Roboute Guilliman showed one of his rare, genuine smiles.
As a former Lord Commander of the Imperium—a legendary Primarch—he had always met others like a spring breeze, with a courteous smile.
But most of those smiles were a mask.
Since his awakening he had faced a ravaged Imperium, Humanity teetering on the brink, threatening to tumble into an abyss at any moment.
And he, the Primarch of the Ultramarines, had been the Imperium's only hope at the time.
So Guilliman had to present an image of absolute composure, constantly mediating among countless factions to knit Mankind together.
He could show no hesitation, no doubt, no weakness.
Because the Imperium's citizens and its warriors were watching—waiting for a Primarch's guidance.
The weight on him had been crushing.
A broken Imperium and endless statecraft nearly bent him in half.
Even this superhuman Primarch had lines etching his face; his hair had gone silver at the tips, and bone-deep fatigue had set in.
Thankfully, his good brother, the Savior, Eden, had appeared, freeing him from the mountain of administration and gradually taking up the Imperium's burden.
Humanity had a hope beyond him at last.
And now, Guilliman had also received acknowledgement from the Emperor—his father.
"My son, you saved the Imperium after the Great Rift. Your Unnumbered Crusade into the darkness deserves every honor."
So the Emperor had said during their one-sided "duel."
Even though He had condemned certain errors Guilliman made after the Horus Heresy, He nonetheless praised what his son had achieved since awakening.
He judged that this son had dragged the post-Rift Imperium back from the abyss—no small feat.
More, the Emperor had entrusted the Imperium into the hands of the Savior and Guilliman Himself, believing they would do better than He had. What greater trust and affirmation could there be?
Not since the days of the Great Crusade had such a thing happened.
"Perhaps this is the happiest day of my life," Guilliman thought.
The pressure and bitterness in his heart dissolved, and naturally he felt light and glad.
He struggled to get up, wanting to walk out of the Throne Palace with dignity—lest his brothers mock him.
Especially that rascal Khan.
But he had spent himself in the battle with the Emperor; even propping himself up took everything he had.
"I must… stand!" the Ultramarines Primarch gritted out, trying again.
"Think Old Roboute can still get up?" Eden eyed Guilliman—face swollen like a pig's head inside the blue Armor of Fate—inch-worming across the floor, and sounded ready to place a bet.
"I doubt it," said Jaghatai Khan, shifting to a better angle and continuing to record. This was rare material.
Perfect for future arguments.
"My thought exactly." Eden clapped Khan's shoulder. "Come on, let's go haul him up. If he flops any longer, His Majesty is going to get annoyed."
They approached the newly-rolled Guilliman and each offered a hand.
"Time to get up, Old Roboute."
"Chop-chop."
Guilliman's bruised mouth tugged into a smile. He clasped both offered hands, letting his brothers pull him to his feet.
Supported between them, he bowed his head toward the Emperor in farewell and headed for the doors.
In the Emperor's smiling gaze, the three departing figures were the very image of brotherly harmony—the kind of unity the Primarchs were meant to share.
"You two filmed me just now, didn't you?" Guilliman asked once they'd walked a ways.
"Yup. A classic moment. Has to be preserved. And I'm not deleting it," Khan said. "At most I promise not to upload it to the Noosphere. The Warhawk of Chogoris never breaks his word."
Guilliman's smile widened.
He didn't mind the "blackmail material"; indeed, he felt a little proud.
"Khan, you can upload it, as long as you keep the clip where I struck Father.
"That's a rare entry for the record."
Moments ago he and the Emperor had a man's duel—and he had actually landed a hit on his Father, right in the eye socket.
How gallant was that?
Among the Emperor's sons, this feat was one of a kind.
Granted, Horus had fought the Emperor too—but that was with the Four's backing. Hardly counts.
Guilliman had gone at Him with his own strength.
Even if he lost and fell—there was honor in that.
Eden shot Guilliman a look.
Primarchs always had these odd little competitions.
By their biology's measure, the Primarchs were still in their species' youth.
In truth, many of their minds might be even younger.
A few had practically skipped babyhood—growing from infancy to adulthood within months or a handful of years.
Take Roboute Guilliman.
He was ten thousand years old—but he'd spent most of it in a stasis "throne." His actual cognitive age might not even be two hundred.
The Imperium's crushing burden made him seem mature—and forced him to be.
Sometimes circumstance and pressure ripen a person too soon.
Back on Old Terra had many such cases.
A youth on horseback with bow in hand; at eighteen he led eight hundred riders deep into the steppe and was named Champion Marquis; at twenty-two he struck at the royal court leaving an immortal military legacy.
Or other at nine he held the office of Minister over the Masses and steered clan affairs; at twelve he staged a coup and purged rivals, effectively ruling the kingdom; at fourteen he led troops to besiege the palace, aiming to seize the throne.
He failed and was lured to his death, leaving four posthumous sons—cramming a power-broker's life into fourteen tumultuous years.
Examples abound.
