Chapter 469: The Regent: Never Has an Opening Been This Sublime
After the fire and the wind, after the iron and the rain, after the unfurling of banners and the blare of victory horns—after the faces illuminated by the fires of war and the showering of petals—a new day for Humanity began.
It began in silence, a stillness that draped over the world like a funerary shroud, signaling that the dust had finally settled.
It began with a city at the apex of the galaxy erupting once more in cheers, as battle-scarred planets began to sprout new life.
Across the infinite ruins and rubble left by the conflict, life took root. Wildflowers and weeds flourished, turning lush and green before the wreckage could even be cleared. Vines coiled around shattered skeletons and ceramite plate, climbing the rusted skirts of tanks, crowning silent engines with wreaths of flora, and sealing the sarcophagi of the honored dead.
It began with a fresh wave of spirited warriors departing on starships, moving to reinforce those who had never left the field—those who, through blood and loyalty, had turned a desperate defense into a relentless hunt. The purge of the enemy remnants had begun.
The Tyranid swarms, the Chaos warbands, the xenos raiders—as Humanity fully extricated itself from the invasion of the Plague God, these scavengers fled in terror and despair. They sought to escape the territories of Greater Ultramar, now firmly held in the iron grip of Man, searching for a sanctuary far from these terrifying creatures where they could lick their wounds and calculate their losses—wondering if they would ever dare another incursion.
Lift your head.
The sky is golden.
Beyond the clouds lies a vast radiance. It is not the sunrise, nor the sunset, nor the steadfast star at the heart of Ultramar. It is not the Astronomican guiding Navigators through the Empyrean.
It is a fleet without end. Light cast from hulls kilometers long illuminates the heavens, the cities nestled in the mountains of Macragge, the distant worlds of the sub-sector, and the ecliptic of a thousand stars.
Some would see this as the light of the Emperor, but the truth is simpler.
It is a direction. A path that once supported Humanity's march to the stars, now returned.
"VICTORY!"
"VICTORY!"
On the Feast of the Emperor's Ascension, on the marble thoroughfares stretching a hundred kilometers before the Fortress of Hera, a grand triumph was underway. Banners hung from the upper atmosphere, and the populace cheered until their throats were raw.
A great victory had concluded; a host of heroes had returned.
Monuments rose in the city squares—magnificent mausoleums for the fallen and the great. Every tomb bore a chronicle of merit; every grave of the Nameless Dead was marked by a lone pillar and an eternal flame.
Whether high-born or nameless, their stories would endure. Their archives were cataloged and recorded, ensuring that the generations raised in this newfound stability would find inspiration to follow in their footsteps.
The immortal entities of the Warp had begun to fall, while the mortal dead became eternal.
The cheering was a tsunami, a surging tide of genuine fervor.
The Astra Militarum, the Astartes, the Titan Legions, the Imperial Navy...
Those who had achieved great deeds marched solemnly along the avenue toward the heart of the celebration.
They were to be honored under the gaze of billions. Their sacrifices were to be validated.
By the hand of a Primarch.
"This is not the end."
The Lion's hand brushed his cloak under the scrutiny of quintillions of eyes.
The Defender of Greater Ultramar, the Destroyer of the Death Guard, the First-Returned Son, the Emperor's Champion of the Dark Angels—Lion El'Jonson gazed at the medal pinned to his surcoat.
The Lion looked at the emblem: a centerpiece of royal blue, framed by engravings blending Calibanite tradition with the iconic sword-and-shield of the First Legion, protecting the heart of Ultramar. It was a masterpiece of design. He thought of the "absurdities" they had once caused in this realm.
When Guilliman finally woke, the Lion intended to flaunt this achievement before "Old Thirteen" with full honors.
He found himself quite fond of the unique, almost intimate title Ramesses used for him.
The Lion's beard twitched with a slight smile; a look of noble pride returned to his face.
Elder Brother... yes, that has a good ring to it.
"As long as you can back it up, I have no objection," Arthur said, welcoming the sentiment.
Arthur faced the military organizations assembled before him.
For individuals meeting the criteria for reward, grades were determined by their deeds and influence. For collectives, honorary titles were bestowed based on the nature of their service.
Combined with propaganda and the strategic allocation of military resources, the standards set by the Dawnbreakers were being implemented across the entire Imperium. Honor was no longer a cheap currency, nor was it a private game played only within the Astartes Chapters.
Though they knew they could not satisfy everyone, they had unified the vast majority.
