The battlefield was drenched in blood and fire. Among the forces of the Imperium, legends fought side by side—Saint Celestine, Marneus Calgar of the Ultramarines, Marshal Amarich of the Black Templars, and Inquisitor Greyfax—all heroes of humanity. Alongside them, countless Imperial Guardsmen, unwavering in their devotion to the Emperor, clashed against the horrors of the Warp.
With the Primarch Roboute Guilliman leading the charge, wielding the Emperor's Holy Sword, the tide of battle turned decisively in favor of the Imperium. The blade in his grasp became an extension of his will, carving through hordes of Plaguebearers, Horrors, and Bloodletters with terrifying ease. His every movement was precise, methodical, and utterly devastating.
The ground was littered with the remains of the Chaos horde, their twisted, demonic forms crumbling into the dust. The reappearance of the Primarch ignited a fervor within the Imperium's warriors, instilling them with renewed courage and unshakable resolve. With Guilliman at their side, they faced the forces of Chaos without fear.
The presence of the Primarch did not go unnoticed. Even the Adeptus Mechanicus, in all their cold logic, could not deny the significance of his return. Magos Belisarius Cawl, the great Archmagos Dominus of Mars, joined the battlefield, his mechanical frame adorned with ancient technology. He recited binharic hymns of war, his mind a network of logic and divine calculation. His integrated weapon systems, powered by the sacred reactors in his core, unleashed searing beams of energy, cutting through Chaos Space Marines and heretical traitors alike.
The forces of Chaos began to falter. The balance of power had shifted. Guilliman's presence alone was enough to strike fear into the corrupted hearts of the enemy. His piercing gaze swept across the battlefield, and wherever his eyes landed, daemons recoiled in terror. The blazing Holy Sword he carried was more than a weapon—it was a symbol of the Emperor's wrath, and none could withstand its fury.
But then, amidst the carnage, a monstrous presence emerged.
A towering daemon, far larger than the others, stepped onto the battlefield. Its skin was a deep, blood-red, its body encased in jagged armor forged ten thousand years ago. Bone spurs jutted from its flesh, and from its back unfurled a pair of massive, tattered wings covered in arcane sigils.
Its face was like that of an ape, its wide, curved horns adding to its grotesque form. In its clawed hands, it wielded a colossal chainblade, wreathed in cursed, blood-red flames.
An aura of pure hatred radiated from the daemon, its very presence sending waves of fury through the minds of those who beheld it. Imperial Guardsmen, despite their training, felt their blood boil, their hands trembling as an unnatural rage took hold of them. The forces of Chaos, however, roared in approval, their spirits lifting as they beheld their champion.
Celestine, Calgar, and Amarich prepared to intervene, but Guilliman raised a hand to stop them. This was his fight.
The daemon sneered, its burning, yellow eyes filled with contempt. "A Primarch," it said, its voice deep and mocking. "I never thought I would see one of your kind walk the battlefield again. But it does not matter. The era of the Primarchs is over. The Imperium is crumbling, and the galaxy belongs to the Dark Gods now."
Guilliman narrowed his eyes as he recognized the sigil still clinging to the daemon's ancient, corrupted armor—the insignia of the World Eaters.
The once-loyal sons of Angron.
A Legion that had once stood with the Emperor but had long since succumbed to madness and slaughter. He knew this daemon had once been an Astartes, a warrior of the Imperium, before pledging itself to Khorne, the Blood God.
The sight filled Guilliman with disgust. "A traitor," he spat. "It seems I didn't strike you down hard enough ten thousand years ago. You should have stayed buried in the Warp where you belong."
Though Guilliman's body had only recently returned, his memories remained sharp. The betrayal of Horus, the fall of his brothers, and the ruination of the Imperium were wounds that had never truly healed. He had once believed in a golden future for humanity—a future where the Emperor's vision would lead them to ascension.
But that future had been stolen.
Because of men like this.
The daemon bared its fangs in a sinister grin. "Words will not save you, Primarch. The Imperium is doomed. You are nothing but a relic of a dead age. Your skull will adorn the throne of the Blood God, and your followers will be drowned in their own blood."
Guilliman smirked. "Go back to your master and tell him that one day, I'll take his head for myself. His so-called throne of skulls will be nothing but dust beneath my heel."
The daemon roared, its fury shaking the battlefield. The ground beneath them cracked as its rage-fueled energy surged outward, warping the air with sheer heat.
Chaos warriors howled in support, emboldened by their champion. The Imperium's soldiers, however, trembled, some nearly dropping their weapons. The sheer presence of the daemon was overwhelming.
But Guilliman did not falter.
The daemon lunged, its massive chainblade cleaving through the air, seeking to claim the Primarch's head.
Guilliman met its charge, raising the Emperor's Sword. Their weapons clashed, sending a shockwave rippling across the battlefield, knocking soldiers from their feet.
The daemon pressed forward, its raw strength forcing Guilliman back a step. But the Primarch had faced greater threats. With a swift maneuver, he twisted his stance, dodging the next swing and delivering a thunderous punch with his power fist.
The force of the impact sent the daemon hurtling backward, crashing into a ruined artillery emplacement. The battlefield fell silent for a brief moment as dust and debris settled.
Guilliman pointed his blade at the fallen daemon. "Is that all? Ten thousand years in the Warp, and you still fight like a mindless beast."
The daemon snarled, rising once more. "You dare mock me?!"
"I do more than mock you," Guilliman said. "I will end you."
He surged forward, his armor's servos whining as he leaped through the air, bringing the Emperor's Sword down in a devastating arc. The daemon barely raised its weapon in time to block. Sparks and flames erupted from the impact, the air between them warping from the sheer energy of their battle.
Around them, the war raged on. But in that moment, all eyes were on the clash between the Primarch and the daemon.
A battle not just for victory—but for the very soul of the Imperium.