Guilliman sat in his chair, covering his face tightly with that hand which had signed countless decrees and decided the life and death of billions.
His towering frame, a body of steel forged from the pride of a Primarch and the responsibilities of an Imperial Regent, was trembling violently and uncontrollably.
Heavy, stifled, animalistic gasps—like those of a wounded beast—leaked through his fingers, echoing throughout the terrifyingly silent observation room.
The joints of his power armor emitted faint, strained groans as his body shook.
It was as if this armor, a symbol of strength and glory, could no longer bear the weight of ten thousand years, the crushing, landslide-like exhaustion within its master's soul.
Terrania did not speak.
She did not back away either.
This small, golden figure simply stood there quietly.
She did not understand those complex words, such as "Human Empire" or "betrayal."
But she could feel it.
She could feel that the huge, blue uncle before her was experiencing a profound sorrow that made her own heart ache.
He was like a child who had been lost for a very, very long time, having traveled a long, long way, only to find that his home had turned into ruins.
She stood there so quietly, like a small, eternally burning lamp emitting a warm glow.
Without judgment.
Without agenda.
Without words.
Simply offering company.
And it was this purest, most pristine companionship that became the final straw that broke Robert Guilliman's mental defenses.
It was more powerful than any words of comfort.
It made Guilliman's heart, wrapped in layers of logic and duty, finally realize one thing.
In this moment.
In this small observation room.
Before this small, golden figure.
He did not need to be the Imperial Regent.
He did not need to be the guardian of humanity.
He did not need to be the all-powerful Emperor's Children.
He could... just be a tired, barely holding on son named Robert.
"I..."
A hoarse, dry word, as if forced out from rusted vocal cords, broke the silence.
Guilliman lowered his hand.
His face, resolute like an ancient sculpture, was now covered in interlacing bloodshot veins, and his azure eyes were submerged in an unfathomable depth of pain and bewilderment.
The flood of emotions, suppressed for ten thousand years, finally found an outlet to break its dam.
"I woke up..."
His voice trembled, each word sounding like the recounting of an inescapable nightmare.
"Only to find that my home has turned into ruins."
"Everything I cherished, everything I fought for, everything I sacrificed for..."
"Has all rotted away."
"Or... has been betrayed."
He spoke as if confiding in Terrania, yet also as if conducting a long-overdue trial of his own ten thousand years of solitude.
"This Human Empire... it is sick, terminally ill."
"Countless bureaucrats, countless nobles, they are like maggots, feeding on the corpse of my father. They shout my name, yet treat me as a usurper coveting the throne, using every means to obstruct me, to hold me back!"
"Every decree I issue to correct errors must pass through ninety-nine layers of spiderwebs woven from stupidity and greed, and by the time it is implemented, it is already unrecognizable!"
His breathing became rapid, and the anger and powerlessness of a ruler burned within his words.
"And then there is war..."
"Endless, infinite war!"
"I extinguish one flame of Chaos, and at the other end of the galaxy, ten new infernos of xenos frenzies ignite!"
"I beat back an Ork force, and the shadow of the Tyranids consumes an entire sector!"
"I win every day, the Human Empire wins every day! Yet the territory of the Human Empire shrinks day by day! The spark of humanity is being extinguished, bit by bit!"
"Endless! All of this is endless!"
Guilliman's voice grew more agitated, his massive frame leaning forward due to the violent fluctuations of his emotions.
His emotions reached a peak when he mentioned the most taboo subject.
"My brothers..."
This word, like the sharpest ice blade, pierced deeply into his heart.
"Where are they?"
"Lorgar... that fool, the first idiot to throw himself into the embrace of Chaos! With his pathetic faith, he ignited the fires of all this war!"
"Angron... that poor tragedy, tortured by the Butcher's Nails until nothing but rage remained! I cannot even... I cannot even bring myself to hate him!"
"Fulgrim... that artist who pursued perfection! For that ridiculous 'perfection,' he sold his soul to the filthiest of existences!"
"And..."
Guilliman's voice became completely hoarse when he mentioned that name.
"Horus..."
"My most beloved War Commander, the son most favored by father... he betrayed us all!"
Every time he spoke a name, the scar on his heart seemed to be torn open again, dripping with blood.
His brain, belonging to a Primarch, was completely overwhelmed for the first time by an unprocessed stream of emotional data.
He jerked his head up.
Those bloodshot, azure eyes stared fixedly at Terrania's pure, flawless little face.
It was as if, through her, he saw that withered bone sitting upon the Golden Throne, immortal for ten thousand years.
He used all his strength to ask that ultimate question, which he had buried in the bottom of his heart for ten thousand years, a question he dared not even touch in his dreams.
His voice was as hoarse as sandpaper rubbing against his soul.
"Father..."
"Is this the Human Empire you wanted?"
"A living hell that can only survive by relying on lies, ignorance, and the daily sacrifice of a thousand innocent souls?"
"A massive cage that has forced all your sons into becoming madmen, traitors, or like me... a weary, lonely grave keeper?"
"I..."
His voice collapsed completely at this moment.
The dignity of an emperor, the pride of a Primarch, vanished in this instant.
Only the most primitive, most fragile helplessness remained.
"I am all alone..."
"I cannot hold it..."
"I... am too tired..."
This was Robert Guilliman, the embodiment of reason, this unyielding Regent, this final pillar of the Human Empire, admitting for the first time in ten thousand years.
Before another person.
Admitting his helplessness.
Admitting his fragility.
Admitting his exhaustion.
He was no longer that all-powerful demigod.
In this moment, he was just a lonely son, crushed by burdens and unable to breathe, who had been walking alone through the endless darkness for ten thousand years.
After the outpouring, a vast sense of emptiness, as if it could swallow everything, struck him instantly.
Guilliman seemed to have exhausted his last ounce of strength; his towering frame leaned heavily against the back of the chair, his head bowed, sinking into a deathly silence.
The entire observation room was so quiet that only his heavy, weary breathing, like an old bellows, remained.
Time seemed to stand still at this moment.
Just then.
A small, warm hand, carrying a hint of hesitation, reached out.
Then.
Gently, yet with immense firmness, it grasped the index finger of his cold, massive blue power gauntlet, a symbol of endless authority and slaughter.
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