Guilliman remained silent for a long time.
The air in the Throne Room seemed to congeal into a solid mass. Even the signal lights of the ceaseless administrative fleets appeared to slow down in his eyes.
Malcador's words were like a precise scalpel, dissecting the deepest thought in his heart that he had always been unwilling to face directly: *It was not that humanity couldn't do it, but that humanity itself was unwilling.*
"So we should just let this situation continue?" The eyes filled with logic turned stubborn; he was still willing to pursue change. "Because we feel they can't do it, we simply don't try? Just because we think humanity needs a leader, we remain that leader forever?"
"That is no justification! It is purely the self-serving perception of those in power," Guilliman declared, a rare trace of anger in his voice. "We make countless decisions for these people that they know nothing about. They sacrifice their lives for our every mistake, and they might suffer catastrophe over a lighthearted remark we utter. Humans aren't blind followers. They have the right to pull themselves up, rather than us sitting high above, aiding them with a charitable attitude. That is letting humanity suffer a slow death."
"This isn't about letting them be, Roboute," Malcador countered calmly. "This is recognizing reality. You can lead a horse to water and it will drink, but if you hand knowledge and systems to humanity, you cannot force them to think independently. Even in moments of life and death, their apathy and ignorance will not change. This isn't a condescending statement; history has played out this way since ancient times. People follow the crowd, crave leadership, and hide behind those who lead."
Malcador did not fight Guilliman's passion with anger, but used knowledge drawn from ancient texts and millennia of experience to state a cold reality. No one lost heart on day one—not the Emperor, not Ollanius Persson, nor Malcador. But the torrential tide of history was far too swift, grinding even those Perpetuals who began with grand ambitions into what they were now, leaving them with nothing but their original purpose.
"So we should just give up?" Guilliman asked.
"I am not saying we give up," the Emperor interjected. "You are measuring everyone by your own standards, my son. You are a Primarch, Roboute. From the moment of your birth, you were destined to be different from mortals. You can handle administrative work for years without rest, evaluate hundreds of strategic decisions simultaneously without confusion, and recall every word of every decree and every face you have ever seen. You must remember: these abilities were not earned through effort; they were yours at birth."
"You use these gifts to serve humanity, which is commendable," the Emperor continued. "But you cannot demand that mortals match you, even if you have relaxed your expectations. It isn't that they lack effort or knowledge—they simply lack the capacity, Roboute."
Guilliman's fist clenched tightly, then slowly uncurled. He knew the Emperor was right, and that was precisely what pained him. He had never chosen to be a Primarch, just as mortals never chose their origins. Blessed with talent far beyond ordinary men, he had forced a lofty vision onto these mortals.
"I understand your point, Father," Guilliman said softly. "But I do not believe lowering standards is the right path. Just because mortals cannot accomplish what Primarchs can doesn't mean we stop expecting them to reach the limit of mortal potential."
"No one is asking you to lower your standards, Roboute," Perturabo spoke up, leaning against a pillar in the Throne Room with arms crossed. "The Emperor and I locked down the Warp not to watch the Imperium stand still. We are also doing our best to advance technology. I don't deny that human self-reliance is important, but as you know, I dislike unnecessary trouble. Your idea won't work in practice, Roboute. If you don't enforce it by power, they will eventually overthrow that system themselves."
Guilliman frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that the system you want to build—one independent of us—are you helping humanity stand on its own, or are you just giving them a prettier crutch?"
The words struck like lightning, illuminating a blind spot in Guilliman's thoughts. He built systems, drafted laws, compiled codices, and trained officials. Was he teaching humanity to walk, or simply crafting a more sophisticated pair of crutches?
"So it's all the same in the end," Perturabo continued coldly. "As long as humanity improves, I don't care about the rest. That's why I share technology. I'm not afraid of them using it against me, nor am I afraid of what they might do under my watch. You worry too much, Roboute. You always think about eternity and continuous progress, but nothing is eternal. Never was."
"The ancient Old Ones perished, the Necrons slept, the C'tan were shattered, and the Aeldari are fading away. Nothing stays unchanged. We do our part, and we have pointed out the path for humanity's future. Whether they take it is up to them. We have already fulfilled our core mission, Roboute."
