Guilliman had absorbed the memories of his new body, and his first reaction was a simple, grim acknowledgment of his situation: This is bad. Really bad.
In mere moments, he understood everything—his past, his present, and the terrifying reality he had awakened into.
He was no longer in a familiar world but had instead found himself in the grim darkness of the Warhammer 40,000 universe, an era teetering on the brink of annihilation. The Imperium of Man, humanity's last great empire, was besieged on all sides. Survival was the only goal, and all else was secondary.
Humanity had struggled for over 40,000 years, enduring the Golden Age of Technology, the Age of Rebellion, the Long Night, the Great Crusade, and then the catastrophic Horus Heresy that shattered the Imperium. What followed was a millennia-long struggle to hold civilization together against an uncaring, hostile galaxy.
And now, at this very moment, the Imperium was at its most perilous juncture.
Its greatest threat was Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos, champion of the Ruinous Powers. He had waged twelve Black Crusades against the Imperium, steadily dismantling the arcane Blackstone seals that had kept the Chaos Gods at bay. With the Thirteenth Black Crusade, he had succeeded in his ultimate goal: the destruction of Cadia, the final bastion keeping the Eye of Terror contained.
Now, the galaxy itself was torn asunder. The Great Rift—the Cicatrix Maledictum—had cleaved the Imperium in two, unleashing an apocalyptic tide of daemons and traitors upon countless worlds.
The Imperium was bleeding out. Its people were dying in the billions. Its armies were stretched beyond their limits. And its only hope? A newly resurrected Primarch—Roboute Guilliman—who now found himself in a fight for survival.
Guilliman's thoughts raced. He knew that even as a demigod, even as the son of the Emperor, his foes were nearly insurmountable. Chaos was no ordinary enemy—it was a force of corruption, of madness, of unrelenting entropy. The Traitor Legions alone were a formidable threat, but the true danger lay behind them: the Dark Gods themselves, entities beyond mortal comprehension, beings of pure malevolence who sought nothing less than the total destruction of mankind.
As these grim realizations set in, the roar of a chainsword jolted Guilliman back to the present.
His sharp eyes locked onto the Chaos forces ahead of him—heretic Space Marines, daemons, and traitors who had invaded the sacred halls of the Imperium.
There was no time to hesitate.
With a steady hand, he reached for the blade by his side. The Emperor's Sword, the weapon forged in the fires of holy war, flared to life the moment he grasped its hilt. A golden flame surged along its length, bathing the battlefield in its righteous glow.
This sword had been granted to him alongside his resurrection armor by Archmagos Belisarius Cawl. But it was more than just a weapon. It was a symbol—a beacon of the Emperor's divine wrath.
As the fire blazed, Guilliman felt a new sense of control over his reborn body. His mind, merged with the memories of this era's war-torn history, processed information faster than ever before. Every battle instinct, every tactical maneuver, every ounce of his Primarch's prowess surged to the forefront of his consciousness.
The battlefield fell silent.
Loyalist Space Marines, battle-weary and battered, turned to him with expressions of awe and hope. To them, Guilliman's return was nothing short of a miracle—a light in the abyss of endless war.
The forces of Chaos hesitated. Even the most bloodthirsty heretics, those who had forsaken their humanity long ago, faltered at the sight of a Primarch returned.
Then, the silence shattered.
A monstrous Khorne Berzerker, clad in baroque red armor covered in skulls and bone spikes, let out a guttural roar. His eyes burned with bloodlust, and with reckless abandon, he charged forward, his chainaxe screaming through the air.
Guilliman moved.
Only the swiftest of warriors saw what happened next. The Emperor's Sword traced an arc of golden fire, and in an instant, the Berzerker was cleaved in two. His bisected body crashed to the ground with a sickening thud.
The Chaos forces roared in fury.
Like a dam breaking, a tide of heretics and daemons surged forward, their hatred for the Imperium burning hotter than ever. They would not allow Guilliman to escape. They would not let him live to undo their master's work.
The Loyalists met them head-on.
"For the Emperor! For the Imperium!" roared Marneus Calgar, High Lord of Ultramar, as he slammed his power fist into the skull of a traitor, shattering it with brutal force.
The Living Saint, Celestine, her one remaining arm gripping her blessed sword, fought alongside Guilliman, her faith igniting like an unquenchable flame.
The Black Templars, their battle hymns reverberating through their vox systems, tore into the Chaos lines, their holy zeal driving them forward like an unstoppable wave.
The battle erupted into a frenzied melee.
Chainswords screamed as they clashed against corrupted ceramite. Plasma and bolter fire lit the battlefield like a storm of wrath. Blood and ichor painted the walls, and the air was thick with the stench of death and burning flesh.
And in the heart of it all stood Guilliman.
The Emperor's son, the Lord of Ultramar, fought with a fury that had not been seen in ten millennia.
The sorcerers of Chaos, their warp-born magics warping reality itself, were the first to die. Guilliman moved with inhuman speed, his blade cutting through their wards and barriers as if they were paper. One by one, they fell, their cursed souls consumed by the holy fire of the Emperor's Sword.
Next came the Traitor Marines—warriors who had once stood beside their Loyalist brothers before betraying the Imperium.
Guilliman held no mercy for them.
One strike severed a Terminator's armor in half. Another blow split a daemon's wretched body down the middle.
He was unstoppable. A force of nature. A god of war incarnate.
The tide turned.
The Imperium's forces, reinvigorated by their Primarch's presence, pressed forward with renewed vigor. The Chaos lines wavered. The once-mighty traitors and daemons, who had seemed so invincible just moments before, now found themselves on the defensive.
Their terror was palpable.
And then, the last demon in the sanctum fell, its wretched body crumbling to ash as the Emperor's Sword purified its existence.
Guilliman exhaled, his grip on the sword tightening as he surveyed the battlefield. The immediate threat had been neutralized, but the war was far from over. There was still much to do—communications to restore, command structures to reestablish, and the Imperium to save.
But before he could act, a voice—soft, yet impossibly clear—echoed in his mind.
[Detection complete. Master template, database, and auxiliary spirits have been activated. Please check your interface immediately.]
Guilliman stiffened.
A… system?
[The host may ask questions, and the assistant spirits will answer accordingly.]
A spark of hope flickered in his mind.
Could this be his golden finger? His ultimate advantage in this desperate fight?
If so… perhaps the Imperium still had a chance.
Perhaps he could change fate.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the end was not inevitable.