"Sicarius," Guilliman addressed the newly arrived Captain, the movement of his armor emitting a satisfying metallic clang. He never strayed far from the suit that had facilitated his resurrection.
It wasn't merely a creation of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but an artifact imbued with the power of the Death God itself. This essence mended the wounds of Guilliman's soul, allowing him to reclaim his life after millennia of slumber.
In the fateful duel on Thessia, a treacherous blow from the Primarch Fulgrim had pierced Guilliman's neck, plunging him into a ten-thousand-year slumber.
This wasn't just a physical injury, but a grievous assault on his very soul. Otherwise, even the removal of his heart wouldn't have resulted in immediate death.
Similarly, the demise of Ferrus Manus was not solely due to Fulgrim's attack, but because the weapon wielded by the traitor Primarch was infused with the corrupting power of Chaos.
To date, Guilliman remained tethered to this armor. Perhaps a solution would present itself upon unlocking the next level of his "cheat database," as he mused internally.
"Astropaths intercepted a distress call from the Sara Galaxy," Guilliman explained.
"Plague Marines are rampaging across the system, and the local defenders are requesting assistance. After analyzing the message, I've determined this galaxy lies on our current route. Therefore, I've made a decision..."
"Prepare to detach the Macragge's Glory and a contingent of the fleet to address this threat. Gather your fighters, Sicarius. Upon exiting the warp, we must be ready to deploy a swift and decisive force. Our speed is paramount. Following the pacification of the Sara Galaxy, we'll rejoin the main fleet and proceed to the industrial world of Konor."
Sicarius hesitated, then spoke cautiously. "My Lord, your presence is not required on the battlefield. Captain Phakris is more than capable of handling this situation. We cannot risk your safety."
"No, Sicarius," Guilliman countered, his voice firm.
"I cannot decree a course of action and then hide behind others while they fight. The fleets will inevitably be dispersed, responding to calls for help across numerous galaxies."
"As Primarch, the Imperium needs me to deliver victories. The populace requires a tangible symbol of hope. My decision is final. Prepare for our deployment, Sicarius."
Guilliman's tone brooked no further argument. His objectives extended beyond appeasing the Imperial citizenry. The Master of Mankind's power could be amplified by the collective faith of the Imperium.
The greater his popularity, the more awe-inspiring his record, the more unwavering the trust of the people. It functioned like a cumulative bonus system, akin to a never-ending source of power.
Just like a butcher's cleaver against a brick, or a Buddha statue against another Buddha statue – the stronger the belief, the greater the power unleashed.
Guilliman's enemy was clear: the Chaos Gods. His purpose was resolute: He lived, so evil died. His demise meant the reign of the malevolent deities.
This conflict was locked in an eternal struggle, an unyielding clash of ideologies. Only one side could prevail, marking the definitive end of this war.
Guilliman understood the necessity of bolstering his prestige. The unwavering belief of the Imperial populace in him as the rightful heir, the Lord of Ultramar, the beacon of salvation, was a crucial asset.
Sicarius, recognizing the unyielding resolve in his Primarch's voice, could only offer his acquiescence.
He bowed his head in deference, then turned and strode out. A whirlwind of activity followed.
Fighters on the Macragge's Glory were readied for combat, the entire vessel humming with anticipation as they prepared to swiftly purge the Sara Galaxy of its infestation.
Guilliman, at the helm of a detached fleet, would spearhead the liberation effort. The rest of the armada, under the command of various heroes, would tackle other galaxies beset by the forces of Chaos.
Though their combined might was undeniably formidable, achieving swift victory and restoring stability to Ultramar was an ambitious goal.
The sheer vastness of the Imperium necessitated the division of their forces. Celestine, Amariqi, and other champions of the Imperium led their respective fleets to galaxies drowning in the tides of Chaos.
Their ultimate destination, however, was Konor, the industrial world situated on the outermost edge of Ultramar, bordering the Imperium's very fringes.
These heroes would converge on Konor via different routes, aiding beleaguered star systems along the way.
Once all fleets assembled in Konor, the true offensive against the forces of Chaos within Ultramar would commence, setting the stage for a push that would ripple outwards to other Imperial starfields.
