The silence in the strategium was absolute, heavier than the gravity of a dying star. The name Roboute Guilliman had been spoken, and in that name, the entire political landscape of the galaxy had been redrawn. Kael stood trembling, the data-slate shaking in his hand. Captain Arken, for the first time, looked uncertain, his hand resting on his hammer as if seeking comfort in its familiar weight.
Canoness Celestine's expression, however, was one of pure, ecstatic vindication. "The Avenging Son," she breathed, her voice filled with a reverence that bordered on tears. "The son of the Emperor himself comes. He comes to bear witness to the new Saint. Our faith is rewarded!"
Lord Inquisitor Varrus closed his ancient eyes for a long moment, processing the catastrophic derailment of his carefully laid plans. The secret was not just out; it had reached the very throne of the Imperium. His quiet, controlled investigation was over.
Rimuru, observing the powerful, conflicting emotions in the room, was the only one with a question. "I'm sorry," he said, his polite tone a jarring note in the heavy silence. "But who is Roboute Guilliman?"
Every Imperial in the room stared at him as if he had just asked who the sun was.
It was Varrus who answered, his voice a low, grim history lesson. "Roboute Guilliman is a Primarch. One of the twenty demigod sons, created by the Emperor's own hand to be the generals of his Great Crusade ten thousand years ago."
"He was the master of the Ultramarines, the most noble and strategic of all the Astartes Legions," Kael added, his voice regaining some of its scholarly composure. "He was a statesman, a builder of empires, a tactical genius without peer. He was struck down by a daemon prince after the Horus Heresy and was believed dead for ten millennia, preserved in a stasis field at the moment of his passing."
"But he has returned," Varrus finished, his eyes boring into Rimuru. "Through a miracle of xenos science and Imperial faith, he was revived. He now walks the galaxy once more as the Lord Commander of all the Imperium's armies and the acting regent for the enthroned Emperor. For all intents and purposes, King Rimuru, he is the Imperium."
Rimuru processed this. A ten-thousand-year-old, genetically engineered demigod son of the local god who was now the acting ruler of a million worlds.
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So, instead of dealing with the department heads, I get to talk to the CEO, Rimuru thought. This is an opportunity.
"I will meet with him," Rimuru announced, his decision firm.
The next month on Ryza was a period of frantic, controlled chaos. The entire forge world was transformed.
The Adeptus Mechanicus, under the zealous direction of Archmagos Valerius, went into overdrive. Knowing a Primarch was coming to inspect the "Emissary's" holy work, they labored with a religious fervor that bordered on madness. The Titan-forge cathedral rang with twenty-four-hour litanies as they worked to integrate the heretical but brilliant Necron science into the Phase-Resonant Array.
Canoness Celestine and her Sisters of Battle turned Ryza into a shrine world. They organized mass prayers, consecrated manufactorums, and preached to the tech-priests about the coming of the Saint and the Son. Her 'Pilgrimage Fleet' became a de facto honor guard, their silver-and-white ships a constant, watchful presence in orbit.
Lord Inquisitor Varrus played the game of shadows. He recalled his entire fleet, forming a grim, black cordon of his own. He and Kael worked tirelessly, compiling every scrap of data on Rimuru into a comprehensive report for the Primarch, framing the narrative to present their 'asset' as a stable, powerful, and potentially controllable ally.
The Ryza system became the temporary center of the Imperium. Astartes cruisers from a dozen chapters, Rogue Trader vessels, and Navy battle groups arrived, drawn by the impossible rumors, all held at a respectful distance by the combined authority of the Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy.
Finally, the day came.
An alarm chimed through the Obelisk, a soft, respectful tone. "My Lord," the bridge officer announced, his voice trembling. "The advance ships of Lord Guilliman's fleet have translated from the Warp. The flagship, Macragge's Honour, is five hours out."
Rimuru, Varrus, and Celestine stood together on the bridge of the Obelisk, watching the main viewscreen. The first of the Ultramarine vessels appeared, not with the violence of a Chaos fleet or the silence of the Eldar, but with the perfect, disciplined precision of a striking sword. They were ships of royal blue and gold, paragons of naval architecture, each one a testament to ten thousand years of unbroken honor. And they were just the vanguard. Behind them, the colossal, majestic form of the Macragge's Honour, a Gloriana-class battleship and the Primarch's personal flagship, began to emerge from the tearing fabric of reality. The scale of the approaching fleet was that of a conquering crusade.
Varrus stood beside Rimuru, his ancient face an unreadable mask, though his hands were clenched tightly behind his back.
"The son of the Emperor has arrived," the Inquisitor Lord said, his voice a low, tense murmur. "The future of this galaxy, and your own journey, will be decided by the words you speak in the next few hours." He turned to look at the calm, silver-haired king beside him.
"Do not fail us."