40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 828 Extra: Round Table Movie Viewing - Guilliman Branch
Robert Guilliman stared blankly at everything before him.

His mind was gradually shedding adjectives like 'clever' or 'wise,' and veering into the abyss of clumsiness. For someone like him, becoming foolish, or rather, realizing he was foolish, was probably one of the most unbearable things in the world.
But he really doesn't have time to deal with this right now.

He leaned against the porthole, gazing at the planet in the distance.

Twelve warships were approaching it in a threatening manner; they were not approaching it in a friendly manner, as could be seen from a single glance at the weapons that were being heated up.

On his way to Terra, Guilliman reviewed a great deal of Imperial internal data. He wasn't particularly fond of the Imperial's warship designs, but he had to admit that these ships were truly formidable in firepower. And now, these twelve terrifying ships, each capable of carrying out a world-destroying mission, were resolutely pointing their weapons at Macragge.

Aimed at his hometown.

The warships are mostly blue and gold, with huge eagles engraved on their hulls. They belong to the Empire, but their current tactical objective is to destroy Macragge.

Why? Why do this?
With a tremor he himself was unaware of, he turned around and strode toward a group of people who were talking not far away.

Among them were mortals, Astartes, and two Primarchs, who rightfully led this seemingly informal meeting. One was white-haired and exhausted, the other expressionless, yet his fists were clenched.

"I disagree!" Guilliman heard the giant, his fists clenched, growl.

“Listen to me, brother,” the white-haired man sighed. “The way the Word Bearers treat war is vastly different from what you and I remember. They used to use words and guns, but now they use rituals, sacrifices, and formations—how many have perished on Macragge today? How many of their souls have been captured by the evil gods worshipped by those traitors? Macragge has been destroyed, it was destined the moment they set foot on it. Therefore, we must do this.”

“There must be a compromise,” the other person retorted through gritted teeth, each word icy cold.

“No, Peturabo,” the white-haired man said. “Please believe me, no.”

He lowered his head, temporarily averting his gaze from those calm yet sorrowful eyes that were almost unbearable to look into. He was enveloped in blood and dust, which made his once magnificent armor look like a tattered robe stolen from the palace by a beggar who didn't know how to cherish or maintain it.

The warship's wide passageway was silent at this moment, with bright, pale yellow lights quietly shining down, casting a wavering color on every face.

A moment later, the giant named Peturabo, who was completely different from the brother in Guilliman's memory, spoke again.

His voice had become much calmer, but his face twisted in a way that was extremely familiar to this body, making him look extremely ferocious.

“No,” he said. “I can’t let you do that.”

“I’m afraid I have to do this,” the white-haired man replied slowly.

"You don't have that authority."

The white-haired man almost laughed, though it was only a twitch of his lips: "I am the Lord of Macragge, the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds of Alteramar, and the Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion."

“Titles mean nothing,” Peturabo said coldly. “If titles meant anything, then every self-proclaimed monarch we have killed in the past would have had power equal to that of an emperor. Judging from their fate, and that of their families, clans, and the world, this is clearly not the case.”

"You are sophistry."

"No, I just want to tell you that while the power of those in power is certainly related to the violence they wield, its essence actually comes from the hearts of the people, from their people. Macurag is your world, I don't deny that, so I want you to think carefully about what you really understand about the orders you just gave."

“I understand perfectly, I can even repeat it for you, brother—my order is to destroy Macragge.”

Peturabo stared at him intently, and finally, he smiled slightly.

“You’re crazy,” he said softly.

Guilliman saw his hand stroking the handle of the warhammer that was lying upside down on the ground.

“Perhaps,” the white-haired man shook his head in reply. “But that’s not the point. The point is, Macragge must be destroyed. I’ve already stated my reasons, even though you refuse to believe them. So be it.”

He turned his head and made two brief gestures to the mortals and Astartes around him. Peturab followed suit and issued the same command. The crowd quickly dispersed, leaving only one mortal among them.

Guilliman's gaze was firmly drawn to her—there were just too many people, and the woman wasn't very tall, so he hadn't even noticed her presence.

But now it's different; he sees her clearly.

His aged appearance stunned him so much that he couldn't utter a single word.

Tarasha Yodon raised her head, gazed at the two Primarchs beside her, and began to speak slowly.

"You two gentlemen are telling us to leave, not so we can fight here, are you?"

"How could that be?" The white-haired man chuckled, cleverly concealing his sorrow with this question.

“No,” Peturabo said.

"Is that so? But I think you two probably don't think that way."

“I said no.” Peturabo was getting impatient, but he repeated himself. “What do you take us for? Kids who will tear each other apart and scream and wrestle at the slightest disagreement?”

“What? No, of course not, my lord.” Tarasha Eudon sighed softly. “How could I dare to harbor such thoughts about the Emperor’s offspring, the demigods who walk among us—two great Primarchs?”

Guilliman saw that after saying that, the more mature Peturabo's facial muscles twitched very noticeably.

He instinctively took a step forward, wanting to protect the elderly Master of Internal Affairs behind him, but he immediately realized that it was pointless. So he began to hope that the white-haired man would do so instead.

However, he was disappointed; the man showed no concern whatsoever and even gave a genuine smile.

Peturabo took a deep breath.

“Your sharp tongue sometimes gives me a headache,” he said, then looked up at the white-haired woman. “Has she always been like this?”

"It's been like this as long as I can remember."

"Then you are truly unfortunate."

"Likewise, brother. I've heard your sister is also a tough leader."

Peturabo snorted coldly.

“She is…” He paused, then quickly changed the subject before finishing his sentence. “Never mind, you can stay. I think he’s not quite clear-headed right now and needs you to remind him.”

