The Collection Museum

Some of the devices were so uniquely designed and technologically Primarch that even Guilliman, a well-informed Primarch, was awestruck.

Guilliman did not stop.

His eyes were fixed on the fleeing, eerie green figure.

But his soldiers began to wreak havoc.

Those souls, imprisoned for countless years, were finally freed under the scorching golden flames.

Those treasures that Trazyn treasured were reduced to ashes in the wrath of the Bound Legion.

"Burn!"

Ferrus Manus smashed a huge display case to pieces. "Burn it all!"

Golden flames spread throughout the warship.

Guilliman rushed through exhibition hall after hall.

His speed was so great that the Necron Warriors who tried to intercept him had no time to react.

His sword flashed, and they were reduced to fragments.

As he swept past, they vanished into thin air.

Finally, he arrived at a huge warehouse.

The warehouse door was tightly shut, and it was engraved with complex Necrons runes.

The runes emitted a ghostly green light, clearly indicating that they were top-tier seals.

Guilliman could sense something behind that door—something that sent shivers down his spine.

He did not hesitate.

He swung his sword down.

The golden sword light tore through the runes, ripped open the door, and shattered everything behind it.

Behind the door was a vast space.

The space was filled with countless exhibits.

A colossal Orks war chieftain, standing a full twelve meters tall, was frozen in time for his roar.

The Orks's eyes burned with an eternal madness, its muscles were frozen in a state of impending explosion, and just looking at it, one could feel its primal bloodlust.

It features a complete Eldar Craftworlds model, so exquisitely detailed it's unbelievable.

Every building, every street, and every tree on the model was clearly visible.

That was a microcosm of the Eldar Golden Age, a testament to the pinnacle of their civilization.

There is a core specimen of the Tyranid Hive fleet; the enormous organism has been dissected into countless cross-sections, revealing its complex internal structure.

Those organs, those tubes, those biological tissues that were still faintly glowing—they sent chills down my spine.

There is a sealed container for Chaos Daemons; within the transparent container, a twisted form is struggling frantically.

They have been imprisoned for countless years, yet they still retain their madness and evil.

The surface of the container was engraved with dense sealing runes, each of which was faintly glowing.

besides--

A statue of a woman.

Guilliman stopped in his tracks.

He stood there at the doorway, gazing at the statue.

That's not a real statue.

That was a person.

A person shrouded in Stasis Field.

An old woman.

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.

Her eyes were closed, as if she were simply asleep.

A faint smile played on her lips, a smile of contentment, a smile that was—

A mother's smile.

Guilliman's body began to tremble.

The trembling started at the fingertips, spread to the arms, spread throughout the body, spread to—

Deep within the soul.

That was his mother.

That's Tarasha Euten.

That is the Mother of Macragge.

That gave him a name, gave him a home, gave him—

The one you love.

"Mother..."

His voice trembled, filled with disbelief, endless longing, and—

anger.

He slowly approached the statue.

Approaching the figure shrouded in Stasis Field.

His hand, trembling, reached out, wanting to touch that face.

Just as his fingertips were about to touch that Stasis Field—

He saw the book.

The book held in her mother's hands.

There are photos on it.

That's his photo.

From infancy, to childhood, to adolescence, to youth --

Next to each photo is a handwritten note.

He recognized those words.

That was my mother's handwriting.

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.

It says next to it:

He seemed unhappy. Maybe he wasn't used to being here yet.

The second photo shows a young child.

The child, who looked about three or four years old, stood at a tightly closed doorway.

His face was turned toward the camera, but his eyes were looking elsewhere, as if there was something more attractive to him there.

It says next to it:

"He always ignores us. We call his name, but he never turns around."

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 confusion in his eyes.

It says next to it:

"He's starting to respond to us. Even if it's just turning his head and glancing at us, that's progress, isn't it?"

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.

It says next to it:

"I'm here!"

Tears welled up in Guilliman's eyes.

Those were golden tears.

Those were the tears of the Primarch.

Those were my son's tears.

"Mother..."

His voice choked with emotion:

"Mother..."

He thought back to those years.

Those were the first days after being adopted.

At that time, he had just woken up from the culture tank and was sent to this unfamiliar family.

He didn't know these people, didn't understand their smiles, and wasn't used to their touch.

He remained silent, waiting for the person who was supposed to come and take him away—the one who created him, yet then abandoned him.

But those people did not give up.

They called his name again and again.

She smiled at him again and again.

Time and time again--

Wait for him to turn around.

Finally, he turned around.

Finally, he spoke.

Finally, he learned to say--

"Mother".

He remembered that afternoon.

That day, he was running through the wheat field.

Sunlight bathed him, the wind blew through his hair, and golden waves of wheat rippled around him.

He turned around and saw his mother standing on the edge of the field, waving to him.

She shouted:

"Robert, dinner's ready!"

He smiled.

He responded loudly:

"I'm here!"