Unfortunately, Huron's reply to Guilliman was steeped in immense humility. He repeatedly claimed his merits were insufficient to command the masses and that he was unworthy of the mantle of a hero. He dared not presume to accept Guilliman's rewards and politely declined the invitation to board the Macragge's Honour.
Guilliman actually found this quite amusing. This Huron—it was entirely possible he truly was of his own gene-seed...
Of course, Guilliman didn't believe for a second that Huron was truly loyal. He surmised that Huron understood that with Abaddon and the Black Legion gone, he had inherited the top seat among the traitors and become one of the Empire's primary targets. This charade was likely a ploy to buy time, but it was a petty trick nonetheless...
+He is not within our Order.+
+Grant him the End and the Death.+
A dark voice resonated within Guilliman's mind. He felt a wave of slight vertigo. The Macragge's Honour flickered before his eyes. Scattered documents seemed to be manipulated by invisible hands, arranging themselves into perfect order. The surrounding bookshelves were straightened; the floor became uniform, and even the metal etchings appeared meticulously recalibrated. Marble statues lined the walls, each carved with such precision that they formed a strange sense of absolute order.
But Guilliman saw more than what was in front of him. His perception extended, spreading throughout the entirety of the Macragge's Honour. His thoughts brushed through the mind of every son—not just his sons, but the mortals too. It spread beyond the ship, out to the stars. Every human being was brushed by his mind. No—there were no "other" humans. Every person was merely a thread in Guilliman's multi-threaded consciousness. Each person was a tiny fragment of Guilliman's mind. They converged to form his psyche, and his psyche dispersed to form them. This was Order. True Order. Every individual could be integrated into the Order of Ultramar, occupying the position best suited for them, doing what they ought to do in the most efficient way possible.
Within the Order, all things end, leaving only One Man, Ten Thousand Thoughts. Outside the Order, all things end, leaving only the death of the masses.
Guilliman saw a figure standing before him. He wore armor similar to the one Guilliman had worn ten thousand years ago, etched with the orderly vistas of Ultramar. However, his brow bore no laurel of victory and glory. Instead, a ring of obsidian eight-pointed stars circled his cranium. He seemed draped in shadow, his cobalt-blue armor stained a dark, murky indigo.
Guilliman wanted to demand who he was, but the answer arrived before he could speak.
+I am Roboute Guilliman.+
+I am the End and the Death. I am the Final Order. I am the Regent of All Living Things. I am the Regent of Chaos.+
+The thoughts of all beings are governed by me. The power of the Gods is governed by me.+
+I regent War: all blood flows for me, all kills are struck by me; every spark of scarlet joy lies beneath my blade.+
+I regent Change: all shifts are controlled by me, all transformations are wrought by me; every mutation and permutation lies within my plan.+
+I regent Life: all beings are nurtured by me, all lives are extended by me; the life and death of every creature lies within my husbandry.+
+I regent Delight: all joys are savored by me, all pleasures are created by me; all love and ecstasy lie within my governance.+
+I am You.+
Chaotic memories surged in Guilliman's mind. Blood. Blood was flowing. Everything was becoming blurred. He saw himself swinging a longsword, shattering Horus's Worldbreaker. The Master of the Luna Wolves fell at his feet. He saw a flash of crimson—an Ultramarine wearing a crimson helm, wielding a slender blade, standing in his way. Behind the warrior lay the dying body of the Emperor of Mankind.
Thiel. Aeonid Thiel. My child. The crimson helmet, once a mark of censure, had become a badge of honor because of you.
He was Guilliman's beloved warrior. Before the Great Heresy had even begun, he had proposed tactical strategies for fighting Astartes and was censured for it. But his foresight was proven right. At the Battle of Calth, when the Word Bearers ambushed the Ultramarines and Guilliman was thrown into the vacuum, Thiel was among the first to understand what was happening...
Thiel respected Guilliman, yet dared to point out his errors directly, blunt and honest. As a statesman, Guilliman should not have shown obvious favoritism. But stripping away the mask of the politician, Guilliman could sincerely say: Aeonid Thiel was his Sanguinius.
"Father."
"This is wrong."
"This is not how Order should look."
Beneath the crimson helm, the once-censured warrior spoke with sincerity and earnestness. Guilliman opened his mouth slightly. He wanted to say something, to communicate with Thiel, but not a single word could escape his throat...
Only a cold blade swung toward Thiel.
"No..."
A desolate roar escaped his throat. Guilliman felt a violent sense of detachment, as if his very existence had become uncertain. He instinctively grasped the Emperor's Sword—the one cast out from the Emperor's tomb. The blade ignited, its flames bright as a torch...
"What are you doing?"
A voice full of confusion sounded from beside him. Guilliman snapped out of it, looking around blankly. Lion El'Jonson was standing nearby, his lion-like eyes filled with exhaustion and struggle, watching the burning sword in Guilliman's hand with slight wariness.
Guilliman's throat moved slightly. "I had a... not-so-pleasant dream?"
"I've had many not-so-pleasant dreams." The Lion's expression shifted; his mental state seemed unstable. "I was nearly shattered by the Warp. My consciousness drifted through many different times and spaces, and I saw many things that were... less than beautiful."
"Such as?" Guilliman asked almost instantly.
"I saw you start a Great Heresy—and succeed. Worst of all, I was actually rebelling alongside you," the Lion said with a tone of near-disgust, as if merely speaking of it made him want to retch.
Guilliman fell silent. The Lion had seen something similar. A coincidence, or...
