Chapter 2: I, Guilliman, Need Money!

“Then I am still the Lord of Ultramar, Roboute Guilliman.”

Hearing the figure in the white light once again insist it was the former Master of the Ninth Adeptus Astartes—the Primarch Saint Guilliman—Zhou Yun’s eye twitched.

“Hello, I’m Guilliman. I’m not dead—I’m in stasis. I need fifty credits to fund Belisarius Cawl’s research on the Fate Armor to save me. V me 50 now, and when I return, I’ll make you Lord of the Sun.”

Saint Guilliman, one of the twenty-one Primarchs created by the Emperor, was scattered across the galaxy by the Warp at the moment of his birth, just like his brothers.

The Primarch landed in the Bal System, not far from Asford.

This Primarch, who descended upon the crimson wastelands of Bal, bore a pair of pure white wings, like the angels of legend.

And Saint Guilliman’s own nobility and virtue befit the name of angel.

Zhou Yun would gladly accept Saint Guilliman’s guidance—if the Warp entity before him truly was Saint Guilliman.

In Warhammer, wings don’t always mean Saint Guilliman—they could just as easily be the Chaos Daemon Lord Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways.

Just as a double-headed eagle isn’t always the Imperium—it could be the Weaver, Carlos.

“My loyalty to the God-Emperor is as clear as sun and moon.”

“You Warp-born fool, don’t try to trick me!”

Zhou Yun spoke with righteous indignation, his face full of moral fervor.

He had only recently arrived in the 41st millennium when, half-asleep, he encountered this winged figure in the white light.

The figure had persistently claimed to be Saint Guilliman, insisting it would guide Zhou Yun to fulfill his destined mission.

But Zhou Yun couldn’t shake the feeling this was some Changer of Ways come to mock him.

In the Warhammer universe, any “wise old mentor” lurking by your side is suspect—anyone with half a brain suspects it’s a Chaos corruption.

Besides, systems, sudden love interests, cultivation techniques and weapons, green vials, castles atop gray mist—all these are suspected signs of Chaos corruption.

Systems and mentors reek of Tzeentch; sudden love interests and divine descents suggest Slaanesh; green vials and pills hint at Nurgle; techniques and weapons point to Khorne.

Even the fourth-dimensional pocket on his belly, Zhou Yun always suspected, might be the work of Wa Banxian.

“Friend, I am truly Saint Guilliman. I need your help.”

“The galaxy will be torn asunder; Bal will be drowned in blood; Terra will be defiled by abominations from the Warp.”

“I need you to go to Bal, to stand beside my corpse.”

“If you follow my guidance, I shall return to the material universe.”

The winged figure in the white light still flickered at the corner of Zhou Yun’s vision, muttering prophecies of dubious truth.

The galaxy will be torn asunder—the Great Rift opens.

Bal will be drowned in blood—the Tyranid invasion of Bal, the Battle of Bal.

Abominations from the Warp defile Terra—well, that’s not exactly new.

All of these align with “Saint Guilliman’s” prophecy.

But what of the time when Erebus resurrected Horus?

That sort of thing carries a thick Warp stench.

Even if he spoke some truth, Zhou Yun couldn’t even leave this hive city, let alone travel to Bal.

Even if he believed him, it would do him no good.

Fortunately, the figure was half-phantom, so it didn’t interfere with his scavenging.

Let the galaxy tear apart—it’s the Primarchs’, the Astartes’, and the Emperor’s problem. Just don’t mess with his scavenging.

As for the danger he mentioned ahead,

Zhou Yun hesitated briefly, deciding caution was best.

He pulled a vial of liquid from his fourth-dimensional pocket and dripped it onto his fingertip.

“Friend, I am truly Saint Guilliman.”

“Please believe me.”

The winged figure in the white light circled around Zhou Yun.

But Zhou Yun ignored him, continuing to pick through the rubble.

