Chapter 449– The Dull Edge of the Emperor's Sword! The Grim Atmosphere of the Study!
At this moment, Guilliman sank into deep thought.
He knew that Horus had been exhausting himself lately with the business of forming his cabinet. Now, being suddenly summoned back to Terra, it was likely that Horus wanted to pull him in to help contend against those old foxes in the High Lords' Council.
As for Terra's political struggles, Guilliman wasn't particularly interested. No matter how fierce or brilliant the infighting became, the results would be overturned sooner or later.
Forget it—consider it helping Horus out.
After pondering for a while, Guilliman turned to his Eleventh Captain, Felix, and asked, "How long would it take to reach Terra from here?"
Since the Macragge System had been the earliest and most enthusiastic to cooperate with The Megacorp's new warp-route project, it was also the first to enjoy its convenience.
Yet Guilliman had never used the new route to return to Terra before, so he wasn't sure how long this trip would take. By the old way, it was at least three months at best.
"Roughly eighteen hours. If the new route becomes fully operational, it might only take twelve hours, perhaps even less."
Felix answered truthfully. These figures were ones he had personally inquired about from The Megacorp, and he himself had witnessed the efficiency of their convoys. It was far beyond anything in the past.
So fast—!
A flicker of surprise crossed Guilliman's face, though he quickly restrained it. This was the era of renaissance, with new wonders emerging by the day. He needed to adapt to them swiftly.
"Then make preparations to return to Terra at once. It will be a good chance to see how my dear brother Horus is faring."
With a wave of his hand, Guilliman signaled his Ultramarines to arrange everything without delay.
It was almost laughable. During the Great Crusade, Horus had been the one Primarch who most loathed the Imperium's bureaucracy. He never missed a chance to mock or curse those mortal administrators.
And yet, barely after the Crusade's conclusion, he had become the greatest bureaucrat of them all—the Regent of the Imperium, holder of supreme authority. Many of the Primarchs grumbled behind his back at the irony.
Still, grumbling was all it was. Horus had long since maxed out the favor of his brothers, and even as Regent he never forgot to grant them benefits—titles of nobility, territories, and rewards.
Save for a few exceptions, most of the Primarchs held him in good regard and were willing to support their elder brother.
Yet since Horus's appointment, the Imperium's political system hadn't changed much at all.
The only real breakthrough was the new warp-route network, which greatly improved the speed of communication and enforcement of decrees, thereby strengthening the Imperium's grip over its many domains.
But that accomplishment had nothing to do with Horus.
On the contrary, had Malcador or the Emperor himself been in charge, the achievements would surely have been greater and far more meaningful.
In truth, Horus had simply been carried forward on the shoulders of The Megacorp. Their fleets had checked the threats of the warp, their new routes had lightened the weight of administration, and the pressure of governance was immensely reduced.
With the High Lords and cabinet ministers also sharing the load, one could almost say—without exaggeration—that even a dog tied to the Regent's throne could manage.
The only thing Horus seemed intent on was monopolizing the fruits of victory—driving out other political factions on Terra before anything else.
[Set course for Terra—!]
With that, the Ultramarines' fleet shifted toward the nearest new route.
Seventeen hours later, Guilliman finally beheld the familiar Sol System. The mighty Macragge's Honour passed through checkpoint after checkpoint before finally docking at Terra's administrative port.
There, he immediately spotted Horus's flagship, the Vengeful Spirit.
Once the terror of countless campaigns, the vessel now exuded none of its former menace. Only a few dim signal lights still blinked, lending it an air of desolation.
A war machine left idle too long always grows sluggish, always begins to rust.
Ever since Horus had summoned the Luna Wolves to Terra to serve as officials, this proud warship had been left to gather dust, maintained only by a few hundred mortals tasked with cleaning and upkeep.
Seeing the Emperor's sword now so dulled, Guilliman could only shake his head in sorrow.
"Horus ought to be Warmaster, not Regent of the Imperium."
It wasn't that Guilliman thought Horus incapable of ruling, but rather that every man's talents had their limits.
Compared to the intricacies of politics, Horus's gifts shone brightest on the battlefield. A born Warmaster of the Imperium, his true worth could only be fully realized in war.
To waste him on Terra was sheer folly.
"Lord Guilliman, the Regent has awaited your arrival for some time. Please, come with me to the Imperial Palace."
At that moment, his escort arrived—the one leading them was none other than Abaddon.
