Do It Yourself, My Lord

"What... should we do?"

Guilliman was momentarily at a loss as well.

Was his dream of making everyone a mini-Superman about to be shattered by these overly effective "anti-theft measures"?

Did he really have to return to the most primitive plan—personally creating descendants, one after another?

I was joking!

Guilliman wailed inwardly.

Even if a second Guilliman rubbed hard enough to start a fire, he still couldn't produce a whole Legion!

"My lord, actually... there is a very 'direct' solution to this matter."

Cawl's voice pulled Guilliman back from his tangled thoughts. "Gene-seed... new gene-seed can be cultivated using 'gene-seed.'"

Guilliman turned and stared at Cawl as though he were an idiot. "Do you think I don't know gene-seed can cultivate new gene-seed?

The problem is that we're stuck at the first step. We can't obtain the 'original' seed!"

"Ah, my lord, you misunderstand."

Even Cawl's mechanical voice seemed to rise with urgency. "The 'gene-seed' I mean is not that 'gene-seed'!"

He paused, then explained in a tone that blended scientific inquiry with something difficult to say aloud:

"Strictly speaking, when the Emperor created you Primarchs, He bestowed upon you complete and powerful biological functions.

Thus, your... ahem, reproductive cells are themselves the most perfect and primordial 'living gene-seed,' containing all your evolutionary information!

All we need to do is screen and cultivate them outside the body, then 'gently activate' specific genetic sequences to make them more suitable for implantation into and transformation of Astartes recipients.

Then, entirely new Space Marines based on your current evolved form can be born!"

"Ah... is that so?"

Guilliman looked into Cawl's compound eyes, where solemn streams of data flickered, and understood that he was not lying.

This truly was the only biological route around the "anti-theft mechanism."

But then an enormous problem presented itself:

Blood could be acquired by biting his finger, but how was he supposed to obtain this "living gene-seed"...?

Conventional medical extraction methods would certainly be useless. Even needles could not pierce his skin, and as for other methods...

Guilliman's superbrain raced at light speed. After eliminating every impossible option, only two paths remained:

Find a partner, or... do it himself.

He quickly assessed the current situation:

Across all of Macragge, and indeed throughout the range of people he had encountered so far,

there seemed to be no one with whom he was willing to become "one in body and soul," nor anyone for whom he would willingly and efficiently contribute enough "seed reserves" to lay the foundation of a Legion.

Could it be...

Guilliman slumped miserably into the wide chair, his face filled with pain and struggle.

I am the Regent of the Imperium, the Thirteenth Primarch, heir to Vitruum's Regent Thragg...

And the crucial step in saving the Imperium has to be solved with my own hands?!

At that moment, Cawl moved to his side. One cold mechanical tentacle cautiously patted his shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

"My lord... the Imperium is in peril. Chaos lurks at our side, the Tyranids are drawing near, and this is precisely the time when you must make contributions in every respect.

Besides... it is nothing to be ashamed of. Old Terra had a saying: do it yourself, and you will have food and clothing aplenty."

"Is that the kind of 'food and clothing aplenty' I want?!"

Guilliman looked utterly aggrieved, nearly springing from his chair.

But in the end, his sense of duty and his desire for a powerful Legion overcame his embarrassment.

He took a deep breath, as if making the resolve to face death, and asked in a low voice:

"You... brought the container, right?"

Cawl immediately nodded and took out a transparent, sterile, specially made container with precise temperature-control functions from a storage unit at his side.

"I brought it, my lord."

Guilliman glanced at it, and his eyelid twitched.

The container was clearly marked with a capacity of ten liters!

"How... how much do you need?"

He asked with a faint thread of hope.

"Naturally, it must be filled, my lord."

Cawl's tone was matter-of-fact, full of a researcher's insistence on having sufficient samples.

"What?! Filled?!"

Guilliman truly shot out of his chair this time, his voice cracking.

"Yes, my lord."

Cawl patiently explained, as though he were laying out a basic experimental principle:

"Even your reproductive cells have natural differences in vitality and the intensity of genetic-information expression.

We need sufficient quantities for screening, so that we can select the strongest, most stable batch with the most complete genetic-information expression to serve as the 'progenitors' of future new gene-seed.

This is called preparing for every eventuality, my lord.

With your current physical condition and metabolic rate... filling this container should... not be a problem, correct?"

"Get out!"

Guilliman pointed at the door, his face alternating between red and white, whether from shame or rage was impossible to tell.

"Get the hell out right now!

Go install that faster-than-light engine on the flagship I'll be taking next!"

To divert this maddening topic, his thoughts turned rapidly, and he instantly exchanged another five faster-than-light engines through the system.

These should be enough to form a rapid-response fleet now.

He pointed at Cawl's nose.

"Go!

Get them installed immediately!

Before tonight, I want to see six warships with completed engine upgrades docked in the shipyard!"

"Rest assured, my lord!

I will immediately organize the Mechanicus Ark to carry out the sacred upgrades upon the selected vessels!"

How could Cawl fail to understand? His Primarch lord was a little embarrassed. Even a true god among men was not exempt from such things.

Naturally, Cawl would not say it outright, in consideration of his leader's dignity.

Seeing that his goal had been achieved, he immediately returned to his efficient Great Sage mode.

"Although the Imperium's current technology cannot perfectly adapt to this gift of the Emperor, I shall spare no effort to preserve at least half its power!

You will possess six miracle ships with cruising speeds reaching five billion times the speed of light!

From this day onward, beneath this Milky Way, wherever your will points, your fleet shall arrive within three days!"

"Fine!

Go quickly!"

Guilliman weakly waved his hand and shooed Cawl away as though driving off a fly.

Listening to the sound of machinery outside fade into the distance, he turned and heavily drew every thick curtain in the room shut.

At that moment, the sun over Macragge had climbed high, its radiance blazing. It was only a little after ten in the morning.

There were still a full seven or eight hours until the "evening" Cawl had mentioned.

Would that... be enough time?

Guilliman thought in despair.

Even though he was a gene-Primarch, over three meters tall and blessed with exceptional biological functions, his "single-output volume" was ultimately limited.

If the quantity was insufficient, perhaps he could only make up for it with... frequency.

With a helpless sigh, he opened a hidden compartment in the cabinet beside him. (Don't ask why a Primarch's bedchamber had this.)

He took out a bottle of Primarch-grade moisturizing cream and evenly applied it to his hands.

Looking at his own hands, Guilliman let out yet another sigh, though he had no idea how many times he had sighed today.

Fortunately... I have a superbrain now.

At this moment, that ability displayed an unexpected supporting function.

It could provide imaginative material far beyond that of a "ghost brain," rendered with utmost clarity and control.

He closed his eyes, focused his mind, and began meticulously sketching within the "creative space" of his mind.

Very quickly, a vivid Eldar figure, complete in every detail, emerged.

It was Yvraine. From her emerald eyes to her distinctive attire, every detail was perfectly reproduced.

As for what he imagined next, that was not suitable for display...

While carrying out this unprecedented and arduous "task" for the Imperium's future, Guilliman thought viciously to himself:

Hmph, Yvraine... you're going to suffer terribly in my mind!