady.
He pulled Sanguinius back and put his other hand on his shoulder.
Those eyes—eyes once driven mad by the Butcher's Nails —now held a peace unlike anything seen in millennia.
He found himself again.
Lord of the Red Sands, King of Gladiators, Guardian of the Enslaver.
He was once lost in anger and consumed by hatred, but now he stands here, as calm as the red sand after a storm, the embodiment of the God of Emotion and Strife.
"You're panicking, my brother."
Angron's voice was deep, yet carried a strange warmth, "Are you afraid that the future Master of Mankind will be unable to shoulder the great responsibility?"
Sanguinius turned around abruptly. "How could that be? I believe Guilliman, I have absolute faith in my brother!"
"So what are you worried about?"
"I'm worried he's too lonely!"
Sanguinius ' voice trembled slightly, "I'm worried that he needs family at this moment, that someone is there to tell him something!"
Whatever decision he makes, we support him!
Angron did not let go.
He doesn't need our company right now.
He said the sound was like the tolling of an ancient bell:
"The Master of Mankind should make his own judgment on matters concerning mankind."
Even with a family bond like ours, no one should intrude.
He pulled Sanguinius back to his seat.
Magnus reached out his hand, and three chairs appeared out of thin air.
The former Lord of Red is now the Lord of Dawn, and the light of wisdom shines in his single eye.
The light was no longer frantic or distorted, but rather clear and bright, like the morning star before dawn.
He also learned the Psionic Energy that Guilliman had used—a gentle and practical skill.
He conjured up five cups of steaming hot black tea, their warm aroma filling the cold palace.
"Have some of this."
Magnus handed a cup of tea to Sanguinius, saying, "Guilliman once said that when contemplating important matters, one needs a cup of hot tea."
It can calm the mind.
Sanguinius took the teacup but did not drink it.
He simply held the warm cup, feeling the warmth seep through the porcelain into his palm.
Just then, a figure slowly walked over.
Malcador.
The Imperium Chancellor, the Emperor's left hand, the man who has silently supported this vast Imperium for millennia.
He has grown younger, but he is still like an ancient tree, every word and deed etched with the vicissitudes of time.
He walked toward the three brothers, his gaze sweeping over their faces before finally settling on the steaming black tea.
He didn't say anything, but simply bent down and picked up the two glasses.
A cup was placed beside the Emperor's throne.
He gently placed the teacup on the armrest of the throne, letting the steam rise slowly and drift toward the gaunt figure.
The Emperor remained silent, but the aroma of tea seemed to soften his expression slightly.
"You actually have the mood to enjoy tea?"
Malcador looked at the unmoving, desiccated corpse on the throne, somewhat puzzled as to why it remained so calm and composed.
Now you're really going to be a retired emperor, sitting leisurely on that throne. At least unleash some Psionic Energy beams and give your son some special effects.
A gentle Psionic Energy light fell around Malcador, seemingly patting his old friend on the shoulder.
Feeling that familiar striking force.
Malcador felt as if the Emperor was still standing beside him.