Right at this moment, on the far side of the galaxy.
Macragge.
Lion El'Jonson stood high upon the dais, gazing down at the military formation so immense it nearly overflowed his field of vision.
This was Macragge's First Plaza.
This grand architectural wonder, witness to countless honors and triumphs, was currently filled with the multi-colored armors of various Space Marines, resembling a silent ocean of ceramite and steel.
War banners snapped and rustled in the wind, each embroidered with the heraldry of a different Chapter. The formation stretched all the way to the horizon, so vast that even the borders of the plaza itself could no longer contain this magnificent power.
People cheered, wave after wave of sound washing over like an unending tide.
They had poured in from every corner of the Five Hundred Worlds, crowding every street and climbing every rooftop, all just to catch a glimpse of the legendary First Primarch.
The Lion observed it all in silence.
He saw their faces.
The faces of the Macragge citizens radiated genuine, unadulterated elation.
These people were not bowing out of fear, nor were they screaming themselves hoarse out of blind religious fanaticism.
They were simply happy—happy because yet another Primarch had returned to the Imperium of Man, and because the world they inhabited was growing visibly better by the day.
The Imperial military had secured victory after victory. Through Guilliman's exquisite calculations and logistical mastery, the Administratum had successfully driven the production, logistics, and defense networks of the Five Hundred Worlds to unprecedented levels of efficiency.
Present-day Ultramar was far more prosperous and stable than even those worlds in the Segmentum Solar adjacent to Terra itself.
This was Guilliman's achievement.
The Lion acknowledged it quietly in his heart. Even with his many grievances against his brother, this achievement left him with nothing to criticize.
"So, I still have one question," the Lion finally spoke, his voice deep and measured.
"Why Macragge?"
Standing beside him, Adam turned his head and blinked.
"Isn't that obvious?"
Adam's tone carried a natural sense of surprise, as if he had been asked a question with a self-evident answer.
"Where else would you host the feast? Your Caliban was blown into floating debris—completely gone for good. As for Baal, you know full well it's essentially a barren wasteland; even with recent ecological work, there's hardly any life to speak of. And Ferrus's Medusa is a dead world among dead worlds—those clans struggle just to survive on the surface, let alone host a banqueting event."
Adam paused, spreading his hands open as if stating a plain, undeniable truth.
"Looking at all your brothers' homeworlds, Guilliman's Macragge is truly the only suitable place to host this celebration."
He added casually, "As for Terra... this is supposed to be a private gathering among you Primarchs. You're probably not planning on meeting your Father just yet, are you?"
The Lion remained silent.
He had to admit that this logic was entirely airtight.
Yet he still felt a subtle sensation of discomfort.
This discomfort didn't stem from Adam—it came from Roboute Guilliman himself, who was currently standing on the other side of the dais, gazing down at the parade formation in his impeccable posture as Lord Regent of the Imperium.
The Master of the Ultramarines maintained his signature stern and solemn expression, yet the Lion could tell that his brother's frame was tensing up by near-imperceptible degrees.
Guilliman was nervous.
Honestly, such nervousness was absurdly out of character.
Then again...
In this very same place on Macragge, facing a gathering of multiple Primarchs once more, memories of the Imperium Secundus during the Heresy were likely still vivid in his mind.
Given Guilliman's personality, this restless unease was actually remarkably genuine.
Furthermore, as someone who had also opened his eyes to find himself ten thousand years in the future, that history was just as clear to the Lion.
He was a little nervous himself.
At this thought, the Lion cast a subtle glance out of the corner of his eye toward Adam.
'This fellow... sounds like he was the one who decided on Macragge as the host location. Does he know something?'
In the Lion's observation, Adam's face remained completely composed, even bearing a hint of leisurely enjoyment, as if watching a good show unfold.
Alright then.
The Lion let out a quiet sigh in his heart, finally accepting it all.
It seemed this guy had zero intention of putting on an act.
He definitely knew everything!
"Then, what about my brothers?"
The Lion raised his head, looking across to the other side of the plaza with a touch of confusion.
And at that exact moment, a voice reached his ears.
"I have arrived, my brother."
The Lion's body stiffened abruptly.
He turned around at a speed so hasty it surprised even himself, catching sight of the figure walking slowly toward him.
