Simultaneous Transmigration: We Share a Role-Playing System

Chapter 119 The Rebellious Son and the Reticent Old Father

As Guilliman finished speaking, the entire battlefield fell into a deathly silence, with only the continuous roar of the interstellar warships' heavy cannons in the background, each sound crashing into the stagnant, almost solidified, chilling air.

Just as everyone was still processing this earth-shattering declaration, Archer suddenly turned his head and the beam of light landed precisely in Shirou Emiya's hand, which was still holding the left arm he had just severed, still warm from the blow.

Almost at the same time, Shirou Emiya also subconsciously turned around and met his gaze. Following the other's gaze, he looked down and belatedly realized that he had been tightly gripping the other's severed arm the whole time.

The tense battlefield atmosphere from a moment ago was instantly shattered by an indescribable awkwardness.

"Uh—here you go." Shirou Emiya hurriedly handed over his arm, looking embarrassed.

"Thank you." Red A took the arm and quickly turned his head, his tone stiff, with a hint of barely perceptible unease.

"You're welcome."

Even Sigismund couldn't agree to the Primarch's demands, because even with a war of attrition, they had no chance of defeating him.

He himself was hailed as the strongest fighter below the Primarch. As the Emperor Champion serving Rogdorn, he knew the Primarch's strength better than anyone else, let alone Robert Guilliman.

Although the Primarch he served, Rogdorn, was very unhappy with the other party, he was a Space Marine, and the other party was a noble Primarch, and even the Regent of the Empire ten thousand years after his death. He didn't even know how to refuse.

Just as Sigismund stood frozen in place, caught in a dilemma, a psychic oracle spanning tens of thousands of years surged into the depths of his consciousness.

The will of the human emperor instantly soothed all his panic, gradually calming his expression, but soon he became even more troubled than before.

He took a deep breath, looked up at the Primarch before him, still kneeling on one knee, but his voice was filled with undisguised hesitation and difficulty: "My lord—I have received a divine decree from the Great Emperor. The Great Emperor says—in the name of the Emperor, that you must immediately remove your armor and lay down your sword. If you do not comply, then please leave immediately."

Guilliman's brows furrowed instantly, a chilling displeasure emanating from him. He lowered his gaze to the familiar Imperial Champion before him, his voice low yet carrying a chilling pressure that sent shivers down Guilliman's spine: "Sigismund, I thought I understood you, but I've realized I was wrong. How come in this past thirty thousand years, you've become so timid and hesitant, your edges smoothed out? Where has your pride and resolve, etched into your very bones as an Imperial Champion, gone? Are you going to break your oath?!"

"Your subordinate wouldn't dare!"

"Whatever the Lord of Mankind says, tell me exactly what I am: Robert Guilliman, Primarch of the Thirteenth Astartes Legion, Regent of the Empire, Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Army, not some fragile object you need to protect with utmost care!"

Stung by the Primarch's words, Sigismund lowered his head in shame, his shoulders and back tense. He maintained his kneeling salute, his fist pressed tightly against his power armor, his voice filled with remorse as he said in a deep voice, "It was my fault, Lord Guilliman. The Great Emperor said that since you're going to help Alaya-vijnana fight your father, then take off the sword and armor he gave you. Even if you're going to fight against me, don't disgrace your father."

The moment Sigismund finished speaking, Fujimaru Ritsuka and the others gasped in unison.

What does it mean to be a seasoned veteran? What does it mean to be the Chief Master of Chaldea? Bearing the title of "human evil (crossed out) Gudako," what father-son conflicts and family dramas hasn't she seen in Chaldea? In just a moment, she accurately saw through the awkward relationship between Guilliman and the Emperor.

This was clearly a rebellious son who had fallen out with his father and had been publicly humiliated by his own father! She clenched her fists instantly, her heart leaping into her throat.

Oh no! Is the Primarch going to explode on the spot?!

Shirou Emiya stood to the side, his eyes darting strangely between Guilliman's figure and Sakura Matou not far away, his face filled with confusion as if to say, "Am I misunderstanding something?"

Shinji Matou leaned closer and whispered to him, "Is he really Locke's son? He and Sakura—"

Before Shinji Matou could finish speaking, Shirou Emiya immediately covered his mouth, his forehead beaded with cold sweat, and warned, "I have a feeling that if you say the second half, one of us will die. I suggest you don't say it."

Just as everyone's thoughts had wandered far away, Guilliman, in the center of the battlefield, froze completely the moment he heard those words.

The anger and oppressive aura that had just been lingering between his brows vanished without a trace, leaving only disbelief in his eyes. He lowered his gaze to the kneeling Sigismund, his voice slightly strained, carrying a hint of bewilderment he himself was unaware of, and asked again, "Is this really His exact words? Not a single word different?"

Sigismund tensed abruptly, his voice trembling with the agitation of his loyalty being questioned, and shouted, "Absolutely true! I swear on the honor of the Imperial Champion, I would never dare to forge a single word of the imperial edict!"

Guilliman knew perfectly well of Sigismund's loyalty.

He simply couldn't believe it; he couldn't believe he would hear such a sentence from the emperor's mouth.

This tone was neither that of someone who intended to change everything in this era, nor that of a god-emperor who had guarded the throne for millennia, sitting upon the golden throne, and whose faith had long since been embraced by trillions of subjects.

