The Bound One

Guilliman shook his head:

"Not me, but everyone."

His gaze fell on the group of laughing soldiers, on the group of Ultramarines training, and on the group of Adeptus Custodes on patrol:

It's them.

It is everyone who is willing to fight for humanity.

Malcador remained silent for a moment.

Then, he smiled too.

In that smile, there was relief, acceptance, and a hint of...

expect.

"Father will be very happy."

He said.

Guilliman nodded:

"I know."

His gaze shifted towards the Golden Throne.

Turning to that figure who has sat there for millennia.

The hall where the Golden Throne is located is always the quietest place in the palace.

That silence wasn't ordinary silence; it was a silence that was almost frozen—as if time itself had stopped there.

The Emperor sat there.

A emaciated body, withered cheeks, a perpetually furrowed brow, and perpetually closed eyes.

Ten thousand years.

He just sat there, motionless.

But today--

Someone noticed something was off.

That was a servant responsible for cleaning the main hall.

He comes here every day to wipe the railings around the throne, change the incense offerings, and make sure everything is in order.

Today, he entered the main hall as usual.

He raised his head as usual and looked toward the throne.

Then, he froze.

The Emperor's Frown

I feel more relaxed.

Those brows, never relaxed for millennia, those perpetually furrowed brows seemingly bearing the weight of the entire universe's suffering—

At this moment, it actually relaxed slightly.

Her gaunt cheeks seemed to have become a little fuller.

Not many.

Only a little bit.

But even this small amount was enough to leave the servant frozen in place.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was seeing things.

Let's look again.

It's still relaxed.

He rubbed it again.

still.

The servant's breathing became rapid.

He didn't know what he should or shouldn't do.

Should we shout loudly? Should we silently retreat? Should we kneel and pray?

In the end, he chose to kneel down.

Kneel on the ground, forehead touching the ground.

His lips trembled as he silently recited those ancient prayers.

Tears fell silently.

On the throne, the Emperor still kept his eyes closed.

But that frown—

It definitely feels more relaxed.

Guilliman stood at the entrance to the hall, gazing at his father on the throne.

He stood there for a long time.

It took so long that even Malcador couldn't resist coming over.

"My old friend..."

Malcador muttered to himself:

I really want to have tea with you.

Guilliman simply stared at the throne, at the figure who had sat there for millennia, at that—

The Dark King.

Yes, the Dark King.

This is the Emperor's most essential name.

Whether he is an entity formed from the earliest human Shaman, or whether all human Shaman used some technique to sacrifice themselves and deceive some more ancient being—

His essence has never changed.

The Dark King.

He is not the god of light, not the savior, not the merciful father.

He is the Dark King.

It was summoned from the deepest darkness in humanity's darkest of times.

The most powerful guardian.

Guilliman recalled those ancient legends.

Some say that in the earliest times of human civilization, the earliest Shaman decided to sacrifice themselves in order to fight against terrifying beings in the universe.

They died one by one, merging into the summoned being.

Their souls, their memories, their will—all came together.

Ultimately, that being came into being.

He was the Emperor.

He is the Dark King.

He is--

The embodiment of the collective will of humanity.

Some people say that things are not that simple.

The being that was summoned was originally one of the oldest and most powerful beings in the universe.

Those Shaman sacrificed themselves not to create him, but to—

Deceive him.

To make him believe that he is human.

To make him believe that he is the protector of humanity.

In order to make him--

Loves humanity.

Which of the two statements is true?

Nobody knows.

Guilliman didn't know.

Malcador didn't know.

Even the Emperor himself might not know.

But one thing everyone knows --

Whoever he is, wherever he comes from, whatever he was—

At this moment, seated on the throne is the god of mankind.

They are humanity's most powerful guardians.

It is the only light for humanity in endless darkness.

"If he hadn't risen to this level back then," Guilliman said softly, "He would have just been an ordinary, powerful warrior."

He will lead humanity into war, conquering planet after planet, and building a vast Imperium.

He paused:

"But how long can such Imperium of Man last?"

Malcador did not answer.

"If his ascension causes the destruction of the human race—"

Guilliman's gaze deepened:

"Then he will begin another endless war."

He will gather survivors from the ruins, rekindle the flames from the ashes, and recreate life from death.

His voice grew louder and louder:

"Because in this universe, there is no place for humanity—"

He said, word by word:

"Then all living beings would have no reason to exist."

Malcador's pupils contracted slightly.

That was the Emperor's creed.

That is the essence of the Dark King.

That is--

Human beings are supreme.

Meanwhile, in another place, on another throne, another king is contemplating the same question.

It was a deep green space.

There were no stars, no light, only endless, eerie green mist slowly swirling.

Within that mist, countless tiny metallic particles could be vaguely seen floating—the smallest creations of the Necrons, their eyes, their ears, their way of perceiving the universe.

At the center of the space was a colossal throne.

The throne was cast from pure black metal, with countless intricate patterns engraved on its surface.

The patterns glowed faintly in the eerie green mist, like the blood vessels of a living creature, pulsating slowly.

A figure sat regally on the throne.

That is the Silent King.

The ruler of the Necrons, a legendary being who once slew C'tan, and a supreme king possessing a body comparable to that of C'tan.

His body was a creation of the pinnacle of Necron Technology.

That metallic shell could record all the cultures, all the information, all the knowledge, and all the emotions he had in his lifetime.

It can even simulate those emotional changes, making the Silent King appear like a real, living Necrontyr.

But only he himself knows--

Dead is dead.

No matter how perfect the mechanical body, no matter how realistic the emotional simulation, no matter how complete the memory storage—

He's already dead.

It has been 65 million years.

Sixty-five million years of death.

Sixty-five million years of solitude.

Sixty-five million years ago--

think.

There were no Canoptek Scarabs, no Cryptek, nothing alive—no, nothing functioning—around him.

He was alone.

Only his throne.

Only what is sealed within his throne—

That enormous C'tan Shard.

The Silent King's gaze pierced through the eerie green mist, looking towards the endless distance.

He was thinking.

He has plenty of time to think.

Sixty-five million years have passed; the one thing he has in abundance is time.

Therefore, he is used to thinking about every problem in the most perfect, complete, and flawless way.

But he has been thinking about this problem for a very long time.

It lasted for a time second only to the time when he betrayed and killed the C'tan C'tan.