A head of brilliant, radiant golden hair; snow-white wings folded gracefully against his back; clad in ornate golden power armor; a face so flawless it resembled a deity.
And those eyes...
Without a shadow of a doubt.
"Long time no see, Sanguinius."
The Lion's features softened instantly.
That kind of gentleness was exceedingly rare for him.
The Lion of Caliban had spent virtually his entire life fighting. His face was long accustomed to majesty and coldness, accustomed to burying all emotion in the deepest recesses of his soul.
Yet in this instant, those layered plates of emotional armor suddenly shattered into pieces.
All this time, Lion El'Jonson had been tormented endlessly by a single question:
'If I had made a different decision back then—if I hadn't gone to destroy the homeworlds of the traitor Primarchs and instead marched my fleet straight to Terra—would everything have turned out differently?'
'Would Sanguinius have survived?'
That question had haunted him for a very, very long time.
And now, the Lion was at peace.
"I am sorry, my brother. I failed to save you."
The Lion stepped forward, reaching out with both hands.
Sanguinius offered a warm smile.
"It matters not. It was never your fault."
And then, they embraced tightly.
At that moment, the wave of cheers erupting beneath the dais nearly tore the sky asunder. Under the watchful eyes of countless Ultramarines, Blood Angels, Iron Hands, Dark Angels, and mortals from all across the Five Hundred Worlds, the two Primarchs held each other tight.
A regret ten thousand years in the making vanished right then and there.
Adam leaned against the railing at the edge of the platform, watching this scene with the corners of his mouth curling upward slightly.
Certain things were indeed painfully unforgettable because beautiful treasures had been silently destroyed, leaving behind an empty void in the hearts of those left behind that could never be filled.
And he strongly detested such outcomes.
Fortunately, he possessed the power to do something about it.
With reality-warping abilities, the boundaries of what he could achieve were infinite!
However, Adam's train of thought was quickly interrupted by another voice.
"Question: what on Earth are you three hiding from me?"
A third voice echoed.
Ferrus Manus strode over from the far side of the dais, his face as stern and cold as ever, looking like an unfeeling machine of iron.
He furrowed his brows tightly, his gaze sweeping first over Sanguinius and the Lion—who had just broken their embrace—before landing on Guilliman nearby, whose expression had suddenly turned subtle.
"It's bizarre. Whenever I bring up the history of that era in front of Guilliman, he always acts strangely as well. What exactly happened back then?"
Having died far too early, Ferrus was completely in the dark about the whole matter.
All mysterious and secretive.
'What kind of little secret are you all keeping?'
Silence.
Sanguinius and the Lion shifted their gazes elsewhere almost simultaneously.
Guilliman, meanwhile, straightened his posture with a swiftness rarely seen, as if he had suddenly received a critically urgent military dispatch.
"Well... you see..."
"Next time. I'll definitely tell you next time."
Even as sly as Sanguinius could be, he didn't have the heart to spell out that absurdly dark piece of history directly in front of Ferrus.
After all, the Lion had merely served as the Protector and Warmaster of Imperium Secundus... whereas he himself had been elected as its Emperor.
If he actually said it out loud, the way Ferrus would look at him would be completely ruined.
Standing near them, Adam was practically holding back from bursting into laughter, maintaining his composure with immense difficulty.
'No... can't laugh.'
'Absolutely must not laugh.'
The humor of this situation lay precisely in the fact that it had to remain a secret. If he spoiled it now, he'd never get to witness this kind of amusement ever again.
"It's nothing, don't mind it. Just minor details," Adam held it in and spoke casually, gesturing toward the direction of Macragge's Senate Chamber.
"Though, we can head inside now. Guilliman must be eager to actually sit down and talk with you all."
"...That is indeed true," the Lion nodded slowly, his tone laced with a slight grit of his teeth.
"Can't keep my good brother waiting."
He stepped forward.
The group passed through the passage behind the dais, walking down the long corridor draped in azure carpeting toward the Macragge Senate Chamber.
Heavy doors opened slowly before them, revealing the opulent hall within.
The long stone table was already laden with an array of dishes—delicacies meticulously prepared by top chefs gathered from systems across the Five Hundred Worlds, emitting tempting aromas beneath the chandelier lights.
