A Banquet
The Macragge's Honour slowly entered Terra's orbit.
The Gloriana-class Battleship still bore the marks of its battle with the Necrons fleet—eerie green energy burns, scratches from Blackstone fragments, and several deep grooves left by the Blade Phaeron's Dust Scythe.
But to the people of Terra, those marks are not scars, but medals.
The sky above Terra was illuminated by the fleet's exhaust plumes.
Not one, not ten, but tens of thousands of warships simultaneously lighting up their engines, forming a neat parade formation in the void.
The Macragge's Honour was at the very front of the formation, its bow pointing towards the Golden Throne like a drawn sword.
The streets on both sides of Triumph Avenue were packed with people.
Terra hasn't been this lively in a long time.
The last time such a grand triumphal ceremony was when Guilliman returned from the Imperium Nihilus.
This time, the protagonist is Titus —the captain of the Second Company Ultramarines, the Master of the Watch, the Watcher of Ultramar, the man who cut the Phaeron Necrons south to north in the Void.
"Titus! Titus! Titus!" Cheers echoed like a tsunami, wave after wave, reverberating between the buildings on both sides of the Triumph Avenue.
Countless flags waved—blue, gold, and the flag of the Aquila —surging like a tide in the afterglow of the setting sun.
On those flags, some read "Son of War Return in Triumph," others "Welcome Home," and still others wrote something even more blunt—"Well Done!"
Titus stood on the open-top transport vehicle, his Power Armour repainted, its blue-gold surface gleaming in the sunlight.
His Power Sword was tucked into his waistband, the hilt still bearing the marks of the golden flames that scorched him during his final battle with the Blade Phaeron.
His face was calm, but his eyes gleamed.
He looked at the cheering crowd, the waving flags, and the admiring gazes, and a complex emotion welled up inside him.
The last time he returned to Terra, he was escorted by Inquisitor and investigated on charges of "suspected Chaos Corruption."
There were no cheers, no flags, only the cold Inquisition dungeon and endless trials.
This time, he returned as a hero, carrying the glory of defeating the Phaeron Necrons, the respect of 250,000 brothers, and the pride of the Gene-Father.
The transport vehicle slowly drove into the Royal Palace Square.
There, a person was already standing.
He wore blue Power Armour, no helmet, his golden hair fluttered in the wind, and his face was both dignified and kind.
He had no aura, no Psionic Energy fluctuations, and no signs of anything extraordinary.
He stood there, like an ordinary father waiting for his son to return from afar.
Guilliman.
Titus's breath caught in his throat for a moment.
He jumped off the transport vehicle, his Power Armour making a heavy thud as it hit the stone slabs.
He strode toward Guilliman, each step firm and resolute, each step carrying a warrior's deepest respect for the Gene-Father.
Then he knelt down, on one knee, head bowed, right fist clenched in front of his chest.
"Father," his voice was hoarse, with a hint of self-reproach in it, "I'm back."
But I failed to completely kill the Blade Phaeron, allowing him to send his consciousness back.
Please forgive my incompetence.
Guilliman looked down at him and remained silent for a moment.
Then he reached out his hand, the movement slow and gentle, as if caressing a lost treasure that had been found again.
His hand rested on Titus's shoulder, the warmth seeping through the Power Armour onto Titus's skin.
"My son," his voice was calm and kind, "You hacked your way from south to north, turning the Phaeron Necrons a human stump, pierced through a Blackstone warship, and beat him up in the vacuum."
You brought back 250,000 brothers without losing a single one.
What else do you want me to forgive you for?
Titus raised his head, a hint of confusion in his blue-gold eyes: "But—"
"No buts," Guilliman interrupted him, a hint of amusement in his voice. "The Blade Phaeron? Just an appetizer."
I'm already very happy that you can eat it on your way back."
He patted Titus's shoulder forcefully, the force causing Titus's body to sink slightly.
"Get up, my son."
"How can I announce what's next while you're kneeling?"
Titus stood up, his eyes filled with confusion.
Guilliman turned around to face the cheering crowd in the square, the countless Ultramarines awaiting orders, and the Golden Throne gleaming in the sunset.
He took a deep breath, and the sound echoed throughout the entire plaza, throughout Terra, and into the Gene-seed of every Ultramarines.
"I've decided—to throw a banquet!" His voice was like a war cry, "General mobilization before the battle!"
I want to cook it myself!
The palace kitchens have never been so lively.
That kitchen, covering thousands of square meters, was built during the Emperor era and was specifically used to prepare Primarch- level banquets.
Inside, there are hundreds of stoves, dozens of giant ovens, and cranes and cutting tables specifically for handling large ingredients.
But this kitchen has never been used since the Emperor ascended the Golden Throne.
At this moment, it finally saw the light of day again.
Guilliman was wearing an apron.
The apron was white, embroidered with the Ultramarines ' emblem, and printed with the words "Macragge's First Chef".
He stood in front of the head chef's counter, in front of a ten-meter-long cutting board with a cleaver larger than an average person's on it.
Perturabo leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, his expression as if he'd swallowed a live fly. "Guilliman, when did you become a chef?"
Roge Dorn stood beside him, equally disapproving. "Nonsense."
With a formidable enemy at hand, you actually intend to cook for yourself?
Guilliman turned his head and looked at the two brothers.
His lips curled up slightly, a hint of mischief in his smile.
"You two," he said, "Have a problem with me?"
Perturabo scoffed. "Of course I have objections."
You are the Imperial Regent, the Commander-in-Chief of the Army, and the core of this war.
You should be in the command center studying strategy, not chopping vegetables in the kitchen.
Dorn nodded. "Agreed."
This is a waste of time.
Guilliman put down the cleaver, the sound of metal striking the cutting board crisp and loud.
He looked at Perturabo and Dorn, a hint of fighting spirit flashing in his blue-gold eyes.
"Very well," he said, "I request that you—a duel for honor."
Perturabo's eyes lit up.
Dorn frowned.
Guilliman continued, "No laws, no Psionic Energy, only the physical body."
There are two of you against me.
If we win, I'll obediently return to the command center.
"We lost--"
He paused, then his smile widened, "You'll be my kitchen helpers."
Perturabo and Dorn exchanged a glance.
After resolving their inner conflicts, the two have become increasingly coordinated and are now an unparalleled duo among the Primarch.