"Guilliman!"
No one could have expected an old man to bellow with such a terrifying, awe-inspiring voice. His robes billowed without any wind, and psychic fire danced at his fingertips.
A burning staff topped with a double-headed eagle materialized in his hand, aimed directly at Guilliman.
"Is this your true face? Have you ultimately betrayed His dream? Have you forgotten my teachings? Have you forgotten your oath to the Throne?!"
The smile on Guilliman's face froze, replaced by a look of sheer wrongful accusation.
"Ah, Lord Regent Malcador, please listen to my explanation! This is purely a misunderstanding. That was Zeke talking nonsense! I have never harbored any thoughts of overstepping my bounds, let alone usurping the Throne!"
The "ambitious" Guilliman was finally receiving his due punishment. The instigator, Zeke, leisurely pushed open the main doors.
He looked out over the distant streets of Macragge. The cold drizzle beat against his face, but it could not mask the prosperity this city exuded.
"Seize the opportunity, Guilliman," Zeke muttered to himself in a low voice. "Look at your terrifying administrative capabilities. You've built this place too perfectly. It's so perfect that it's enough to wake every High Lord on Terra from their nightmares in a cold sweat, and then slap a label of disloyalty right onto your head."
The Macragge before him was no longer just an ordinary provincial capital.
Surrounding the countless massive Nether Portals in the sky, a magnificent void port hovered on the horizon.
Merchant airships and the heavy cruisers of Rogue Traders shuttled back and forth like migrating behemoths.
Down on the streets, the diverse mix of races formed a picture that would be enough to drive an Inquisitor instantly mad on the spot.
Alongside devout human citizens, there were agile Eldar advisors, and even restrained Necrons, weaving their way through the neatly arranged Gothic architecture.
Zeke saw Danse's enchanting forge, where the furnace fires blazed sky-high.
It wasn't just the Ultramarines; even the Salamanders Chapter lingered there, marveling at the armor that fused xenos technology with divine forging.
The vitality here wasn't just a matter of showing up Holy Terra.
If Guilliman truly built up every single one of his Five Hundred Worlds to be like Macragge, then humanity's capital wouldn't even need to be Terra anymore..
Guilliman didn't hear Zeke's words; he was too busy dodging Malcador's staff.
"Lord Regent Malcador, please listen to my explanation..."
Even though Guilliman was a Primarch, he still showed a deep reverence when facing Malcador's Aquila staff.
This old fox, Zeke thought as he watched Malcador.
Malcador wasn't actually going senile. His mind, capable of perceiving the movements of the stars, had already figured out the truth.
Zeke suspected he was simply startled by how brilliantly Macragge had developed and wanted to bluff Guilliman, testing to see if he harbored any rebellious intentions.
Guilliman clearly and methodically recounted the scenes of Zeke resurrecting the two Primarchs, leading up to Malcador's own revival, and explained why Macragge was so prosperous.
"Terra is no longer the dying tomb of your memory, either. It is also undergoing a rebirth," Guilliman said, expressing his loyalty.
Malcador lowered the Aquila staff and gently tapped Guilliman on the head. "You brat. You haven't changed a bit."
Discerning Guilliman's loyalty hadn't taken Malcador much time; he understood every single Primarch far too well.
Drawing upon the skills honed through processing imperial administration, Malcador rapidly digested the information from Guilliman.
When he was certain that the Emperor's condition was improving and that the Imperium had not completely collapsed as he had feared, the oppressive psychic pressure finally dissipated.
Though he still needed to witness it with his own eyes, in that moment, the old man's spine seemed to relax just a fraction.
Zeke also pulled out a Blueprint and changed the weather from rain to clear. The dark clouds looming over Macragge dispersed, and sunlight poured down.
"It seems the misunderstanding is resolved," Zeke said, walking over under the blinding sunlight.
Guilliman approached, his expression shifting to one of gratitude. "Thank you, Zeke."
"So this was your well-intentioned plan," Guilliman sighed, also looking out at the prosperous Macragge.
"During the days you and I were away from the Imperium, those High Lords got restless again. Because of Macragge's rise, they tried to use it as an excuse to accuse me of rebellion." Guilliman looked at Zeke. "You gave me an opportunity to lay everything bare in front of Malcador. With him here, those rumors and slanders will collapse on their own."
"Exactly. That's exactly what I was thinking," Zeke recovered smoothly. "You must know, a man whose merits outshine his master rarely meets a good end. I orchestrated this conflict precisely so you could explain everything clearly to Malcador."
"To prevent someone from actually dragging you into court on charges of Imperium Secundus someday in the future. I'd definitely feel guilty if that happened, considering I'm the only one constantly bringing up Imperium Secundus every day."
You know that too, huh? Guilliman covered his face. "So could you please stop bringing up my dark history?"
"Out of the question," Zeke patted Guilliman earnestly.
"Hmph. Since these so-called High Lords have devolved into the parasites of the Imperium, why must you maintain that superfluous mercy toward them, Roboute?" Malcador interjected into the conversation.
Leaning on his Aquila staff, he appeared behind Zeke. The profound, world-weary weight unique to a Perpetual made even Zeke feel a slight pressure.
"I was busy with matters concerning the Lion, and these High Lords hiding in the depths only ever dare to surface when the Imperium is at its weakest," Guilliman attempted to explain.
Zeke, however, unceremoniously fired back. "You have the nerve to talk, Malcador? If it weren't for me, this Imperium of yours would probably have long since shattered into pieces, overrun by superstition."
"The Inquisition, the Adeptus Administratum, and all those bloated power structures—which one of them wasn't founded by your own hands? In other words, these High Lords throwing their weight around in the shadows are essentially all your own doing."
Zeke spoke without any holding back, paying no mind to Malcador.
He was genuinely disgusted by these people. The tithes went without saying, but take the issue of the Healing Potion production inexplicably dropping significantly over the past week as just one example.
Malcador did not refute it. As the creator of this massive machine that was the Imperial administrative body, he knew all too well how the Imperium had rotted away.
Precisely because of this, he marveled at Guilliman's account of how the Imperium had actually been brought back from the brink of death by this human.
"Zeke, right?"
Malcador faced Zeke squarely and extended a hand, showing not the slightest hint of underestimation due to Zeke's age.
"Sigillite. I've heard much about you." Zeke turned back and shook Malcador's hand. "I hope you can understand my bluntness. After all, it's more efficient to handle things this way."
"Of course. I will deal with those long-corrupted Imperial institutions you mentioned immediately," Malcador replied, a sharp glint piercing through his eyes.
His identity as the Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum had been buried in the river of time for far too long.
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