40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 753 42. Regaining Hope (I)

The key to conquest is speed.

Robouti Guilliman had understood this ten thousand years ago, when he had faced those elders in the Senate who were critical of his new policies.

He took it as a golden rule, but it was not until many years later that he remembered the saying that more haste makes waste.

He has loved reading since he was a child. He only needs to flip through a book that ordinary people need to spend weeks or even months studying to fully understand its true meaning. Therefore, he has known this sentence for a long time - but this alone is not enough.

Remembering, learning, and then applying, there is an extremely long road in between. And he was a victorious king at that time, like a fish in water in war, any tactics come to his mind, and if he is a little more serious, he can make his think tanks and staff stunned.
Failure is a bitter word, and many people fear it, seeing it as a tiger, a beast, or a man-eating monster. He didn't think so at the time, but would smile proudly at the star map when he was alone, thinking, I finally lived up to the teachings of Connor and Euden.

So he met failure as expected.

Then they failed again and again.

It was too painful. The taste of failure was too painful, especially for someone like him. Most people would avoid it, but he couldn't. He would recall it over and over again, constantly analyzing the reasons for his failure. He would stay up all night, with red eyes, looking through the casualty list, the defeat report, and various data tables on the tactical table.

From this, Robert Guilliman drew a true, unchangeable and irrefutable conclusion countless times.

It was my fault.

Because of me, so many people died in vain.

As he grew older, he encountered it countless times. Soldiers died again and again, the list was burned to ashes by the flames, the dead slept forever in tears, and bombs and swords pressed against his chest in his sleep. His hair turned white little by little, and wrinkles appeared on his face, which should have been immortal like a god.
Then he wrote a book.

On War

He did not show the book to anyone, nor did he publish it in any form. In the past, he could finish a huge book of hundreds of thousands of words in one breath, writing until the ink was dry and the table and chairs were shaking, but this book? It took him nearly five hundred years just to write the first few thousand words.

The key to conquest is swiftness, thought Roboute Guilliman. But war takes a million forms.

He laughed, like a fool who finally realized that he didn't seem to be a normal person.

He stood up, picked up a pile of documents from the desk and threw them on the coffee table. He walked a few steps to the porthole, looked out, and saw a pure white light - it was the Astronomican, and the Glory of Macragge had been anchored around it.

At this time, countless ships were coming and going, slowly approaching like moths yearning for light. His smile gradually subsided, and his eyes dropped, unaware that the pure white beam of light had once cast a gentle glance at him.

He turned around and looked around his study. Thanks to the efforts of many people, this study had hardly changed compared to ten thousand years ago. But Guilliman knew that it had actually been rebuilt many times.

The furniture that Angron had once pushed aside was gone, the sofa that Lion El'Jonson had sat on was destroyed in a war, and a deep purple cloak that Fulgrim had woven himself was destroyed by fire eleven centuries ago.
He closed his eyes and thought.

He knew he shouldn't be like this - so sentimental about the past on the eve of going to war - but he had no ability to stop his emotions at the moment.

I'm going to blame this on you, Perturabo. The white-haired Thirteenth Son thought so with a smile, then turned around and picked up the pile of documents he had thrown away and read them again.

According to the standard, 24 Terra hours is a natural day, and a natural day is composed of a full 86,400 seconds. It is a huge number, but he can only leave himself these short ten seconds. Once these ten seconds are over, the soft flesh attached to this demigod's body will be completely alienated, turning him into a sculpture covered with rust, with a hideous face, one hand on the sword, and a crown on his head.

There were 22 pages in total, each of which was filled with 6,500 words according to the regulations of the Executive Yuan. The report and summary, which totaled 143,000 words, would take an ordinary person two days and two nights to read, but he only took three minutes to completely engrave it in his mind.

Words were disassembled, data and tables were re-integrated, and a brand new report appeared. He returned to his desk, reached out to pick up the feather pen, and pulled out forty sheets of soft white document paper, holding them with his left hand, and began to write furiously.

