55: Chapter 55 Guilliman's Reply

The reply finally arrived after drifting through the Warp for a long time.

It wasn't Guilliman himself who came. It was Cassius—the patched-up communication ship, tied together with iron wire, appeared once again in orbit above Hope Star. When he jumped down from the deck, he wasn't holding a document tube. He was empty-handed.

Lin Mo received him at the Town Hall. Cassius sat down, remained silent for a while, and then spoke a passage. Every word sounded as if it had been rehearsed beforehand, yet it still carried a tone of uncertainty when spoken: "All three missions passed evaluation. The Regent himself reviewed the autonomy proposal. He did not sign it—but he did not return it either."

He didn't speak. He was waiting for the 'but'.

“But—he said this proposal needs to be verified through actual combat.” Cassius looked at Lin Mo. “The purge of the Green Sector was just one aspect. He needs to see your governance framework produce actual results across a wider range of frontier regions. He wrote a line of text on the proposal.”

Cassius pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table. The slip wasn't large, about two fingers wide, with creases already formed at the folds; clearly, Cassius had fumbled with this paper repeatedly before arriving. His movement in placing it on the table was very light, as if he were afraid of smudging the words on the paper.

Lin Mo unfolded the slip. There was only one line of text on it, written in a steady, even, and entirely emotionless hand. Every stroke was precise and restrained, as clear as if carved into a steel plate:

"Prove it is not just a piece of paper."

Lin Mo looked at that line of text and read it once. Then he read it again. Then he did something Cassius hadn't expected—he smiled. It wasn't a smile of relief, but one of confirmation—a smile that said, "I knew you'd say that." He didn't need a signature; he needed an opening. And Guilliman had given him one.

He refolded the slip along the original creases and placed it in the drawer of the Archon's office—together with Blackstone Town's first flag. That flag had been sewn by his own hands, and the edges of the cloth still had somewhat uneven stitches.

Before closing the drawer, he noticed a tiny ink mark at the bottom of the document—not a signature, not a date. It was a capital letter 'J', the pen stroke ending very lightly, as if someone had left it unintentionally before finalizing the draft. He didn't think much of it and closed the drawer. But for a long time afterward, he would occasionally think of that letter—on official Terra documents, there were no unintentional strokes.

The chaos attention level dropped from seventy to sixty-five. It wasn't because the threat had weakened—but because Chaos sensed a certain change it disliked: order, that sort of thing, was being built up bit by bit on a forgotten planet by a group of forgotten people.

That afternoon when Cassius arrived empty-handed, Lin Mo didn't ask about the results of the three missions when he received him at the Town Hall. He first gave Cassius a glass of hot water. Cassius took a sip, was silent for a few seconds, and then said the sentence that quieted the entire room: "The Regent himself reviewed the autonomy proposal. He did not sign it—but he did not return it either." At that moment, Lin Mo confirmed one thing—Guilliman hadn't refused, which meant he was hesitating. And something that could make a Primarch hesitate was no small matter.

The line on the slip—"Prove it is not just a piece of paper"—Lin Mo read it three times. Then he did something Cassius hadn't expected: he smiled. It wasn't a smile of relief. It was a smile of confirmation—"I knew you'd say that." He folded the slip and put it in the drawer, together with Blackstone Town's first flag.

A golden shimmer at the edge of his vision flashed imperceptibly.

It wasn't data, nor parameters—it was a line of poetry. It was as if someone had crumpled up a paper full of words and stuffed it into his brain; he didn't have time to unfold it, only catching one line:

[To shoot the rider, first shoot the horse; to capture the bandits, first capture their king.]

—Du Fu, "Forward Out of the Passes." He froze for a moment—why would there be verses from Earth in the Emperor's memories?

The line on the slip of paper repeatedly appeared in his mind over the next few days. "Prove it is not just a piece of paper"—Guilliman wasn't talking about the proposal itself. He was saying: Prove your philosophy isn't just talk. Lin Mo sat in the Intelligence Center late at night, pondering the final answer. It wasn't about using more words to explain the proposal—it was about using action to prove it. On a new sheet of paper, he drew a timeline, marking out the most important directions he could begin to advance next.

He pinned that paper to the wall. It wasn't for anyone else to see—it was because he needed to see it every day. Then he picked up a pen and wrote a line at the start of the timeline: Universal Healthcare. This was the one thing he could think of that could be started immediately without requiring Imperial approval. No need to wait for Guilliman's reply, no need to wait for Terra's documents—it could be done now.

—Lin Mo, the day he received Guilliman's annotation.