Arthur looked with earnest intent at these warriors, unified under one banner to fight for Mankind.
And then, there were those who worked in the shadows.
The scientists, the administrators, the laborers... these members, whose brilliance was not of the battlefield, stood at the other end of the plaza, receiving their honors from Romulus and Karna.
Though the state of the galaxy forced the Dawnbreakers into a "military-first" strategy, they did not forget those who pumped the lifeblood into the Imperium's war-hammer.
Before Karna, a labor representative chosen from the Five Hundred Worlds looked at the Angel with trembling excitement.
"My Lord, thank you for bringing me here," she said.
She was incoherent. Unlike the nobles accustomed to such ceremonies, she could only muster those simple words.
Karna smiled and nodded.
"Thank you for allowing more of my warriors to enjoy the joy of victory here."
He looked at her.
Her body, worn by years of high-intensity labor, looked frail and thin. The magnificent robes draped over her could not hide her exhaustion, yet they only served to highlight her resilience.
Her eyes were bright.
She took a breath, as if the medals and sashes were heavier than the documents and machinery she usually handled. Her head turned slowly, taking in the scenery.
"What do you plan to do now?" Karna asked, as if chatting with a common companion.
"The same as you, My Lord," she replied. "I will return to my home. Like everyone else, I will continue to struggle... and to live."
She gazed into the Angel's face.
"And to believe," she added, a heartfelt smile breaking across her face.
That smile was more powerful than the rest of her frame. It was a flash of the young woman she had been—daughter, wife, mother—speaking of the strength hidden within her soul.
It was a light from elsewhere—the power of understanding, acceptance, and resistance.
A power they would all need.
Saint Celestine witnessed it all.
She hovered beside Inquisitor Aglaia Hesiod, who was busy recording the events. She saw the pride and confidence of the Dark Angels, the Blood Angels moving through the crowd to maintain order, and the Ultramarines' Chief Librarian, Tigurius, looking proud under Romulus's commendation—as if his exhaustion had vanished in an instant.
Facing this great victory that had nothing to do with her personally, she smiled from her heart.
She was so grateful to the Emperor she could have wept.
If three consecutive deaths had bought this sight, then every cruel transit through the Warp was a blessing.
The cheering continued.
Unlike the military glory of Cadia, this was a festival for the people. They surrounded the magnificent Titans and the solemn armies, shouting the names of the Primarchs, of Ultramar, of the Astra Militarum and the Astartes Legions.
Clank.
Power-armored boots tread upon the red carpet.
As the sun reached its zenith, its light falling directly before the open gates of the Fortress of Hera, the giants gathered.
The cheering reached its crescendo.
The vox-casters ceased announcing names of worship and shifted to ancient, stirring music. Countless Macraggeans looked toward the gates plated in gold by the sunlight.
They were so full of expectation they even tolerated the presence of the Eldar.
For deep within the Fortress of Hera, a miracle was unfolding.
The Primarch Roboute Guilliman, the Gene-father preserved in honor by the Ultramarines within a stasis field, had been released from his shackles.
Chapter Master Calgar, the Firstborn Captain Thiel, the Leader of the Victrix Guard Drakus, and the inner circle of the Ultramarines watched with bated breath as their Sire's face emerged from the freeze of time.
Today, the leader who had fallen ten millennia ago—who had protected them in another form throughout the long dark—would finally stand again, truly, at the side of his sons.
At the moment of transition, a bead of blood trickled from the giant's neck.
Nearby, Belisarius Cawl—his soul integrated with the help of Ramesses, his physical form restored—immediately guided the Armor of Fate into place, equipping it onto the Primarch.
Calgar, having handed over the opening ceremony to Tigurius and rushed to his Sire's presence amidst a string of apologies, stared wide-eyed at Ramesses, who was presiding over the ritual.
Trazyn the Infinite, currently recording the event, adjusted his lens to move Calgar's comical expression out of the frame, while deploying a secondary camera from beneath his robes to record it for his private collection.
"Your turn," Ramesses said, looking at Yvraine.
The Eldar Emissary of the God of Death had donned a formal outfit from the era of the Eldar Empire. She stood at the opposite end of the ritual ground.
having never been hardened in the "melting pot" of Commorragh, she looked decidedly nervous under the gaze of so many legendary powerhouses, her high ponytail quivering slightly.
Inhale.
Under the gaze of the assembly, she turned her back to her kin, acting as the leader representing all Eldar. She walked toward Guilliman with a gait that defied criticism, raised the Crone Sword, and touched it to the wound on the blue giant's neck.
