Simultaneous Transmigration: We Share a Role-Playing System

Chapter 120 Locke: Oh, it's the ruler of the Second Empire who has arrived.

The smoke from the gunpowder slowly dissipated between the two, and Sigismund finally slowly rose to his feet.

His power armor gleamed with a cold, matte sheen under the barrage of fire. He held the Emperor Champion's exclusive black sword firmly in his hand, its blade radiating the holy light that had slain countless Chaos Lords and Demon Princes.

No one knows better than the warriors of the Empire that this armor, this sword, this name, were earned through countless battles. During the Siege of Terra, his plan to break through the Wall of Eternity in Horus, which he had set for three days, was delayed for a full 58 days.

During the countless dark nights of the Great Crusade, he fought to the death amidst the encroachment of the Warp, turning countless seemingly insurmountable obstacles into glorious achievements for the Empire.

Every sword move he made was honed amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood. His status and achievements were earned by fighting with the bones of millions of Chaos Heretics, one sword and one spear at a time. It represents the ultimate peak that an Astartes monk can reach.

The moment he gripped the black sword, the air on the entire battlefield seemed to be sliced ​​open by the blade, and a chilling killing intent swept over them.

Fujimaru Ritsuka even subconsciously held her breath. She had seen many Heroic Spirits come from here, but she had never felt such a pure, heavy, and murderous aura built up from countless lives and deaths in one person.

Yes, any servant would seem amateurish compared to them, who have experienced thousands of years of success and failure in battle.

"Lord Guilliman, my apologies."

The moment Sigismund's voice fell, he had vanished from the spot.

Without any warning, without the slightest hesitation, before the overloaded hum of the power armor servers could even begin to emanate, the black sword had already transformed into a black lightning bolt, piercing straight for the hideous cursed scar on Guilliman's heart.

This was the fatal blow he had delivered when he killed three Slaanesh princes. His swordsmanship was so perfect that there were no flaws. His power, speed, and angle had been honed to the absolute limit of Astartes, enough to pierce the frontal armor of a main battle tank and even split the steel plates of a starship in two.

The onlooker, Archer, instantly clenched his other hand. He knew perfectly well that if it were him, there would be no way to dodge this sword. He could only use the projected Noble Phantasm to take the hit head-on, and there was even a high probability that he would be pierced through by the sword.

Guilliman simply turned his body slightly to the side.

Without unleashing terrifying speed, without any superfluous movements, he didn't even move his feet an inch. His body simply turned to the side at an angle precise to the millimeter. The black sword, which embodied Sigismund's lifelong experience in killing, grazed his ribs and missed. The airflow generated by the sword only stirred up the stray hairs on his forehead.

Sigismund's pupils contracted sharply. Without pausing for a moment, he flipped his wrist, and the black sword instantly changed from a thrust to a sweep, the blade carrying the power to cut through adamantite, slicing horizontally towards Guilliman's waist and abdomen.

Then came slashes, thrusts, and parries. He brought his swordsmanship, honed over centuries of battle, to its fullest potential. Every move was aimed directly at vital points, without a trace of affectation. His offense and defense were seamless and impenetrable. The black sword light enveloped every inch of space around Guilliman like a torrential rain. Even the shrapnel from the exploding shells around him was shredded into dust by the sword wind.

He has given it his all.

He gave it his all, everything he could do and everything Astartes could do, without holding back.

He knew that the person opposite him was the Primarch, the son of the Emperor, someone he would always look up to, but he still had to fight. Everything he had was earned through his own efforts, including his honor, his title, and his loyalty.

Yet, amidst that impenetrable sword light, Guilliman remained unperturbed.

He was shirtless, without the protection of power armor or the aid of weapons, relying solely on the most basic footwork to move, precisely avoiding all attacks with every turn and every sidestep.

Sigismund's sword is incredibly fast, yet he can always anticipate the sword's path by a fraction of a second. Sigismund's moves are flawless, yet he can always find that imperceptible gap in the human body's ability to exert force.

His gaze remained calm as he looked at the Emperor Champion fighting with all his might, as if he were watching a child practicing swordsmanship with all his might, without even his breathing faltering.

In the span of three breaths, Sigismund swung his sword seven hundred and twenty-one times.

Seven hundred and twenty-one sword strikes, each one deadly, each one a fatal blow.

Only then did Sigismund finally understand.

Not only were the merits and valor of these Astartes elevated by the Throne of Heroes, but this son of the Emperor, this great Primarch, was also elevated to a height that was rightfully his, a height that mortals could never reach. The power and grace bestowed upon the thirteenth son by the Emperor himself were, from beginning to end, something that these monks could never attain.

"I said, that's enough."

As the three words fell, Guilliman, amidst the impenetrable rain of black swords, made only one move, and with unparalleled precision, seized the spine of the sanctified black sword.

Despite Sigismund's trapped-beast roars from beneath his helmet, squeezing every last drop of strength from his body, despite the overload of the power armor's servers causing it to smoke and the pipes to burst with blinding sparks, despite pouring all the power he had honed over centuries of countless deaths into the sword, the black sword that had slain the demon prince and cleaved through the Chaos warship remained unmoved in Guilliman's hand, like a mountain that had taken root and could not advance even an inch further.

All the struggles turned into utter futility at this moment.

Only at this moment did the Chaldean onlookers truly understand the suffocating weight behind the words "Primarch," and begin to comprehend why humanity would be able to conquer the galaxy in the future.

That's a chasm that can't be bridged by practicing day and night, fighting to the death, or giving your whole life.

It was a creation forged by the emperor himself, surpassing mortals, the most perfect form that human genes could reach.

