I Will Lead You to Greatness, My Children

The atmosphere settled slightly.

The other Chapter Masters slowed their movements as well.

Guilliman set down his knife and fork and wiped his hands with a napkin, his motions casual.

But his voice became gentle and clear, cutting through every faint sound and reaching Thorne directly.

"Rex Thorne."

He called him by his full name.

Thorne's body jolted. He almost instinctively tried to kneel again, but Guilliman stopped him with a glance.

That look meant, "Sit and listen to me."

"I know about your affairs."

Guilliman spoke bluntly, without circling around the matter:

"Those shadows of the past, the mistakes you made, the wrong paths you took... I know them all."

Thorne's face turned pale. His fingers clenched around his knee, his metal armor giving off a faint scrape.

The private dining room was so quiet that the low hum of the servos could be heard.

Then Guilliman spoke again. There was no reproach, no cold scrutiny, only a burden as deep and solid as the earth:

"But I have said something similar to my other sons.

Today, I will say it to you again, Thorne, and again to my Sons of Guilliman."

He paused, ensuring that every word was branded into the air:

"Your glory, I shall witness."

"Your sins... I shall bear."

"Since every sin shall be borne by me, your father, then I, Guilliman, in the name of the son of the God-Emperor of the Imperium, declare you innocent!

The Sons of Guilliman are loyal sons who fill me with pride!"

Thorne abruptly raised his head, his eyes filled with incredulous shock. It was the look of something nearly shattered, yet slowly reassembling.

Guilliman looked at him, his blue eyes vast with acceptance and unwavering resolve:

"Because I am your father.

With blood, with countless near-suicidal battles, with these long years of atonement, you have proven your Loyalty and fearlessness.

And so, from this point onward..."

His tone became powerful once more, carrying the particular vigor he always had when planning the future:

"It is my turn.

My turn to lead you forward—my sons who were once lost, yet whose flames of Loyalty never truly went out.

Toward the greatness that should have been yours!"

Those words were like a warm current, yet also like a heavy hammer.

They utterly shattered the frozen wall of guilt within Thorne—and within the several captains behind him who also came from the Sons of Guilliman.

Thorne's lips trembled. This hard man, who had never flinched before even a Daemon Prince on the battlefield, found his eyes reddening.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came at first. In the end, he simply gathered all his strength and slammed his right fist against the breastplate over his left chest, producing a dull, loyal boom.

No further words were needed. That gesture represented everything:

Life, Loyalty, and a mission bestowed anew.

"Enough!"

Guilliman clapped his hands, instantly shifting the torrent of profound emotion back into the relaxed mood of a meal, as though they had merely settled a tactical detail.

"The heavy subject is over! Now, I order you all—finish every dish on this table!

Especially you, Thorne. Eat more. The next mission will not be easy.

Volon, stop studying the presentation. Eating it is the most perfect tactical execution!

And Andreas, try that chili sauce. I guarantee it is more thrilling than cutting down a Chaos Champion!"

Laughter—real, relaxed laughter—began to rise in scattered bursts before gathering into a chorus.

The clinking of cutlery became cheerful, and conversation began to hum through the room.

Guilliman even began discussing with Talos which fruit wine best suited bridge duty, then teased Calvo about whether he had secretly packed a few "battlefield souvenirs" as seasoning.

The gene-father had not only reconnected with his sons; over the course of one meal,

he had turned what might have been a solemn, tense "pre-briefing meeting" into a true "family dinner," full of warmth and human feeling.

And when every Chapter Master left, the uncertainty they carried toward the future had been replaced by something firmer and warmer.

It was the belonging of being accepted, the relief of being understood, and the certainty of facing the Milky Way together under their father's guidance.

All successor Chapters would return to the Ultramarines for Primaris transformation surgery.

From then on, they would remain often at their father's side!

What incomparable glory!

Macragge's star rose, casting golden light across the Primarch's shoulders.

Guilliman looked out the window and rubbed his brow.

Another sleepless night.

He silently promised himself that once the Five Hundred Worlds had been fully reclaimed, he would get a proper night's sleep.

Though this body, strengthened by the essence of a Primarch and the power of Terra's Regent Thragg, had long surpassed mortal physiological limits,

the memories of his previous life deep within his soul still stubbornly longed for a regular schedule and a moment of peace.

Sleep now felt more like a ritual, a symbolic refuge he reserved for himself against the endless flood of responsibility.

But at this moment, there was no refuge on the schedule.

He remembered his promise to Cawl: he would help capture a thousand Chaos Space Marines to be converted into servitors.

Having finally talked this Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus into joining him, he had to fulfill such a small request.

The Armor of Fate silently adhered to his body, its streamlined azure plating gleaming with a cold luster in the morning light.

Guilliman pushed open the enormous arched window. He summoned no Thunderhawk Gunship and disturbed no one.

He stepped forward, then floated into the air.

Endless kinetic energy accumulated within him before transforming into a blue meteor that tore through the sky and pierced the atmosphere.

Macragge's sea of clouds and dawn glow fell away behind him.

The vacuum embraced him in silence.

The absolute zero temperatures and airless environment that would instantly kill mortal life were merely working conditions requiring slight attention for other Primarchs.

For Guilliman, entering space was hardly any different from soaking in a hot spring.

He hovered amid the stars and looked down upon one corner of the Ultramar sector.

Planets were like jewels scattered across black velvet. Some shone brilliantly, some were dim, and more were shrouded in the gloom of war.

His superhuman vision locked onto its target: an emerald-green planet slowly turning in orbit.

The fresh, charred scars of craters across its surface were flaws upon fine jade, stabbing at his eyes.

Gracia IV.

An agricultural jewel among the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar.

Within the Imperium's vast archives, it might have been nothing more than a serial number, a string of food production statistics.

But to the fifteen billion farmers living upon it, this was their entire world.

A day on Gracia IV usually began when dew upon the rice ears reflected the first rays of its twin suns, which the locals called the Harvest Eye.

The air was forever filled with the mixed scent of soil, ripe grain, and organic fertilizer. It was not pleasant, but it made people feel secure.

Its technological level rested in a tranquil sort of backwardness. Automated harvesters were treasures to every village, heavy and noisy.

Every year, technicians dispatched by the Planetary Governor's office had to spend several days banging and tinkering before they could run again;

threshers were even more precious, with several villages often sharing a single machine.

As for the Adeptus Mechanicus?

That was a word from legend. The people of Gracia had only vaguely heard of those red-robed oddities who "worshipped the Machine God" from the crew of the occasional transport ship that descended there.

Planetary Governor Aulus Greifman, a fat man who had inherited his father's position, ruled this world.

His "oppression" bore the distinct character of an agricultural planet: imposing heavy grain taxes, forcibly requisitioning farmers during the slack season to build him yet another summer estate.

Whenever he took a liking to a family's daughter, he would occasionally "invite" her to his residence to "serve" for a while.

People hated him and cursed him with the filthiest words behind his back.

But life could still go on.

After all, the land was generous. So long as one bent one's back and sweated, there was no trouble filling one's stomach.

The farmers' grandest fantasy of "rebellion" was no more than a blue-armored giant descending from the heavens one day and using a Bolter to blast that fat pig Governor's head into fragments.

(They had heard stories of the Astartes, but thought they were little different from myths.)

Yet what descended today was not a blue giant.