Datch thought the Emperor would leap up like a rice ball, but he waited a long time and nothing happened. It was merely an illusion of light and shadow, not something that truly occurred.
"I thought he would come back to life!"
Datch grumbled inwardly.
Guilliman's face was solemn, and the light in his eyes was utterly different from Datch's. In his vision, there were no corpses—only a golden sun, indescribable, atop the pyramid. Its heat made his soul shudder. Within the outpouring light, countless shattered phantoms flashed by.
Guilliman caught a glimpse of a king, crowned with laurels, sitting on a throne deep in thought and infinite power. The next instant, the scene shifted to a man with a tired face and eyes as deep as an ancient well. The man's lips moved, as if whispering desperate, dark truths. The vision then changed again—a knight in armor, spear in hand, charging at an ancient dragon.
Countless faces, identities, and possibilities swirled violently in the consciousness of Guilliman's body, like sand paintings scattered by the wind. Guilliman tried to discern the truth. But all these illusions felt so real—yet were nothing more than bubbles. He couldn't tell them apart, couldn't distinguish reality from illusion!
"Father…"
Guilliman's voice was confused. "I'm back."
As if replying to this call, the broken body on the throne faintly rippled back into view. The next moment, a voice echoed directly in both Datch and Guilliman's minds. The sound was unparalleled—like billions of prayers converging, layered with an ancient will about to flicker out. It was fractured, with cracks and whispers between the words, yet carried an absolute authority and a suffocating sense of exhaustion and urgency.
"My son, Primarch Thirteen, Lord of Ultramar, last hope of the Imperium. Don't fail—don't let those relying on you down. Beware… the saboteurs. Defeat them… shameful traitors. Be wary of chaos; don't forget, Roboute Guilliman."
Datch listened quietly, a huge question mark rising in his heart. Wasn't the Emperor speaking clearly? Wasn't someone helping him reach out, or relay messages to Lord Terra? Guilliman, standing next to Datch, frowned, his face drained by unbearable pain. Unlike Datch, what he heard weren't coherent words, but countless broken phrases and shards of emotion flooding desperately into his mind. Each word was like a red-hot soldering iron, ramming terrifying quantities of information and unimaginable emotional impact into his brain—enough to drive any ordinary human instantly mad.
"My son."
"Thirteen."
"Lord of Ultramar."
"Savior."
"Hope."
"Failure."
"Disappointment."
"Liar."
"Thief."
"Traitor."
"Guilliman."
"…"
The voice inflicted indescribable pain on Guilliman. His true body seemed to hear everything, yet it was as if nothing at all. The Emperor spoke, but said nothing. Roboute Guilliman… It wasn't a single voice, but countless voices—calling his name, giving irresistible yet contradictory commands. They begged him to save and destroy all they'd built together, to save and kill his brothers. At the same time, bizarre fragments of future hallucinations flooded into the Primarch's mind, making him ever more confused about what he should or shouldn't do.
"Father??"
Guilliman's face twisted in agony.
Datch couldn't sense any of this, nor understand why Guilliman suffered so. The Emperor wasn't even speaking out loud!
"Roboute Guilliman, listen well. You are the first son I will return, but not the last. Find a way to bring your brothers back. You must convince them."
"The galaxy is no longer a single realm; east and west are divided. The light of the Astronomican can't reach the far side. If we don't reunite, humanity is finished."
"Also—you must understand your power. Every name has meaning."
"Roboute Guilliman and the Son of Vengeance aren't just titles; they contain your essential power. Master it, and you can fight your rebelling brothers."
"You were never just a number, a tool, a product—you are the vessel of humanity's hope, the true Primogenitor, the savior, the mightiest warrior of mankind against the gods."
Datch listened in delight. He wanted to see how the Emperor would trick Old Thirteen, and would have swapped melon seeds for the show. But Guilliman felt as if his whole brain had been tossed into a blender—countless illusions and word fragments battering him.