Even among the poor you'd find early bloomers, kids who seized knowledge and authority young to carry their families and join the world's machinery.
It was the pressure of the age—enemies within and without—forcing growth at knife-point.
Back in Eden's "3K era," the state had been stable.
At twenty he'd still been a "clear-eyed fool" of a campus softie, spamming Makka Pakka reaction memes and worrying how to confess to a girl he liked.
Peace like that is never easy.
But the grimdark of Warhammer is different—chaos and mortal danger everywhere, worlds cracking in half.
Children barely able to walk might be scrounging through ruins for food, or shoved into hive manufactoria for shifts.
They have to grow up fast or die.
And if xenos or heretics invade, they're lugging a gun as big as they are to fight—often in vain.
So it is with the Primarchs.
As infants they were flung by the Warp to distant stars, forced to struggle with environment, beasts, and enemies.
They grew at inhuman speed, mustering armies and ruling realms.
Then the Emperor found them, and they joined the Great Crusade carrying Humanity's fate.
The Emperor's standards and expectations were exacting; they had to mature fast—into leaders who could crush the galaxy's endless foes.
Eden suspected this was one reason the Primarchs were vulnerable to corruption:
A cohort of brilliant but emotionally young men, saddled too early with impossible duty, and deprived of the right guidance—
Problems were inevitable.
At least the loyalists who endured to the present had steadied—minds and characters rounding out into true leaders.
A little youthful rowdiness among brothers now and then? Harmless.
Compared to a soul gone ancient and dry, this youthfulness was exactly what the Imperium needed.
"Brother Eden, send me your footage later," Guilliman said, swollen face mumbling with anticipation. "I… need a few of those frames."
He wanted to keep the glorious moment—smacking Father, filial piety writ loud—to savor later.
"You might as well have it turned into a battle-honor banner and hang it up," Eden said, baffled by the Primarchs' Father-complex.
So you got thrashed by the Emperor and managed to tag Him a couple times—why so excited?
Unlike the Primarchs' reverence, Eden was used to dealing with the Emperor. Most mornings, his "little sun" of a psyche-engine alarm-clocked the Old Man out of bed with a psychic backhand.
"You know… that's not a bad idea," Guilliman's puffy eyes lit up.
Secretly banner-fy those frames and stash them in the armory? Excellent plan.
"Damn it, I should've argued with Father on the forum too," Khan thought, more sour by the second.
All told, Old Roboute's beating was worth it. Enviable, even.
They were still ribbing the Emperor when—
BOOM—
A surge of golden psychic power erupted from the Throne's direction, blasting toward them.
It was the Emperor's colossal psychic backhand.
"Emperor's sake!"
Eden and Khan sensed the incoming smack and immediately let go of Guilliman, darting aside.
???
"Traitors to brotherhood!" Guilliman tried to dodge, but with no strength he was a beat late—and ate the backhand full-force.
He went sailing out of the Throne Palace, tumbled to the steps outside, and settled into the sweetest sleep he'd had since his resurrection.
Forced—but sweet.
"Good thing we moved,"
Eden and Khan shared a look of silent relief after evading the blow.
They strolled to the doors to check on Guilliman; neither was particularly worried.
A Fatherly backhand like that wouldn't do him any serious harm.
"Roboute, that bastard, finally got taught a lesson," Khan said, entirely satisfied. Showboat in front of me, will you? Deserved.
"Tsk. Truly Old Roboute…" Eden sighed, gazing at the fainted Primarch, who had somehow managed to collapse with elegance.
Even his face-plant pose—"dog-eating-dirt"—he carried with panache. Second only to Eden, of course.
He raised his recorder, found the perfect angle, and captured the moment.
In the frame, the former Lord Commander and Ultramarines Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, is face-down with his rear high—his black electro-fiber bodyglove tracing the perfect arc.
Solid yet rounded, it gleamed faintly in the sun.
Perhaps the most coveted male posterior among noble ladies across the galaxy.
"The Ultramarine Perky Butt… a reputation well earned,"
Eden admitted, a tad ashamed.
As the gene-sire of the Ultramarines, Old Roboute had truly min-maxed the gluteals. No rival.
Even Khan couldn't help preserving this precious shot—a new entry in Roboute's black-history ledger.
Smack—Khan patted Guilliman's raised rear. "Throne take it, how does he train these…"
Every warrior in the galaxy wants better musculature—including the posterior chain.
"Maybe it's just god-tier genetics. We can't copy it," Eden said, opening a channel to his private medical corps. "Move, move—get the Lord of Ultramar on a gurney. All the panacea ampoules, now!"
Jokes were jokes.
But treatment came with full Savior specs. Old Roboute had to be restored, fast.
"Your Excellency… what happened to him?"
Aide Felix rushed over. Seeing the Ultramarines Primarch on a grav-stretcher, he looked even more anxious.
He fumed, "What heretic or xenos dared a coward's ambush? The Ultramarines will never let this stand!"
In his mind, only a craven strike by the alien or unclean could harm a Primarch. Vengeance was required.