"I will not become a puppet of the Gods," Guilliman said seriously. It was a probe; he wanted to know if what the Lion saw was identical to his own vision.
"No, you didn't," the Lion shook his head. "You became the Regent of the Gods and stole Father's Black Crown. Everyone died, sinking into you—the God of Death. And then you pretended to be everyone, using those corpses..."
+Their personalities are similar to the past, their actions are similar to the past, their voices are similar to the past, and their social relations are similar to the past.+
+From any angle of observation, they are still themselves. It is just that compared to who they were, they are now Us—one thread in our multi-threaded mind.+
The voice brushed past Guilliman's ear again, sounding like a hollow hallucination. It was identical. What the Lion saw was exactly what he had seen. This was no mere delusion...
"Do you feel a sense of uncertainty?" Guilliman asked more directly.
"Everyone does. Many do," the Lion said expressionlessly. "Alexander said it's because that 'Pseudo-Emperor'... uh, the False Emperor broke a piece of original history to birth himself as the Angel of Extermination. Many causalities are no longer stable. Non-existent histories are starting to surface."
Guilliman said nothing more. He was never one for understanding the intricacies of the Warp. Logic was a luxury in that realm.
"Why are you here?" Guilliman gestured, asking the Lion. "And how is the battle on your side? Any casualties?"
"Sanguinius seems fine. I'm not great... Corax is missing. Alexander might have secretly eaten him," the Lion said, shrugging.
"Eaten..." Guilliman blinked.
"I'm joking." The Lion seemed a bit exasperated. He had rarely tried to display a sense of humor, and it seemed he had failed. "The guy pretending to be our Father whipped up a massive Warp storm and scattered our existences. Sanguinius was fished back relatively whole. I took some damage. Corax drifted off to who-knows-where."
"That is a significant loss. Corax possesses traits many of our brothers lack," Guilliman expressed appropriate regret.
"Perhaps for that very reason, Alexander has new arrangements for you." The Lion's expression twisted slightly, as if still in discomfort. "Son of War, it is time for you to fulfill your duties regarding... war."
"I am to move with you?" A spark of excitement crossed Guilliman's weary face, but he quickly frowned. "The Empire needs new military deployments."
"That is no longer important," the Lion shook his head slightly. "Alexander says this world is coming to an end. The entire galaxy is headed for ruin."
"Ruin... how much time is left?" Guilliman had been psychologically prepared for this.
"Twenty-two... no, seventeen," the Lion calculated briefly.
"Seventeen years..." Guilliman hadn't expected it to be so soon.
"Seventeen days," the Lion corrected.
"...Your sense of humor is stiff. At best, it's only slightly better than Dorn's," Guilliman said helplessly.
The scariest thing in the world was Dorn telling a joke and Perturabo trying to explain it. The second scariest thing was the Lion telling a joke that only Russ laughed at.
"I'm not joking," the Lion said with total sincerity.
Guilliman blinked in confusion. "Is this universe in a bit of a hurry?"
Burning. Intense burning. The entire planet was being consumed by a formless, unbridled fire. But was it truly fire?
Huron pondered. Perhaps not fire, but tentacles, slime, writhing light, frenzied thoughts, folded dimensions—things beyond human comprehension. His Red Corsairs didn't seem to be under attack; they were being polluted. Their eyes were wide, and phosphorescence poured from their sockets—a light that surpassed the edge of the intelligible world. Unidentifiable colors geysered into the sky like a flood, then burned and burned. Finally, his Red Corsairs stood frozen, murmuring incomprehensible scriptures, seemingly turned into puppets.
Huron wasn't sure what his enemy was, only sensing its unparalleled power. His logic told him this was not an opponent he could rival. At this moment, Huron felt a twinge of regret. He should have accepted Roboute Guilliman's request to go to the Macragge's Honour. Granted, it would have been a trap, but Guilliman was a statesman; logic held more sway in his mind than hatred. He wouldn't have killed Huron; he would have turned him into a puppet to control the Red Corsairs.
Regret was useless now. Huron contacted his fleet in the void, but all he received were wails. They screamed that Horus Lupercal had reappeared in the world, and that an Angel with burning cobalt wings, like the Emperor reborn, was slaughtering them without mercy.
It was a dead end.
There was no doubt. There wasn't even much chance of escape left. Huron did have one final weapon: the Blackstone Fortress hovering in orbit. The last Blackstone Fortress acquired by Abaddon. Strangely enough, Huron understood the Blackstone Fortresses better than Abaddon did. There were many Eldar in the Maelstrom, and from them, Huron learned the truth. They were the joint crystallization of Eldar, Necron, C'tan, and Old One technology. Vaul, the Eldar god of the forge, had understood the wisdom of four races and forged a series of fortresses from blackstone. They were called the Talismans of Vaul—reins to control the Warp, and tools to bind, tame, and manipulate the Void Dragon. It was the path Vaul paved for his own ascension: taming a C'tan to control the physical laws of the universe, allowing unbridled creativity to be released from the constraints of reality.
Unfortunately, Vaul failed. Though he left a small scar on the Void Dragon's body, he was ultimately far outmatched by that C'tan.
Even knowing this, there was little Huron could do. At most, he could command the Blackstone Fortress to fall from the sky and shatter everything on the planet, perishing along with the intruder.
But Huron didn't do it. This was a chip—a bargaining chip...
The Hamadrya at Huron's feet opened its twisted maw, spitting out fragmented words.
The door before Huron shattered. Indescribable light swept through the room. Huron saw the figure entering his chamber and nearly gasped.
"You..."
"You are..."