Those who have not read his works would probably use their imagination to their heart's content, thinking that the writings of a Primarch must be gorgeous and difficult to understand, and that one must read them carefully to appreciate their true meaning.

In fact, his writing is plain and simple, and he hardly uses any rhetoric - there is a reason for this. If someone could be like him, and insist on personally writing those death notices sent to the families for thousands of years, perhaps they would be able to understand him.

He wrote for eight hours straight before taking a short break. The reason was not because he was tired, but because in twenty minutes, a meeting he had to attend would start.
He stood up, pressed the document with a stone paperweight he usually used, and strode out of the study. He had three paperweights, wooden, stone, and iron. The wooden one represented that it had been completed, the stone one represented that it had not been completed, and the iron one represented that it needed to be reconsidered.

The corridors of Macragge's Glory are very busy today. Heavy tapestries are hung in many places. They were all taken out from the warehouse. The makers are either famous heroes or some dormant fearless elders.

Therefore, at first glance, this scene even has a grand festive atmosphere. But the reality is far from that. The reason why the Ultramarines decorated their flagship in this way is because today an extremely important meeting will be held on this ancient warship that has been around for a long time.

Guilliman had no intention of judging the actions of his sons, either approving or disapproving.

After walking forty meters, he arrived at his dressing room. Before the 124th reconstruction, there were still a lot of clothes here, but now it seemed very empty. The original forty wardrobes had been reduced to an incredible two, and the rest were filled with various weapons - some of them were ceremonial, and some were not.

His tailor was quite dissatisfied with this, but he could do nothing but complain every time he saw him.
But there was no point in complaining, for the man he served had been determined to reduce his clothing count since before his grandfather was born - three sets of Archon uniforms, two sets of regular clothes, two sets of traditional Macragge clothing, and underwear, in addition to five pairs of boots and five pairs of loafers.

Apart from that, he wants nothing.

Guilliman raised his head to unbutton his clothes, taking off his coat and shirt. He didn't look down at the dressing mirror until the coldness touched his skin.

The man inside made him want to laugh.

He took off all his clothes and strode into the innermost shower room. Five minutes later, he had changed into another set of Archon uniforms and slowly pushed open the door of the cloakroom. He walked towards the venue silently, without anyone accompanying him. He was alone, wearing the same uniform of the same ancient color scheme, with a red sheathed dagger hanging from his waist and a sky eagle on his chest.

A statue of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman.

Eleven minutes later, he arrived at the meeting. The meeting had not yet begun, but everyone was already there. His four captains, the Chapter Master and six Captains of the Blood Angels, a Marshal of the Black Templars Expedition, the Chapter Master of the Astral Knights, and the Warsmiths of the 11th and 19th Galaxies.
The assembly was over long ago, and the total number of Astartes participating in this battle had actually reached about five thousand - four companies of Ultramarines and the seven hundred 'reserve' he brought with him when he set out from the Five Hundred Worlds, six companies of Blood Angels, a total of more than eight hundred Black Templars, five companies of Astral Knights, and the entire Eleventh and Nineteenth Galactic Guard.

In any era after the Great Crusade, this was a force that could not be underestimated, and was fully qualified to be called an "army". However, there were still people who held opposing views. That person was now sitting in the back row of the conference hall, with a pair of iron arms resting on the table.

Guilliman didn't need to look at his face to know what kind of expression he had at the moment. He also knew that this person would definitely speak up after a while, thinking that the current number of people was still not enough.
Guilliman understood him, but could not accept his opinion.

Ultimately, this was not a formal war between two empires and two races.

Furthermore, it would take a longer time to mobilize more troops, but this matter could not wait any longer - who knew how those undead nobles from different dynasties would relieve their boredom while "guarding" the ownerless Solmus Dynasty?
Of course, Perturabo's idea is not unreasonable. After all, the enemy is an extremely dangerous enemy like the Necrons. But Guilliman believes that in such a war, the Empire is the party with the advantage.

First, the Undead were unlikely to know of their arrival in advance. Second, Trazyn would give them a great tactical advantage. Even if he had been declared a traitor, Sollums must have left some backup plans in his defense protocol. Third, they had Caril Lohars.

