Within Macragge's higher education system, the School of Rhetoric held a pivotal position.
The earliest rhetorical schools could be traced back to 392 Macragge Era, specifically enrolling outstanding youths from Macragge's leading families. With the aim of cultivating exceptional orators and politicians, it was the cradle of Macragge's elite class.
Beyond rhetoric, its curriculum also encompassed literature, philosophy, history, and law.
While emphasising academic achievement, it placed equal importance on moral education.
At this moment, Guilliman stood before the school's grand marble archway.
He turned to face Lady Euten, who had accompanied him. His voice was gentle: "Mother, please allow me to proceed alone. I am no longer a child in need of an escort."
Euten gazed at her adopted son's upright posture and nodded gently. "As you wish. A carriage will be waiting here at sunset."
Guilliman bowed to her in farewell. The gesture gave Euten a momentary start.
Just as she was about to add something more, Guilliman had already turned and entered the school grounds.
Guilliman's gaze swept calmly over the luxuriously dressed, chattering and laughing aristocratic youths.
They spoke proudly of family honour and political ambitions, as if they already grasped the world's truths.
"Naive."
That was Guilliman's first impression of this school.
Shortly after his birth, with his father's permission, he had already been allowed free access to the library in the domus.
By the age of one, he had mastered all the books at home and shifted his focus to the vast collection of the Dikailon Library.
His knowledge far exceeded the sum total of this school's curriculum.
Whether the self-proclaimed intelligent students or the eloquent scholars and lecturers at the podiums, all appeared shallow in his eyes.
Even their fathers, the powerful figures holding high positions in the Senate, appeared equally foolish in his view.
They were mired in decrepit rules, governing Macragge with self-righteous wisdom.
He could learn nothing here.
Yet he had still come.
Because his father wished it.
Guilliman suppressed his inner disdain, reciting in his mind the prayers his adoptive mother had taught him.
He should not be like this.
Pride is the foremost of the seven deadly sins, and the beginning of the fall.
Even though he was a Primarch, born extraordinary...
Though he understood the truth better than Macragge's wisest sage, was more invincible than its most valiant warrior...
He was still ignorant, still weak.
An adult does not feel complacent from defeating an infant. Neither should he feel smug about surpassing mortals.
His gaze should be fixed on his as-yet-unmet brothers.
When he was still young and learned he had over a dozen brothers, an unprecedented sense of urgency quietly took root within him.
Because by then, he had already realised that his start was already behind his brothers'.
The knowledge and strength he prided himself on might be utterly insignificant before his brothers, who had already embarked on their journeys.
A lion is not content to rule over a flock of sheep. Neither can he stop at merely surpassing mortals.
"When you scale a mountain, you stand higher than that mountain."
"But there are always higher peaks beyond."
"Will you stop at the summit to bask in complacency, turning a blind eye to the taller mountains?"
"Or will you bravely climb the next peak, even if you cannot yet see its entirety?"
"When you stand at the pinnacle, you are high above, looking down upon the masses who seem as small as ants."
"Will you crush them underfoot with a single step, or will you nurture them to scale the peak as well?"
Recalling his father's earnest teachings, Guilliman murmured, asking the voice in his heart.
What would he choose?
The answer had always been within him.
"Are you Roboute Guilliman?" Three ornately dressed young men blocked his path.
The leader had carefully styled curly hair, his purple and gold cloak signifying a distinguished family background.
Guilliman stopped. "I am. What can I do for you?"
The young man stepped forward, placing his right hand over his heart in an elegant bow. "I am Julius, son of Consul Gallan. My respects, Guilliman."
Guilliman returned the bow. "Your greeting honours me greatly."
The youth on the left bowed with equal elegance. "Valentus Dolor, grandson of Chief Justice Tiberius Dolor."
The burly youth on the right thumped his chest with his fist. "Orfeo Cassandar, son of First Legion Commander Gaius Cassandar."
Guilliman returned their greetings calmly, having fully grasped the situation.
Most of his profound knowledge came from the vast collection of libraries, but his parents could always teach him with the simplest, most truthful proverbs.
For example: birds of a feather flock together.
Macragge's social structure was very simple: from bottom to top: slaves, citizens, and nobles.
Slaves were completely deprived of education.
The children of citizens could only afford the cheap education of elementary school. Those from slightly wealthier families might manage to attend grammar school.
The School of Rhetoric, as a temple of elite education, though not explicitly barring citizens, its high tuition effectively excluded them.
Even among those who could attend, being the children of the powerful, there were still hierarchies.
Macragge's political structure was a tripartite separation of powers: the Senate, the Consuls, and the Citizen Assemblies worked together to maintain a balance of power.
Julius was the son of a Consul. Dolores's grandfather, the Chief Justice, held a position second only to the Consuls. Orfeo's father commanded the military.
The three core powers of administration, judiciary, and military, united, they were the true triumvirate of this younger generation.
Barring unforeseen circumstances, they would become the leaders of their generation, gradually inheriting their fathers' careers after graduation.