Saint Celestine, Inquisitor Grey, and others harbored anxieties about Guilliman venturing onto the battlefield personally, haunted by the specter of his ten-thousand-year slumber.
However, their pleas fell on deaf ears. Guilliman's resolve was unwavering, and each hero, accepting his decision, took charge of their assigned fleets, embarking on missions to liberate countless suffering worlds.
Aboard the bridge of the Macragge's Glory, a symphony of activity unfolded. Servitors, their bodies wired into the ship's control center, trembled as information pulsed through their neural interfaces. Their digitized voices broadcasted updates in a monotonous cadence.
"Coordinate data detected... Sara Galaxy."
The captain, his robotic arm a testament to past battles, scanned the data streams with his cybernetic eyes before barking out the order, "Enter real space!"
Data flowed like a torrent, processed and disseminated by the Data Director, Power Director, and Intelligence Director, each working at the peak of their mechanical capabilities to maintain seamless control over the colossal vessel.
"Entity universe coordinate data parsed."
"Energy circuits converting, establishing gateway to real space."
"Propulsion systems stable."
Amidst a flurry of rapid announcements, the Macragge's Glory, a majestic titan stretching over twenty-six kilometers, ripped its way out of the warp.
Following in its wake were warships from other chapters, their crews ready to fight alongside Guilliman in the coming conflict.
A deluge of information flooded the bridge – a constant stream of data being exchanged between vessels, a testament to the coordinated might of the Imperial fleet.
A harsh cacophony erupted on the bridge. The avian augury screeched its warnings, its mechanical counterpart, the cogitator, mimicking the screech with a rapid clicking.
In unison, the announcers wired into the divination instruments blared the dreaded news: "Chaos ship detected! Chaos ship detected!" Their twitching bodies and amplified voices painted a grim picture.
"Shift Geller Field to void shield! Full battle readiness! Open fire at will! Purge these damned traitors! Let them feel the Emperor's righteous fury!" The captain, his grip tightening on the railing, roared his orders, his voice echoing across the bridge.
The battle raged on Sara, its once-proud hive city, Grix, now a monument to devastation. The relentless onslaught of Plague Marines had ravaged the metropolis.
Survivors huddled within the Star Language Fortress, the lone bastion shielded by a functional void shield. This shield stood as their last line of defense, their only hope against the tide of corruption.
Boom after thunderous boom echoed across the ruined cityscape as the defenders, clinging to their dwindling hope, unleashed their meager firepower against the encroaching horde.
Their positions crumbled bit by bit, overrun by the shambling masses of Plague Marines. These walking corpses, victims of Chaos' vile mutations, were testaments to the horror unleashed upon this world. They devoured anything living, adding their victims to their grotesque ranks.
Within the cramped confines of the fortress, civilians huddled together, their faces etched with despair. They sought solace in the warmth of each other's bodies, a desperate attempt to ward off the chilling grip of fear.
Every man and woman capable of bearing arms had been thrown into the fray, their valiant efforts ending in their transformation into the very enemy they fought – another cog in the Plague Marines' macabre machinery.
An elderly woman held two children close, their wide eyes reflecting a terror beyond comprehension. Innocence had been shattered, replaced by a profound understanding of mortality.
Born into an era of darkness, they knew only suffering. Their once peaceful existence had been shattered just a few months prior.
Nightmares of watching their father march off to war, witnessing their mother's gruesome demise at the hands of the Plague Marines, haunted their young minds.
A small voice, trembling with fear, broke the silence. "Grandma," the girl whimpered, her gaze shifting between the fervent prayers of the kneeling figures and the woman's weathered face.
"You always said the Emperor protects us. Why hasn't he sent his angel? He didn't save Mom and Dad either."
The old woman fought back tears, forcing a reassuring smile. Her bony arms strained as she held the children tighter. "Grandma doesn't know, little one."
She rasped, her voice betraying a flicker of doubt. "Perhaps the Emperor's angels are busy elsewhere..."
Even in the abyss of despair, a faint glimmer of hope flickered on the horizon. Unaware of the devastation unfolding below, the Macragge's Glory, a beacon of salvation, emerged from the warp, carrying with it the wrath of the Emperor and the unwavering resolve of Guilliman.
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