My Name Is Not Nervous
The enormous hands that could only belong to a 4.2-meter-tall figure clad in armor.
Even a gentle pat on the shoulder felt like a blanket being draped over him.
"My name is Not Nervous!"
Malcador casually waved his hand to the side, as if to prove to the Emperor that he didn't need comforting; golden light was swatted away.
Then Malcador realized he had said the wrong thing.
The golden light dissipated for a moment, then coalesced again, patting Malcador on the shoulder.
Malcador smiled helplessly, "Okay, I admit I'm a little nervous right now. This might be my last chance."
"Whether for us or for humanity."
The face of the mummified corpse on the throne seemed to soften even more, and golden light spread from behind him, making him appear even more sacred.
The warm light pattered on Malcador's face, like a friend's teasing remark.
Feeling the soothing yet mocking intent emanating from that golden light.
"Since you became unable to move and do things yourself, your personality has actually improved."
I hope the thirteenth prince won't turn into the same person you were before.
Malcador smiled and shook his head, picked up his tea, and slowly savored it.
"Good tea."
He spoke softly, his gaze fixed on the wind and rain outside the hall.
Looking at those figures standing tall in the wind and rain, and further afield at the dense crowd waiting in the darkness.
Everyone in Terra's power center—except for the one who needs to think for himself—is here.
They remained silent, waiting.
Outside the palace, the people of Terra gathered in ever-growing numbers amidst the wind and rain.
The news had already spread throughout the city: the Primarch has returned! The Thirteenth Prince is going to inherit the throne!
The man who built an ideal state in the Five Hundred Worlds, the man who fought to the last moment in Calth!
The man who once sat to the Emperor's right and participated in formulating the Great Crusade strategy!
He was also the man who saved Terra from the flames of war!
He is to take on the heavy responsibility of Master of Mankind!
The Adeptus Custodes did not stop them.
They simply stood like a wall, using their bodies to draw a boundary.
Within those boundaries lies the sacred place where the Master of Mankind meditates; beyond those boundaries lie the people of the Master of Mankind, eagerly awaiting His return.
The crowd remained silent in the wind and rain.
No one made a sound, no one pushed or shoved, and no one even whispered to each other.
They simply stood there, letting the rain soak their clothes and the cold wind pierce their bones.
Their gazes were all fixed in the same direction—the tightly closed palace gate.
Behind that door lies their hope.
From the crowd, an elderly man with faltering steps slowly walked over.
He's too old, so old that every step he takes requires his full strength.
People nearby quickly helped him up and made way for him.
The old man did not refuse to be helped, but his steps remained firm, one step at a time, just like the long years he had lived through.
He was a survivor of the Terra extermination campaign.
In that Khorne catastrophe brought by the Khorne Angel of Death, countless people died from madness, from fear, and from the hands of their closest loved ones.
He survived, not because of luck, but because he had light in his heart.
That light has not faded to this day.
His face was covered with deep wrinkles, each one like the path he had taken in life—some winding, some straight, but all leading to the same destination.
A child looked at the old man, trembling.
The child was too young to understand what war or fear was.
He simply sensed instinctively that tonight was different.
He tugged at the old man's sleeve and asked in a childish voice, "Grandpa, who is the king now?"
The old man lowered his head and looked at the small face that was wet with rain.
He recalled asking his father the same question when he was young.
His father told him, "Our king is the one who is willing to die for us."
His father now rests in peace beneath the yellow earth of Terra.
And he, too, reached the end of his life.
He had already resolved to die.
When the ravages of Khorne swept through Terra, he had already picked up the only weapon left in his home—a rusty shovel.
He intended to return to the Emperor's throne, even if it meant taking down those Chaos scum with him, even if it meant picking up the bricks and tiles beside him.
I've had enough of living.
I've really had enough of living.
Ten thousand years of darkness, ten thousand years of struggle, ten thousand years of hope, ignited and extinguished time and time again.
He was tired, tired for far too long.
But on that very day—
The blue-gold sea descended from the sky.
What is that?
He initially thought it was just his old eyesight failing him.
But the blue-gold color grew closer and clearer, eventually transforming into a majestic figure descending from the sky.
Primarch, Primarch Thirteen, Robert Guilliman, Imperial Regent, the greatest son of the Master of Mankind.
He witnessed firsthand that blue-gold figure pierce through the enemy ranks like a sharp sword, and wherever it passed, the demons melted away like snow.
He witnessed firsthand how the man remained calm and composed even in the midst of the bloody battle, like a god walking through a storm.
The person was very close to him, close enough that he could see the face clearly.
What kind of face was that?
Handsome, of course.
That was the Primarch, a perfect being created by the Emperor himself.
But what the old man remembered most was not his handsome appearance, but the expression on his face—he was smiling.
Amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood, amidst hordes of demons, on a battlefield that would terrify even the bravest warrior—he was laughing.
But there was compassion in that smile.
It was as if a god loved his people and wept for the suffering they endured.
The old man immediately knelt down.
It is not fear, not awe, but heartfelt surrender.
He silently said to himself: This is not your fault. It is our honor that you came to save us.
You don't need to grieve for us, because your arrival gives us hope.
Now, that person is behind that door.
The old man lowered his head and looked at the child who was waiting for an answer.
He reached out his withered hand and gently stroked the child's head.
"Terra has produced a super red sun,"
The old man spoke slowly, his voice aged yet clear, like an ancient ballad, "Standing in the sun is a supreme God-Emperor."
The child's eyes widened, and the people around him listened intently.
"The God-Emperor stood in the sun and saw the farthest reaches of the Milky Way."
He saw that there were people suffering, suffering the deepest, deepest suffering.
With a flick of the God-Emperor's finger, God-Emperor angels traversed the Milky Way for thousands of miles, flew over countless stars, and reached the farthest reaches to relieve people of their great suffering.
The old man's voice grew louder and louder, like that of an ancient bard.
"The people shouted—Long live the Emperor!"
"But the Emperor said—"
He paused, then a sudden light flashed in his cloudy eyes:
Long live humanity!
A commotion broke out in the crowd.
"And now,"
The old man's voice rose again, "The greatest son of the God-Emperor, the Son of the God-Emperor, has returned once more!"
He heeded the call of the God-Emperor and inherited the God-Emperor's will!
He is the true orthodox one, he is... the Master of Mankind!!!