Conquest!!!

Guilliman hovered in mid-air, holding the photo album in his hands.

His tears had run dry.

His anger had burned out.

In his mind, only one thought remained—

Mother.

He opened the photo album.

Page after page, and another page.

Those photos, those handwritings, those--

The last one.

That was taken before he left Macragge for the last time.

He stood in the sunlight, with golden wheat fields 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 it:

"I'm here!"

Guilliman's fingers gently traced the words.

"I'm here..."

He repeated it to himself.

That was the first time he truly responded to his mother's call.

That was the first time he truly accepted that family.

That was the first time he truly became --

Robert Guilliman.

Not the Son of War.

Not the thirteenth Primarch.

Not any titles or ranks.

He was just a child.

A child with a mother.

His finger lingered on those three words.

"I'm here..."

He repeated it again.

Then, his body began to glow.

The light was not golden.

It's red.

It's a burning red.

It's an angry red.

yes--

The red of war.

In the Warp, a sword is burning.

It was an Ancient Rome sword, short and wide, with ancient Latin inscriptions engraved on its blade.

The meaning of those words is--

"War".

This is Guilliman's Lesser God nature.

Son of War.

Originally, it was just a simple sword.

It symbolizes war, conquest, and humanity's oldest impulses.

But as Guilliman devoured several Greater Daemon, as he absorbed vast amounts of Warp energy, and as he gradually grew into a true Lesser God—

The sword began to change.

First, a hand appeared on the hilt of the sword, seemingly grasping at something.

The hand was pale yet powerful; it was the Primarch's hand.

Then comes the wrist, forearm, elbow, and upper arm.

Shoulders, neck, head, torso --

A complete figure emerged from the flames.

The figure was tall and imposing, clad in Ancient Rome- style armor, and wielding a burning sword.

His face was exactly like Guilliman's.

But in his eyes burned a pure flame—

The flames of war.

The last piece of the puzzle is complete.

Son of War, truly awakened.

The trigger for awakening is anger.

How can Son of War, filled with rage, be called Son of War?

The true Son of War should be --

Anger itself.

What kind of situation would make a Lesser God, who is actually wearing a human skin, so angry that he would tear that skin apart?

The answer is simple:

His mother died in the accident.

Since arriving in this world, Guilliman had never experienced such heartache.

He fought countless battles, killed countless enemies, and experienced countless life-and-death situations.

He was nearly killed when Fulgrim stabbed him in the throat.

He watched helplessly as his sons died on the battlefield.

He once faced an attack from the Four Chaos Gods and held on alone.

But he never--

I have never felt pain like this before.

The pain did not originate from the body.

It comes from the soul.

It comes from a son's most instinctive longing for his mother.

His mother was imprisoned.

Imprisoned in a crack in time by an Xenos.

A full ten thousand years.

A thousand years!

He slept for ten thousand years, and his mother was imprisoned for ten thousand years.

While he was handling state affairs in Terra, his mother was trapped in Stasis Field.

While he was laughing and drinking with his brothers, his mother held that photo album, waiting for him to come and rescue her.

She had been waiting.

I've waited ten thousand years.

She was waiting for her son to come and take her home.

And he--

I only found out now.

Guilliman's eyes welled up with tears again.

But those tears evaporated instantly.

Because within him, another flame ignited.

anger.

Terrifying rage.

A raging fire of fury.

The intensity of that anger caused the entire Warp to tremble.

The sheer purity of that rage caused Khorne, far away on the Brass Throne, to suddenly stand up.

Khorne's four eyes all looked in that direction.

An unprecedented excitement appeared on his face.

"My warrior--!"

His voice resounded throughout the entire Warp:

"That's how it should be!"

Embrace your true self!

"Let your anger run wild!"

"War is the eternal theme of this universe!"

"Go to war! Go to war!!!"

The Khorne so intense that he danced with excitement.

This was the first time he had ever felt such pure, Lesser God -like wrath.

That anger was pure and unadulterated.

There was no fear of Chaos, no desire for power, and no pursuit of eternity.

only--

Pure anger.

only--

A son's most instinctive urge to kill the enemy who imprisoned his mother.

Khorne stared at the burning figure, his eyes filled with fanaticism.

"That's amazing... that's amazing..."

He murmured:

"He's many times stronger than any other Lesser God..."

He paused, then suddenly thought of something:

"Too.

The other human Lesser God don't have mothers.

In the Warp, the burning figure slowly raised its hand.

Then--

He punched himself hard in the face.

The force of that punch was so great that it completely knocked off his jaw.

Golden blood splattered.

But the figure did not fall.

He was suspended there, his chin a bloody mess.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The mangled, bloody area began to wriggle, began to grow, began to—

heal.

A new chin has grown in.

It's exactly the same as before.

The figure opened its eyes.

His eyes were devoid of tears, anger, and any other emotion.

only--

calm.

Extreme calmness.

That is the essence of the Son of War, the state when it is pushed to its limit.

It's not a crazy war.

It is a rational war.

It was meticulously calculated, a sure victory, and an unstoppable force.

war.

Guilliman stretched out his hand and looked at his palm.

On that palm, the golden blood was congealing.

He was conceiving a plan.

To devise a war.

A grand war.

A war that could serve as a celebratory gift to welcome back the mother.

The enemy in this war must be a Necron Overlord.

The location of this war must be under the watchful eyes of the entire Milky Way.

The outcome of this war must be that the head of that Necron Overlord is placed before his mother's grave.

Guilliman's lips curled into a slight smile.

It was a cold laugh.

That was the smile of Son of War.

He turned on the communication channel.

The voice no longer trembled, no longer expressed anger, no longer showed sorrow.

Only peace.

Only perseverance.

only--

Order.