The burning Emperor's Sword slashed downward in a blur of golden fire. The Chaos daemon instinctively raised its weapon to block the blow, but the blade in its hands was cleaved in two. A moment later, its arm, wreathed in blood-red flames, was severed at the elbow.
Even though they were once human, those who ascended to daemonhood through the favor of the Chaos Gods were granted unimaginable power—strength and resilience beyond mortal comprehension. This particular daemon had prowled the battlefield for ten millennia, offering worlds in sacrifice to Khorne, the Blood God. The skulls it had claimed in his name had earned it the patronage of the Ruinous Powers, elevating it from a mere traitor to a being of the Warp itself.
To mere mortal armies, such a foe was insurmountable. Even the Emperor's Space Marines required the support of Librarians to stand against such horrors. Among the Imperium's vast military forces, only the Grey Knights, warriors forged for the sole purpose of combating the daemonic, could hope to fight them directly—yet even they suffered grievous losses.
The power of the great daemons was beyond reckoning. A mighty Lord of Change, favored by Tzeentch, could alter the fate of entire star systems with a single gesture. The presence of such an entity was enough to damn a planet to destruction, its people beyond salvation. When a daemon of such magnitude manifested, the Imperial Inquisition often issued an Exterminatus, ensuring that nothing—no life, no remnant of the taint—remained upon the doomed world.
Such was the power of the daemons of the Warp. Even saints blessed by the God-Emperor risked destruction should they falter.
Yet in the presence of Roboute Guilliman, this once-unstoppable daemon seemed weak.
With a single swing of the Emperor's Sword, Guilliman had severed its arm and inflicted grievous wounds upon its immortal form. The daemon howled in fury, but its essence could not repair the damage inflicted by the Primarch's righteous fire.
Its yellow-brown eyes widened in disbelief. Could this truly be the same Guilliman who had slumbered in stasis for ten thousand years? Even among Primarchs, he should not have possessed such overwhelming power.
The daemon was an ancient thing, forged in the fires of the Horus Heresy. It had fought in the Great Crusade as a mortal warrior before pledging itself to Chaos. When Angron, its gene-father, betrayed the Imperium, it had followed him into damnation. Yet never, in all its long existence, had it encountered a Primarch who could do this—who could cut it down with such ease.
Saint Celestine, Canoness Amalrich, and the warriors of the Adepta Sororitas watched in stunned silence. They had expected the Lord of Ultramar to be mighty, but this… this was something else.
Guilliman had become more than a Primarch.
His power was not merely his own. It was the strength of faith—a force gathered and concentrated through the devotion of those who worshiped him. The Imperial Creed spoke of the Emperor as a god, and though Guilliman had long rejected such beliefs, he could not deny their power. The countless billions of souls who prayed for salvation had unknowingly given him strength, channeling their desperate faith into his very being.
Faith had made him a god of war.
The soldiers of the Imperium erupted in cheers as they bore witness to his triumph. Word of his resurrection had already spread, igniting hope across battlefields where despair had reigned. Even on the war-torn streets of Macragge, where Chaos forces still rampaged, civilians and soldiers alike whispered his name in awe.
In contrast, the daemon's expression twisted into something between rage and horror.
"I did not expect the great Khorne to favor such a pathetic creature," Guilliman sneered. His voice was calm, but his words carried the weight of cold, merciless judgment. "Perhaps you should seek guidance from the followers of Slaanesh. Their… delicate techniques are certainly more effective than whatever crude strength you think you possess."
The daemon roared in fury, its entire form trembling with rage. It lunged, but its severed arm had yet to regenerate, and its weapon lay shattered at its feet. It could do nothing as Guilliman advanced, golden fire burning in his wake.
It was not the first time the daemon had mocked a human, calling them insects, weaklings, playthings of the Chaos Gods. Now, for the first time in ten thousand years, the words were turned against it.
"You will pay for this!" the daemon bellowed. "The Dark Gods are watching, Roboute Guilliman! Do you truly believe you can defy them? Your return is nothing more than amusement for them. You change nothing!"
Guilliman did not allow it to finish.
With a single stroke, the Emperor's Sword severed the daemon's head.
The monstrous skull tumbled across the ruined battlefield, coming to a stop beside the wreckage of a hoverbike.
The moment stretched in silence. Then, as one, the warriors of the Imperium erupted into deafening cheers.
The Ultramarines, the Macragge PDF, and the surviving Imperial Guard all raised their weapons in salute, their voices rising in praise of the Emperor's son. Even Saint Celestine and the Adepta Sororitas could not hide their joy.
Daemons had long plagued humanity, but here, in this moment, they had been cast down.
Guilliman raised the severed head of the fallen Warp-spawn high, letting the gathered Imperials see the proof of their victory. The sight ignited an unshakable fervor in their hearts.
The forces of Chaos, witnessing the death of their champion, faltered. Their lines crumbled. The Imperial forces, emboldened by the sight of their reborn Primarch, surged forward. Traitors and heretics fell in droves beneath their righteous fury. None were spared.
The counterattack spread beyond the surface. In low orbit, the battle-weary Imperial Navy learned of Guilliman's return and redoubled their assault. Reinforcements emerged from the Warp, magnificent warships unleashing devastating broadsides into the disorganized Chaos fleet.
The heretics, realizing their imminent defeat, attempted to flee. Most were annihilated before they could escape. Only a handful of Chaos vessels managed to slip into the Immaterium, their crews cursing Guilliman's name as they fled into the abyss.
The war was over.
Macragge had suffered grievous wounds—its cities lay in ruins, its people numbered among the countless dead. Fires raged across the landscape, and the void above was littered with the shattered husks of warships.
But the people did not despair.
Their world had been saved.
Amidst the devastation, voices rose in celebration. Space Marines, Imperial Guardsmen, planetary officials, and civilians alike all called out Guilliman's name, their praises reaching toward the heavens.
The Lord of Ultramar had returned.
And with him, the Imperium had hope once more.
Guilliman stepped forward, his armor glinting under the pale light of Macragge's wounded sun. The Ultramarines formed a protective barrier around him, preventing the surging crowds from overwhelming him in their fervor.
Beside him, Saint Celestine watched the scene with an expression of quiet reverence.
"They call for you," she said. "They believe you will deliver them from this eternal war."
Guilliman did not hesitate.
"That," he said, "is why I have awakened."