Lox and Guilliman chatted in the reception hall for several hours, trading remarks back and forth.
Their conversation had no discernible pattern, leaping from amusing anecdotes of humanity's age of expansion to the infuriatingly foolish acts of the Imperium, wandering wherever it pleased.
Yet this sort of rambling conversation was exactly what both of them enjoyed.
To outsiders, they were both lofty figures of extraordinary status and power. Lox was a survivor of the Dark Age of Technology, a keeper of humanity's legacy, while Guilliman was the Emperor's own son, a true demigod walking among mortals.
One possessed lost technology that the Adeptus Mechanicus regarded as supreme. Revealing even a little of it would be enough for the Five Hundred Worlds to crush the traitors' Shadow Crusade.
The other was a genuine primarch, lord of the Five Hundred Worlds, whose every word and action could determine the fates of tens or even hundreds of billions.
But stripped of those dazzling halos, only they themselves knew that they were, in truth, genuinely unlucky bastards.
Lox guarded humanity's legacy, yet he had to remain diligent and cautious, never daring to meddle recklessly for fear of making a mistake.
He had always maintained restraint and balance, using AI technology as safely as possible. He feared the tragedy of the Iron Men rebellion repeating itself, feared that a moment of carelessness on his part would kick humanity straight into its grave—and shovel dirt over it besides.
As for Guilliman, he appeared to wield supreme authority second only to the Emperor's. Now that the Ruinstorm had cut apart the galaxy, he could even become a true ruler of a second Imperium.
But only his attendants and Servitors knew that since the Battle of Calth, Guilliman had barely slept at all. He had only five minutes