Leticia's voice slowly dissipated within the hall.
That declaration, "The old era must end," carried no power, yet it was like an invisible wedge, precisely driven into the core of Robert Guilliman's chaotic mental storm.
The storm paused for an instant.
Guilliman's mountain-like frame remained stiffly standing in place.
On his tactical display, the warning runes representing his physiological functions were still flashing frantically in scarlet; heart rate, blood pressure, adrenaline levels... every single data point far exceeded the maximum threshold for combat status.
The logical chains of his reason had been shattered inch by inch by that resonance originating from the deepest depths of his bloodline.
A torrent of emotion burst through the dam, nearly drowning the will he had forged over ten thousand years of solitude.
However.
Leticia's words were like a freezing, bone-chilling torrent forcefully injected into the surging flood.
It did not stop the flood, but it allowed Guilliman, at the very moment before being completely consumed, to regain a sliver of absolute clarity belonging to a strategist.
He suddenly realized a fact.
Here.
On this warship that reeked of strangeness everywhere and did not belong to any known civilization.
In the face of a power system he could not comprehend at all.
With his most lethal emotional weakness completely exposed.
He was completely on the defensive.
He was no longer the Imperial Regent, no longer the arbiter holding the strongest military force in The Galaxy.
He was merely a pawn, played in the palm of a higher-level existence.
The humiliation and warning signs brought by this realization even surpassed the shock of encountering the aura of his "Father."
Creak—
A teeth-gritting sound of metal grinding rang out.
It was Guilliman's power armor gauntlet; his five fingers slowly clenched, then one by one, were forced to loosen.
He forced himself to move his gaze, which felt like it would burn through his soul, inch by inch away from the golden figure protected behind Leticia.
This action was as difficult as a mortal using their will to move a planet.
The external microphones inside his helmet faithfully amplified his heavy, ragged breathing, which sounded like an old bellows, echoing through the deathly silent hall.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Finally, the rapid panting was replaced by a steady, deep, and rhythmic mechanical breathing sound.
The power armor's life-support system retook control of his out-of-control lungs.
On the tactical display, those frantically flashing scarlet warnings were manually closed one by one by his iron-like will.
The data stream returned to a steady blue.
His slightly trembling body straightened up again.
Every joint emitted a muffled mechanical sound, as if a collapsed statue was being reassembled, calibrated, and restoring its original majesty and stability.
Throughout the entire hall, everyone was quietly watching this scene.
Watching how this Imperial demi-god, from the brink of emotional collapse, step by step, pulled himself back into the cold and rational identity of the "Imperial Regent."
The provocation on Angronia's face vanished, and a trace of imperceptible gravity flashed in her amber eyes.
The proud curve at the corners of Fogremia's mouth faded, and for the first time, the sense of scrutiny in her purple eyes was replaced by genuine vigilance.
Sanguinia's snow-white wings tucked in slightly, and beyond the compassion in her sky-blue eyes, there was now a hint of a complex, indescribable sigh.
They had all once been Primarchs.
They knew better than anyone what terrifying willpower was required to recover so quickly from an impact capable of overturning the very foundations of existence.
Their "brother," after ten thousand years, was still that... terrifying Robert Guilliman.
Finally.
Guilliman raised his head.
The optical lenses of his blue helmet no longer held any emotional fluctuation, as cold as two blocks of blue ice.
His gaze swept past the three Primarch Sisters and finally landed on Leticia, who stood beside the throne.
A steady, hoarse voice, already recovered its imperial majesty, rang out in the hall.
"This matter... is too significant."
He spoke, every word appearing as if it had undergone precise calculation, slow and clear.
"This is no longer a simple meeting."
"This concerns the future of the Empire, concerns... the survival of all humanity."
He did not question Terrania's identity, nor did he refute Leticia's declaration.
With an unquestionable posture, he forcefully elevated the nature of this contact from a "private visit" filled with mystery and emotional impact, to the strategic height of a "faction negotiation" that would determine the fate of The Galaxy.
This was the only way for him to regain the initiative.
"Here, in this state, we cannot conduct any meaningful dialogue."
Guilliman's voice became increasingly steady, and that grand sense of logic belonging to the Imperial Regent, the kind used to plan galactic campaigns, began to return.
"I propose that we must conduct a formal summit."
He paused for a moment, seemingly giving the other party time to think, but more like organizing his own thoughts that were still violently oscillating.
"The location, in the nearby neutral star system of the 'Tear of Heaven'."
"Our fleets will meet there to engage in dialogue on an absolutely neutral platform."
"I need my advisory team, and you also need to demonstrate your full sincerity, as well as... the full power you represent."
These words were both a proposal and a demand.
And even more, a probe.
He wanted to drag this group of mysterious beings out from their strange warship, drag them into the sunlight, and onto the chessboard he was familiar with, where he could measure them with logic and strength.
He acknowledged their qualification as "a faction."
This was the greatest concession he could make.
And it was also the chess game he, as the Imperial Regent, had to set up.
Leticia listened to his words quietly.
She watched the entire process of Guilliman going from losing his composure to forcefully regaining his calm, and for the first time, a trace of genuine approval flashed in her pure black eyes.
He truly lived up to being the man who, during the darkest moments of the Siege of Terra, could still calmly calculate troop strength and plan defensive lines.
This willpower was worthy of respect.
Under Guilliman's oppressive gaze, Leticia did not even need to think.
The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, curling into a faint arc that was enough to make the stars pale in comparison.
"Agreed."
She uttered one word.
Immediately following it, was the second sentence.
"Regent, your proposal is very reasonable."
Her response was crisp and decisive, without the slightest hesitation or haggling.
That ease and nonchalance seemed to say: No matter what chessboard you choose, no matter what rules you set, the final winner will only be me.
Guilliman took a deep look at her; the emotions beneath his blue lenses remained unknown.
He did not say another word, only nodded slightly, counting as a military salute.
Then, he turned around, took steady strides, and walked toward the hall's entrance.
His back was still tall, still indestructible.
As if the demi-god who had lost his composure and trembled just moments ago was merely an illusion.
Just at the moment Guilliman was about to step out of the door.
A voice full of the texture of metal grinding, carrying a heavy sense of oppression, lazily rang out behind him.
"'Brother'."
It was Angronia.
The Red-haired Valkyrie had walked to the center of the hall at some point; she crossed her arms, and her amber eyes burned with undisguised mockery, like looking at prey.
"Don't think that just by changing locations, your neck will become any stiffer."
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