Guilliman confirmed the reward and nodded in approval. This golden finger wasn't bad—barely usable, but still functional.
By utilizing dark matter computing technology in conjunction with the original Adeptus Astartes' genetic enhancement methods held by the Mechanicus Archmagos Belisarius Cawl, he could forge an entirely new generation of warriors. These soldiers would stand against traitors and the forces of Chaos, far surpassing the capabilities of the Imperium's existing troops.
The current state of the Imperial armies was grim. Though formidable, they relied too much on sheer numbers to achieve victory. Against the endless hordes of Chaos, this strategy resulted in catastrophic losses—so severe that Guilliman could hardly bear to look at the casualty reports.
But now, with the potential to create a stronger force, he could secure the Imperium's future.
There was no other choice. Either he helped the Imperium survive this onslaught, or Chaos would claim him as a slave.
Escape? That was nothing but a futile dream.
The nearest galaxy to the Milky Way lay hundreds of thousands of light-years away. Without an Astronomican beacon or a precise navigation map, there was no way to travel such an immense distance. Even if a ship could sustain speeds close to light, the journey would take millennia. If the vessel broke down along the way, the only fate awaiting its passengers was a slow, drifting death.
Using the Warp for escape was an even worse option. The Immaterium was the dominion of the Chaos Gods, and without the Emperor's guiding light, the Gellar Fields protecting a ship would inevitably collapse. Once that happened, the ship and its crew would be consumed—warped into nightmarish forms or enslaved to madness.
Beyond the galaxy, the unknown was even more terrifying.
The Tyranids had come from outside, devouring entire star systems as they fled from some even greater horror. Whatever was out there had driven them to the Milky Way, and that alone spoke of unspeakable dangers. There was no certainty that fleeing beyond the galactic rim would lead to safety—more likely, it would be an even worse fate.
There was no alternative. Guilliman had to fight. Victory was his only option.
The Battle for Macragge
"Move out. Cleanse them all."
Guilliman stepped forward, his sapphire eyes burning with fury. In his grip, the Emperor's Sword blazed, its flame growing more intense with each passing moment.
Beside him, Marneus Calgar, Saint Celestine, and the remaining Imperial forces reformed their battle lines.
Beyond the sanctuary, Macragge burned.
The majestic hive city—once a bastion of Imperial might—was now a warzone. Factories, spaceports, and urban districts echoed with the deafening sounds of battle.
Astartes from various Chapters fought shoulder to shoulder, their power armor gleaming under the dim glow of emergency lighting. The Astra Militarum and the local Macragge Guard held defensive lines, utilizing hastily constructed barricades to push back the oncoming tide of Chaos.
Lascannon beams seared through the air, burning heretics and daemons alike. But the enemy's numbers were overwhelming. Wave after wave of Chaos cultists, twisted abominations, and traitorous warbands crashed against the Imperial lines.
"For the Dark Gods! For Chaos! Kill them all!"
The corrupted heretics, their bodies twisted by mutation, howled as they charged. Some bore bone spurs jutting from their flesh, others reeked of disease and decay, their bodies riddled with Nurgle's gifts.
"For the loving embrace of the Plague Father! For the End of All Things!"
The Chaos forces shouted profane chants, their voices filled with fervor. Each word dripped with madness, tempting the weak-willed to turn against their fellow Imperials.
Behind the Imperial defenders, civilians huddled in makeshift shelters. Their prayers to the Emperor filled the air.
"Protect us, O Holy Emperor."
"Deliver us from this evil."
"Save us from the horrors beyond."
The closer the Chaos forces advanced, the louder the cries became.
Everyone knew what awaited them if Chaos claimed the city. Death was not the end—it was merely the beginning of eternal torment.
A Commander's Despair
The Astra Militarum commander overseeing the sanctuary's defense clenched his jaw. His forces had been pushed beyond their limits. Over a hundred regiments had been annihilated.
And yet, the enemy kept coming.
The only hope was that the Imperial Navy could regain orbital control. Without aerial superiority, there was no chance of survival.
The battlefield was a hellscape. Corpses lay piled high, rivers of blood soaking into the ground. The stench of death hung in the air.
Flies, bloated with disease, swarmed over fresh corpses. They burrowed into the dead flesh, laying eggs filled with Nurgle's pestilence. The fallen rose again as plague zombies, their rotting forms shuffling forward to add to the Imperium's suffering.
The defenders' situation worsened with each passing moment. The forces of Chaos, bolstered by the Warp's corruption, grew stronger. Dark whispers filled the air, corrupting minds, enticing the weary to embrace damnation.
The commander clenched his fist. Was this the end?
Had they lost?
There was no support. No reinforcements. No Titans. No armored divisions.
Even the skies belonged to the enemy.
Despair crept into the hearts of the soldiers. Some gripped their weapons tightly, trying to stop their hands from trembling. Veterans muttered final prayers. Many prepared themselves for a last stand.
The Chaos horde surged forward.
And then—
The whispers stopped.
A power, unknown but overwhelming, surged through every loyal Imperial soldier. The exhaustion faded. The pain disappeared. Hope reignited in their souls.
The Chaos forces, once fearless, now hesitated. Fear crept into their eyes.
A god of war had returned.
Guilliman stepped out of the sanctuary. He was not just a man—he was a legend reborn. His sword burned brighter than ever, its light scouring the battlefield. The shadows of the Warp recoiled from his presence.
"I HAVE RETURNED!"
His voice was a war cry that shook the battlefield.
Celestine and the other Imperial leaders followed close behind. Together, they charged.
Like a spear piercing the heart of Chaos, they tore through the enemy ranks.
Blood and limbs flew in every direction.
"CHARGE!"
The battlefield commander's voice roared over the vox.
The soldiers saw hope—real hope. Not the desperate faith of the dying, but the ironclad certainty of victory.
"For the Emperor!"
The Imperials stormed out of their trenches. Even as gunpowder smoke filled their lungs, even as the enemy's monstrous forms loomed over them, they fought with renewed strength.
"For the Emperor!"
An ordinary Guardsman lunged forward, his bayonet slicing through the chest of a heretic. Another soldier fired his lasgun, cutting down enemy after enemy.
Macragge was no longer a battlefield of despair. It was a crucible of rebirth. The forces of Chaos faltered, losing the ground they had gained.
Then, the sky darkened.
A terrible roar split the air.
From the Warp, a massive daemon emerged.
It was a towering abomination of muscle and iron, its body wreathed in unholy flames.
A Greater Daemon of Khorne.
The air trembled with its rage.
The cultists around it collapsed, their life force drained in an instant to fuel the monster's arrival.
The daemon's eyes burned with hatred.
"A PRIMARCH?"
Its gaze locked onto Guilliman.
A twisted grin spread across its face.
"The Skull of a Primarch… A worthy gift for the Blood God!"
With a deafening bellow, the daemon charged.
Guilliman did not hesitate.
He raised the Emperor's Sword.
And met the monster head-on.