"It's fine, not heretic or xenos,"
Eden stopped him from alerting the Victrix Guard—no need to blow this up and dent Old Roboute's public image.
"Your lord was sparring with His Majesty and got thrashed. He'll be fine.
Keep your voice down; the Old Man hearing you would be… awkward."
"Ah—!"
The Savior's words snapped Felix's mouth shut; he even trembled.
He was terrified that the Primarchs' Father—the Emperor—might take offense, or misunderstand his lord further. He whispered:
"By the Emperor—if that most glorious Being struck him, then it is… no problem at all…"
Soon the Ultramarines Primarch was rushed into the ICU, with Aide Felix shadowing him the whole way, guarding his lord.
…
Savior's Sanctum, Private Medicae Suite.
The Savior's top-tier, galaxy-class private medicae team treated the Primarch, and batteries of machines tended to him from every angle.
"By the Emperor…" Felix watched from the observation gallery, heart pounding—not from gore, but opulence.
Panacea, restoratives, and tonics were being poured into the Primarch like water; relic-grade medicae apparatus were spun up with zero regard for wear.
It felt close to overtreatment.
His lord had nothing worse than contusions and a faint. Hardly catastrophic trauma—did they need to mobilize all this?
Even he felt the pinch.
Guilliman would, too. He'd racked up more injuries and blackouts these years than he could count. Most times basic treatment plus his own biology sufficed.
Such precious lifesavers should be saved for when lives are on the line.
After Eden's medicae team finished the superficial damage, they casually cleaned out Roboute's lingering hidden trauma—poison residues, and the Armor of Fate's ergonomic stresses.
Then they moved on to skincare and maintenance—scar removal, wrinkle smoothing, scalp-and-hair therapy, photonic brightening, even a manicure—determined to wake the patient in perfect condition.
Eden's medical science had leapt forward again in recent years; they could simply offer the Ultramarines Primarch better.
One somatic-medicine magos even covertly scanned and analyzed the architecture of Roboute's glutes, planning to turn it into an academic paper.
"Savior, is… is this how all your treatments run?"
Felix was about to crack.
In this resource-starved Imperium, most medicae pipelines aim to keep you alive. Get you stable; let your superhuman biology do the rest.
Sometimes they stop halfway and leave the rest to natural regeneration.
This concierge protocol shocked him.
"Yep. Most of our high-tier warriors get something like this—and it's under public coverage.
"Nice, right?" Eden patted the aide's shoulder. "When the reforms finish, you high-tier fighters will enjoy the same. We want you restored at your peak so combat readiness is never dinged."
Granted, the standard plan wouldn't match Eden's personal spec—but panacea would be available in some doses.
And it was humane: warriors could opt to keep their scars.
Felix didn't know what to say—just bobbed his head like a pecking chick.
Before long, Guilliman woke with a full tank—old scars gone, skin healthy, his hair a pure sun-gold again.
He looked younger; blue eyes gleamed.
"Where… am I?"
He felt disoriented—his body so light. He couldn't even feel the old hurts that had dogged him for years.
His hand went instinctively to the scar at his neck—
The malignant wound left by the Fallen Phoenician (Fulgrim), gnawing at him without pause.
But now the scar was gone; the skin was smooth.
Eden's medicae, after years studying all manner of Chaos venoms and godplague toxins, had long since reduced the Phoenician's taint to a routine job.
The Savior's private team had plucked it out on the way.
???
Roboute blinked.
The anesthetics hadn't fully worn off; for a moment he thought he was dreaming—or had slipped through the Warp back to some earlier time.
A glance around banished the doubt:
"Looks like this is Brother Eden's place."
Only the Savior could be this flamboyant—gem-inlaid medicae suites with a curated artistic vibe.
Roboute beamed.
He knew his brother had spent lavishly to mend him. Perhaps no one else in the galaxy would do him this kindness.
"Old Roboute, how do you feel?" Eden entered with Felix. "If anything's still off, tell the Magos-Majoris. We'll get it spotless."
"I'm well—better than I've ever been,"
Guilliman said, stretching; his ligaments crackled like dry twigs.
No resistance, no drag anywhere.
He flicked a glance at Felix; the aide withdrew at once. The lord needed a private word with the Savior.
Eden idly raised a psychic privacy screen and looked to Roboute. "All right, say it. What's the matter?"
"My fleet brought you a shipment of resources—most of Ultramar's stored reserves. That's the limit of what I can draw,"
Guilliman said, eyeing his forever-opulent brother.
"By my math, with your territories as they are, you can't cover the outlay for Webway construction. The bill is… astronomical."
The Ultramarines Primarch's mind was razor-sharp—he could run a battlefleet alone and even set a specific macrocannon's elevation by thought.
From the Noosphere's data and dossiers, he had sketched a rough picture of Eden's current finances. The situation was worrying.
Eden sighed and pinched his brow.
"You're right. I'm broke. And the problem's… not small…"
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 500 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]