Father's Love

The Emperor remained silent.

He simply reached out and gently—though it was just a shadow, Lion could feel the hand—and gently placed it on Lion's head.

The action was just like the one he had done ten thousand years ago when he first met the boy in the Caliban forest.

That was a father's touch.

That is -- love.

Not far away, another figure was trembling violently.

Perturabo.

The Primarch of the Lord of Iron, Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided, and a rebellious son who once betrayed the Emperor.

He knelt there, trembling, his eyes filled with disbelief.

He originally thought he was capable of betraying them.

He originally thought he had the courage to draw his sword against the Emperor.

He had thought he had long since escaped the shadow of his father.

But the moment that golden light appeared—all his assumptions shattered.

His still-intact Warp Essence, his remaining shred of human conscience, and the fear and awe buried deep within his soul—all erupted simultaneously.

What did he see?

He saw that supreme being.

It is an existence that transcends language, concepts, and all descriptions.

It was not a powerful creature, not a terrifying being, but rather—the source.

The source of everything.

The origin of human civilization.

The source to which he once served, which he once betrayed, which he once thought had lost its power.

Perturabo's knees bent involuntarily.

He wasn't even aware that he was kneeling.

His body made that choice before his mind could.

He knelt down.

They knelt with more devotion than anyone else.

He knelt more humbly than anyone else.

The Emperor turned his head and looked at him.

There was no anger, no disgust, no emotion in that gaze.

There was only an almost indifferent calm.

"My traitorous son!"

The Emperor's voice rang out, tinged with a complex meaning. "If you still have a shred of human conscience, if you still have a shred of self-awareness—"

He paused, then said, "Kneeling, the dark prison, is your only destination."

After he finished speaking, the golden light and shadow began to dissipate.

The Emperor has departed.

Perturabo opened his mouth, wanting to say something, wanting to defend himself, wanting to—but no sound came out of his throat.

Because the next second, a cold sword was already pressed against his neck.

Lion stood behind him, the blade pressed against his skin, ready to pierce his throat with the slightest force.

"What's the matter—"

Lion's voice was cold, yet held a rare calm. "We'll talk about it back in Terra."

He looked at Perturabo with a complex mix of emotions in his eyes—hatred, pity, and a hint of brotherly affection.

"Don't disturb my enjoyment, brother."

He said there was even a hint of amusement in the voice, "I want to travel through interstellar space in my new home planet."

In that endless Warp, another confrontation continues.

Guilliman stood alone in the ocean of Chaos, holding the Emperor's Sword, his body enveloped in the light of the Material Universe.

Opposite him were four enormous, twisted entities radiating boundless terror.

The Four Chaos Gods.

They remained locked in that standoff for an unknown period of time.

Guilliman looked at them, a faint smile playing on his lips.

That smile contained sarcasm, provocation, and a hint of impatience.

Have you thought it through?

He said the voice echoed in the Chaos, exploding in every Chaos realm. "To act, or not to act?"

The four gods remained silent.

Of course they wanted to take action.

They wanted nothing more than to tear this mortal who dared to stand before them to pieces right now.

But they dared not.

Because—behind Guilliman, in the rift leading to the Material Universe, a golden planet is slowly rotating.

That's the new Caliban.

That was a creation that the Emperor had just completed.

That was a ticking time bomb.

If Guilliman so desired, he could detonate the Emperor power contained within that planet at any time, shattering the entire Warp into pieces.

Of course, he will die too.

But the four gods dared not gamble.

Because Guilliman's eyes told them—this madman really would do that.

You have four paths to choose from.

Guilliman spoke, his voice as calm as if he were stating the weather. "First, you make your move, and I will detonate Dragon Spirit Star. I will die, you will be severely injured, and half of the Warp will collapse. For the next ten thousand years, you will continue to read the resurrection inscription."

The four gods' expressions grew even more grim.

"Second, you make the move, I'll go and destroy your divine realm. I can't defeat you all, but I can easily take down a few Lesser God. Your divine realm will be torn to pieces, and your followers will be slaughtered until rivers of blood flow. And you—"

Guilliman paused, then his smile widened, "We'll be held back by the Emperor."

The four gods' faces were as black as the bottom of a pot.

"Third, if you don't make a move, I can't go back. I'll stand here until the end of time. Don't even think about doing anything else, because if you make a single move, I'll detonate it."

Guilliman shrugged. "We'll all just have to wait it out."

A flicker of despair flashed in the eyes of the four gods.

"Fourth--"

Guilliman's smile deepened, "Now turn around, go back to your hideouts, and pretend nothing happened. Vashtorr is dead, so be it; you don't care anyway. Then—"

He raised his sword. "I'm going back to handle my official duties. Let's pretend we never met."

The four gods fell silent.

a long time.

Khorne was the first to turn around.

His voice boomed. "Madman."

Tzeentch turned around a second time, his voice laced with a hint of gritted teeth. "An even more cunning bastard than me."

Slaanesh turned for the third time, her voice tinged with a complex emotion. "Interesting... so interesting..."

Nurgle turned one last time, saying nothing, and silently disappeared into the depths of Chaos.

Guilliman watched the direction they disappeared in, his smile slowly deepening.

He won.

A man stands in the Chaos ocean, shouting at four Chaos Gods, telling them to go back to their lair.

If this were written into a book, how many copies could it sell?

He shook his head and turned to walk towards the rift leading to the Material Universe.

Behind him, in the endless Chaos, it seemed as if countless eyes were watching him.

In those gazes, there was fear, awe, and—a deep sense of dread.

Guilliman did not turn back.

He simply strode forward, toward the golden light, toward the new Caliban.

On the new Caliban, the forest remains the same.

The ancient trees, newly born from the golden light, swayed gently in the breeze, making a rustling sound.

The dappled sunlight filtering through their branches and leaves creates flowing patterns on the ground.

In the distance, the newly built monastery stands majestically, its towers piercing the clouds, its walls engraved with the glory of the Dark Angels for millennia.

Lion stood in the square in front of the monastery.

Before him stood countless Dark Angels.

The Deathwing Terminator, their bone-white armor gleaming softly in the sunlight.

The Ravenwing Knights, their Jetbike lined up neatly on both sides.

And then there were the Unforgiven from various sub-units, their battle robes embroidered with different insignia, but in their eyes, the same light burned.

That's worship.

That was reverence.

That is--

A sense of awe towards one's father.