Dressed in the formal attire of an Imperial councillor, his whole bearing transformed, Guilliman actually stared for a few moments before recognizing him. Never had he seen Abaddon without his power armor.
The hulking warrior who once lived for brutal duels now wore the awkward, ill-fitting robes of a bureaucrat, his manner almost scholarly. It was so incongruous with the Luna Wolf Guilliman remembered.
"Abaddon… even you are working on Terra now? Is Horus truly so short of manpower?"
Guilliman spoke bluntly. It wasn't meant as an insult—rather, he simply knew Abaddon was not suited for such work. This was nothing but torment for the man.
Abaddon didn't take offense. He merely gave a weary smile.
"I'm honored you still remember my name. It's not only me. All the Luna Wolf officers are now in Terra's service."
The truth was, Terra wasn't really short of personnel. In fact, with the new warp-route system reducing workloads, many regions were easier to manage than before, and there was even a surplus of administrators.
But most of those officials owed loyalty to Malcador in one way or another.
Horus, as a parachuted-in leader, had no personal foundation on Terra.
A commander without his own circle of trusted aides has little weight. Mortal bureaucrats would only pay him lip service, never true obedience.
That was why Horus had placed Abaddon and the other Luna Wolves into key positions. Even if they were inept, even if they sat idle, at least the seats would be theirs.
It wasn't about results—it was about creating an image of strength, building the aura of power that Horus so desperately needed.
But this came at the cost of the Luna Wolves themselves.
Terra was the heart of the Imperium's power. Political strife here never ceased. And far from avoiding it, the arrival of the Luna Wolves and Horus's cabinet had only driven the High Lords to unite against them, constantly setting traps.
They deliberately assigned the Wolves old, thorny cases, impossible bureaucratic tasks.
In politics, avoiding mistakes is far harder than solving problems. Predictably, within just a few months, Abaddon and his fellows had accumulated a long list of "failures."
They had come eager to serve the Imperium. But politics cared only for correct decisions, not good intentions. Their passion had yielded nothing but embarrassment.
Were it not for Horus shielding them, wiping away their blunders, these Astartes would have been shipped back to Cthonia long ago.
Yet Horus never abandoned them, insisting they remain by his side.
Under relentless internal and external pressure, the Astartes strove desperately not to err again. They forced themselves to study governance, but talent cannot be forged overnight.
Against mortal officials who had spent decades clawing through Terra's bureaucracy, they were hopelessly outmatched.
Hearing all this, Guilliman's brows furrowed, his expression hardening.
Terra's situation was worse than he had imagined.
It was difficult to picture the Luna Wolves—who once cut down xenos by the thousands—now being toyed with, humiliated, ground into the dirt by mere mortals.
"Forgive my frankness," Guilliman said at last, "but you should not be here. You are the Imperium's mightiest warriors. To confine you to Terra's petty stage is nothing short of squandering a priceless treasure."
Guilliman felt a genuine sense of sympathy for Abaddon.
The Astartes were born to fight—to sweep aside the xenos that plagued the galaxy, to expand the dominion of the Imperium of Man—not to quarrel with mortals over how to handle governance.
Politics were important, true, but if mortals could perform those duties in their stead, why should the Astartes compete with them for such positions and waste precious time?
There was something higher than political power: force.
Absolute force was absolute power, and it was force that could guarantee the Imperium's stability and growth.
Guilliman was certain of this: even the Shadowmoon Wolves, warriors famed for their valor, if left on Terra for too long, would eventually wither into feeble weaklings.
A life of comfort could never forge great warriors. No matter how powerful the physique, even the strongest bodies could be eroded by indulgence.
Horus was personally destroying the Shadowmoon Wolves Legion.
"Sigh…" Abaddon let out a weary breath. Of course he understood this truth—but who could defy Horus?
"Don't worry. I'll go to your primarch myself. When the time comes, I'll be sure to speak on your behalf." Guilliman gave his solemn promise.
By ritual, the first duty of a returning primarch upon arriving on Terra should have been rest and bathing—to ease the exhaustion of the long voyage and prepare for further discussions.
But Horus was too eager to meet Guilliman, and Guilliman too wished to sit with him and persuade him to leave Terra quickly.
After all, they were brothers who had fought side by side on the battlefield, their private bond unusually strong. Formalities could be dispensed with.
"On behalf of the Shadowmoon Wolves, I thank you for your righteous words."
Abaddon bowed deeply, then ordered his subordinates to arrange the itinerary before taking his leave from Glory of Macragge.
