The Collector
He continued walking forward.
The next exhibit features various warriors from the Space Marine Chapter.
Ultramarines, Blood Angels, Dark Angels, Space Wolves, White Scars--
He has a collection of almost every Chapter.
Some are complete Tactical Squad.
Some are lone elite warriors.
Some were heroes who died in battle.
Each one represents a piece of history in the Imperium of Man.
Each one carries a ray of light from human civilization.
Trazyn enjoys these collections.
Not because they are powerful, but because they--
There's a story behind it.
He continued walking forward.
Trazyn walked past countless exhibits and passed through countless Stasis Field.
Finally, he arrived at the very center of the museum.
There's a display case there.
Unlike other huge battlefield exhibits, this display case is small.
So small that it can only hold one person.
It was a woman.
A woman who was already very old.
Her hair was golden, but it was already turning gray, and it fell sparsely over her shoulders.
Her face is etched with the marks of time, each wrinkle telling a story of a long life.
Her body was hunched over, and she held a thick book in her hands.
It was a photo album.
On the cover, written in beautiful Macragge script:
My Son — Robert Guilliman
Trazyn stood in front of the display case, quietly gazing at the woman.
Tarasha Euten.
Mother of Macragge.
The grandmother of Ultramarines.
The human woman who adopted the Primarch.
The woman who gave the Son of War a name, a home, and a heart.
Trazyn went to great lengths to acquire this piece.
It wasn't because she was particularly powerful—she was just an ordinary mortal with no fighting abilities.
Rather, it's because--
She's so hard to find.
Guilliman hid her too well.
Terra? No.
Macragge? No.
The core world of any Imperium of Man? None.
Guilliman hid her in an ordinary Agri World in a remote galaxy, letting her spend her later years there in peace.
There were no guards, no surveillance, nothing to attract attention.
He was just an ordinary old man, growing ordinary flowers on an ordinary farm.
Trazyn searched for fifty years.
But he felt it was worth it.
Because through the photo album in her hand, he saw—
The growth of a Primarch.
That photo album documented Robert Guilliman's life.
From the very first day of adoption.
The first photo is of a baby.
The baby was wrapped in a rough blanket and lay in a simple cradle.
His eyes were closed, and his brows were slightly furrowed, as if he were having an unpleasant dream.
Next to the photo, there is a line of handwritten text:
He looked very unhappy.
Perhaps he's not used to being here yet.
Trazyn's fingers gently touched the edge of the Stasis Field.
He had seen countless files on the Primarch, read countless records about them, and studied the fighting style and psychological characteristics of each of them.
But he had never seen such Primarch before.
A baby.
An unhappy baby.
A baby, just taken from a cold culture tank and placed in a warm cradle, still with a furrowed brow—
Son of War.
He turned to the next page.
The second photo shows a young child.
The child, who looked about three or four years old, stood at a closed door.
His face was turned toward the camera, but his eyes were looking elsewhere, as if there was something more attractive to him there.
The handwriting next to the photo:
He always ignores us.
We called his name, but he never turned around.
Trazyn looked at the photograph, at the expression on the young child's face.
That wasn't anger, indifference, or resistance.
That is--
strangeness.
He didn't know these people yet.
He still didn't understand why he was there.
He is still searching for the person who should have been by his side—the one who created him, but then abandoned him.
Next page.
The third photo is of a teenager.
The boy was about seven or eight years old, standing at the same doorway.
But this time, his face was turned towards him.
He looked in the direction of the camera, a hint of something in his eyes—
Puzzled?
The handwriting next to the photo:
"He started responding to us."
Even if it was just a glance.
But that's progress, isn't it?
Trazyn's lips curled up slightly.
That was a reaction generated by his emotional simulation system—something akin to "laughter."
progress.
A Primarch's shift from "ignoring" to "taking a second look" is considered progress.
How could ordinary people know what they were facing?
The children they adopted were not ordinary children.
It is the Primarch.
He is a demigod created by the Emperor.
It is an existence destined to conquer the stars.
But they are still trying.
I tried my best to call his name.
I waited patiently for him to turn around.
Trying hard--
I love him.
Next page.
The fourth photo shows a young man.
The young man stood in the sunlight, with a golden wheat field behind him.
He turned his head, looked in the direction of the camera, and had a bright smile on his face.
His mouth was slightly open, as if he were saying something.
The handwriting next to the photo:
"I'm here!"
Trazyn's finger stopped at the edge of the Stasis Field.
He looked at the photograph, at the smiling face, at the young man in the sunlight—
He suddenly fell silent.
That's Guilliman.
That was the thirteenth Primarch of the Imperium of Man.
He was the Son of War, the Lord of Ultramar, the Imperial Regent, the commander of all armies, and the possessor of countless titles and honors.
But in this photo, he is just--
A boy smiling in the sunlight.
A boy who, when called by his mother, happily turned around and said, "I'm here."
one--
A child who is loved.
Trazyn stood there, for a long time.
He looked at that smiling face, at the brilliant sunshine, and at the golden wheat field.
His emotional simulation system was operating at breakneck speed.
I tried to understand the meaning of that smiling face.
Trying to understand the feeling of being loved.
Trying to understand--
What exactly is human love?
a long time.
He muttered to himself:
"The Son of War... became Robert Guilliman..."
His fingers gently traced the edge of the Stasis Field, as if wanting to touch that smiling face, yet knowing it was impossible.
"Human love..."
His voice carried a rare hint of confusion:
"What exactly is it?"
He looked at the woman.
That old, hunched woman, nearing the end of her life.
She was once an ordinary Macragge noblewoman, married to an ordinary Archon, and living an ordinary life.
Then, she adopted a baby.
A baby that fell from the sky.
A baby destined to change the entire Milky Way.
She raised this extraordinary child with ordinary love.
She used an ordinary name to call upon this extraordinary being.
She melted this extraordinary soul with ordinary warmth.
Decades later, that child became the Primarch.
They became Conquest.
It became a pillar of the Imperium of Man.
But in her photo album, he will always be that boy smiling in the sunlight, turning around and saying, "I'm here."
Trazyn withdrew his hand.
A faint green light flickered in his eyes.
That was confusion.
It was a soul that had been dead for 65 million years, experiencing profound bewilderment towards the most basic emotions of the living.
Even after observing you for so long...
He said softly:
"Can't it even stir the slightest emotion in my soul?"