40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 612 129. Interlude: Those Who Willingly Die

"You have no right to do that," said Roboute Guilliman.

“I have,” said Roboute Guilliman.

The Guilliman who expressed his opinion, the one who said, 'You have no right to do this,' had shining blond hair and fair skin. He had a broad chin and a high nose, and even though his facial features were wrinkled, it did not affect his marble-like handsomeness.

The other person was different. His difference did not even require describing his appearance. One could distinguish him from the previous Robert Guilliman just by listening to the voice when he spoke.

His voice was low and hoarse, in stark contrast to the young man's high and energetic voice, but despite this, their voices actually sounded very similar.

Therefore, if the conversation between these two people was recorded and played to someone who had never seen them, that person would most likely conclude that this was a father teaching his son a lesson.

The white-haired Robert Guilliman began to repeat himself.

"I have." He sat behind his desk, staring coldly at the young man. "If I don't allow you, then you won't be able to do anything on the Macragge's Glory or any of the ships in the Combined Fleet."

The young man's eyebrows immediately frowned unbearably, angry at the deliberate arrogance in his words, but soon calmed down.

For a moment, he even looked a little embarrassed and at a loss, but he still tried hard to get rid of this emotion and continued to speak out his ideas.

"Battle report——"

He raised his right hand and pointed to a stack of datapads to the right of his desk.

"Yes, reports," Guilliman interrupted. "I know what you mean: Five Hundred Worlds are about to be hit hard, and hit hard from within, but you are not the only one who can draw conclusions from them, and neither am I."

"My captains, my staff, and everyone working on the main bridge can see it. We discussed this matter long before you arrived, and we are determined to resolve it in the normal way."

His white eyes, which were almost extinguished by the quiet conversation, lit up again at this moment. He began to emphasize slowly and speak very slowly.

"If there is a rebellion, we will solve the rebellion. If there is a demon invasion, we will solve the demon invasion. If it is caused by aliens, then we will kill all the aliens who dare to invade Ultramar."

"You can't possibly make it in time!"

Hearing this, the young man suddenly swung his outstretched arm in anger, as if he was holding a sword. His cheeks turned red and he even began to stutter a little.

"You, you can't - you can't do this! Time is more important than anything else in war, and it is directly related to whether information can be trusted! If you follow your strategy, how long will it take to resolve these wars that are happening at the same time? How many people will die for this?"

Guilliman looked at him, and for a few seconds lost the desire to speak, not because of the younger man's tone, but because of a peculiar emotion that did not seem to belong to him.

That emotion is called nostalgia.

They are so similar. He almost sighed as he thought about it.

How could they be so similar? They were almost exactly like me when I was young, debating with those stubborn elders in the Senate, at the university, at the door of the library.
It took me a long time to overcome the defects caused by this nervousness.

No one is born an orator, is that right, Father?

He raised his eyes slightly and looked at the two portraits hanging above the large bookcase not far away. His fists on the table suddenly loosened, and then he smiled.

"So what do you plan to do?" Guilliman asked, sounding a little surprised. "We just met a day and a half ago, and you're already offering me advice. Well, young man, what kind of advice? What do you plan to do?"

"Are you willing to listen?" The young man looked at him suspiciously.

"Of course, why not?" Guilliman said with a smile, then nodded, stood up from behind his desk, put his hands behind his back and walked to a porthole.

He deliberately left it to the young man to sort out the words, because he knew he would do so. He knew him.

Guilliman couldn't help but snicker.

Yes, he knew him, just like he knew this study or Macragge. How well did he know him? Let's put it this way, behind him, there was a sofa and a not-so-big coffee table.

A hundred centuries ago, his brother Angron had read a novel here, the theme of which was a retired soldier with serious sequelae and his miserable post-war life.

The book came from Macragge and was called "The Way of Maximus". The protagonist of the book was called Maximus, who lived in a fictional country that was about 80% similar to Macragge.

He was a common soldier, retired in the days of flintlock muskets, and suffered from bullying. He died in the streets, fighting his imaginary enemies, and then drowned in a stinking ditch due to drunkenness, falling, and his inconvenient leg.

This book comes from a scathing literary critic who wrote it at a time when Macragge was being heavily recruited by the Ultramarines Legion.

Guilliman knew what he was trying to say, and so, despite the outrage of many officers in the army, he did not punish the man, but allowed him to write this book - and the many that followed.

The only thing he did was to let him on board, turning him into a special military chronicler, allowing him to see the war of the Ultramarines with his own eyes.

Thirteen years later, the man announced that he would no longer write any more books and publicly apologized to Robouti Guilliman himself and the Ultramarines Legion.

He said he was sorry that he had been so dull and that it had taken him so long to realize the truth.

He also said that he now knew that the fundamental purpose of the army joined by the children taken away from Macragge was not the "invasion" described again and again in his books, but real help.

Faced with readers who still didn't believe it, he self-deprecatingly explained the reason: Could it be that the invaders would spend huge amounts of effort on post-disaster reconstruction after the war, leaving behind advanced technology, a complete social system and welfare system to allow people to live a better life, and then just leave?
"Are you okay?" A voice suddenly sounded behind him.

"Why do you ask?" Guilliman asked without turning his head.

The young man didn't answer, so he turned around and saw a face with tightly pursed lips, looking a little uneasy.