These words, full of everyday warmth and the awkwardness between a father and son, shone into his heart like a ray of light.

Guilliman stood there, his chest churning with a mixture of astonishment, confusion, a long-lost feeling of being touched, and an indescribable bitterness. His emotions were incredibly complex.

Awakening from a ten-thousand-year slumber, he dragged his broken body and carried the crumbling empire for far too long.

He mended the torn galaxy, quelled the rebellious star systems, and pieced together the scattered fragments of the empire after the Horus Rebellion, little by little, restoring it to its original form.

But when he finally stood before the golden throne, wanting to see the father he had followed all his life, all that flooded his mind was a soul-shattering psychic roar.

He would never forget the despair of that moment—the other person's soul seemed to be torn into countless pieces by shackles that had lasted for millennia, and countless voices roared in his consciousness at the same time. Intermittent malice and insults rained down on him, completely crushing all his tender expectations about the reunion of father and son.

fraud.

traitor.

Thief.

These words were like a red-hot branding iron, searing his heart.

He dedicated his life to his father's ideals and gave everything to protect his empire, only to be met with such a heartbreaking denial.

He had even prepared for the worst, even if the other party possessed him, even if it meant a complete confrontation with his father.

He had already prepared all the arguments before they had a hysterical fight.

He couldn't let those bloody pasts become meaningless suffering. Everything he did was for the human empire, and also for the fathers and sons who had long been separated.

But he never expected that after 30,000 years, all he would get was a "take off your armor and put down your sword" order, a fair and honorable duel.

Realizing that this might conceal a secret he had never dared to hope for, Guilliman felt as if his heart was being gripped tightly by a hand, his emotions extremely complex.

That heart, which had long since hardened, uncontrollably rekindled an expectation that should never have existed again.

Behind the anticipation lay a deep-seated fear. He feared it was all just a fantasy, that it would ultimately turn out to be nothing more than wishful thinking, just like before.

He closed his eyes briefly, suppressing the surging emotions in his chest, and looked at Sigismund again. His voice trembled slightly, a tremor he himself didn't even notice, as he asked in a deep voice, "As long as I finish this duel, I can see Him, right?"

Sigismund, who had mistakenly entered the royal court, could only nod frantically, daring not to speak again. To say or think too much about certain things would be blasphemy and an act of disloyalty.

After receiving confirmation from Sigismund, Guilliman did not hesitate for a moment. He raised his hand and began to disassemble the Armor of Destiny on his body with his bare hands. The Armor of Destiny was custom-made for him and its structure was so precise that it originally required a dedicated team of technical sergeants and special equipment to complete the entire loading and unloading process.

At this moment, Guilliman, with the Primarch's terrifying brute force, brutally tore open the locks and joints of the armor. The ear-piercing screech of metal scraping against metal rang out one after another. The nerve bundles and power lines embedded in the flesh were torn off, and many intricate connection holes were directly damaged. Crimson blood flowed slowly down his arms and torso through the gaps in the armor.

This almost self-destructive dismantling method made Fujimaru Ritsuka and the others watching from the sidelines gasp in shock and feel an unbearable phantom pain all over their bodies.

Guilliman, however, remained calm, as if he had simply taken off an ordinary coat, without even frowning, leaving everyone deeply shocked.

They couldn't help but wonder to themselves, could this be the hero who will lead humanity to conquer the galaxy in the future?

When the entire Armor of Destiny was completely removed from the ground with a heavy metallic thud, Guilliman was left with only a pair of combat shorts, and his body, which had borne the weight of a thousand years of war, was fully exposed to everyone's view.

His torso and limbs were covered with crisscrossing scars: deep cuts from sharp blades, penetrating wounds from explosives and piercing weapons, dents from blunt force trauma, burn marks from starship beams, pits from chaotic acid, and dense shrapnel wounds on his back.

The most shocking thing is a long, thin but deep scar that runs vertically through his chest, on the lower left side of his sternum and slightly to the left of his heart.

The wound almost completely pierced his chest cavity, and even after tens of thousands of years, it is still terrifyingly gruesome.

That was the eternal mark left on the chest of Primarch Vorgrim, the son of the Emperor, who had fallen into the Slaanesh and become a demon prince, by piercing it with a poisoned sword imbued with the curse of chaos, on the eve of the Horus Rebellion's end.

It was this wound, carrying the curse of the evil god, that imprisoned him in a static force field, trapping him in a state of neither life nor death, where he slept for a full ten thousand years.

If it weren't for the Armor of Destiny, painstakingly crafted by the great sage Belisarius Caul, which suppressed the pervasive Chaos Poison for him, he would never have been able to return to the world, let alone shoulder the burden of the crumbling human empire.

At this moment, he personally removed the armor that had protected him in all his battles since his rebirth.

Even now, as a heroic spirit responding to the summons, the chaotic curse originating from the depths of the warp continues to gnaw at his flesh and soul.

The urge to see his father grew stronger in his chest, and Robert Guilliman began to walk step by step toward Sigismund.

With each step he took, he carried the innate, unparalleled pressure of a Primarch. The air on the battlefield seemed to freeze at his footsteps. He looked at the Emperor Champion kneeling on one knee, his voice booming like a bell piercing through the smoke of battle, each word resounding: "Come, Sigismund! Let me witness your absolute loyalty to the Empire, witness your pinnacle of martial skill as the Emperor Champion! Give it your all, hold nothing back!"