He walked slowly to the center of the meeting room, raised his arms, and started the meeting as the head coach.
-
Khalil did not attend the meeting—and neither did Rogal Dorn.

Wanshi seemed to think the same as him, both of them believed that their presence at the meeting was not actually necessary, but their reasons were very different.

The Grand Inquisitor simply wanted to steal half a day's rest, and he really had no say in such a large-scale combat situation, so he really did not show up.

But what about Dorn? As the Primarch, even if he couldn't personally lead the team to Solomus like Guilliman and Sanguinius, why didn't he even attend a meeting?

The answer was simple: he didn't think it was necessary. He had expressed his opinion three days before the meeting: "I believe you, Robert, you are fully qualified to be the head coach."

So, where is he at this moment?
"I have discussed the new power armor with Fabricator General Belisarius Cawl. The performance of this armor is superior to any type of power armor that has been mass-produced in the past, but he also said frankly that it is actually quite difficult to control. I believe you have all experienced this firsthand."

Facing his Primarch, the Chief Librarian of the Astral Knights, Halsey nodded heavily.

There are only seven days left before the army sets out. The new power armor had been distributed half a month ago, but getting used to it is not easy.

In the past few days, all the people from the five companies have looked for him according to the advice of the Forge General during the delivery, hoping to get his and the priests' help to establish a link between their spirits and the machine soul of the power armor.

It is said that this is much simpler and safer than directly wearing and facing the machine spirit. Frankly speaking, this is not a difficult task for a well-trained think tank, but after doing it too many times, fatigue can no longer be stopped.

"We will use killing to appease the sacred wrath of the Machine Spirit!"

Unlike him, Morfrid, one of the lords of the Black Templars and known for his bravery, roared in response to the Primarch's questions.

He was not wearing armor, but a black and white robe. His hands were clasped tightly together, holding a string of prayer beads in his palms. There were two gold nails and one silver nail on the right side of his shiny forehead.

Rogal Dorn stared down at him for a few seconds, then nodded slightly.

"It's good to be enthusiastic, Morfrid, but I want you to be like Sigismund. You have the potential to be better than you are now. Do you want a suggestion?"

Halsey, who was standing by, saw with her own eyes that this serious, old-fashioned and pious monk suddenly blushed, and then nodded very stiffly.

"Control your anger." The Stone said calmly. "You are not the vanguard in this war. Therefore, no matter what orders the commander gives you, you must obey them completely. I don't want to hear about your disobedience or double-crossing after the war, nor do I want to see you ignore the purpose of the mission and only care about killing aliens when reading the report. Be restrained and calm, understand?"

The castle lord nodded deeply.

Dawn turned to Halsey and raised his right hand slightly, making a gesture.

"I found your Storm in one of the twelve scheduled assembly docks. I have to confess to you that this matter makes me very upset. I clearly told Ator Amhrad in the assembly order that since the Astral Knights have not yet restored their full organization, they do not need to be recruited in full this time, nor do they need to bring your mothership - but he seems to have only listened to half of what I said."

The Chief Think Tank of the Star Knights, who had been watching the excitement just now, was stunned for a moment, and then hurriedly began to explain.

"Primarch, please listen to me—"

"--No." Dorn shook his head expressionlessly. "I don't want to hear anything. When your Chapter Master comes back, tell him to take my handwritten note to Belisarius Cawl to get a batch of additional supplies. Tomorrow, I will go to the Tempest to inspect. If I find that you are not equipped with those new weapons, or are only equipped with half of them, I will be very angry."

After he finished speaking, he gestured again, indicating that they could leave. The two of them bowed absentmindedly, turned around and walked out of his office, but did not forget to close the door.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut, causing another person in the office to chuckle.

"You're worried about them, why don't you just say so, Roger?"

Dawn glanced up at him. "Are you free today, Khalil?"

"No, but it's not too busy either."

Dawn nodded in understanding, stood up and said, "Well, come with me, I'll find you something to do."

".Can I refuse?"

"I suggest you don't."

(End of this chapter)