On the way to the office of the Imperial Regent, Guilliman's mind was restless with thought.
He was sure Horus knew of the Shadowmoon Wolves' plight, and yet he still did this. Clearly, there had to be a reason.
Among the primarchs, Guilliman was the most adept at governance and political work.
In the hidden intricacies of politics, he understood more deeply than any of his brothers.
This was thanks to his father, the Planetary Governor of Macragge. From a minor official to the highest executive, Guilliman had walked the entire path.
Raised under his father's tutelage, Guilliman's political experience far outstripped that of the other primarchs.
When the Emperor found him, Guilliman had been serving as Macragge's chief administrator.
But no matter how well Macragge was governed, it was still but one world. Terra was the heart of the entire Imperium—governing its countless worlds was exponentially more complex.
Though Guilliman had not studied the Imperial system in detail, he could imagine the crushing workload of the Regent's office.
I only hope Horus doesn't cling too tightly to the regency. Otherwise, he'll be lost in the maelstrom of power sooner or later.
Guilliman repeatedly speculated on Horus's true purpose in summoning him to Terra. Was it to ask for assistance? Or to form a faction against the High Lords?
Helping Horus was not impossible—but Guilliman had no wish to linger on Terra. This was not his domain. Macragge was.
He could lend Horus political counsel, but he would not entangle himself long in Terra's morass. The Imperial bureaucracy was a quagmire.
Everyone who entered was dragged down. Guilliman was no regent—why trouble himself?
Soon, escorted by Luna Wolves, Guilliman's vessel docked at the Regent's palace. Before entering Horus's quarters, he saw familiar officers of the Luna Wolves.
Their expressions mirrored Abaddon's: tired, faintly lost. Warriors once invincible on blood-soaked battlefields now looked hollowed out by bureaucracy.
With an indescribable heaviness, Guilliman entered Horus's study.
Creak—
The massive doors swung open, revealing familiar figures: Councilor Sevetar of the Luna Wolves, Captain Serghar Tagorst of the Seventh, Garviel loken and others.
They stood in full battle-plate, their faces severe, like inquisitors awaiting to condemn a criminal. The room's atmosphere was grim, suffocating.
Seeing this, Guilliman instinctively wanted to retreat. This didn't look like a council on governance—this looked like an execution.
Yet for some reason, though his mind screamed to flee, his body stiffened, and his legs carried him forward of their own accord.
The effect was almost comical—like a waddling penguin.
Then, from deep within the chamber, came a low, rasping voice. Guilliman recognized it immediately: Horus.
"My good brother, at last you've come to Terra."
In the dim light, Horus sat enthroned with imposing presence. Guilliman could see that beneath his regent's robes, Horus wore full battle-plate.
Armor beneath regalia—what was this supposed to mean? That he would grasp both war and politics in his hands?
Guilliman could not guess his intent. He asked instead:
"Horus, why are you wearing battle-plate here? Has war broken out somewhere? Is that why you summoned me—to govern in your place?"
After pondering, Guilliman felt this was the only plausible explanation for such odd behavior.
Yet even if there had been xenos incursions or daemonic invasions, was that not for the Expeditionary Fleets to handle? With Jack Wells's forces on guard, why should they be concerned?
"Guilliman, sit down. What I am about to say is for you alone. None of our brothers share the bond we do."
Horus sidestepped the question, playing on their fraternal ties instead.
Uneasy, Guilliman took the chair reserved for him, mind racing. If Horus wasn't dressed for war, could it be… he meant trouble for him?
But Guilliman had never wronged Horus.
In truth, among the primarchs, he was the most even-tempered and uncontentious. Not as affable as Horus, perhaps, but never in conflict with his brothers.
Surely Horus had no reason to make him a target.
So why this display?
For a long while, Horus spoke not to him, but worked through stacks of documents. Only later did he address Guilliman.
As the light in the study brightened, Guilliman saw him more clearly.
In his memory, Horus's gaze had always been confident, bold—his bearing upright, even if tinged with pride and coldness.
But now, in so short a time, Horus had grown sullen, brooding. In those shadowed eyes flickered cruelty, twisted calculation—the expression of a villain.
Coupled with his glaring bald head, Guilliman felt sure: Horus had been seduced by power, transformed into a schemer.
Perhaps "appearance shapes essence" was not always scientific—but there was truth in it.
At the very least, Guilliman would never have believed the Horus of old would look like this.
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