Gilgamesh's words cut off, and the entire battlefield instantly fell into dead silence. Only the roar of the starship's heavy artillery continued in the background, crashing against the nearly frozen, deathly air.
Just as everyone was still digesting this shocking declaration, Red A suddenly turned his head sideways, his gaze falling precisely on Shirou Emiya's hand. He was still holding the left arm that he had just cut off, still faintly warm.
Almost simultaneously, Shirou Emiya also subconsciously turned his head to meet his gaze, following the other's line of sight and realizing that from this moment on, he was holding someone else's severed arm.
The tense atmosphere of the battlefield a moment ago instantly shifted into an indescribable awkwardness.
"Uh... I'll give it back to you." Shirou Emiya hastily handed him the arm, looking embarrassed.
"Thanks." Red A quickly turned his head after taking the arm, his tone stiff, hiding a slight unnaturalness.
"You're welcome."
Facing the request of the genetic primarch, even Sigismund could not disagree with the other party, because even if they used a war of attrition, they had no chance of winning.
He himself was known as the strongest combatant under the primarch, as an Emperor's Champion who had served Rogal Dorn. He knew better than anyone the strength of a primarch, let alone Robert Kiliman.
Although the primarch he served, Rogal Dorn, was very dissatisfied with the other party, he was a Space Marine, the other party was a noble primarch, and even the Imperial Regent ten thousand years after his death. He didn't even know how to refuse.
The moment Sigismund stood frozen, caught in a dilemma, a psychic oracle spanning tens of thousands of years surged into the depths of his consciousness.
The will belonging to the Emperor of Mankind instantly calmed all his panic. His expression gradually eased, but it soon became even more complicated than before.
He took a deep breath, looked up at the genetic primarch before him, still kneeling, but his voice was unmistakably hesitant and strained:
"My lord... your subordinate has received an oracle from the great Emperor. The great Emperor said... In His name, I command you to immediately remove your armor and set down your sword. If you do not obey, please leave immediately."
Kiliman's brows instantly knitted into a knot. A cold displeasure instantly emanated from his body. He looked down at the Emperor's Champion he knew, his voice very low but with such pressure that it made one tremble:
"Sigismund, I thought I knew you well, but now I realize I was wrong. Why have you lost your edge and become so timid 30,000 years in the past? What happened to the pride and tenacity etched into your bones and blood? Are you going to break your oath?"
"Your subordinate would never dare!"
"Whatever the Lord of Humanity said, say it word for word. I am Robert Kiliman, genetic primarch of the 13th Astartes Legion, Imperial Regent, and commander of all Imperial forces. I am not a fragile object requiring your meticulous protection!"
Pierced by the words of the primarch, Sigismund lowered his head in shame, even his shoulders and back tensed. He always maintained the military salute posture—kneeling, his fist tightly clenched over the power armor on his chest, his voice full of shame, and he said in a deep voice:
"This is your subordinate's fault, Lord Kiliman. The great Emperor said, 'Since you want to help Alaya defeat me, Father, then take off all the swords and armor that Father gave you. Even if you want to fight me, don't lose your old man's face.'"
The moment Sigismund's words fell, Fujimaru Ritsuka and the others gasped simultaneously.
What did it mean to be tempered by battle? Who was the main Chaldean master? In the name of "Beast of Humanity (crossed out) Grumbling," she had never seen father-son discord or a family farce in Chaldea? In an instant, she accurately sensed the awkward relationship between Kiliman and the Emperor.
This was simply a rebellious son who had hit a dead end with his old father and was publicly shamed by his father! She instantly clenched her fists, and her heart was in her throat.
Oh no! This primarch wasn't going to blow his top on the spot, was he?!
Shirou Emiya sat off to the side, his eyes darting strangely between Kiliman's figure and Matou Sakura nearby, his face full of confusion: "Did I misunderstand something?"
Matou Shinji leaned over and whispered to him:
"He is really Locke's son? He and Sakura..."
Before Matou Shinji's words finished, Shirou Emiya immediately covered his mouth and, with cold sweat on his forehead, reminded him:
"I have a feeling that if you say the second half of that sentence, the two of us are going to die. I advise you not to say it."
Just as everyone's thoughts wandered 108,000 miles away, Kiliman in the center of the battlefield was completely stunned upon hearing these words.
The anger and pressure still lingering between his brows vanished without a trace in an instant, leaving only eyes full of disbelief. He looked down at the kneeling Sigismund, and even his voice tightened slightly, with a hint of numbness he didn't even notice, and he confirmed again:
"This is truly His word? Not a single word wrong?"
Sigismund instantly tensed up, his voice filled with agitation at the doubt of his loyalty, and he shouted loudly:
"Absolutely correct! Your subordinate swears on the honor of the Emperor's Champion that I would never dare to fabricate half of a sacred decree!"
How could Kiliman not know Sigismund's loyalty?
He just couldn't believe it, couldn't believe that he would hear such a sentence from the Emperor's mouth.
This tone did not belong to the one who intended to change everything in this era, nor did it belong to the God-Emperor who had guarded for ten thousand years, sitting on the Golden Throne, and had become the faith of trillions of subjects.
This sentence, full of the fireworks of life, filled with the ordinary closeness and awkwardness between father and son, was like a light suddenly piercing into his heart.
