Guilliman's voice was not particularly loud, yet it carried an almost supernatural weight, cutting through the deafening cheers of the gathered masses. The already fervent crowd erupted in an even greater display of devotion, their chants reaching a fever pitch.
Ragged and pious worshippers of the Ecclesiarchy fell to their knees, their hands raised in exultation as they sang hymns of praise to the Emperor.
"He has not forsaken us," they wept. "He has sent His son back to deliver humanity from darkness!"
Some believers, overwhelmed with zeal, retrieved electro-flails and struck themselves, welcoming the pain as a testament to their faith. A woman lifted her infant high, her voice thick with emotion.
"Look upon him, my child. He is the Emperor's glory made flesh! Our salvation!"
A single voice pierced the chaos.
"Long live the Emperor! Long live Guilliman!"
The cry spread like wildfire.
"Long live the Emperor! Long live Guilliman!"
The words echoed across the ruined cityscape, reverberating through soldiers and civilians alike. It was an outpouring of desperate hope, a reaffirmation that, despite the horrors of war, mankind still had its savior.
Guilliman himself observed the spectacle with a critical eye. His influence over the Imperium's faith was undeniable. He could feel it—a tide of raw, intangible energy flowing into him, strengthening him in ways he had never truly understood before. This was the power of human belief, manifesting through the Imperium's ruling dogma.
The thought intrigued him. If this was the strength granted merely by the devotion of Macragge's people, what would it feel like to wield the faith of the entire Imperium?
For the first time since his resurrection, the idea of facing the Chaos Gods head-on seemed almost amusing.
"Perhaps this war isn't as hopeless as I once thought."
The battle was over. Under the watchful protection of the Ultramarines, Guilliman strode toward Macragge's inner sanctum.
The streets were lined with survivors—haggard, war-worn refugees from all corners of the Ultramar Sector. The remnants of Macragge's once-mighty starport lay in smoldering ruin, black smoke rising in thick columns as transports continued their relentless descent, bearing yet more souls who had come seeking their Lord's salvation.
Many in the crowd wept openly as they beheld him. Others trembled in reverence, unable to contain their awe. If he so much as glanced in their direction, they fell to their knees in supplication.
Guilliman knew without a doubt—these people would die for him without hesitation.
At his side, Archmagos Belisarius Cawl walked in solemn contemplation, his mechanized frame clicking and whirring with each step. Chapter Master Marneus Calgar, ever the stoic warrior, still could not conceal his reverence. Even the neural cables grafted into his skull twitched, betraying his uncharacteristic excitement.
The significance of Guilliman's return was not lost on them. For humanity, his revival was the first true glimmer of hope in ten thousand years.
Cawl, in particular, seemed content. The countless millennia he had spent traversing the galaxy, scouring forgotten worlds for the means to restore the Primarch, had not been in vain. His efforts had borne fruit. Guilliman was here.
The galaxy would enter a new era.
Celestine, the Living Saint, walked among them, her radiant presence a stark contrast to the devastation that surrounded them. Beside her was Canoness Amalrich, her expression one of quiet reverence.
For the first time in an age, the Imperium had secured a victory.
Not just against the Chaos legions that had ravaged Macragge, but against the hopelessness that had long festered in the hearts of mankind.
Yet Guilliman, even as he acknowledged their celebrations, could not ignore the reality around him.
Macragge lay in ruins.
The devastation was absolute. Entire city blocks were reduced to smoldering rubble. The bodies of fallen civilians littered the streets, their remains yet to be collected.
Even the Ultramarines had suffered grievous losses. Countless Astartes had perished in the trenches, their power armor now little more than broken husks amid the wreckage of tanks and artillery.
The remains of the Chaos forces still tainted the land—hulking Daemon Engines reduced to twisted metal, their fell energies dissipating into the ether. The stench of war hung thick in the air.
Macragge had endured, but it had been bled dry.
As Guilliman walked through the desolation, the weight of the Imperium's reality settled upon him.
"This is just one world among millions."
The war against Chaos was far from over.
For a brief moment, his earlier confidence waned. He had been reveling in the surge of power granted by the faith of his people, but now the grim truth returned with full force.
Millions—no, billions—would still perish.
Countless more would die in the Imperium's eternal struggle, their lives spent to buy mere moments of survival.
"There is no end to this."
The gears of fate continued to turn, grinding heroes into dust, fueling the endless war machine of mankind's suffering.
He clenched his fists.
"I just hope there will be an end to it all."
He refused to become a pawn of Chaos. He refused to be damned to an eternity of torment at the hands of the Dark Gods.
Guilliman had no choice but to win.
If he failed—if he faltered for even a moment—he would not merely die.
The ruinous powers would claim him, and his soul would be bound in agony for eternity.
He could not afford to lose.
Inside the shattered remains of the inner sanctum, Guilliman stood alone.
His advisors had left, recognizing his need for solitude.
He stared through a broken window, watching the people below as they carried away the dead.
"Horus, you are beyond forgiveness."
Even now, ten thousand years later, the echoes of Horus' betrayal still shaped the fate of the galaxy.
Abaddon, the traitor's first captain, had inherited his master's unholy crusade. He had spent ten millennia waging war against the Imperium, launching attack after attack, carving deeper wounds into mankind's already battered empire.
And in that time, the Imperium had withered.
Survival had become its only priority. The dream of a brighter future, the Emperor's vision, had long since been abandoned.
The once-mighty Imperium had become a rotting corpse, propped up by ignorance and zealotry.
Reason and hope had been forsaken, replaced by fear, hatred, and blind devotion.
Even in the so-called golden age of the Great Crusade, Guilliman had fought for a future where humanity could thrive.
Now, ten thousand years later, that dream felt further away than ever.
"The Imperium is broken. And if nothing changes, it will die."
Guilliman exhaled slowly.
He would not allow that to happen.
There needed to be a new plan—one that could truly turn the tide against Chaos.
This war wasn't just about saving humanity.
It was about saving himself.
If he lost, he would become a plaything of the Dark Gods, condemned to suffer for eternity.
That was a fate he would never accept.
Guilliman clenched his jaw, his resolve hardening.
"I will win. No matter the cost."
The Lord of Ultramar turned from the window.
The war for the Imperium's survival was only just beginning.