Though Konor Guilliman was a Consul, with higher prestige and reputation than the other Consul, Gallan, he lacked a political heir due to having no biological children.
Guilliman's appearance as his adopted son was tantamount to announcing to the world that he was Konor's chosen successor.
Now, all eyes were upon him.
Among this crowd of onlookers, only Julius dared to step forward proactively.
Because he was the son of the other Consul, Gallan. This identity gave him the qualification to speak with Guilliman as an equal.
His greeting, though seemingly following aristocratic etiquette, concealed a sharp edge.
It also served as a warning to other onlookers, making them hesitate and be cautious.
However, Julius's self-perceived clever political maneuvering was laid bare in Guilliman's eyes, who found it merely childish.
"Roboute, I heard you're only three years old this year?"
Julius leaned forward slightly, his tone laced with deliberate surprise, as if confirming an incredible rumour.
"That is correct."
As the adopted son of Consul Konor, his legendary experiences were already well-known to all.
Dolores's eyes held unconcealed curiosity. "But three years ago, you were still a swaddled infant. How did you... grow so large?"
"I am a Primarch." Guilliman's voice was appropriately gentle. "You can think of it as genetic optimisation. My growth rate far exceeds that of ordinary people."
A Primarch's growth rate is closely related to their environment.
If not for Caelan, Guilliman's growth rate might have been somewhat slower.
Because his adoptive parents would have preferred him to grow up like a normal child, and to meet their expectations, Guilliman would have deliberately suppressed his growth rate, pretending to be a mortal child, until such pretence could no longer be maintained.
But Caelan never constrained Guilliman's nature with mortal standards. Instead, he gave him room to fully develop.
He could understand and support a Primarch better than anyone. Guilliman never felt the need to hide his extraordinary qualities.
It was precisely for this reason that he could compress a mortal's formative years into just three.
Orfeo asked, "What about your intellect?"
Guilliman replied, "I believe I am not lacking in intelligence."
Guilliman did not display his exceptional nature. His speech and manner did not exceed what might be expected of a mortal youth of his apparent age.
But the meticulous logic and reasoning he displayed were enough to defuse any potential danger.
If they had intended to use this opportunity to embarrass him publicly, they would only fail.
Guilliman calmly assessed the three. If he wanted to stand out, he would have to surpass Julius.
He could easily overpower everyone in knowledge and strength, humiliating them in a single day.
But such a crude approach would only be misinterpreted as an insult to others.
They would bear a grudge against him.
But they could never surpass him. They would only be able to crawl in the shadows.
Either sink into utter despair, or fall into darkness.
What Guilliman wanted was not slaves, but comrades who could fight alongside him.
He needed to be more refined, to win hearts with political artistry, not simply by crushing them.
This was simple. He had at least nine ways to make Julius willingly compliant.
...
An invisible eye seemed to hang in the sky, coldly and silently watching Guilliman, recording the young Primarch's every move.
All of these images, drawn by some mysterious force, were clearly reflected in a crystal ball.
A hazy halo swirled on the crystal ball's surface, clearly revealing the Primarch's words and actions within.
Guilliman was at school. No one was with him.
Because the whole family was watching via the crystal ball.
Caelan shook his head gently. "His acting marks are too heavy. This is his greatest weakness."
Lady Euten remarked, "The others cannot tell."
"But you and I can see it, and his brothers will be able to see it too. That is what makes it fatal," Caelan replied.
Lady Euten put down her teacup and asked softly, "I don't understand. What's wrong with that?"
"Let's put it this way," Caelan explained. "Ancient Terra divided outstanding actors into two schools: Method acting and Classical acting."
"Method acting emphasizes deeply experiencing the character's internal emotions, while Classical acting advocates for precise mimicry, acting like a mirror."
"Roboute is the ultimate master of Classical acting."
"He has constructed a perfect persona of a statesman in his heart. He seriously considers every suggestion and plans out of empathy for everyone. This indeed wins the unswerving loyalty of his followers, so long as they don't realize he is acting."
"But if someone catches on to the act, they will immediately form a preconceived notion that he is profoundly hypocritical."
"His sincerity becomes a meticulously designed trap, his care becomes driven by ulterior motives, and his concessions become mere political compromises."
That was why all the other Primarchs thought Guilliman was ambitious.
Because he was acting.
Mortals couldn't see it. Astartes couldn't see it. But the Primarchs could.
Horus treated the other Primarchs with genuine sincerity. His care made them feel warm and welcome.
When other Primarchs were with him, they could truly feel that sincerity. That was why so many willingly supported him.
Guilliman, however, always interacted with others with meticulous calculation. No matter how sincere he appeared, the other Primarchs could keenly see through his clumsy act, seeing the cold, calculating ambition beneath his perfect facade.
The Primarchs believed that even his feelings for his fellow Primarchs were just political currency in Guilliman's eyes.
No genuine feeling. All pretense.
