Chapter 472: What Do You Mean, "The Unremembered Empire" Is a History Textbook?
"By the stars of Macragge—"
Inside the Primarch's Sanctum, within the Hall of the Holy Eucharist, Guilliman's exclamation echoed through the high vaults.
He released his grip on Ramesses' shoulder.
It wasn't that he had given up on silencing his brother's troublesome tongue, but rather that a book far more threatening than any spoken word had appeared in his hand.
Guilliman clutched the tome Ramesses had handed him: A Brief History of the Second Empire: Chronicle of the Unremembered Realm (High-Chancellor's Authorized Edition). He was forced to abandon every shred of the dignity and composure expected of a political animal. His face was a mask of pure disbelief.
"What do you mean, the Second Empire has been written into the history textbooks?"
He had only skimmed the table of contents, yet the records within were terrifyingly detailed.
His heart skipped a beat.
As survivors of that era, the Lion and Guilliman—having been enlightened by the cryptic warnings of Konrad Curze—possessed the clearest understanding of the Horus Heresy's trajectory, second only to the Great Angel himself.
Consequently, they understood the world-shaking weight of "Imperium Secundus."
Sanguinius had rushed to Terra, fighting until his last breath and taking the secret to his grave. He hadn't dared mention it to Dorn or anyone else in his final moments. And these two—the Lion and the Regent—who had effectively spent the latter half of the Heresy treading water, were even more terrified of speaking its name.
Given the dire state of the Imperium back then, and the grim, vengeful sorrow of Rogal Dorn and the other defenders, the exposure of a "Second Empire" would have ignited an immediate Imperial civil war.
So, what was the status of this secret now?
Guilliman's eyes snapped to the cover.
At this moment, he prayed his brothers were merely playing a cruel joke. Judging by their reactions, they held no prejudice against the concept of the Second Empire; if they had, they wouldn't be speaking of it with such casual ease.
His gaze flicked to the back of the book. He noticed a specific serial number and a data-cipher—standard markings of a mass-produced text. There was no sign of forgery. The numbers were assigned with bureaucratic indifference.
It looked like it had been pulled randomly from a vast logistical archive.
No!!!
The realization that this was an authorized educational text made Guilliman feel that his ambitious political career, ten thousand years in the making, had ended before it even began.
Why? Why has it come to this? For the first time, I have brothers who trust me... brothers who could be friends for an eternity. We are of one mind, ruling the Imperium of Man together. Two joys have overlapped...
These two joys should have brought me even greater happiness. I should have been looking at a future as bright as a dream...
But why... why is it like this?
The roller coaster of life was moving too fast.
Guilliman held his head in his hands.
He dared not imagine how the systems outside Ultramar—those populated by those who held a fanatical, narrow faith in the Emperor—would view him now. He would be painted as a monster of limitless ambition. The beautiful future he had promised his brothers to build would turn into a disaster because of his very presence.
And his other loyalist brothers... what would they think?
Yes, that's the look!
The Lion watched Guilliman's breakdown, his grin nearly reaching his ears beneath his beard.
The look of a man realizing his greatest sin has been publicized, read by billions, and having no idea how to face the light.
From the Lion's perspective, the public execution of his own pride on Caliban had happened ten thousand years ago. The repeated "interrogations" from the Emperor's psyche during his long slumber had effectively numbed him. The whispers of his sons no longer held any sting.
You cannot threaten a man who is already invincible in his own disgrace.
However, resentment still lingered.
The Lion could not strike out at the brothers who had saved him from a destined death, but he took immense pleasure in seeing Guilliman, who now shared his "ICU ward," suffer a similar fate.
But unlike the Lion, who had chosen violence and madness to shroud his secrets, the logically trained Guilliman quickly extracted himself from his mental catastrophe.
Roboute Guilliman showed no aggression. Instead, he sat back in his chair.
He looked up at the Great Icon of the Emperor hanging in the center of the hall.
In that silence, he affirmed his loyalty. He acknowledged the absurdity of the era. He accepted that he had made the wrong choice at the wrong time, and that Imperium Secundus was, indeed, a disastrous concept.
Finally, with a sigh of release, he let the mask of the Indomitable Regent slip. He allowed himself a moment of sorrow, of trauma, and of bitterness.
Fine. So my dark history is exposed. So the difficulty of reintegrating into Imperial politics has shifted to 'Infernus' grade. So I can never look my other brothers in the eye again.
It doesn't matter!
If his brothers had woken him, returned his power, and held this gathering of harmony before the formal council, then their view of him was clearly positive.
The fire of hope surged within the Primarch. Even the thickest darkness and suffering could not extinguish the light in his heart—certainly not now.
"Hope remains," Guilliman whispered, a self-soothing mantra.
He regained his composure and looked apologetically at the laughing group.
The Lion was a lost cause, acting as if the secret were nothing. Even the somber Corax, seeing Guilliman's loss of face, allowed a rare smile to touch his lips.
This surprised Guilliman. Through his Primarch-tier perception of emotion, he could detect no malicious mockery—only the teasing of a sibling.
