One hour later.
"Puta Madre! [Macragge Profanity]... how did our Imperium of Man become like this?"
A low growl of fury echoed through the empty Temple of Hera. Roboute Guilliman stood amidst the shifting shadows cast by the ionic braziers, his face contorted in pain, the corners of his eyes twitching uncontrollably. The warm, sacred light traced his majestic frame like a classical statue, illuminating the grand and complex religious murals of the Emperor's miracles in shimmering gold.
However, this light did nothing to disperse the haze in his heart; instead, it made his mood even more somber and dark.
An hour ago, driven by the urgent need to understand the current situation, Guilliman displayed his instincts as a Primarch and a preeminent ruler. He methodically took command of the scene, and with a highly persuasive demeanor, he organized the many people gathered in the hall into groups, requesting them to wait outside for the time being.
Then, following the priorities he had swiftly determined, he arranged for individuals to enter the Temple of Hera one by one to confer with him in private. For Roboute Guilliman, who excelled in administration and diplomacy, these operations were as natural as breathing. With supernatural acuity, he precisely grasped the character, position, and potential demands of every participant. His attitude was frank and approachable, yet carried the natural majesty of a Primarch.
This perfect communication made almost everyone who spoke with him feel understood and valued. Consequently, they opened up in a more candid manner, pouring out everything they knew about the history of the past ten thousand years, the current state of the Empire, and any other information they possessed. Everyone felt invigorated, believing that a true leader—the hope they had awaited for ten thousand years—had finally returned.
The result, however, was that when the last person exited the hall and the heavy doors slowly closed, Roboute Guilliman could no longer smile.
He paced back and forth in the vast hall. The information he had just received integrated continuously within his superhuman mind, sketching a picture of an Empire that left him nearly breathless.
"A stagnant, isolationist Mechanicus, clinging to theories from ten thousand years ago as gospel, where any innovation is viewed as heresy... the common citizens of the Empire immersed in blind superstition, with knowledge and reason cast aside... the nobility either arrogant and incompetent or wasting away in endless bureaucratic infighting... and the deranged Inquisition, to say nothing of them..."
Guilliman muttered to himself, the pain in his voice deepening with every sentence.
"...The political system is a total mess. How much thought do the High Lords of Terra actually give to the Empire? Their eyes are only on the interests of their own factions! They insist on personally overseeing even the smallest matters, willing to work themselves to death just for control!"
His footsteps stopped before a massive mural. On it, the Holy Emperor sat high upon the radiant Golden Throne, but the figure atop that throne, rendered through artistic license, more closely resembled a glowing... skeleton. Countless pious believers and angels knelt in worship, their tears and prayers transformed into physical points of light. This depicted the Holy Suffering of the Emperor for all of humanity.
But at this moment, for Guilliman, this image was like a blunt knife repeatedly carving into his already agonized soul. It served as a sharp reminder of what unimaginable suffering his father—the great man who had led humanity in pursuit of a rational and brilliant future—had endured over these ten thousand years. Furthermore, it reminded him of his own performance during the darkest hours of the Horus Heresy. Had he also been one of those who pushed the Emperor toward that throne of pain?
"And the Codex Astartes..." Guilliman's voice carried a trace of unbelievable absurdity. "I wrote it back then only to prevent the risk of another rebellion caused by the excessive concentration of Legion power! How... how did they manage to take every single detail within it as an unchangeable, eternal iron law and execute it rigidly for a full ten thousand years?!"
He suddenly waved his hand, pointing at the pervasive religious symbols throughout the temple. "And this so-called State Church! we preached progress and reason during the Great Crusade, and now? I truly cannot imagine what kind of piercing laughter Lorgar... that traitor, would let out as he watches all of this from the Warp!"
Extreme pain, absurdity, self-reproach, and anger intertwined, causing the Primarch known for his calm rationality to display a near-breakdown at this moment. He pressed his hands firmly against his temples as if trying to stop the surging dark thoughts.
Guilliman whispered to himself, "How... how was it Sanguinius who died on the Vengeful Spirit back then, and not me?"
At that moment, his movements suddenly froze. The supernatural perception of a Primarch allowed Guilliman to sense a second presence within the hall that was supposed to be empty.
Guilliman turned around slowly. He saw that "ordinary" mortal, Adam, who had somehow appeared silently near the shadow of a giant corridor pillar, as if he had been there all along.
Adam looked at him without any particular expression, naturally picking up where Guilliman had left off. "Because... nine hours? Or rather, six thousand Vengeful Spirits?"
Guilliman's face twisted. How does this person seem to know everything!
His eyes suddenly became incredibly sharp, and all negative emotions were forcibly suppressed in an instant. Guilliman's voice recovered its steadiness.
"Who exactly are you?"
Adam chuckled softly. "Did the others not introduce me to you during this past hour?"
In the efficient and orderly private meetings just now, Guilliman had indeed employed techniques to deliberately place Adam—the mortal he found most inscrutable—at the very end, while attempting to piece together a complete picture of this "Awakener" from everyone else's accounts.
Adam was clearly aware of this. "Fair enough."
Guilliman admitted it openly, taking two steps forward to close the distance with Adam. "I did indeed obtain a great deal of intelligence regarding you from them."
He paused and began to list: "For instance, Archmagos Cawl tried to prove to me that you are a... being similar to what the Emperor was ten thousand years ago, a new incarnation of the Omnissiah. Meanwhile, the Emperor's Custodians, Tybaris and the others, stated that you are the only hope for releasing the Emperor from his eternal pain. The Battle Sister, Lucia, conveyed to me the will she perceived, implying a direct connection between you and the 'God-Emperor' she believes in. And Inquisitor Sybilla recounted your own version of your origins to me."