"People don't want to believe Guilliman's acting is due to clumsiness. They'd rather believe he is a hypocritical politician. They are particularly willing to believe that Guilliman is damn ambitious."
This was Guilliman's greatest weakness, and he simply couldn't fix it.
Other Primarchs could show their true nature to outsiders, but Guilliman couldn't, because his true nature was unfit to be seen.
It was precisely by relying on this performance that his true nature was kept in check.
But as long as he wore the 'garment of civilisation', he had to maintain this act.
His performance wasn't hypocrisy; it was restraint.
His acting was blatant, and this very blatancy was Guilliman's greatest sincerity. But no one would ever believe sincerity that is performed.
"If you compare Horus to a genuinely warm man, then Guilliman is a 'player' disguised as a warm man."
"If a scumbag can play the part of a caring man for a lifetime, others will treat him as one."
"But a lifetime is too long. No one is going to give him their unreserved trust based on a temporary display of warmth."
If a hypocrite could wear his mask for a lifetime, he would be a true gentleman; but guys like that always slip up when the ultimate temptation comes along.
It's like a player who acts like the perfect boyfriend just to get what he wants, the second he wins you over, the nice-guy act is completely over.
The Primarchs would see that Guilliman was a false gentleman. Naturally, not wanting to be deceived, they would reject him.
Lady Euten frowned. "That analogy is too harsh. Our child is not that despicable."
Caelan sighed softly. "He is certainly excellent, but the reality is that no one believes he will maintain this perfectionist act for a lifetime."
"Our belief is enough. Don't you have confidence in him?"
"I certainly do."
"Then let those who don't believe go to hell! We are his parents. As long as we always believe in him, that's enough!"
Konor's gaze was resolute.
He had no children of his own. Roboute was his only heir. He loved his child above all else.
Lady Euten's voice was soft. "Caelan, you are not only Roboute's father but also the father of the other Primarchs. You can persuade them to accept him."
"That way, mortals believe in him, Astartes believe in him, and the Primarchs believe in him."
"Then who will care about the clumsiness of his acting?"
A gentle smile touched Caelan's lips. "You're right, Tarasha. Maintaining relationships among the Primarchs is precisely the meaning of my existence."
.......
"Father."
In the Consul's study, Julius stood at attention, his expression serious. "I don't think Roboute is a bad person."
Gallan's face darkened. I asked for your impression of Roboute. What is this nonsense supposed to mean?
Gallan tried to subtly remind Julius, "He is Konor's adopted son. Don't you understand what that implies?"
He trusted that his eldest son wasn't so foolish.
"I fully understand your concerns."
"But that is precisely why we should be even more circumspect."
"Macragge has been governed by two Consuls since ancient times. Roboute and I, as the heirs of you and Consul Konor, are merely a continuation of this tradition."
"Even without Roboute, the Senate would elect a new Consul."
"Father, you should not see Consul Konor as a threat. You should be all-weather strategic cooperative partners, supporting each other."
Gallan's face darkened at this, and he scolded sharply, "Naive! Politics is not a game!"
"Father, with all due respect, your vision is too narrow, your perspective too small."
"'Politics' is about making many friends and few enemies."
"The core of politics is competition, but it's not a zero-sum game. We should not stubbornly push everyone to the opposite side."
Gallan slammed the table and roared, "Who gave you the nerve to lecture me? What kind of love potion has that Roboute slipped you?"
Julius met his father's furious gaze with unwavering eyes. "Father, please calm down."
"Roboute has never exerted any influence over me. He just treated me with sincerity, letting me see the true nature of politics."
"He is the smartest person my age I have ever met. Even adults cannot compare to him. He is a true genius!"
Gallan interrupted harshly, "He's only three years old yet has the body of an adult. He's a monster!"
Julius retorted passionately, "Father, I won't allow you to slander Roboute! We are friends! He has explained it all to me. It's due to genetic optimisation!"
Gallan's face was as dark as could be, as if dripping with water. "Enough! I am the Consul!"
"You will regret this!" Julius said bitterly. "If you stubbornly persist in this misguided path, you will eventually find yourself utterly isolated!"
"Can't you learn from Consul Konor?" Julius was thoroughly disappointed.
"Julius, I am your father, not Konor!"
"If you weren't my father, do you think I'd be here pleading with you?"
Gallan's face was livid with rage, his finger trembling as he pointed towards the door. "Get out!"
"Fine, I'll go!" Julius snorted, refusing to back down. If there's no place for me here, there's somewhere else!
Since he was not welcome here, he would go to Roboute.
Uncle Konor would surely take him in.
Gallan trembled with fury. 'It had only been a single day!'
'What kind of monster was Roboute? What sorcery had he used?'
To make them, father and son, turn against each other!
It was terrifying just to think about!
Were all people from Terra this terrifying?
The Consul stared out the window, where Konor's domus was visible.
He wouldn't admit he envied Konor.
If the one who had adopted that child had been him, Macragge's power structure would have been rewritten by now, instead of engaging in futile arguments with his own foolish son!