Then, he saw the second book in Ramesses' hand: A Brief History of the Second Empire: Chronicle of the Emperor's Enfeoffment of the Primarchs (Citizens' General Education Edition).
He had only noticed the "Unremembered" version before.
Guilliman snatched the book and flipped through it.
This edition focused heavily on the Emperor's "attitude" toward the decision during the 30th Millennium.
It validated the actions of the three Primarchs—stating that after being deceived by Chaos into believing the Imperium had fallen, they had moved to unify the remaining human forces on the other side of the galaxy. It highlighted their decisiveness in dissolving the regime the moment they learned the Emperor survived, proving they had no lust for power. It spoke of how Guilliman and the others had handled the aftermath with propriety, ensuring it did not destabilize the post-Heresy era.
Macragge even possessed a "Warrant of Authority" supposedly signed by the Emperor Himself. The document was written in the Emperor's own blood; anyone who witnessed it would find their doubts evaporated by the sheer psychic weight of the decree.
This is a complete fabrication, Guilliman judged instantly.
Since when did Father have this much emotional intelligence?
If the Emperor were capable of such diplomatic maneuvering, half the internal conflicts of the Imperium wouldn't exist. He wouldn't have needed to raze the Perfect City of Monarchia to the ground.
He looked at Ramesses.
Even in a brief glance, he saw the difference between the "General Education" and "Authorized" versions.
In the educational system established by the Dawnbreakers, the General Education version was for the masses and the youth, while the Authorized version was for professional scholars and high-level administrators.
Guilliman realized his worries were largely redundant. The number of people who believed the Second Empire was an authorized Imperial mandate far exceeded those who knew the messy truth.
Guilliman didn't believe for a second that Sanguinius, the Lion, or Curze had the capacity to settle this matter so cleanly.
"Did you... arrange this?"
Looking into Ramesses' smiling eyes, Guilliman's suspicion deepened.
He had found the thread.
He suspected this entire gathering was a "setup" designed specifically to mock him. Yet, through his conversations with his sons and Imperial officials, he knew these new brothers were masters of statecraft.
They knew how to walk the "Forbidden Path." Someone like the Lion only knew how to kill.
"Why look at me? Those are the Emperor's words, unedited and unchanged. We just... issued the stamps a little late," Ramesses replied.
Although he could relay the Emperor's "decrees" at any time, Ramesses was more interested in passing the buck than looking for trouble.
Well, technically, I say it and the Emperor follows along.
Thinking of the Emperor's current state—senile, fragmented, a psychic mess of warring personalities—Ramesses felt a phantom toothache.
But the words came from the Emperor's mouth. That was the legal reality.
The priority now was to get Guilliman to take the burden.
"I understand."
Knowing his brothers had already handled the political fallout, Guilliman's heart steadied.
But the thought of them using it to bait him, to watch him squirm—
Guilliman's face went flat again.
With a subtle resentment, he forced himself to remain stoic and began reading the materials in earnest, seeking the unvarnished reality of the 41st Millennium from a Primarch's perspective.
The Dawnbreakers didn't stop there. Now that the mood was set, they began sliding more documents toward him—materials about the Imperium before their arrival that made the Regent's soul ache.
Blind faith. Ignorance. Suffering. Decay.
The Imperium was a rotting corpse, where a bewildered humanity committed atrocities in the name of a God. Toxic fumes and rotting flesh tormented everyone, inside and out.
Though he remained outwardly calm, every word hit Guilliman like a macro-cannon shell to the heart. He projected himself into the data; the confusion and terror were enough to choke a Primarch. The grief was unbearable.
A surging fury rose in the Lord of Ultramar. He clenched his fists, imagining himself alone, smashing the furniture and tearing the banners like a wild beast in his rage at what had become of his Father's dream.
And he realized the Dawnbreakers didn't have the luxury of a loyal realm like Ultramar when they started. At the beginning, they hadn't even manifested their Primarch traits.
He read the chronicle of the Dawnbreakers' journey: starting from the Pielde Sector, the entire Dawnstar Crusade, the battle of wits against "heroes" and enemies alike. He saw them reclaiming control of the Astartes, purging the Tyranids that had nearly swallowed half of Ultramar.
He saw the negotiations with the High Lords, the founding of the Dawnstar Sector in the face of near-universal Imperial resistance, the establishment of the Five Great Special Zones, and the breaking of the shackles on the Imperial military. He saw the initial reforms of the Ecclesiarchy.
Then came the Battle of Cadia, the slaying of Perturabo, the restructuring of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the use of war to achieve political ends. He saw the Dawnstar Sector taking direct control of node-planets, the construction of the new Eye of Terror defense grid, and the neutralization of Mechanicus influence to secure human logistical supremacy.
And finally, to the present: facing the host of a Warp God with unstoppable force and achieving a strategic victory. In a galaxy consumed by fire, they finally held the scales of fate.
They had codified the chaotic history, ensured every loyalist had a place of honor, forced the radicalized collective mind back into a rational orbit, and scrubbed away the catastrophic influences that had festered since the end of the Primarch era.
By the Throne of Macragge—
Why are infant corpses flying in the air?