The towering domed ceiling was painted with the glorious battle records of the Ultramarines, while silent, solemn Astartes stood at attention beside the flanking pillars.
Ultramarines, Iron Hands, Dark Angels, and Blood Angels.
They stood side by side, bearing witness to this historic moment.
Guilliman stood before the head of the long table, receiving his returning brothers with the grandest ceremony.
And the moment Lion El'Jonson crossed into the hall, their eyes locked.
It was difficult to put the Lion's inner thoughts into words at that moment.
As two of the loyalist Primarchs with the deepest ties during the Heresy, the "double act" he and Guilliman had put on together during those days in Ultramar was a chapter steeped in heavy black humor.
And now—especially after waking up to find his beloved First Legion split into countless scattered successor Chapters by Guilliman's own hand—the Lion felt particularly annoyed.
With so many grudges, rivalries, and complex emotions accumulated over time, the things that needed saying and shouldn't be said between them were too vast to know where to begin.
Yet in the end, the Lion abandoned the idea of bringing up old accounts.
He felt that he truly was old now—no longer as hot-headed as in his youth, nor as easily provoked.
The Lion merely let out a heavy sigh, then strode toward Guilliman.
Guilliman's reaction was almost dramatic. Watching the Lion close in on him, his shoulders twitched unnaturally, a posture that looked as if he were calculating whether his brother was going to throw a punch straight at his face.
Of course, none of that happened.
In the next second, the Lion opened his arms and embraced him tightly.
Under the watchful eyes of all the Astartes warriors present, two Primarchs—sons of the Emperor—expressed their brotherhood in the most direct manner possible.
"It has been ten thousand years. It is good to see you again, my brother," the Lion lowered his voice, speaking near Guilliman's ear.
"Likewise," Guilliman replied softly, letting out a sigh. "...Though your transformation is truly hard to believe. You've aged so much—it caught me completely off guard."
The Lion's expression froze slightly.
To be honest, he didn't feel much of a personal connection to that sentiment.
In the original timeline, after awakening, the Lion had fought relentlessly across a decaying Imperium, witnessing countless worlds in Imperium Nihilus corroded by traitors.
Yet now, the Imperium of Man was thriving, the future looking bright and promising.
Even brothers who had passed away had conquered death one after another, returning to the Imperium.
And as for those who were missing, there was no need to say more.
Lion El'Jonson firmly believed that one day, all the loyalist Primarchs would gather once again, raising their glasses together in toast.
That day would surely come.
Thus, he ultimately just let out a cold hum, though his tone carried no real anger.
"For now, I won't settle the score with you over breaking up my Legion."
And with that, the two let go.
The feast began.
Just like ten thousand years ago.
Just like during the Great Crusade when everything was progressing in full swing, the Primarchs drank to their hearts' content.
Sanguinius raised his goblet with effortless grace, taking delicate sips of the blood-wine brought from Baal, a gentle smile lingering on his lips.
Ferrus Manus, on the other hand, looked nothing like a guest at a brotherly feast—he sat there with his back straight as an arrow, as if commanding a battle campaign.
Yet even upon his iron-hard, indestructible features, a very faint yet genuine smile surfaced.
Guilliman and the Lion were actually the two who let loose the most.
They passed food back and forth, filled each other's cups, and spoke loudly of the past and the future.
Those embarrassing chapters of black history and those ridiculous stories that took too long to explain now became the finest talk over wine.
From an Imperial Army commander whose name was forgotten during the Great Crusade, to the various shifts in the galactic landscape ten thousand years later, their conversation leaped across topics without hesitation, holding nothing back.
They spoke of humanity, spoke of the Emperor, and spoke of that brilliant, shining future.
And in a corner of the banquet hall, Adam leaned against a pillar with arms crossed, watching it all with a gentle smile.
Then, as if sensing something, he slowly raised his gaze to look up at the giant icon mounted at the highest point of the hall.
The statue of the Emperor stood at the boundary between light and shadow, its stone features as majestic and silent as they had been ten thousand years ago.
Yet right at this moment, illuminated by the hall's festive lights, amidst that clamor filled with laughter and joy—the corners of the statue's mouth seemed to carry the faint trace of a smile.
This scene...
So brilliant, so glorious.
Just like the name of that flagship carrying countless dreams back in the era of the Great Crusade:
'Imperator Somnium.'