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 chambers again, a slightly hoarse and weak reply came from within:

"Come in."

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

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

His imposing frame of over three meters now gave off a rare air of bleakness and loneliness, as if the color had faded from his very being.

He was spent. Truly spent.

At his feet, the specially made ten-liter container had already been filled to the brim, proof that Guilliman had burned through everything.

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

Cawl first reported on the important matter, his mechanical voice carrying the satisfaction of completing a sacred undertaking. "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 forces."

He continued his analysis. "Once the recruits complete their Primaris transformation and all receive your New Gene-Seed.

This army will be powerful enough to sweep through the entire Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar and swiftly restore order!"

As worlds were retaken and his rule established, Guilliman would surely gain vast amounts of Governance Points.

At that point, he could exchange them for personnel and supplies, forge the Five Hundred Worlds into an iron-walled base, then travel without concern to the Eldar capital of Commorragh to invite the Haemonculi, before turning toward the heart of the Imperium, Terra.

This was good news.

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

If his rear was unstable and Chaos or xenos took advantage of his absence to invade his homeland during the expedition, it would be a colossal joke.

Besides, Guilliman also planned to "answer" the Warp's "summons" along the way, hunting Greater Daemons to replenish his Psionic Energy. 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 someone pushed beyond his limits.

"Very good... my Archmagos. 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 his day of "hard work."

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

His mechanical tentacles gently lifted it, while excited streams of data flashed through his compound eyes.

"Excellent! This is nothing less than a sacred blueprint for the Imperium's future!

The cultivation process itself is not complicated, my lord.

Select the finest living samples, conduct targeted cultivation and genetic sequence stabilization...

In approximately one week, the first batch of mature New Gene-Seed based on your current evolved form will be ready."

"At that time."

Cawl turned toward Guilliman and laid out the plan.

"I will first perform combined Gene-seed replacement and Primaris organ implantation surgery on the one hundred and fifty thousand Ultramarines who will form the main force of your coming expedition.

They will all be remade, carrying the newest blessing of your bloodline."

"How long will the full transformation take?"

Guilliman pressed him. He needed a clear timetable.

Cawl's mechanical head tilted slightly, seemingly calculating. "Because you expressly forbade the use of Imperial civilians to make Servitors to assist with the surgeries.

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

That will limit efficiency. The daily transformation limit is roughly three thousand men.

To speed things up, unless... we can obtain more powerful and specialized biomass processing units—or, more efficient 'Servitors.'"

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

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

"We need stronger 'Servitors,' correct?" he confirmed.

"Yes, my lord.

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

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

"Then, what if I use Space Marines to make 'Servitors' for you?"

"Ah? Th-this... how could that be?

Absolutely not!"

Cawl was stunned, his compound eyes flickering rapidly.

He thought Guilliman intended to turn his loyal Ultramarines into materials. 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 Archmagos, how could you think I would sacrifice my own sons?

I mean I'll go capture some Chaos tin cans for you to use as 'materials.'

There should still be plenty of those scum rampaging across several worlds around Macragge that have yet to be cleansed.

When I purged them two days ago, I focused only on killing and wasted them all.

This time, I'll capture a thousand alive and bring them back to you.

How much will that improve the transformation efficiency?"

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

The biomass-processing efficiency of a specialized Servitor converted from a living Space Marine—even a traitor—was far beyond that of a civilian Servitor.

After a moment, 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 surgeries for the one hundred and fifty thousand loyal warriors...

It will take only ten days in total."

"Ten days later,"

Cawl's synthesized voice rang with certainty.

"You will be able to lead an elite army of one hundred and fifty thousand Primaris warriors, all equipped with 'new blood,' upon a 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," both physically and mentally, remained intense, 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 hope-filled number.

At that moment, the atmosphere in Macragge's guest chamber was so cold 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 seven-foot-six super soldiers collectively suffering from "meeting-the-parents anxiety."

The things laid out on the long table would have made even a Planetary Governor jealous.

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

And people should have joys and desires. With joys and desires came the appropriate pursuits: eating, drinking, whoring, and gambling.

Whoring and gambling were unhealthy, and Guilliman did not encourage his children to do either.

So he did his best to improve his sons' treatment when it came to food and drink.

Macragge's specialty roasted ribs, their meat marbled like stone, gave off a wild aroma.

Unknown alien fruits soaked in amber-colored honey syrup.

And jug after jug of "beverage," supposedly brewed from grapes grown beneath the Glory Sunlight at the very top of the greenhouse dome.

But the Chapter Masters?