Please Give the Order
Dante raised his head, and in his eyes, which had witnessed nine hundred years of vicissitudes, shone a light that was still young.
"Please give your orders, sir."
Guilliman turned slightly to the side, signaling the clerk behind him to begin taking notes.
The young clerk immediately straightened his back, his notepad ready, pen poised on the paper, waiting to record this historic moment.
"Now, I am in charge of the Imperium's public image."
Guilliman's voice echoed in the empty hall.
"With me here, nothing unexpected will happen."
Dante.
"But my brother is fighting in the shadows right now."
Many of the Blood Angels ' bloodline members are also being corrupted by the Chaos Traitors.
Guilliman's gaze fell on Dante, a gaze filled with trust, expectation, and a depth that Dante could not fully comprehend.
"I hope you can become the commander-in-chief who attacks the Imperium Nihilus Imperium."
The clerk scribbled quickly, the pen scratching across the paper.
Every single word will be recorded in history, becoming a valuable resource for future generations to study this period of history.
A flicker of emotion crossed Dante's eyes.
Commander-in-Chief.
The commander-in-chief of the Imperium Nihilus offensive.
what does that mean?
This means he will lead countless Chapter on an expedition to the dark starfield shrouded in Chaos.
This means he will face terrifying enemies that have never been conquered in thousands of years.
This means he will be undertaking a task that is almost impossible to complete.
But he did not hesitate.
"As you command, sir."
His voice was firm and unwavering.
Guilliman looked at him, a slight smile of satisfaction playing on his lips.
Then--
He waved.
"Alright, let's go."
His tone was completely different from that of the dignified and solemn regent in the main hall just now.
The clerk paused, pen in hand, and looked up, somewhat bewildered.
But Guilliman no longer looked at him; instead, he put his arm around Dante's shoulder, a gesture as intimate as if he were treating a brother.
"Nephew."
Guilliman lowered his voice, but there was an indescribable warmth in that deep tone.
"Just go and chop some people up, don't worry, it'll only take a few months."
Dante's lips twitched slightly.
Nephew?
For nine hundred years, has anyone ever dared to call him that?
But looking into Guilliman's sincere eyes, he couldn't find the words to refute him.
After all, the person before him was the Primarch, the brother of his Gene-Father, and the current supreme ruler of the Imperium of Man.
He calls himself "elder nephew," and from a generational perspective, there's really no problem with that.
"After we've finished off all the corrupt Planetary Governor on Terra," Guilliman continued, making a throat-slitting gesture with his other hand, "And stockpile some Ultramarines, I'll head over there."
Dante smiled helplessly.
The current supreme ruler of the Imperium is certainly straightforward in his speech.
Just now, he was putting on airs and acting dignified in front of the historian.
Now, they've gone so far as to not even bother acting anymore.
But he liked this straightforwardness.
Nine hundred years have passed. He has seen the hypocrisy of bureaucrats, the slickness of politicians, and those hypocritical and two-faced so-called "Imperium elites."
Now, encountering a leader who speaks directly and acts decisively has given him a long-lost sense of warmth.
"Think long-term."
Guilliman's voice rang out again, this time with a more serious tone.
"Those few traitors are nothing to fear."
His gaze was fixed on the distance, on the unseen starry sky beyond the main hall, and on the Imperium Nihilus.
"Our real enemy is that swarm of worms that only eat and never spit out."
Dante's eyes narrowed slightly.
insect.
Tyranids.
That terrifying being that devours stars, that ultimate threat that turns countless worlds into dead zones, that cosmic-level catastrophe that even the Primarch must treat with caution.
"I'll be back someday—"
A sinister smile crept across Guilliman's lips, a smile that contained anger, murderous intent, and a deep-seated—appetite?
"We must turn them into our livestock!"
Dante: "..."
He remained silent for three seconds.
Three seconds later, he finally realized that the Primarch was serious.
Seriously, we should treat Tyranids as livestock for consumption.
They are serious about turning those world-devouring monsters into food for humans.
Seriously... this is how he expresses his anger towards those insects.
Dante couldn't help but imagine the scene— the Imperial Parliament's halls filled with dishes made from various Tyranids meats.
Fried Hive Tyrant Legs, Grilled Hormagaunt Wings, Genestealer Sashimi, Neurothrope Stew...
Could I add some Sanguinius Sauce?
I really want to try it and see what it tastes like.
A large, golden slingshot slapped Dante across the face.
Sanguinius shivered in the distance, in the royal palace.
The scene was too beautiful for him to bear.
But at the same time, Dante could also sense another layer of meaning in Guilliman's words.
This Primarch has been stationed in Terra for some time now, and hasn't had a chance to go out and teach those Tyranids scum a lesson.
Every day, all they could do was watch the briefings sent by the Astropaths, staring at those cold numbers—another planet devoured by the Tyranids, another world turned into a dead zone, another batch of humans becoming nourishment for the Zerg swarm.
This infuriated Guilliman.
The Primarch, regent of the Imperium of Man, commander-in-chief of all armies, could only sit beside this Golden Throne, helplessly watching swarms of insects wreak havoc on his territory?
This is intolerable.
This is absolutely unacceptable.
So, in a fit of anger, he immediately sent Titus with his men.
Titus.
Demetrian Titus.
The commander of the Second Company the Ultramarines, the Master of the Watch, the Watcher of Ultramar, a warrior who has proven himself in countless battles, a hero who was once corrupted by Chaos but still remained loyal, and a man about to embark on a journey.
twelve
The Macragge's Honour
This Ultramarines ' glorious warship is currently hovering silently above Terra's orbit.
Its hull was tens of kilometers long, its cannons were powerful enough to destroy a city, and its interior was large enough to hold an entire Chapter of soldiers.
And at its core, in that most sacred hall—
Titus is walking step by step toward the platform in front of him.
His steps were steady and firm, each one echoing like metal.
His face was so serious it was almost solemn, a seriousness that contained determination, resolve, and an indescribable complex emotion.
On either side of him stood one hundred members of the Ultramarines Second Company, standing in neat rows.
One hundred Space Marines, one hundred Angel of Death, one hundred loyal warriors willing to follow Titus through fire and water.
They stood like statues, their eyes fixed on Titus, on their company commander whom they were about to follow on the expedition.
At the far end of the hall, on the platform, several older Ultramarines were waiting.
Those were veterans of the Second Company, predecessors who had witnessed countless battles, and the "examiners" that Titus now had to face.