All Right, Ten Days It Is!

A day passed in silence and a certain indescribable "struggle."

When Cawl knocked on the door to Guilliman's bedchamber again, a somewhat hoarse and weak reply came from within:

"Come in."

Cawl glided into the room. The first thing reflected in his compound eyes was his gene-father, seated in a broad chair in a posture utterly unlike his usual self.

Guilliman's hands hung limply over his knees, his towering frame slightly hunched.

His more-than-three-meter-tall figure now exuded a rare air of desolation and loneliness, as though all color had faded from him.

He was spent. Truly spent.

At his feet, the specially made ten-liter container had been filled to the brim—a testament to Guilliman having burned himself out completely.

"My lord, the engine modifications on the six designated warships have all been completed."

Cawl reported the main matter first, satisfaction at the completion of a sacred undertaking carried in his mechanical voice. "Each vessel now has the capacity to carry more than ten thousand Space Marines.

And your flagship, the Macragge's Honour, can accommodate an army of one hundred thousand.

With these six ships modified, you can take away more than half of the Ultramarines' current strength."

He continued his analysis. "Once the recruits complete the Primaris transformation and all receive your new bloodline gene-seed,

this army will possess the power to sweep across the entire Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar and swiftly restore order!"

As worlds were reclaimed and rule established, Guilliman would undoubtedly gain a massive number of "governance points."

Then, by exchanging them for personnel and supplies and turning the Five Hundred Worlds into an iron-walled base, he could head for the Eldar capital of Commorragh without worry, invite the Haemonculi, and then proceed to the heart of the Imperium, Terra.

This was good news.

After all, even with faster-than-light engines, leading a great army across the sea of stars was no task that could be accomplished in a day.

If the rear was unstable and Chaos or xenos exploited the opening to invade his homeland during the expedition, it would be an utter joke.

What was more, Guilliman secretly planned to answer the Warp's "summons" along the way, hunting Greater Daemons of Chaos to replenish his psychic power. That required an even more secure rear.

Yet upon hearing this news, which should have been encouraging,

Guilliman merely raised his eyes slightly, his voice carrying the exhaustion of overexertion.

"Excellent... my great sage. You are always so efficient."

His gaze fell upon the container. "Then how long will it take to cultivate the new gene-seed?"

He was eager to see the results of a full day of his "hard work."

Only then did Cawl shift his full attention to that jar of "relics."

His mechanical tendrils lifted it with extreme gentleness, data streams flickering excitedly in his compound eyes.

"Wonderful! This is practically a sacred blueprint for the Imperium's future!

The cultivation process itself is not complicated, my lord.

Select the finest living specimens, conduct targeted cultivation and stabilize the genetic sequences...

In roughly one week, the first batch of mature new gene-seed based on your current evolved form can be prepared."

"At that time."

Cawl turned to Guilliman and laid out his plan.

"I will first perform the combined procedures of gene-seed replacement and Primaris organ implantation on the one hundred and fifty thousand main Ultramarines force you are about to lead on campaign.

Every one of them will be renewed and bear the blessing of your latest bloodline."

"How long will the full conversion take?"

Guilliman pressed. He needed a clear timetable.

Cawl's mechanical head tilted slightly, as if calculating. "Because you expressly forbade the use of Imperial civilians to make servitors for surgical assistance,

I can only rely on the more than one thousand specialized biomass mechanical servitors who came with me.

Efficiency will therefore be limited. The daily conversion limit is approximately three thousand personnel.

To accelerate the process, we would need... more powerful and more specialized biomass processing units. Or, in other words, more efficient 'servitors.'"

"So one hundred and fifty thousand men would require a full fifty days?"

Guilliman frowned. That was far too long and did not suit his strategy of swiftly reclaiming Ultramar and accumulating points.

"We need stronger 'servitors,' is that correct?" he confirmed.

"Yes, my lord.

More specialized and more resilient biomass processing units can greatly improve both the parallel efficiency and stability of the procedures," Cawl replied.

Guilliman pondered for a moment, a cold glint flashing through his eyes.

"Then if I use Space Marines to make 'servitors' for you, would that work?"

"Ah? Th-that cannot be allowed!

Absolutely not!"

Cawl was stunned, his compound eyes flickering rapidly.

He thought Guilliman intended to operate on loyal Ultramarines. The idea was too horrifying to contemplate.

Seeing Cawl's reaction, Guilliman helplessly tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing a weary smile.

"My great sage, how could you think I would sacrifice my own sons?

What I mean is, I'll capture some Chaos canned goods and bring them back as 'materials' for you.

There should still be plenty of that scum rampaging across several worlds around Macragge that have not yet been purged.

When I was clearing them out two days ago, I was so focused on killing that I wasted them all.

This time, I'll bring you one thousand alive.

How much can that raise the conversion efficiency?"

"I see!" Cawl suddenly understood, his internal processors rapidly running simulated calculations.

A specialized servitor converted from a living Space Marine—even a traitor—had biomass processing efficiency far beyond that of a civilian servitor.

A moment later, he extended one mechanical hand and spread five metal fingers.

"If you can provide one thousand Chaos Space Marines as 'biomass material,' and I convert them into specialized surgical units,

then, including the conversion time and the subsequent combined procedures for one hundred and fifty thousand loyal warriors...

the total time required will be only ten days."

"Ten days later,"

Cawl's synthetic voice was resolute.

"you will be able to lead an elite force of one hundred and fifty thousand Primaris warriors, all bearing 'new blood,' upon the glorious campaign to reclaim Ultramar."

Guilliman leaned back in his chair and let out a long, complete breath.

Though the feeling of being "burned out" in body and mind remained intense, hearing that timetable finally rekindled a sharp light in his eyes.

"Ten days... all right, ten days it is."

He repeated it softly, as if savoring that brief yet hopeful number.

At that moment, the atmosphere in Macragge's guest reception chamber was so frigid it might as well have been the ice fields of Fenris.

Put nicely, it was "solemn and dignified."

Put bluntly, it was a group of two-point-three-meter-tall super-soldiers collectively suffering from "meeting-the-parents anxiety."

The items laid out upon the long table were enough to make even a planetary governor jealous.

Ever since Guilliman awakened, he had adhered to one principle: Ultramarines were people too.

People should have the seven emotions and six desires, and with those came corresponding pursuits—eating, drinking, whoring, and gambling.

Whoring and gambling were unhealthy, and Guilliman did not encourage his boys to do such things.

So he did his best to improve his sons' treatment in the areas of food and drink.

Macragge specialties included grilled rib racks marbled like stone, giving off a wild, rich aroma.

Unknown alien fruits soaked in amber-colored honey syrup.

And jug after jug of "beverage," supposedly brewed from grapes grown beneath the "Glorious Sunlight" shining down from the highest point of the greenhouse dome.

But the Chapter Masters?