Guilliman finished listing each point, his gaze locking tightly onto Adam's calm eyes. "So, Mr. Adam. Who, exactly, are you?" He asked slowly, his voice echoing in the vast hall. "...Or rather, what kind of god?"
Ah, this... Adam raised an eyebrow, his tone carrying a deliberate sense of humor. "Then what do you think? Do I look more like a man, or a god?"
Guilliman fell into deep thought. He was well aware of the Chaos Powers lurking behind the Warp, greedily peering at all living souls in the material universe. Or rather, even if his understanding during the Great Rebellion wasn't accurate enough, he had gained firsthand experience after seeing Fulgrim's twisted form and being pierced through the neck by that evil blade.
So, was this being who had pulled him back from the brink of death one of those entities? Or was he some kind of unprecedented new god? From the perspective of his Ultramarine sons who had returned from death—reversing life and death so easily was entirely a divine authority.
Guilliman instinctively ignored his sons' earlier descriptions of their souls returning to the throne. He continued his reasoning. Did this individual named Adam possess some terrifying great power derived from the Warp within him? If so, what attitude should he adopt in answering this question? Affirmation? Denial? Or perhaps...
The Primarch's brain operated with an efficiency exceeding the speed of light, weighing the consequences of every possible answer. After a long time, Guilliman finally spoke with deliberation, his voice steady and cautious:
"I believe you are not a god." He looked directly at Adam, trying to catch the slightest flicker of emotion. "You should be... a new attempt created by the Emperor during these ten thousand years, an unprecedented individual meant to save humanity from its dark destiny."
The more Guilliman spoke, the more it felt right; it felt like everything finally made sense. Yes. Since the Emperor had created twenty-one Primarchs ten thousand years ago to unify the entire galaxy, why couldn't he do the same thing ten thousand years later? As for the power to reshape all things—the gift from Adam that Archmagos Cawl had just shown him—it seemed to share a certain consistency with the relationship between a Primarch and the Astartes.
Thinking of this, Guilliman paused, his tone even softening slightly. "Or rather, should I call you... Brother?"
This time, it was Adam's face that suddenly twisted. It was as if he had heard an incredibly absurd, even uncomfortable joke. He snapped his hands up, making a very clear 'X' gesture in front of his chest.
"No, no, no." Adam shook his head repeatedly, his tone resolute. "I have absolutely zero interest in joining your spectacular family soap opera."
He looked at Guilliman's slightly stunned expression and continued to explain seriously. "My appearance in this universe is indeed thanks to the one sitting on the Golden Throne, but there isn't a single drop of blood relation between us in the way you understand it. If I had to put it in words, it's more like a... transaction where both parties get what they need."
At this point, he couldn't exactly say he had been tricked into coming.
Adam's words undoubtedly triggered a new mental storm in Guilliman's brain, which was already reeling from information overload. A transaction with the Emperor? The implications behind this were terrifying to ponder.
However, Guilliman quickly controlled the urge to delve deeper. He was a politician. For a qualified politician, many times, it was enough to understand a tool or a procedure's effect, controllability, and cost. Digging too deep into the root causes might instead reveal an unbearable truth or trigger unnecessary suspicion and conflict. Some mysteries are perhaps better left alone until the time is right.
He took a deep breath, decisively putting aside the other questions for now, and shifted the topic to a more practical field: "I understand. Then, please allow me to set aside those metaphysical questions for a moment and instead inquire about some more specific situations."
Adam seemed rather appreciative of this. He nodded and leaned casually against the pillar beside him. "Of course, ask away. Information transparency helps cooperation."
The exchange that followed became efficient and organized. Guilliman displayed his side as an administrator, his questions hitting the core of the matter. He first asked about the Reality Ascension system that had been vaguely mentioned by others.
Adam's answer was very concise and clear, even using some metaphors.
"Level four reaches the level of Malcador the Sigillite; Level five can surpass the Emperor of the past?" Guilliman's pupils contracted slightly. Malcador was the former Regent of the Imperium and the peak of human psykers; the Emperor, needless to say, was a Great God of the Warp who could stand toe-to-toe with the Four.
He couldn't help but press further: "Then, what is a Level Six reality warper?"
'I become the lord of mysteries' Adam shrugged. "That... it's too far away. Let's not go into details for now."
Guilliman wisely did not push any further. He turned the topic toward the future.
"Then, regarding the next plan of action, we need to reach a consensus. I plan to send an astropathic message to the entire galaxy as soon as possible to announce my return and immediately set out for Holy Terra. This Empire... has been mired in darkness and decay for too long. Too many mistakes need correcting; too many chronic ailments need curing. I must change it. I must pull it back onto the right track."
Watching the fire—a mixture of heavy responsibility and firm conviction—rekindling in Guilliman's eyes, Adam couldn't help but sigh inwardly. As expected of you, Roboute Guilliman.
During the Great Crusade, Guilliman's popularity among his brothers wasn't particularly high. Of course, it wasn't just because of some difficult-to-stomach reason like him having parents; to a large extent, it was precisely because of this near-naive pride that made the other Primarchs feel a certain distance and discomfort. Now it seemed that the long slumber and the cruel truth of humanity ten thousand years later had not crushed this core. Instead, it made him even more eager to take action.
"Good, very spirited," Adam's lips curled into a smile. "Then, after you begin sending the astropathic messages, I will show you some preparations I have already made on my end."
"Preparations?" Guilliman was clearly surprised.
"Exactly." Adam stood straight, his tone calm. "After all, the return of a Primarch is only the first step. To face this Empire with its deep-seated problems and those restless evils behind the veil, it simply won't do without enough chips and pieces placed in advance."
Guilliman's expression simultaneously turned solemn.