Galactic Representatives' Conference
Guilliman changed into a decent dark blue suit, a three-piece suit, well-tailored, and the fabric had a dull luster under the light.
His hair was combed meticulously, his monocle was stuck in his right eye socket, and his golden chain hung down and disappeared into the pocket of his vest.
He stood in front of the mirror and took a look, feeling that he had the air of a politician at the moment.
"Not bad." He said to himself.
"Very handsome." Sanguinius's voice came from behind.
The archangel wore a white dress today, with long golden hair draped over his shoulders, wings folded behind his back, and a gentle smile like someone who had stepped out of a Renaissance oil painting.
"It's just a bit like going to a funeral."
Guilliman's mouth twitched.
"Today is not a funeral, today is the most important diplomatic meeting in my life."
"That's even worse." Lion·Al Jonson leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, his green eyes full of schadenfreude.
"The diplomatic meeting is dressed like a funeral, which shows that you have no hope for this meeting."
Guilliman took a deep breath and decided not to argue with these two brothers who always quarreled with him whenever they met.
He pushed his monocle up the bridge of his nose, turned around and strode out of the lounge.
The auditorium is the largest in the Imperial Palace, as big as a football field.
The dome is painted with a huge mural of Emperor leading Primarch on an expedition to the star sea, and the golden frame sparkles in the light.
Hanging on the surrounding walls are the flags of Chapter, the blue U of Ultramarines, the red blood drops of Blood Angels, the green sword of Dark Angels, the black fist of Imperial Fists, the iron skull of Iron Warriors, and the red teeth of World Eaters.
All the flags put down their prejudices at this moment and hung there quietly.
There is only a small table in the center of the auditorium.
It's not a round table, it's a square table. The black stone surface is polished as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the faces of everyone sitting at the table.
The table is not big, only four chairs, one on each side.
It was prepared for the four forces - Imperium of Man, Necrons, Eldar, and an empty chair, which was said to be reserved for "other interested civilizations."
Around the table, a thousand Adeptus Custodes stood densely packed.
The golden armor formed an airtight wall. Their hands were pressed on the hilts of their swords, and their eyes scanned every corner of the auditorium like hawks.
Their expressions were as serious as if they were attending their own funeral.
No, it's more serious than a funeral.
At least they can cry at the funeral, they can't even cry.
Necrons's camp came first.
Silent King was sitting on one side of the square table, and the body of Necrodermis glowed with a cold green light under the light.
His fingers tapped lightly on the table, making a crisp sound of "ta, tap, tap". The rhythm became faster and faster, like an accelerating engine.
His brows - if Necrons had brows - were twisted into a knot.
"Hasn't it started yet?" His voice was low, with a kind of impatience like "I've been waiting for 60 million years and I still have to wait."
Star Phaeron stood behind him, with his hands folded in front of him, his expression as calm as water.
Sickle Phaeron stood on the other side, the huge Dust Scythe leaning on his shoulder, the green light on the blade flashing, as if he was dozing off.
Eldar's camp arrived a little later.
When Asuryan walked out of the Webway exit, the entire auditorium was lit up.
It's not an exaggeration, the light reflected by his platinum cloak under the light really made several Adeptus Custodes squint their eyes subconsciously.
His steps were calm and elegant, each step seemed to be measured, no more, no less, exactly one step.
There was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and his pale golden eyes swept from one end of the auditorium to the other, and finally landed on Silent King sitting at the square table.
"Old friend, you're here too." His tone was as gentle as greeting a neighbor.
Silent King's fingers stopped.
"Who is your old friend?" His voice was as cold as iron.
Asuryan smiled and did not answer.
He sat down on the other side of the square table, his white-gold cloak hanging behind him into a beautiful picture.
Yvraine followed him. The leader of Reaper Host wore a plain white robe today.
Her hair was braided into a long braid hanging down her head, her face was calm, but there was a hint of undetectable tension in her eyes.
Her seat is next to Asuryan.
Yvraine When I sat down, I felt like I was in a dream.
The king of Aeldari Gods, Phoenix King Asuryan, is an existence that only appears in myths and legends.
The being who used his body to protect the fragments of the gods for 65 million years after the collapse of Eldar Pantheon was sitting next to her at the moment.
She sat very straight.
Keep your back straight, put your hands on your knees, and look straight ahead.
She told herself in her heart that she could not embarrass Eldar or lose her composure in front of Asuryan!
Imperium of Man's camp is the last to enter.
Guilliman walked in the front, his dark blue suit looked calm and decent under the light, his monocle reflected the golden halo, and his pace was neither hasty nor slow.
Sanguinius followed on his right side. The golden trim of the white dress complemented the wings. There was a smile on that handsome face that made people feel like they were in the spring breeze.
Lion followed him to the left, with no wrinkles on his dark green jersey, the lion's emblem shining on his chest, and his eyes as sharp as a knife.
Three Primarch sat down on the third side of the square table.
Guilliman is sitting in the middle, Sanguinius is on the right, and Lion is on the left.
Behind them, five hundred Ultramarines, three hundred Blood Angels, and two hundred Dark Angels formed a square array, as neatly as if they had been measured with a ruler.
There are no traces of battle damage on their Power Armour, which has been wiped clean and looks like new.
Guilliman sighed inwardly when he sat down.
He didn't want to bring these two brothers.
It's not because they are not strong, but because the three of them sitting together always remind him of some bad past.
Second Imperium.
Sanguinius is the first Emperor, who is also Imperial Regent, and Lion is the military marshal.
Although that period was short-lived, the psychological shadow left behind is eternal.
Every time the three of them appear in public at the same time, Guilliman has the illusion of "am I going to be pushed to the throne again?"
He shook his head to get those distracting thoughts out of his mind.
The other Primarchs have something to do.
Magnus combs the sea of Psionic Energy around Terra in the Psionic Energy courtyard.
The Chaos energy that seeped out from the Warp gaps was purified, channeled, and transformed into Golden Throne fuel one by one under his control.
His workload is so heavy that he doesn't even have time to drink tea.
Roge·Dorn and Angron are on an expedition. One is responsible for holding the front, and the other is responsible for tearing apart the defense line. They work together like a machine that has been running for thousands of years.
Perturabo is usually responsible for the safety construction of the Imperial Palace, commonly known as dust removal.