Kiliman stood there, stunned, overwhelmed. A long-lost touch in his chest and an inexplicable sourness instantly made his mood extremely complicated.
After waking from a 10,000-year sleep, he had dragged his broken body for too long, carrying a crumbling empire.
He had stitched together the torn galaxy, suppressed rebellious star fields, and gradually returned the fragments of the empire scattered after the Horus Heresy to their original outlines.
But when he finally stood before the Golden Throne and wanted to see the father he had followed all his life, only a heart-wrenching psychic roar surged into his mind.
He would forever remember the despair of that moment—the other's soul seemed torn into countless pieces by the shackles of ten thousand years. Countless voices thundered in his consciousness at the same time, fragmented malice and insults shattering his face, completely destroying all his tender expectations of a father-son reunion.
Liar.
Traitor.
Thief.
These words were like hot brands, searing his heart.
He had burned his life for his father's ideals and given everything to protect his empire, but in return, he received such condescending denial.
He had even prepared for the worst. Even if the other party directly possessed him, even if he wanted to completely oppose his father and have an hysterical argument, he had already thought of all the words.
He could not allow these bloody pasts to turn into meaningless pain. Everything he did was for the human empire and for their father and son, long separated.
But he never expected that after 30,000 years, he would only wait for a phrase "remove your armor and set down your sword," just an honest duel of honor?
Realizing that behind this might lie a hidden secret that he had never dared to hope for, Kiliman's heart seemed tightly gripped by a hand, his emotions extremely complicated.
A heart that had already grown cold uncontrollably surged with expectations that should no longer exist.
Behind this expectation lay a fear that penetrated deep into his bone marrow. He was afraid that this was just his own dream, afraid that it would become like the original, but it was just his own fantasies.
He closed his eyes, suppressed the surging emotions in his chest, looked at Sigismund again, his voice with a slight tremor he didn't even notice, and asked in a deep voice:
"Once I finish this duel, I will be able to see Him, right?"
Sigismund, caught off guard, could only nod desperately, not daring to speak again. Saying too much and thinking too much about some things would be blasphemous, disloyal behavior.
Receiving Sigismund's confirmation, Kiliman did not hesitate. He raised his hand and removed the Armor of Fate with his bare hands.
This suit of Armor of Fate, custom-made for him, had an extremely precise structure and originally required a specialized team of tech-marines cooperating with special equipment to complete the full loading and unloading process.
But at this moment, Kiliman relied on the terrifying brute force of the primarch to roughly tear apart the locks and interfaces of the armor. The piercing screech of metal friction sounded one after another. Nerve bundles and power lines embedded in the flesh were torn apart live. Many precision ports were directly ripped off. Crimson blood slowly flowed down his arms and torso through the cracks in the armor.
This almost self-destructive method of disassembly made Fujimaru Ritsuka and the others watching the battle gasp, their bodies filled with unbearable phantom pain.
But Kiliman looked as usual, as if he had just taken off an ordinary coat. He didn't even frown, leaving everyone in shock.
They couldn't help but think in their hearts: could this be... the kind of hero who would lead humanity to conquer the galaxy in the future?
When the entire suit of Armor of Fate was unloaded onto the ground, emitting a dull, heavy metallic sound, only combat shorts remained on Kiliman's body. His body, bearing millennia of battle, was fully revealed to all.
Intersecting scars crawled across his entire torso and limbs. Deep marks from sharp blades, penetrating wounds from explosive and piercing weapons, sunken scars from blunt force trauma, burns from starship-grade lascannons, scars from chaos acid, and dense shrapnel bruises across his waist.
The most shocking was the location below the left side of his sternum and the left side of his chest—a longitudinal, thin, but deeply noticeable scar that penetrated to the bone.
The wound had almost completely pierced through his chest, and even tens of thousands of years later, it was still terrifying and throbbing.
This was on the eve of the end of the Horus Heresy. The original Fulgrim, the Emperor's son who had been corrupted into a Daemon Prince of Slaanesh, had pierced his chest with a venomous sword cursed by Chaos, leaving an eternal mark.
It was this wound, bearing the curse of the Dark God, that placed him in a stasis field, causing him to exist between life and death, neither alive nor dead, and to sleep for a full ten thousand years.
If not for the Armor of Fate, which the great sage Belisarius Cawl had painstakingly crafted to suppress the pervasive Chaos toxin for him, he would never have been able to return to the world, let alone carry the crumbling human empire.
At this moment, he had personally removed the armor that had protected him through all his battles after his rebirth.
Even now, answering the call in the body of a heroic spirit, the curse of Chaos emanating from the depths of the warp still ravaged his flesh and soul.
The desire to meet his father swelled ever stronger in his chest. Robert Kiliman stepped closer to Sigismund, step by step.
Each step fell with the innate, unparalleled oppressive aura of a primarch. The air on the battlefield seemed frozen by his steps. He looked at the kneeling Emperor's Champion, his voice piercing through the gunpowder smoke like a bell, his words resounding:
"Come, Sigismund! Let me witness your absolute loyalty to the Imperium and the pinnacle of martial arts as the Emperor's Champion! Let all of you come at me! Do not hold back!"