Just a little bit, Guilliman smiled again - this is a very dangerous thing for a politician like him. He can fake a smile, but he can never show his true feelings so easily in front of another person, even if that person
"Son or father." Connor Guilliman once solemnly warned him.

Roboute Guilliman sighed.

"Go ahead," he advised. "It's no big deal, even if you think this plan is terrible."

Then the young man began to speak.

"I have a way to solve this problem once and for all. You just mentioned demons or aliens, but you know that the wars on those worlds were not caused by either of them."

"And neither are their causes."

A trace of shame flashed across the young man's face, but he still insisted on continuing to speak.

"I don't want to tell you the reason, but please look at me." He took a step forward and stood in front of Guilliman. He was much shorter than him, like a growing teenager - of course, based on their body sizes, this teenager's standard was probably enough to defeat the adults in 99% of the world.

He raised his head, looked into Guilliman's eyes filled with white light, and continued speaking.

"Let's not talk about my looks or my body shape, but the way I think is the real dangerous thing. The way I see things, the way I talk, and the way I think about them are not much different from you. At least not much different from you when you were young."

"Why do you think so?" Guilliman asked calmly.

He got a smile, a smile that was a little tired and a little proud.

"It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, it's kind of unbelievable to say, but I..."

The young man lowered his head in thought for a moment, then raised it again. In his eyes, which had become almost light blue due to the light, there was a brilliance that Guilliman had long lost that was flickering.

"I am you." He finally said it firmly. "At least part of you. And those who started the war, they would never talk to you like I do."

Guilliman nodded without objection.

"So if you are going to fight this war in the normal way, you will be facing hundreds and thousands of enemies who think the way you do, act the way you do, and commit blood debts in your name."

"Each of them will have an army, because they are you, a crueler version of you. And you don't have to think about how to plan a war. So, I can easily conclude that if you follow your method, you can't win."

Guilliman nodded again.

"That's true," he replied quietly. "But when you think about these things, have you ever considered another thing, that the army I have is not made up of ordinary people?"

The young man nodded with a painful expression.

"I have considered it," he whispered. "But, believe me, an Astartes is nothing compared to a creature like me."

"A creature like you?"

The young man was silent for a few seconds, his throat rolled, and he answered with difficulty: "Yes, a creature like me, or a monster that craves flesh and blood."

Guilliman looked at him expressionlessly.

"I have an appetite for people, you know? But I never do it, but when that craving comes, there's always a voice in my mind telling me that if I do it, I'll get--"

"Extra power."

Guilliman responded calmly, gazing with satisfaction into the young man's suddenly widened eyes.

"I know more about this than you do. From my experience, they probably have a weird recipe—"

"--we," the young man interrupted stubbornly, probably imitating him.

"I'm one of them," he said. "You can't ignore it. I'm one of the monsters."

Guilliman narrowed his eyes.

"them."

"us."

"They!" Guilliman suddenly roared. "You are not a monster!"

In the young man's astonishment, he resolutely waved his right hand and said, "Now listen to me, their recipes contain a lot of things, which may involve the power of the warp, so we must prepare for the worst."

"That is, they can consume the flesh of the Astartes and acquire my genes, and become more like me - more like me in every way."

He lowered his voice, took a deep breath, concealed his emotions, then raised his right hand and gestured: "This is what I want to add, you can continue."

".Therefore, your army is very likely unable to defeat them." The young man quickly came to a conclusion.

It was only then that Robouti Guilliman realised that he had seemingly just helped the other side defeat him in debate.

A kind of seemingly false annoyance flashed through his heart, but it did not really spread. He pretended to ponder for a while, then simply acknowledged the young man's victory.

The latter responded with a cautiousness mixed with simple joy, which was only for a moment, but Guilliman still caught it.

The young man then began to talk about his solution.

He first mentioned the help of Yago Sevitarion, and then a word that obviously should not appear in his cognition, "psychic power", he highlighted it and continued to talk about a discovery they made during their journey to reunite with the combined fleet.

It was just a daily checkup from Sevatar, the First Son of the Night would use psychic power to probe his mind. However, on that day, for some unknown reason, Sevatar discovered a hidden "interface" deep in his mind.

After a series of investigations, they finally confirmed that this was an interface that could be used to see other 'Robert Guilliman', a small door connected to some kind of unknown mental network.

"But I'm the only one who can go in. Anyway, I tried to talk to a few of them." The young man said with a complicated expression. "They all did something that can never be forgiven, but they are still not satisfied and are still craving for more."

"Moreover, they know about this interface. They have even begun discussing using this interface to form alliances with each other, transfer information, and fight against you in war."

"So?" Roboute Guilliman asked, frowning.

"So I can kill them, one by one. In that place where I arrived through the interface, they are all spirits. I have already asked Captain Yago Sevitarion about this matter, and he used his psychic power to confirm the truth of this matter."

"Do you understand? I can find each of them through this so-called interface. Regardless of whether they have psychic powers or not, this interface exists in their brains, just like me. I can prevent this disaster without bloodshed!"

For several minutes thereafter, Robouti Guilliman remained silent. He was thinking, it was obvious. But, with his mind, he was perfectly capable of doing two things at once, and he did not. He remained silent.

If the array of thinkers on his desk had not suddenly issued a harsh reminder, he would probably have continued to maintain this silence.

"Primarch, we have received a signal from Lord Sanguinius!"

Guilliman's head snapped up.

(End of this chapter)