Looking at the detailed visual records—the state of the Ecclesiarchy before the reforms—Guilliman covered his face with one hand. He could barely stand the sight of "Holy Oil," and a low groan escaped him, his armor vibrating with the sound.
To think that if he had woken up without them, this is what he would have faced...
No. Impossible. I have brothers now!
"My apologies," Guilliman said sincerely to the four Dawnbreakers. The resentment in his heart had vanished completely.
Even if there were four Primarchs ruling the Imperium before he fell, his sense of duty wouldn't let him shift the blame. It was his failure.
Perhaps he was too eager for atonement, or perhaps it was the arrogance of "Theoreticals and Practicals," but regardless of the excuse, Guilliman had committed a massive strategic error of judgment. His fall had dealt the Imperium its heaviest blow since the Heresy.
He could not, and would not, deny it.
Let them laugh. If a little mockery is the price of brotherhood restored, they can laugh until the end of time.
If only his conflict with Lorgar could have been resolved with such sibling grace.
"It's fine. Now we can all 'savor' the mess together," Romulus said, smiling broadly.
It wasn't just that he had successfully passed the buck; Guilliman's proactive attitude toward the crisis had infected him as well.
This was something a transmigrator from the same world couldn't provide.
He looked around.
Counting the Dawnbreakers, there were now seven entities capable of shouldering the weight of the galaxy. From the Empyrean to the material world, from the ruling class to the laborers in the fields, the destiny of Man was being altered by the unified effort of these seven.
Wasn't this why we've been shoveling filth for so long?
Everything was finally moving in the right direction. The lost Primarchs were reclaiming their burdens. They, the "Outsiders," were no longer alone against the world.
The power of like-minded companions was infinite.
Aside from his partners, if it weren't for people like Commissar Alexei, Colonel Kovek, Arabella, Aglaia, High Marshal Helbrecht, and the countless humans who chose to fight for their own salvation, the Dawnbreakers wouldn't have made it this far.
"Yes!" Guilliman responded firmly.
The Dawnbreakers' approach felt like a drowning man pulling others into the water, but he didn't mind.
He thanked them.
They had enabled him to fulfill his responsibility.
He extended a palm toward the sunlight. Through the translucent skin, the network of veins was clear.
The Armor of Fate, having saved his life, was now just a suit of plate. The Imperium's current technology was more than capable of mending a Primarch's flesh.
Guilliman found the angle of the sun. Through the reinforced viewport, from this high peak in the Macragge mountains, he watched the construction teams. People were working with feverish intensity, producing and building. The Ultramarines—the scions under Calgar's lead—stood watch on the walls with pride.
They were children of this dark age. Before the Primarchs returned, they had seen nothing but hardship, misery, and endless war.
Despite this, they fought on. They survived in this galaxy in their own way, ensuring their blood continued to flow through their descendants, fearless despite the enemies surrounding them.
Guilliman was fortunate to have been born in a better age, a golden era filled with hope and victory.
Seeing this, what right did he have to wallow in self-pity?
Faced with these companions who were born in darkness yet whose courage remained undimmed—faced with these successors who showed such resilience amidst suffering—it would be the height of indulgence and selfishness for him to show weakness or evade his duty.
Guilliman had seen the infinite potential of humanity. Now, he knew that with the help of these brothers who felt like kin from the first meeting, the soil that had been rotten for ten thousand years because of him was bearing fruit.
It convinced him that a more glorious tomorrow was possible. Humanity could be reborn in fire.
But—
Humanity was surrounded by enemies, within and without.
The Emperor had proven one thing: as long as the foes who brought pain and torture to Mankind still ravaged the stars and peered from the Warp at every tempting prey, no matter how beautiful the current view, it was destined to be a fleeting dream.
They had to be broken.
"All these tragedies."
The table had been cleared. The silent knight, Arthur, stood up.
Guilliman was struck by Arthur's presence. The knight had maintained a gentle indifference until now.
But at this moment, he felt like a blade capable of piercing and severing anything.
"This suffering and pain is not the destiny of Man. Humanity has done nothing wrong. The culprits are the traitors who abandoned their race, and the gods who indulge in their own whims—"
Arthur paused, his hand pressing down on the galactic star map revealed on the table as the food was cleared.
The stars were brilliant.
The galaxy was vast enough to imprison a billion lives on the soil beneath their feet for a lifetime.
Yet it was so small that the fires of war, ignited by desire, ideals, and reality, left no room for peace.
"It has been far too long. Chaos and its spawn have toyed with human destiny at will. We will not allow it to continue."
The Knight raised his sword.
Every face in the room turned solemn. They all rose.
Guilliman watched the majestic knight and stood as well. Even the Burning Angel, usually preoccupied with the beauty of a meal, wiped his mouth and stood tall.
The peaceful banquet was over. The Lord of Ultramar had seen the face of the galaxy.
Now—
"Let us do what we are best at."
Slay the xenos. Eradicate Chaos.
Destroy worlds. Save the galaxy.
The blade bit into the table, piercing the center of the galaxy—a region mapped in grand scale, now engulfed in endless war.
The Maelstrom. The Unbroken Wall.
"Let us tell them who is the master of this galaxy!"
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