Webway Restoration Project

Webway's restoration project was incredibly smooth.

The soldiers of Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors have been working continuously for a whole month in Webway.

They built walls, plastered them, reinforced them, and demolished them, working in two shifts from morning to night and from night to morning every day.

Perturabo and Dorn squat on the construction site every day, one staring at the schedule and the other at the quality report. Neither of them obeys the other, but neither one holds back the other.

The technical advisors of Eldar stood aside, watching the yellow and iron-gray figures shuttle through Webway, with their mouths open and their eyes widened.

They can't understand.

These human beings, these short-lived races with a lifespan of less than a thousand years, these mortal beings whose perception of Psionic Energy can only barely reach the pass line through acquired modification - they are actually repairing Webway.

Not "trying to repair" or "trying to mend", but actually, brick by brick, in accordance with the engineering drawings, to restore the passages that were riddled with holes by the Ancient Eldar nobles.

"This is impossible." A Eldar consultant muttered.

"Maybe." A Imperial Fists veteran next to him didn't even raise his head. The Psionic Energy brick knife in his hand laid a brick in the void, "We are just better at breaking dust than you."

Neither humans nor Eldar can understand how Old Ones originally designed this ancient passage.

It covers the entire Milky Way.

From one end of Milky Way to the other, from the core world of Imperium of Man to the edge of the wild star field, from the hidden channel of Eldar Craftworlds to the dark side of Necrons Tomb Worlds - every passage, every node, every exit is accurately marked in that giant network.

It even covers changes one hundred thousand years later.

The movement of galaxies, the decay of stars, the gravitational fluctuations of black holes, and even the trajectories of the cosmic beasts that migrate around in Milky Way are all perfectly calculated within the design of Webway.

Those Old Ones were calculated tens of millions of years ago - when will this star expand into a red giant, when will that channel be eroded by stellar wind, and when will this node need to be reinforced.

Everything is like a star map that has been folded countless times. When you open it, the folds have already been drawn.

"Is this some kind of Psionic Energy prophecy? Or is it some kind of transformation of the Warp? Or is it some kind of pure, numerical calculation?" Asuryan held the tea cup and looked at the Imperial Fists soldiers who were working on it. His pale golden eyes were full of confusion.

Emperor's voice sounded in his mind, hoarse and low, with a calmness of "I don't know either".

"I don't know."

"You don't know either?" Asuryan put down the tea cup, "Don't you claim to be omniscient and omnipotent?"

"That's for publicity."

Asuryan was silent for a moment, and then sighed.

He picked up the tea cup again, took a sip, and then continued to watch the humans beating ashes.

He felt that he might not be able to understand the wisdom of Old Ones in this life.

But it doesn't matter, he just needs to know that these Webway will be available soon.

Guilliman was amazed at the repair progress of Webway.

Every engineering report is sent to his desk, and a brand new Webway node distribution map is attached to each report.

Those pictures were drawn with Psionic Energy ink, which glowed slightly on the parchment paper. Every line and every point was as clear as if it were carved on glass.

Countless Milky Way begin to connect.

Countless planets began to connect in parallel.

Voyages that once took months or even years now take days or even hours.

Merchant ships that once had to risk being torn apart by demons in Warp can now travel safely in Webway.

The world that was once isolated by the Chaos storm is now reconnected with the heart of Imperium.

All of this is recorded on parchment.

Stack after stack, box after box, cart after cart.

The parchments were delivered to Guilliman's office and piled on his desk, next to his chair, behind the door, next to the window, and all over the floor.

Without the help of intelligent artificial intelligence, there is no automatic processing of Psionic Energy - because those documents involving Imperium's top secrets cannot be processed by any uncontrollable means.

You can only rely on human power, you can only rely on handwriting, you can only rely on the blue figure sitting on the chair, holding a quill, and sketching desperately.

Guilliman huddled in a pile of parchment.

His posture was extremely ugly.

The waist is bent, the shoulders are hunched, and the neck is stretched forward, making the whole person look like a bent shrimp.

His quill quickly scratched across the paper, making a tiny rustling sound like eating mulberry leaves.

His eyes were bloodshot, there were two thick groups of black and blue under his eye sockets, and green stubble appeared on his chin.

His black tuxedo was rumpled, his tie was tilted to one side, and his monocle had fallen somewhere.

If any Ministorum Priest saw Guilliman at this moment, even the lowest-level priest who rings bells in a small church on a remote planet, they would be shocked to the point of astonishment.

It's not because he's handsome, but because the way he corrects documents is so sacred.

How to describe it?

He was holding only an ordinary quill, but it was as if he was holding countless angel wings.

The tip of the pen scratches the paper, not writing, but spreading wisdom.

The ink seeps from the tip of the pen into the paper, not penetrating, but carving the truth.

He doesn't need to think, hesitate, or consult any information, because all the answers are in his mind, like templates that have already been engraved, and he only needs to correspond, outline, sign, and seal one by one.

But if the Ultramariness at this moment saw this scene, they would not be shocked.

They will cry.

Then they will kneel down and kowtow in the direction of Guilliman's office.

Then they would rush into the office, snatch the parchment, snatch the quill, then carry Guilliman out, throw it on the bed, and cover it with a quilt.

Then they would sit in that chair themselves and start grading the document.

Then they will find that they can't understand those documents at all.

Then they will continue to cry.

Guilliman's quill paused.

He raised his head, and his bloodshot blue-gold eyes scanned the entire office and the mountains of parchment.

His lips moved and his voice was hoarse.

"Hurry up and give me a cup of tea or coffee. Or something else. Whatever can refresh you is good. It doesn't matter if it harms your body."

He paused, and there was a tiredness in his voice that said, "I've reached my limit."

"Give me a drink quickly. I feel like I'm going crazy."

No one answered him.

It's not that no one heard, it's that no one dared to answer.

His attendants stood outside the office, their hands hanging in front of their bodies, their heads lowered, not daring to take a breath.

They had already made tea, but they didn't dare to bring it in.

Because the last time they brought tea in, Guilliman was halfway through grading and looked up at them.

There was no emotion in that look, but the attendants read in that look a silent condemnation of "I am so busy and you are drinking tea."

They withdrew silently, poured out the tea, and stood there, waiting to be called upon again.

Guilliman has never felt that he wanted to take refuge in Chaos so much.

As long as the Four Gods were willing to correct these documents for him, he would immediately rebel.