The wind outside passed through the treetops, making a fine rustling sound. The light from the torches on the distant watchtowers flickered in the wind, like a sentry standing in the darkness, refusing to fall. Lin Mo watched for a moment, then withdrew his gaze.

The morning wind poured in through the open window, carrying the scent of earth and dew. Lin Mo stood by the window and took a deep breath, letting the chill disperse the remaining drowsiness. He couldn't stop yet. It was far from time to stop.

After every battle is over,

The first thing the living must do—

—Locke, inventory records during a gap in continuous combat.

Guilliman's annotation, "Prove it is not just a piece of paper," was posted on the wall of the Intelligence Center by Lin Mo. Everyone who walked in could see that line—steady, even, and devoid of emotion. But next to the slip, Lin Mo added a line of his own: "Prove it with action. Not with words."

Alice saw those two lines when she walked into the Intelligence Center. She stood in front of the wall for a while, then turned to look at Lin Mo. "He gave you an opportunity," she said.

"He gave me an exam question," Lin Mo corrected.

Alice looked at him, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly—it wasn't a smile, but her expression was softer than usual. "For you, what's the difference between an exam question and an opportunity?"

Lin Mo thought for a moment and said, "Exam questions have standard answers. Opportunities don't."

Alice didn't speak again. But when she turned to leave, her pace was a bit slower than when she arrived—as if there were words she hadn't spoken. Looking at her back, Lin Mo suddenly realized that what she wanted to say in those few seconds might be more important than everything she had said in the past month.

She stopped for a moment at the door. She didn't look back.

"Lin Mo."

"Yeah?"

He quickly ran through the consequences of this decision in his head—the best-case scenario, the worst-case scenario, and the most likely scenario. The most likely scenario was usually a compromise between the worst and the best, but on this planet, he hadn't yet verified whether this rule held true.

"Sometimes..." Her voice was very light, as if only loud enough for the dust in the air to hear, "Sometimes I feel like that night you gave me the peppermint, you didn't even know what you were doing yourself."

She left as soon as she finished speaking. The sound of her footsteps gradually faded in the corridor.

Lin Mo stood where he was, still holding the pen. He stared at the doorway where she had walked for a long time—he didn't know why she suddenly brought up the peppermint; that was over half a year ago. But what he couldn't say was that he remembered. He remembered very clearly. That pack of candy was bought at an airport convenience store before he transmigrated; it was peppermint-flavored, the kind in a tin box. He had hesitated for two seconds before leaving it at her door—not hesitating over whether to give it, but hesitating over what that meant.

He knew now. But between knowing and saying it out loud, there was still a very long road.

Guilliman's annotation, "Prove it is not just a piece of paper," became a code word among the core members of Blackstone Town over the next few days. When Locke said "Prove it is not just a piece of paper" to the recruits on the training ground, it meant you have to speak with your fists. When Old Tom said it in the Arsenal, it meant don't show me blueprints, show me the finished product. When Alice said it in the Medical Station, it meant don't tell me your diagnosis, let me see the patient's recovery. Everyone's understanding of the phrase was different, but everyone understood its core—in this universe, what is said doesn't count, what is done does.

Guilliman's annotation, "Prove it is not just a piece of paper," fell into Lin Mo's mind like a seed. From that day on, he thought every day: How to prove it?

A paper autonomy proposal could be rejected or torn up by the Empire at any time. But what if the achievements made by Blackstone Town were "visible, tangible, and impossible for others to copy"?

He began to formulate a larger plan: before Locke returned from the expedition, build Blackstone Town into a "demonstration point." Let everyone who came here—whether Imperial officials, refugees from surrounding sectors, or occasional passing merchants—see a "different way of life."

He gave this plan a code name: "Project Dawn."

Project Dawn included three core projects: first, complete full-town coverage of the power grid—currently only the Town Hall and Arsenal had stable power, while the civilian residential areas were still using oil lamps; second, build the first real Medical Station—not the current temporary medical point converted from an old building; third, activate the Emperor's gene repair fluid to provide treatment for the wounded and critically ill of Blackstone Town.

The third project was the most controversial. The Emperor's gene repair fluid—could it be used on ordinary people? What was its original design purpose? If Alice didn't already have similar components in her body, Lin Mo wouldn't have considered using it at all.

But Alice's attitude toward the matter was very clear: "If its existence is to save people, then not using it is a waste. If its existence has another purpose—then we should find out even sooner."

When she said this, there was something in her eyes that Lin Mo had seen many times, yet it moved him slightly every time: a non-hesitant, calm acceptance of treating herself as "something that should be used up."