A grey-black Imperial Thunderhawk Gunship detached from the escort fleet of the glory of macragge, like a lonely steel falcon, slowly gliding into the open hangar of the genesis.
Its flight attitude was impeccable, filled with the precision and restraint of the Ultramarines.
The hatch opened, and the hydraulic rods emitted a dull hiss.
Robert Guilliman, clad in that blue power armor symbolizing the highest authority of the Imperium, walked down the gangway alone.
His footsteps were steady, each one seemingly measured with a ruler; the metal soles of his boots collided with the deck, producing a crisp and rhythmic echo.
Greeting him was Commissar Valeria.
She was dressed in a crisp black uniform, her posture as straight as a spear; she just stood there quietly, rendering an impeccable military salute.
Guilliman's helmet faceplate did not rise, his blue optical lenses calmly sweeping over everything before him.
He stepped onto the deck of this ship.
At that very moment, a distinct feeling flooded into his consciousness through the countless sensors of his power armor.
The air.
The air here lacked the familiar metallic, fishy smell found in Imperial ships, which was a mixture of machine oil, ozone, and filtration/recycling agents.
It was pure, fresh, and carried a moist scent... like a forest after rain.
Every breath seemed to wash over his lungs, which had not rested for ten thousand years.
This is Vitality.
A pure Vitality he had only felt on a very few paradise worlds untainted by the flames of war.
"This way, Your Excellency, the Regent."
Commissar Valeria's voice was calm and respectful; she turned and led the way.
Guilliman followed in silence.
He walked through a long corridor constructed of some warm, jade-like white material.
The walls lacked the grotesque Gothic reliefs of the Imperium, filled with skulls and double-headed eagles.
Instead, there were countless flowing golden patterns growing like vines.
Those lines glowed slowly, the light soft, illuminating the entire corridor as if it were a temple.
Inside the ship, there was no noisy roar of machinery, only a low, humming sound like a heartbeat, harmonious and peaceful.
Everything here was overturning his perception of a warship.
This did not look like a war machine.
It was more like a... living, breathing organism.
Finally, they arrived before a pair of huge double doors.
The doors slid open silently to the sides.
The scene behind the doors caused Robert Guilliman's heart, which had been genetically modified and was capable of withstanding any shock, to pause for an instant.
It was a central hall grand enough to accommodate a Knight titan.
Above the dome, it was not cold steel, but a slowly flowing galaxy made of pure light.
At the end of the hall was a towering throne constructed of thorns and starlight.
Upon the throne sat that deity with hair as black as night.
Her presence made the light of the entire hall seem like a backdrop for her.
But Guilliman's senses were completely captured by the three figures beside the throne.
On the left was Angronia.
She crossed her arms, wearing dark reddish-copper power armor, her lava-like red hair draped casually, and in her amber eyes burned an unmasked, provocative Battle Intent.
That pure rage was so familiar.
On the right was Fogremia.
The silver-haired sword maiden's posture was as elegant as a sculpture, a proud curve on her lips, her purple eyes examining his ancient power armor with a scrutinizing, even somewhat critical, gaze.
That obsession with perfection went deep into the bone.
And between the two, slightly further forward.
Sanguinia.
She spread those huge, snow-white wings, light spilling softly, her long golden hair like a waterfall.
Her face was holy and compassionate.
Her sky-blue eyes, the moment they saw him step into the hall, flowed with an indescribable, deep compassion.
Just like...
Just like ten thousand years ago, on the walls of Terra, that best brother, before rushing to his destiny, looked back at him for the last time.
How pale the words on the reports were.
How powerless the descriptions of the intelligence officers were.
When these three faces, both familiar and strange, both contradictory and harmonious, appeared before his eyes in true reality.
The impact, stemming from genes, from the soul, from hundreds of years of brotherhood, exploded in his spiritual world like a silent supernova.
Guilliman forced himself to stop.
He forced himself to move his gaze away from those three faces, like a mortal forcing himself not to look directly at the sun.
He raised his head, meeting those pure black, bottomless eyes on the throne.
He had to speak.
He had to question.
He had to use the order and logic that the Imperium had maintained for ten thousand years to judge this most bizarre heretic event that transcended all his understanding.
He opened his mouth, every word seeming to be squeezed from the gaps in metal, carrying the majesty of an emperor and the weight of judgment.
"Who..."
"Exactly are you?!"
The words fell.
The air in the entire hall seemed to freeze.
No one answered his question.
Only a soft voice, filled with endless sorrow and nostalgia, sounded gently.
"Robert..."
It was Sanguinia.
She looked at him, just softly calling this name.
This intimate term, belonging to brothers, was like the hottest probe, instantly piercing the ice that Guilliman had forged with ten thousand years of loneliness.
His body showed a trace of imperceptible stiffness.
He used all his willpower to keep his defenses from cracking even slightly at this call.
Just then.
Leticia on the throne slowly stood up from that throne constructed of light and thorns.
As she rose.
An invisible aura, difficult to describe in any language, spread out with her as the center.
That was not the temptation of Chaos.
Nor was it the oppression of psychic power.
It was a... supreme majesty originating from creation and life itself.
As if it were the first ray of light at the birth of the universe, as if it were the first heartbeat when all things revived.
In the face of this aura, Guilliman felt that his power armor, capable of withstanding star-destroying cannon fire, had become as fragile as paper.
His will, belonging to a Primarch, capable of making galaxies tremble, seemed so small at this moment.
Leticia walked down the steps, one step at a time.
Her movements were not fast, her footsteps light, yet they seemed to step on the pulse of the universe.
She walked to Guilliman and stopped.
The two were no more than five meters apart.
She raised her eyes, those pure black pupils calmly looking directly into the blue optical lenses on Guilliman's helmet, as if they could pierce through the heavy auramite, seeing his soul, which was vibrating violently at this moment.
She spoke.
Her voice was not loud, cold and plain, yet it could pierce through all noise, echoing directly in the depths of his soul.
"We are the Correctors of the universe."
"We are the end of the errors of the old era."
"We are the founders of the new era."
Boom!!!
These words carried no emotion, contained no power.
Yet they exploded in Guilliman's mind like a thunderclap of creation!
This was not the raving of a mortal.
This was not the insane babbling of a Chaos cultist.
This was a statement.
A statement of fact, endorsed by a power he could not understand, could not resist, and which existed in a higher dimension.
He felt an unprecedented pressure.
This pressure far exceeded the fury he faced when confronting a Greater Daemon of Khorne.
It far exceeded the confusion he faced when confronting the schemes of Chaos God Tzeentch.
It far exceeded the despair he faced when confronting the plagues of Nurgle.
It far exceeded the struggle he faced when confronting the temptations of Slaanesh.
Because those were still within the realm of what he could understand.
But everything before him, this existence before him, and the declaration in her mouth.
Transcended his cognition.
Completely overturning all the logic and truth about this universe that he had built up over ten thousand years.
His reason, of which he was so proud, was crushed to pieces at this moment.
He was no longer the judge.
He was no longer even the negotiator.
At this moment, he was just... a listener, lost and bewildered before a higher truth.
Just as Guilliman was stunned into silence by this declaration, and the entire hall fell into a sacred silence.
A small golden head, with a bit of innocent curiosity, quietly poked out from behind Leticia's huge throne constructed of light.
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