"The Webway is built, and the Warp is sealed," Perturabo added. "We could step back from the Necrons and Tyranids entirely—those are trials humanity must face on its own. You like order and efficiency, Roboute; you want to design a perfect upward curve. But human progress is never linear. It is chaotic, inefficient, and full of trial and error. If we followed the retirement plan the Emperor originally laid out for us, the moment humans realized we were gone, they wouldn't quietly improve themselves—they would trigger another civil war. Your conviction isn't wrong, but if you truly want humanity to stand up, you have to learn to let go."
Guilliman looked at Perturabo—the brother he once viewed as stubborn and abrasive, yet who stubbornly retained his own humanity and desire to bring hope to mankind.
Sitting back down, Guilliman picked up his long-cooled coffee. "So what is your suggestion? Do nothing and wait for humanity to figure it out on its own?"
"Why be so rigid? Why not do both?" Perturabo replied. "Build the system you want, but don't treat it as the absolute answer. Build academies, draft laws, and train officials—what we're already doing. But accept the reality that one day, someone will overthrow your codex, question your system, tear down our statues, and rebuild from scratch. What we truly need isn't a system we assume will guide humanity toward independence, but a safety net that ensures if order collapses, they can still find an old foundation to rebuild upon."
Guilliman didn't answer right away. He held the cold cup, gazing into the dark surface as if searching for an answer in his reflection.
He had always asked himself one question throughout centuries of war and endless paperwork: *What was the purpose of it all?*
The answer had never changed: *For humanity.*
"You're right, Warmaster," Guilliman finally said, his voice quiet yet carrying across the Throne Room. "I always thought about how to make humanity run, how to push them beyond their limits to reach what I believed they should achieve, so they could thrive long after we are gone." He paused with a self-deprecating smile. "But I never considered what happens when they fall. I worried about the Imperium's future and made contingencies for humanity's survival if we failed, but I never planned for how they would pick *themselves* up when they stumble."
"Human history is a series of stumbles," Malcador remarked. "Every dynasty on Terra believed it would last forever, and every generation thought it stood at the pinnacle of history. Then they fell. Yet humanity survived, enduring countless catastrophes. In dark hours like the Age of Strife, it was your Father who stepped forward. Humanity requires a guide in its darkest moments."
"I won't define all human history as a disaster needing a savior just because the Age of Strife existed," Guilliman replied.
Malcador fell silent, watching him quietly. "You already have your answer, Roboute. You are merely unsure if it is the right one."
"There are no absolute right answers," Perturabo said, walking over as his footsteps echoed in the vast hall. "Only whether we choose to act."
"Then we act—and we start immediately," Guilliman stated firmly.
He set down his cup, stood up, and walked to the center of the Throne Room. The Logic Engine projected a shimmering holographic map of the Imperium's territory, spinning slowly across five galaxies like a burning flame.
The Imperium had spent a thousand years crawling out from the ruins of the Age of Strife to become the dominant force in the galaxy once more. This was not the work of the Emperor alone, nor the Primarchs, nor the Astartes—it belonged to every laborer on the assembly line, every farmer in the fields, and every void-farer ready to lay down their life. The Imperium was built on the collective sacrifices of countless ordinary people.
"We will construct two systems," Guilliman declared, turning to face them.
"The first is what we are already doing: founding academies, cultivating talent, advancing technology, expanding our military, and protecting the Imperium from external threats. The goal of this system is to make humanity strong enough that no force can threaten its existence."
"The second is the safety net system."
"On every world in the Imperium, we will establish knowledge repositories. Not libraries or high-tech secret vaults, but simple, direct records: carved into stone, printed on paper, cast onto metal plates, and baked into ceramics. Methods that require no electricity, no networks, and no infrastructure to read, preserving the most vital knowledge of human civilization."
"Agriculture, metallurgy, medicine, architecture, mathematics, physics—from advanced theories to the most basic survival techniques—everything will be encoded and preserved to rebuild civilization should it ever collapse."
"We will bury this knowledge deep within every world, in places untouched by nuclear fire, uncorrupted by Warp storms, and unwashed by the flow of time."
Guilliman looked at his family. "It might sound idealistic, but isn't that our purpose? Not just leading humanity into the future, but ensuring they have a foundation to fall back on. If the future is unknown, then we must safeguard hope for whatever comes."