Even if you burn your heart out and reach the ceiling of ordinary people, in front of them, you can only feel that deep-seated, insurmountable powerlessness.

Sigismund's strength gave out, but he still refused to let go of the weapon he had held all his life. He could only lower his head deeply, his voice trembling with barely concealed resentment, and say, word by word, "Lord Guilliman, I concede."

As he finished speaking, Guilliman released his grip, letting the black sword fall to the ground.

He looked at the kneeling Emperor Champion before him, his voice calm and deep, carrying the undisguised recognition of a Primarch: "You have reached the pinnacle that an Astartes can achieve. Your loyalty and your martial prowess are worthy of the title of Emperor Champion."

"Lift your head, stand up, Sigismund."

Guilliman's voice pierced through the embers of the battlefield, carrying not the imposing authority of a command, but the highest recognition of a warrior who had given his all.

Sigismund raised his head with trembling. He looked at the Primarch standing against the light, and saw that the other person seemed to be surrounded by a soft glow from the Throne of Heroes. In a daze, the four-meter-tall towering figure overlapped with the faith etched into his bones. He clearly saw two overlapping figures, one of which was the Primarch he had followed all his life, Roger Dorn.

The other one bears a striking resemblance to the Lord of Humanity.

Centuries of battles, the bloodshed and smoke of the siege of Terra, and the endless carnage of the Black Cross all surged into his mind at this moment.

"On behalf of the entire human empire, I thank you for your lifelong dedication and perseverance."

Guilliman's voice reached his ears, as solemn as if he were making an eternal vow.

"May your soul finally rest at the throne of the Lord of mankind, and find eternal peace."

The moment the words left his mouth, Sigismund's figure began to glow with faint psionic light, his outline gradually becoming transparent.

Having been summoned as a Heroic Spirit, he had already fulfilled his mission. He slowly closed his eyes, turned towards Guilliman, and with his last strength gave a standard Astartes salute. His voice was as soft as the wind brushing past the smoke of gunpowder, yet it carried utter solemnity and relief: "Thank you, Lord Guilliman."

The next second, the faint light exploded in all directions, and Sigismund's figure completely disappeared from the battlefield.

The spot where he had just stood was now occupied by an ordinary Space Marine wearing a damaged Mark III power armor.

His body bore gruesome wounds that could have been fatal in an instant, but strangely, pure and warm golden holy flames were burning fiercely over those wounds.

The sacred flame did not burn his flesh and blood; instead, it gradually soothed those fatal wounds that were on the verge of collapse.

Guilliman's pupils suddenly contracted.

The last time he saw such a sight was during the darkest moment of the Siege of Terra.

At that time, the palace walls were repeatedly torn apart by the rebels, and countless Astartes monks died in the breaches to protect the emperor. It was the creator, his father, who sat on the golden throne, who ignited the sacred fire with boundless spiritual energy, giving those sacrificed warriors a new life and making them fight for him.

The sacred flame before us is exactly the same as the psionic flame that belonged to the Lord of Humanity back then.

"The Emperor decrees: You may go and see Him, but only three may enter: the Master of Chaldea, the Allies of Justice, and the Emperor's thirteenth son."

As the envoy's solemn words fell, the three people whose names were called all felt a tremor in their hearts.

Fujimaru Ritsuka was completely stunned. She instinctively pointed to herself, her mind a jumbled mess, inwardly screaming: How could this be me?! I'm just a working-class Master here to repair the Singularity! Shouldn't this Primarch, with his overwhelming aura, have gone in and handled everything? What have I done to deserve meeting this legendary human emperor?!

Emiya Shirou stood rooted to the spot, his fingers clenching tightly. The words "partner of justice" struck him like a thunderclap in his chaotic thoughts.

The person most shaken was Robert Guilliman.

When the words "the emperor's thirteenth son" reached his ears, his breath caught in his throat for a moment, then became incredibly heavy.

Ten thousand years of slumber, a thousand years of war, a thousand years of accusations and insults—he had heard countless people call him Regent, Primarch,

The adult never imagined that one day he would hear this identity belonging to his son from his father's decree.

He was enveloped in a faint glow of psychic energy, and with the power of a heroic spirit, he shed his murderous aura and donned a simple, dark blue casual robe. He wanted to meet Him as a son, not as the regent of the empire.

He slowly turned around, looked at the two people behind him, and said softly but firmly, with a hint of expectation in his voice that he himself did not realize, "Come with me, it's time to see him."

Before the teleportation was initiated, Guilliman, in a low voice, explained all the rules and etiquette for the audience to the two of them.

His tone was filled with undisguised solemnity; even though they were separated only by a young boy's body, he would not tolerate the slightest impoliteness.

The moment the three were enveloped in the light of psychic energy and magic, they found themselves standing in the underground cavity of the Fuyuki Greater Grail after a dizzying spin.

The suffocating black mud of the past has long since vanished, the water level of the underground lake has dropped by nearly half, and the damp, cold rock walls and exposed stone platforms gleam softly in the holy light of the magic circle.

The ritual circle of the Greater Grail slowly rotated in the center of the stone platform, and on the stone throne at the end of the circle, Locke, surrounded by holy light, calmly looked at Guilliman.

When he spoke, the boy's clear voice and the emperor's weighty tone intertwined perfectly, their dual voices echoing in the empty space: "Oh? The ruler of the Second Empire has arrived."

The moment the words left her lips, both Fujimaru Ritsuka and Emiya Shirou froze.

Almost instinctively, the two turned their heads, their gazes fixed on Guilliman, their faces filled with bewilderment and astonishment, the question almost bursting from their mouths: "The Second Reich? What's that?"

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