Adam's palm hovered before Guilliman's throne.
There were no dazzling light effects, nor any violent fluctuations. He simply extended his index finger calmly, pointing across the air at the terrifying wound on the Primarch's neck.
In the next moment, Adam's consciousness transcended the shackles of his physical shell, projecting outward in an indescribable way. Through his spatial perception, he easily bypassed the sophisticated stasis field protecting the Primarch's body and directly touched the physical form of Roboute Guilliman.
The moment they made contact, a vast and solid sense of "presence" fed back to him.
Truly... seeing is believing, Adam lamented silently in his mind. As expected of a Primarch, a Warp demigod...
Just as he suspected, these beings were essentially Pokemon that the Emperor had captured from the depths of the Warp and infused into flesh-and-blood bodies. A Primarch possessed an incredibly high reality-strength. They were not just supermen of the material world, but the embodiment of the Warp's essence.
Furthermore, this sleeping Primarch had endured the faith and expectations of countless Imperial citizens for ten thousand years. That invisible, gathered conviction formed powerful Akiva radiation, swirling around him as a natural barrier sufficient to resist Adam's reality-altering tampering.
However, this was no obstacle for Adam. In his plan, he never needed to directly modify Guilliman's body.
His perception delved deeper, focusing like a precision probe on the trauma left by the daemonic blade of the traitorous Primarch, Fulgrim. It was more than just a physical wound. Malignant Warp-poison clung like a maggot to bone, not only corroding the Primarch's flesh but deeply rooted within his soul, relentlessly seeking to consume the last of the demigod's life force.
In the original timeline, to solve this problem, the Imperium would have needed the power of the Aeldari god of death to kill Guilliman once and then resurrect him, thereafter relying on the Armor of Fate crafted by Cawl to sustain his life.
But as a reality warper, Adam had a far more direct method.
As Adam's perception reached deeper, the malicious presence lurking within the wound seemed startled. Beneath the congealed, gem-like blood, something came alive. It manifested in a concrete form—an indescribable, grotesque existence that was a mixture of lewd, twisted reproductive symbols and reptilian traits, writhing slowly on the "inner side" of the wound. It radiated extreme filth, endless cravings for pleasure, and a frenzied worship of sensory stimulation enough to sicken any sane person.
Adam, however, quirked the corner of his mouth. "Found you."
He held his fingers together like a blade and made a gentle horizontal swipe across the invisible, tangled "serpent venom."
"Be erased."
Hum—
A vibration so slight it was almost non-existent rang out. The manifested Slaaneshi venom emitted a silent shriek of malice and shock—perceivable only on the Warp level—and then disintegrated inch by inch like a smudge erased by a rubber, vanishing without a trace.
Simultaneously, in the Six Circles of Slaanesh's Palace.
Within a bedchamber so beautiful it was blinding yet filled with desecration, a figure rose from a massive bed covered in strangely soft substances. Fulgrim, once the Primarch of the Emperor's Children and now the favored prince of Slaanesh, opened his non-human eyes. His face was elongated, covered in slick mucus and fine scales; while his upper body retained some human silhouette, his lower half had completely transformed into a pale, winding serpentine form, coiled lazily upon the ornate carpet.
A look of confusion appeared on Fulgrim's face.
What's happening?
Just now, the connection to the "gift" he had personally left on his proudest, dullest, and most loathsome brother—Roboute Guilliman—ten thousand years ago had abruptly snapped, vanishing into thin air.
Before his brain, which was already functioning like mush, could think further, the supreme Lord of Pleasure deep within the palace immediately sensed the mysterious loss of a portion of its power. An indescribable attention focused inward, carrying sixty-six layers of escalating wonder and inquiry. Slaanesh extended six bifurcated, iridescently glowing ectoplasmic tongues to lick the veil of reality, casting its gaze toward that distant star system.
Then, Slaanesh saw it. The scene within the Temple of Hera reflected into its perception.
"Ah—!!!"
Slaanesh let out a piercing howl that transcended countless dimensions, filled with joy and greed. This howl whipped up mountainous waves in the Warp's ocean of desire, causing endless pleasure and pain to resonate.