Her task was simple: slice the wound, killing Guilliman before the poison of Slaanesh could. Ramesses had handled the rest. The Armor of Fate, a suit of plate endowed with special meaning through ten thousand years of human conviction, would act as the beacon to guide his soul back.
Ramesses struck his staff against the floor.
Time accelerated in a blur.
As the Crone Sword exited the other side of the Lord of Ultramar's neck, the throat that had been tortured by the Dark Prince's toxin for ten millennia was as smooth and unblemished as new.
"Sigh..."
A sigh, loud enough for every soul to hear, drifted through the chamber.
Hummmm—
The machinery engaged. With the whine of servo-motors, the Armor of Fate powered up.
Every person present locked their gaze onto the blue giant rising from the throne.
Roboute Guilliman, the Thirteenth Son of the Emperor, Ruler of Ultramar, Regent of the Imperium, rose in the magnificent new plate Belisarius had carried from the forges of Mars.
A savage fury flickered in the Primarch's eyes—the raw intensity of his final moments facing a fallen brother. It was a gaze so fierce that even his most loyal retainers dared not meet it.
The sanctuary felt as if a spell had been cast upon it. Though the cheers of Ultramar could be heard outside, the hall was silent save for the echoes from the world beyond.
Everyone present witnessed the rebirth of a legend with heartfelt awe.
Until a question, filled with confusion, broke the silence.
"Father?"
The fire in his eyes receded, his pupils dilating as he looked at the scholar standing by the throne—the one who had orchestrated his resurrection.
His gaze flicked to Thiel, to Drakus, to Cawl, to the strange sons and xenos he did not recognize, before snapping back to Ramesses.
Silence reigned.
"..."
Ramesses had always felt the face he had "sculpted" for himself was a bit too authoritative.
"Cut that part out," Ramesses muttered to Trazyn, keeping a straight face and trying not to laugh. He was relieved they weren't broadcasting this live.
Trazyn nodded with satisfaction, making an 'OK' gesture.
Guilliman found the anomaly within that brief interlude.
He looked up, seeing Thiel standing nearby. He saw the glint of tears in the captain's eyes and the mist of suppressed emotion in his breath.
This was not the afterlife.
Even though he had just woken, his Primarch-tier mind discarded all impossibilities.
Guilliman observed the familiar Fortress of Hera. He remembered the duel with Fulgrim. Thiel had arrived with a host of sons, sacrificing who-knew-how-many to drag him from the abyss.
He remembered the corpse of Drakus falling in the chaos, and the drowning sensation as his consciousness dissolved.
He recalled the regret and bitterness of that moment. He had so much left to do. Even if his brothers remained, he dared not place more weight on Dorn's failing heart, nor did he trust Russ's administrative skills, let alone the Khan's sense of permanence.
If only Corax were here—he had the capacity. Or Vulkan; that gentle, responsible brother would have held the line.
Guilliman instinctively began to analyze the situation, attempting to reconstruct the state of the Imperium from the available data.
He didn't know how long he had slept.
Ten years? Twenty?
He looked at Thiel again, then cast an apologetic glance at Drakus, and finally at Cawl—who looked much the same as he remembered—calculating the dates.
But then there were the strange faces. Sons he did not know who clearly held high rank. Eldar xenos in his court—traditionally the enemies of Ultramar. Strange heraldry. The attire of the mortals...
The Primarch's thoughts whirled with lightning speed, though he maintained a mask of absolute majesty to those watching.
And—
"Who are you?"
Guilliman kept his face neutral, looking up and trying not to rely solely on experience to analyze the face before him.
"My name is Ramesses."
Ramesses didn't play around. He established a link with Guilliman and sent a mental "data-packet."
"..."
An awkward silence hung between them for a second.
Right. This one is a psychic-null.
Ramesses' hand turned, a book manifesting within it. He presented it to Guilliman.
Guilliman stepped down from the throne, approaching the other side, and took the tome. He reviewed it with a furrowed brow.
It contained the details of his resurrection, the current state of Ultramar, the identities of the four members of the Dawnbreakers, and an explanation for why Eldar were present in his court.
The information was precise and concise, stripping away the abstract. The ripples in his heart began to steady.
A victory celebration. Appropriate.
A ritual to unify with the Eldar. Using my presence to anchor the alliance and minimize Imperial resistance.
Appropriate.
When his eyes fell on the opening of the Webway and the various technological advancements, Guilliman nodded in approval.
