Stimulated by that single sentence, Guilliman's thoughts felt as though ice water had been poured over his head. His brain was instantly dragged from the haze of initial awakening into a state of high-speed operation.
His pupils shook.
What did you say?! No, you can't do this—!
This was one of his most deeply buried secrets, and one he was most reluctant to revisit. During the Horus Heresy, when the Astronomican went dark, Warp storms had cut off the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar from Terra. In the despair of believing the Imperium of Man had fallen and the Emperor might have perished, he, Roboute Guilliman, had joined forces with the Primarchs of the Blood Angels and Dark Angels to form the "Imperium Secundus"...
This abstract ss of a "stunning display of wisdom," even within the less-than-glamorous historical records of the various Legions, qualified as a heavyweight piece of dark history. Its level of embarrassnt was enough to make anyone in the know remain strictly silent about it.
It was no wonder Guilliman's reaction was so intense.
"You... what did you say?" he blurted out, his voice carrying a trace of tension he couldn't hide.
"I said, Lord Regent of the Empire, what's wrong?" Adam blinked, his expression looking quite innocent, as if he had rely ntioned a perfectly ordinary title.
Guilliman's expression instantly beca suspicious. With the transcendent senses of a Primarch, he couldn't have misheard, imdiately ruling out the possibility of auditory hallucinations. His brain, having just erged from a ten-thousand-year slumber, instinctively launched a ntal storm.
What is his purpose in using this title? Is it a reminder? A mockery? Or... so kind of veiled threat? Is he hoping to use this to manipulate , to exchange it for so benefit or dominance? To say it in such a relaxed, even joking manner... is he implying he knows but bears no ill will, trying to close the distance? Or is it another, more advanced form of rhetoric ant to make lower my guard? Most importantly... he actually said this in front of the Adeptus Custodes?!
Guilliman's gaze quickly swept toward Tybaris and the other Custodians, only to find to his shock that the golden-clad guardians seed to have no reaction. It was as if they truly hadn't heard it, or they had but simply didn't care.
This was illogical!
He forcibly reined in his diverging chain of thoughts. He was well aware of this habit of overthinking and weighing pros and cons; Lion El'Jonson had once criticized him for this flaw, but it was difficult to fully correct. Right now, his primary task was to figure out the current situation and the identity of the person before him.
Guilliman began to think hard.
A High Lord of Terra? He doesn't look like those bureaucrats mired in the mud of power plays. A powerful Rogue Trader? An Inquisitor Lord from so Ordo? Or even... a military supre commander like a "Lord Solar"?
Guilliman filtered through the possibilities rapidly. The person appeared to have no obvious gene-enhancents or chanicus augntations, looking like an "ordinary" young male... but that was precisely what made him the most un-ordinary.
Unlike one of his more ambitious sons, Guilliman was not a Great Astartes-ist. He was a true idealist and pragmatic statesman who always believed in and was dedicated to tapping into the potential and possibilities of mortals. Had it not been so, Guilliman would not have written the far-reaching Codex Astartes ten thousand years ago, nor would he have taken the initiative after the Horus Heresy to push for the formation of a mortal-led High Lords of Terra council, returning the supre power of ruling the Empire to the representatives of humanity.
As his chaotic thoughts began to settle, Guilliman forced himself to move his attention away from that fatal title and began to truly observe his surroundings. However, what he saw caused the slight relief that had just risen in his heart to be replaced by massive doubt.
What... is going on here?
Guilliman's gaze swept across the high, magnificent do murals of the Temple of Hera. With his perspective as a witness to those events, he imdiately saw that many of the depicted epics carried a distinct religious narrative style. Many historical details were beautified, distorted, or even deified, running contrary to the Imperial Truth he believed in.
Guilliman looked down at the ranks of blue-armored warriors. Those kneeling in the back rows, with U-shaped insignias painted on their pauldrons, were undoubtedly Ultramarines—his sons. But on their armor... the pervasive scripture carvings, the hanging reliquaries, and the embedded religious symbols made Guilliman's eyelids twitch. This stood in jarring contrast to the veterans in the front rows who maintained the Legion-era style of decoration.
Wait, sothing was wrong. The issue with the Legion veterans in the front was even greater.
Guilliman focused his gaze. From that neatly arranged rank, he identified several familiar figures that made his pupils contract, almost making him doubt if he was fully awake.
That is... Oléo? He should have sacrificed himself during the Horus Heresy... That is... Platus Auguston? How? He was killed by the traitorous Primarch Konrad Curze! Guilliman had seen his corpse with his own eyes! This is Remus Ventanus, the greatest hero of the Battle of Calth... this is even more ridiculous; Guilliman had personally designed his tomb!
How could they be standing here, one by one, looking perfectly fine and gazing at him with such emotional eyes?
This wasn't Imperial Truth!
Finally, his gaze landed on the female figure suspended in mid-air, with white wings on her back and a halo above her head, her entire body shrouded in a pale golden glow.
What is that?!
An absurd thought popped up uncontrollably. It couldn't possibly be Sanguinius's... illegitimate daughter, could it?
The massive impact of information and the sense of eerie displacent finally made Guilliman unable to resist asking the key question in a dry voice:
"How... long exactly have I been asleep?"
Adam maintained his calm deanor and answered truthfully:
"Ten thousand years." He paused and added, "Roughly."
Boom—
Despite having a bad premonition, when this duration was fully confird, Guilliman still felt his vision go dark, as if struck by a heavy hamr.
Ten thousand years! A span of ti that could drive even a Primarch to utter despair. It was enough for the Empire to beco a shape he could barely recognize. As a Primarch known for his logic and administrative ability, an ominous premonition surged in his heart.
Guilliman took a deep breath, the sound of which was exceptionally long in the silent sanctuary. He needed to understand. He had to understand.
Guilliman braced his hands against the armrests of the throne and stood up slowly and firmly. His massive fra unfolded like a silent mountain rising from the earth again, filled with a sense of restrained and boundless power. The joints of his power armor emitted a deep, smooth hum as the residual glimr of the stasis field faded from his body.
"I need to know," his voice recovered its past steadiness. "I need to know all of this. The current state of the Empire, the situation in Ultramar, and... all of you."
Guilliman's gaze swept over everyone in the Temple of Hera as he spoke slowly.
"I need ti. I need a private space to have detailed discussions and conversations with each of you."
"That is certainly possible," Adam nodded. The playful smile on his face finally receded, replaced by a peaceful and certain expression. "Regent, the one thing we do not lack right now is ti."
After all, this was not that predetermined mont of destiny. The Great Rift had not yet torn the galaxy asunder, and Warp daemons had not flooded into the material universe in a frenzy. Guilliman did not need to be like he was in another future—climbing out of his casket only to be imdiately thrust into one desperate war after another.
Now, he could take his ti with ease and poise. And Adam could see that what this Primarch, who had just weathered a great storm, needed most right now was a period of ti to calm down and regain control of the situation.
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