Such a massive disturbance naturally could not be hidden from the other three Chaos Powers watching the material universe from the depths of the Warp. Immediately, deafening laughter erupted, driving the countless daemons and followers beneath their thrones to slaughter each other even more frenziedly, pushing battles to a climax of destruction.
In the Garden of Plague, the bloated Grandfather Nurgle looked up from his insatiable cauldron, a kind smile appearing on his rotting face as maggots and turbid mucus fell from his mouth like a waterfall.
In the Maze of Fate, the domain of the Lord of Change, Tzeentch's reaction was the most intense. Its nine eyes widened and narrowed simultaneously, emitting ninety-nine contradictory screams of shock, which then turned into layers of giggling: "This, too, is part of the plan!"
At this moment, the veil between the material universe and the Warp was still thick, and the galaxy had not yet been torn apart by the Great Rift. Even for the Chaos Gods, it was difficult to project enough power directly onto Macragge in a short time. Thus, they could only watch with their varying emotions, their countless eyes fixed on everything happening within the Temple of Hera.
Adam was aware of the storm he had caused in the Warp, but he didn't care. One day, the thrones of those parasites hiding behind the veil would not be so stable.
He reached out calmly again. On the back of his right hand, the Imperial Aquila insignia suddenly lit up! A pure and terrifying torrent of psychic energy erupted, instantly enveloping Roboute Guilliman upon his throne. Under the effect of reality distortion, this psychic energy was identical to a miracle sent by the Emperor himself.
Guilliman, now completely free from the venom, saw the terrible wound that had existed for ten thousand years naturally mend under this sacred glow, as if breathing. All potential spiritual hazards were thoroughly smoothed out at this moment.
"Hah—!"
A deep, long intake of breath came from the throne.
Marneus Calgar's eyes widened so far that even his left bionic eye seemed to stop functioning. A powerful shock struck his heart like a violent flood.
That figure...
A second ago, what sat rigidly on the throne was a pale, static corpse. Now, standing there was Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the XIII Legion—alert, wise, and surging with boundless vitality.
Inquisitor Sybilla had already ended her psychic spell, her face slightly pale but her eyes still sharp. The Ultramarines who had broken free from the time-stagnation had their weapons poised in mid-air, but slowly, all weapons were lowered. No one gave an order, yet they all gazed at the miracle of rebirth with a pilgrimage-like reverence.
The legendary figures stepping out of the spatial portals—whether heroes from the Legion era or cold-faced Custodians—also removed their helmets. Their expressions were solemn; some even had eyes full of hot tears.
Under the gaze of the multitude... Roboute Guilliman opened his eyes.
Initially, his azure eyes were filled with confusion, as if he hadn't fully escaped from a ten-thousand-year nightmare. However, the Primarch's superhuman brain had already begun to function at high speed, instinctively analyzing every piece of information entering his field of vision.
The Temple of Hera... yes, Macragge, the heart of the Fortress of Hera.
The last thing in his memory was the coldness of a blade slicing his neck, Fulgrim's twisted smile, the angry shouts of his sons, and the words he hadn't been able to shout in his heart... What were those words again?
His gaze swept unconsciously across the hall, taking in face after face—some familiar, some strange, but all incredibly moved.
He saw Belisarius Cawl. That face was almost identical to the one in his memory. He saw Aeonid Thiel, one of his proudest sons. He remembered Thiel had urged him against boarding the Pride of Emperor before the battle, and one of his last thoughts as he fell was regret for not listening. Seeing him safe and well here, Guilliman felt a quiet sigh of relief in his heart.
He also saw Tybaris Coros, the Custodian Tribune who, since the Siege of Terra, had always maintained a sense of scrutiny and distance from him. Even he was present...
A faint sense of relief surfaced in Guilliman's newly awakened mind. Great. It seems I haven't slept for too long, not until everything became irreparable. Everything... shouldn't be too late yet.
Then, his gaze fixed on the only ordinary mortal man standing directly in front of the throne, who was not wearing power armor and looked plain.
Guilliman saw a calm, even slightly playful smile on the man's face, and then heard him speak in unmistakable High Gothic:
"You're awake? Lord Regent of the Second Empire?"
Roboute Guilliman was instantly, completely wide awake.
He had been startled awake.