He cast a casual glance at the "primary contributor" to his rebirth. Yvraine, with her Eldar sensitivity, felt the weight of that scrutiny. The young Eldar maintained a rigid, flat expression.
Hm. It seems these new... 'Brothers' have considered this carefully. Such a young representative is indeed easier to work with, and easier to influence.
Guilliman offered a silent validation. As the primary beneficiary of this resurrection, he would naturally have to preside over the integration of the species. A controllable partner was a political asset.
Then, his eyes fell on the date.
Ten thousand years.
Lady Euten. Father. Brothers...
And the Imperium.
Countless names and images flashed through his mind. A storm of thought churned in his soul.
The Primarch's gaze remained calm, utilizing his vast political talent to shield his internal shock.
"I wish to see," he said, addressing Ramesses.
Everyone knew what he meant.
"Of course. It was all prepared for you."
Ramesses smiled and raised a hand.
"After you."
Guilliman nodded. Waiting for Ramesses to step up, he walked briskly toward the doors where the sunlight poured in.
It was a day to be remembered. All Macragge, all Ultramar, would etch it into their souls.
Guilliman, clad in the Armor of Fate, strode like a god forged of gold and azure through the Gate of Victory. He reached the high platform prepared for him.
He maintained protocol, standing level with Ramesses. Behind him stood Calgar and the Chapter Masters of the gathered forces—each representing a different Chapter, all of them his scions.
HORN-BLAST!
The sound of a great trumpet rolled across the city.
As the music faded, it was replaced by an ancient, booming melody. The clear notes of the Aquila Ascendant rose into the summer sky, resonating with the war-horns of the Titan Legions.
Guilliman drew back the curtain.
First to meet his eyes were the magnificent war engines. They stood around the military plaza and lined the colonnades of the hundred-kilometer avenue.
A line of Titans that seemed to have no end, including Emperor-class behemoths.
Guilliman believed it: this was a force that could only be forged by the combined might of the Five Hundred Worlds.
Flower petals and cheers, carried by the wind, reached his ears. The air was thick with the scent of triumph. The scene was so familiar, yet even for him, it felt impossibly distant.
It was the glory of the days before the Heresy, when brothers fought side by side for the sake of the galaxy.
Guilliman allowed himself a smile, directed at his sons and the countless Imperial citizens waiting below.
He met their eyes, one by one, reading the emotions within.
He began to believe Ramesses' explanation, and a sense of profound relief filled his heart.
They had waited for this moment for so long, yet it was not a wait born of desperate struggle or long, agonizing delay.
It was a joy from the heart.
Joy that the true ruler of Ultramar had returned. Joy that they could present their Primarch with a magnificent victory upon his awakening.
He looked around once more. Those standing below were his sons, his subjects.
As far as his eye could see—from the heavens to the earth—it was all his domain.
The Five Hundred Worlds. Imperium Secundus.
The past had become memory. Now, ten thousand years later, this was still his little empire.
Guilliman's gaze swept over every detail.
He saw it.
He saw all of it.
He saw the Dark Angels—those noble, cold knights maintaining a formation that still made him a little jealous. He saw the Blood Angels—valiant, approachable warriors standing among the people, even more integrated than they had been ten millennia ago.
He saw his own Legion. The vast ranks of the Ultramarines, their Chapter heraldry proud, displaying the majesty of the Masters of Ultramar.
He saw the troublesome Lion, leaning on his blade, looking up at him, standing side-by-side with another knight.
He saw, at the convergence of a billion gazes, on a platform with the sea of people and the sky as a backdrop, a blue giant of equal stature gripping the Angel's hand, shouting "Victory" to the masses of Greater Ultramar.
"..."
Surprise, joy, apprehension, peace, apprehension, joy—
The cycle of emotion was like a winding mountain path, returning at last to the start.
Guilliman turned. He did not know what words could describe the sight.
It was so familiar it felt as if he were standing in a parallel reality.
He turned, maintaining his royal majesty, and looked at Thiel—his most favored son. His calm face showed a rare trace of bewilderment.
"How long have I truly slept?" he asked, confirming once more.
"Ten thousand years, My Lord," Thiel replied, struggling to suppress a grin, his voice solemn.
"Ten thousand years."
The heroes were still here. The cheers were still here. The glory was still here.
Facing the sunlight, pushed by the shockwaves of sound, a colorful petal drifted down and landed on the shoulder of the Thirteenth Primarch.
Then, it was swept away by the next wave of sound, tossed from the cradle of a human embrace.
Humanity was still here!
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