“Is that so? Then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, my lord,” said Tarasha Yodon. “I fully agree with Lord Macragge’s actions.”

Peturabo frowned. "Why?" he asked suddenly.

The Lady of the Interior gripped her cane tightly, shifted her weight to one foot, straightened her body, and her gray eyes, once again surrounded by wrinkles, became sharp.

Without fear or hesitation, she replied, "Because only in this way can we avoid a greater disaster."

"When the traitors invaded Macragge, I finally witnessed firsthand the extent of their depravity. The inhumanity and atrocities described in the battle reports were laid bare before me in a bloody manner. If it weren't for the sacrifices of the loyalists, probably more than half of the people would have survived on Macragge."

"Therefore I understand that the biggest reason you disagree with this matter is simply because you feel guilty—if Macurag is truly destroyed, then what does the blood shed by the victims matter? But, sir."

She lowered her head deeply, very deeply.

“My son Robert Guilliman grew up here,” the mother said softly and sadly. “Humanity originated from Terra, but in the vast universe, only Macurag can be considered his home, his birthplace.”

"When he was young, he went with his father to the farm outside the city to learn how to identify crops, how to sow seeds, and how to fertilize. He also argued with people in the Senate about policies related to people's livelihoods. Finally, he came back to complain to me that people did not understand him. Everyone here knows him and trusts him because he grew up here and he is one of us. He was already the son of Macurag before the Emperor found him."

“We love him as he loves us, he loves Macurag. He could live a very, very long time, long enough for Macurag to be buried by history. But, no matter how much time passes, this will never happen again, sir. Therefore, I want you to understand that this decision must have been the result of his careful consideration, and if he had a choice, even if it were only a compromise, he would not have done it. He… he…”

Tarasha Eudon raised her head, refused the white-haired man's help, wiped away the tears from the corners of her eyes, and once again became the bloodless and tearless Lord of the Interior.

“He had no choice,” she said quietly. “We all did.”

Robert Guilliman stared at her blankly.

A few seconds later, he heard Peturabo say, "I understand."

The white-haired man stepped forward with a sigh of relief, wanting to hug him: "Thank you, brother."

“Don’t thank me.” Peturabo let him hug him, his brow furrowed, suppressing the urge to push him away. “Thank her.”

He walked away.

The white-haired man turned around and looked at the short, ordinary man. The latter looked up at him, silent, but made a gesture.

“I know,” he said softly.

The mortal nodded, turned and left, his steps slow and filled with pain.

At this moment, only the white-haired man remained in this corridor.

Everyone had gone, and he stood alone under the lamplight, then walked towards the porthole. Just then, a strong tremor came from beneath his feet. With a click, his armor activated its magnetic lock, and the light flickered.
Guilliman seemed to realize something and rushed to the porthole before him, when suddenly a sharp pain shot through his vision.

Blinding points of light flashed densely on the gun decks of the twelve warships, lingering for a long time. Numerous black objects emitting flames flew out from the edges of the lights, joining the single, thick, crimson beams emitted from the ship's ridges as they flew towards Macragge.

The world is powerless against the weapons created by humankind.

Guilliman turned around and looked at the man.

The murderer—that's what he wanted to say to him, but the words wouldn't come out.

He heard every detail of the meeting and learned many things, such as that Loka Aurelion seemed to have had his body taken over by something, and that the Word Bearers were worshipping the so-called Dark Gods of the Warp. They practiced large-scale sacrifices, torturing and killing countless people with extremely cruel methods.
And it is precisely because of this that Macurag must accept destruction. This is completely different from what he learned from books, and it is also the complete opposite of his understanding of the world.

Robert Guilliman once thought there were no gods in the world, but now it seems that not only do they exist, but they also hate humankind.

"How could this happen?" he murmured.

The man did not answer; beneath his white hair, his eyes were filled with anguish. The last rays of the setting sun swept in through the porthole, blurring his face into a pure color.
Everything gradually dissolves.
-
Robert Guilliman opened his eyes.

He saw a soft, golden light, a light that seemed to possess some kind of power, soothing the complex emotions in his heart. But he had no desire to get up; he just wanted to lie there.

Two people appeared at the edge of his field of vision.

“Robert.” Dorn nodded to him and extended his right hand.

Guilliman silently grasped the hand, slowly stood up, and looked at Peturabo beside him. The latter glanced at him and suddenly gave a cold, enigmatic laugh.

Guilliman realized something from that smile.

"You..." he began with difficulty. "You all saw it?"

“Yes,” Dorn said.

With a sneer still lingering, Perturabo continued, asking in an odd tone, "How are you feeling?"

The words sounded sarcastic, and even Dorn frowned, but Guilliman didn't react. He was unusually calm and didn't care about the matter at all. Moreover, for some reason, in this state, he could hear the concern hidden in Perturabo's words.

“I think I’m probably okay,” Guilliman said slowly.

As soon as he finished speaking, he raised his hand to cover his forehead, temporarily isolating himself from the outside world, and only lowered his hand a few seconds later.

"How did you see it?" he asked again.

Dorn tried to raise his hand, but Perturabo beat him to it. As if he had been prepared all along, he pointed suspiciously swiftly at the top of their heads.

Guilliman looked up and precisely located the one belonging to Loka Aurelion among those light screens.

In the scene, he is being stabbed in the back by a smiling Word Bearer with some kind of weapon, the curve of which evokes a sense of disgust and chill.

Guilliman memorized that face.

He had a premonition that everything was related to this person.

“Wait, something’s not right,” Dorn suddenly spoke up. “Look over there.”

He pointed to the story that belonged to Conrad Coates, and Guilliman and Peturabo looked in the direction he pointed, their brows furrowing in unison.

In the light screen, they saw that Conrad Coates was actually talking to someone.

(End of this chapter)