He found another section of pheromone transport pipe among the debris, grabbed it, and shoved it into his pocket.

Following the direction of the pipe’s extension, he noticed all exposed pheromone pipes in the area converged toward the heart of the ruined city.

This seemed to confirm his earlier suspicion: this district had once been part of the Pheromone Guild.

The quantity and quality of the broken machinery nearby surpassed any district Zhou Yun had explored before.

At the end of the pipes, there might even be a pheromone furnace or something similar.

Zhou Yun gazed into the depths of the ruined city.

It had been buried for only a century or two—far less dangerous than cities entombed during the Dark Age of Technology or the Great Crusade.

A little deeper shouldn’t be too hazardous.

With that thought, Zhou Yun checked the liquid on his fingertip, confirmed it was fine, and walked toward the heart of the ruined city along the pipe.

When the toxic crimson sunlight dimmed slightly, Zhou Yun saw a towering, derelict machine standing atop the rubble ahead.

The machine stood seven or eight meters tall; its steel platforms had collapsed, but the deep red tank remained upright, covered in crimson rust.

Zhou Yun’s eyes flickered with interest.

It was a discarded pheromone extraction transfer unit.

The hive city’s Pheromone Guild once used these to transport pheromone to factories.

Even a damaged pheromone extraction transfer unit could fetch a good price.

If any residual pheromone remained inside, Zhou Yun would be that much closer to his goal: the teleporter.

Thinking this, Zhou Yun slid down the rubble and walked up to the pheromone extraction transfer unit.

The massive, rusted pheromone tank—seven or eight meters tall, three or four meters wide—blocked his entire view.

He extended a finger and tapped the tank. Hollow echoes rang from within.

He circled the tank a few steps and found a circular hole, one meter high—likely where a pipe had been installed.

He leaned his head inside and peered in: the interior was empty, devoid of the thick gel he’d hoped for.

Pheromone, the Imperium’s most common fuel and chemical feedstock, normally appears as a viscous gel, used to produce antibiotics, synthetic polymers, Lho cigarettes, and even alcohol.

But evidently, when this district was abandoned, all valuable pheromone had already been shipped out, leaving only these bulky, hard-to-remove industrial machines—like the pheromone extraction transfer unit before him.

Fortunately, for Zhou Yun’s fourth-dimensional pocket, transporting a seven-meter-tall pheromone tank was no challenge.

He reached out, gripped the rusted tank, and gave a slight tug.

The tank folded like a soft cloth into his palm-sized fourth-dimensional pocket.

[Item Name: Pheromone Extraction Transfer Unit]

[Origin: Stygian Shield System – Asford – Mechanical Spire]

[Evaluation: The heart of the Pheromone Guild, once pumping high-concentration flammable pheromone]

[Manufactured: 705.M41]

[Condition: Light Damage]

[Value: 8,000 credits]

If any pheromone remained inside, the resale value could be even higher.

But Zhou Yun no longer cared.

The moment the pheromone extraction transfer unit vanished into his pocket, seven or eight figures in black robes appeared before him.

They had been seated on the opposite side of the tank, invisible to Zhou Yun until now.

They hadn’t noticed the tank had vanished, nor had they spotted Zhou Yun’s sudden appearance.

Zhou Yun broke into a cold sweat. In this desolate, abandoned city, encountering a group of black-robed figures—was he facing a cult?!

Cultists who worshipped the bizarre entities of the Warp, hidden in the dark corners of the hive city.

The leader among the black-robed figures raised both arms high in prayer.

“Praise you, Merciful Emperor!”

Hearing the black-robed figures’ prayer, Zhou Yun exhaled slightly—he’d thought they were just devout Imperial Cult worshippers—

The sleeves of the leader’s robe fell, revealing mottled, horned calluses on his forearms.

“May your four-armed embrace, encompassing the stars, enfold us! May you bring us salvation! Merciful Four-Armed God-Emperor!”

“Shit!”

(End of Chapter)