"Son."
"Not my son."
"Only one."
"Name."
"No name."
"Number, tool, broken…"
Information—vast, unending—poured into Guilliman's mind. Stars, galaxies, the oldest and most terrifying races in the universe—these messages gnawed at his body and mind like a storm carving canyons through wasteland, making him plead:
"Pleaser…"
The Emperor spoke again, his voice resounding in Guilliman's heart.
"As a father, I feel guilt. But Guilliman, you must hurry. When the Great Rift occurred, ambitious ones strove to become gods. If new Chaos gods arise and they win, humanity will perish."
"We have no choice—it is our fate. Soon, the final war will erupt, and all that's past will be gone. If we win, humanity can rebuild. If we fail, only slow decay and eternal drowning in a hopeless universe await."
Guilliman tried desperately to understand, but could only pick out a few ominous words from the torrent of illusions and speech:
"Father."
"Become a god."
"Victory."
"Failure."
"Fate."
"Future."
"Past."
"Resurrection, despair, decay…"
As Guilliman's consciousness verged on collapse, a will of unimaginable might struggled to condense in the endless chaos and pain. As this happened, ancient machines let out wailing, overloading roars. Connected to the life-support capsule beneath the throne, the psykers used as fuel suddenly writhed in pain, as if their souls were being flayed alive. The Custodian legions standing watch at the Golden Throne trembled in fear and heard nothing, but alarms blared from the machinery. Tech-priests rushed in response, checking the Golden Throne's systems with various instruments.
And still, the Emperor's dialogue with his son continued. Countless voices—machine wails, psyker screams, billions of prayers, and the ancient will itself—all overlapped.
At the peak of this chaos, the shattered visions in Guilliman's mind suddenly resolved into a face. It was the face he'd called "father" so many times.
"Roboute Guilliman, time is short. The final moment approaches. You must prepare everything for it."
"Listen well. You are my greatest son, my most loyal, my greatest pride—and your return is my greatest victory in ten thousand years."
"You're my best heir, the one best suited to save this endgame. I'm sorry for using you as a tool, but victory in the final battle is humanity's last hope."
"Take my sword. It's the weapon most feared by daemons in the entire galaxy. Even gods will fear it."
Guilliman didn't listen to the words—he only felt an immense, burning torrent of thought flow into his mind. In an instant, his senses vanished—sight, sound, even the passage of time, leaving only an overwhelming golden light.
Within that light, the kingly phantoms, withered corpse, and wise old man—all possible manifestations of the Emperor—flashed back and mixed rapidly. Sad fragments of his words echoed:
"Guilliman, listen."
"Last loyal son, pride, greatest victory."
"Last tool, last hope, last weapon…"
"…"
While Guilliman struggled to comprehend the Emperor's words, Datch heard a voice of his own:
"Nameless, mysterious traveler, please… There is no way for me to rise and greet you. The broken throne… It makes me more and more uncontrollable… The power of faith. Please…"
Here, the sound was clearly weak and broken—each word seeming to require unimaginable effort. Datch ignored the Emperor's words and glanced up to see a golden question mark floating above the corpse.
"Can I help you with anything?"
"I hope you can help Thirteen…"
"Skip, skip. Can I help you with anything?"
Datch shouted. Even if this was the Emperor, he didn't want to listen to endless plot dialogue. VR game storylines could be unbearably long—sometimes seven, eight, or even thirty minutes! At such times, who wouldn't want someone to just play the card for them?
"Can you help fix the Golden Throne?"
A task interface appeared:
[Mission: Repair the Golden Throne]
The Golden Throne is essentially a miraculous creation, capable of upgrading an individual, but due to Magnus's damage, it now requires fuel. After ten thousand years of operation, it can no longer function on fuel alone. The Emperor asks you to repair it, so he can continue his duties.
Mission Rewards: 5,000 experience, 5,000 points, Reputation +1,500, Emperor's Image Transformation Card ×10
...