Solar Segmentum, Terra.
Terra is a planet that is excessively urbanized.
This was no joke, but a cold, hard fact.
The teleportation through the Eternity Gate involved almost no transition. One moment, they were in the chamber of the Unity on Macragge, staring at the green-glowing arch and walking into it one by one; the next second, their surroundings had completely shifted.
Guilliman and his retinue now found themselves inside a vessel orbiting Terra's near-ground level. Judging by the Aquila emblems on the bulkheads and the decoration style—so austere it bordered on harsh—this clearly belonged to the Adeptus Custodes. To avoid being too shocking and to reflect a reasonable arrival process, and to maintain basic respect for the Imperial Palace, they had not set the wormhole's exit directly inside the Palace walls.
The group boarded a prepared landing craft, detaching from the silent Custodian vessel. They dove toward the colossus below, cutting through a void adorned with the trails of countless aircraft like a brilliant tapestry.
A multitude of scenes flowed past the observation windows. In space, the sheer volume of traffic was suffocating. Ships of various sizes and shapes moved slowly along designated lanes, like cells crawling through veins. Among them were Imperial Navy warships, Chartist vessels, Inquisitorial Black Ships, and Arbites tax collection cutters.
However, all of these paled in comparison to the gargantuan object floating in a higher orbit—the space fortress that resembled a moving mountain range and radiated ancient majesty: the legend of the Imperial Fists Chapter, the Phalanx. It hung there silently, the most steadfast sentry of the Throne World.
As the landing craft entered the atmosphere, the form of Terra magnified rapidly in their vision. It did not feel like approaching a planet, but rather closing in on a bloated giant made of metal. The once-blue oceans had dried up in the distant past. As far as the eye could see to the horizon, there was nothing but layers upon layers of urban structures climbing to impossible heights. The surfaces of these mega-structures were awash with floods of artificial light so intense they pierced through the sickly atmosphere thick with pollutants.
Like homing worker bees, the landing craft glided through the gaps in the steel forest along a special lane cleared by supreme clearance. Finally, it descended slowly, merging into the shadows of a building complex composed of towering Gothic spires.
Outside the Imperial Palace, the Eternity Wall.
The roar of the engines faded into a low, subtle hum. The hatch pushed open slowly under hydraulic pressure. It was not natural sunlight that poured in.
Roboute Guilliman stepped out in silence. He was greeted by a sea of humanity.
Gathered in the vast plaza were dignitaries dressed in the most ornate attire of various Imperial departments. There were Ecarchy priests in gold robes, cold-faced Inquisitors, Administratum bureaucrats, and Arbites officials. There were also numerous representatives of the nobility, their colorful clothing clashing sharply against the somber background. Countless servo-skulls and recording servitors hovered in the air, their lenses aimed at this spot, recording every moment of this holy return.
When the blue giant, clad in master-crafted power armor and far exceeding normal human size, appeared at the hatch, the noisy waves of sound fell silent for a moment before erupting into an even more fanatical clamor. Like a wave sweeping through, the crowd—regardless of status—scrambled to bow, with many prostrating themselves directly on the ground. Hymns, prayers, excited shouts, and weeping mixed together into a suffocating torrent of fervor.
Guilliman's brow twitched imperceptibly. This scene, bordering on god-worship, was a far cry from the more rational era of the Imperium in his memories.
But Guilliman was Guilliman. He adjusted himself quickly, nodding slightly to the crowd and raising his arm in greeting with impeccable dignity. This gesture triggered another, even more violent wave of sound.
Adam, disguised as an ordinary attendant in unremarkable clothing, stood quietly a short distance behind and to the side of Guilliman, a faint smile on his face. A subtle voice, audible only to Guilliman, sounded directly in his ear:
"Welcome to the highest city in the galaxy. How does it feel, Lord Regent?"
Doesn't it look beautiful?
Guilliman maintained his posture of greeting the crowd, his lips unmoving as he spoke in a voice barely audible.
"Terra... how did it become like this?"
The home world in his memories was nothing like this. What lay before him was difficult to describe. Perhaps only pushing Gothic grandeur to a grotesque extreme, combined with the endless stacking of theological symbols, could form this terrifying and horrific "aesthetic."
What especially made Guilliman's eye twitch were the "little things" floating slowly across the sky: servo-constructs known as "Cherubs." They were shaped like twisted infants, with wings woven from feathers and cables, floating and circling expressionlessly in the low sky, constantly scattering white petals from their arms onto the path Guilliman was about to walk.
Was this... also designed by humans?
"I actually think these things look alright," Adam's voice sounded again, his tone carrying a hint of appreciation.
Guilliman's body stiffened for half a second; fortunately, he quickly masked this slight loss of composure. He could barely maintain a steady voice.
"What do you mean by that?"
He had thought Adam was one of the few "comrades" in this mad age who could understand, or even miss, the rational light of the Great Crusade era.
Adam's explanation came quickly.
"Don't misunderstand. My point is, the 'taste' of these things is much more sophisticated than that of certain Nälkan cultists I've seen who worship Yaldabaoth. At least the raw materials are synthetic hybrids grown in biochemical labs, rather than actual living infants."
"Yaldabaoth? Nälkan? What are those? Names of some Chaos entities? A new title for one of the Four?" Guilliman's alertness spiked instantly. As a Primarch, he was extremely sensitive to the names of any unrecorded Warp entities.
"Oh, it's none of those. Never mind, forget what I just said. Ignore it. They're not in this universe." Adam quickly ended the topic.
Just then, Adam's footsteps paused slightly.
"It seems we have guests."
Almost at the same time he sent the transmission, a slight commotion occurred at the front of the crowd. A figure suddenly broke free from the bowing masses, stumbling forward a few steps before snapping his head up to block the path of Guilliman's procession.
It was a middle-aged male wearing over-decorated ceremonial robes adorned with chalice-shaped crystal pendants and vibrant feathers from unknown blue birds. His face was twisted with excitement, his eyes wide, the light reflecting in his pupils making them appear unnaturally bright—even weirdly fanatical.
The man shouted in a raspy voice, his gaze locked onto Guilliman:
"Welcome! Great Son of the Emperor! Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion! Lord of Ultramar! Lord Roboute Guilliman!"
His tone rose sharply.
"But—tell us—"
"In these long ten thousand years of your slumber, during the dark years when the Imperium most needed a Son of the Emperor to stand forth, where exactly were you?!"