Guilliman, clad in his majestic azure power armor, strode onto the command deck. He was flanked by his honor guard, their Iron Cavalry Terminator armor transforming them into hulking figures of steel.
The sheer immensity of their presence filled the room with an oppressive weight, leaving the bridge crew struggling to catch their breath.
The Glory Guard, veterans of countless battles and adorned in the most formidable Terminator armor the Ultramarines possessed, exuded an aura that demanded respect.
Standing under their gaze, ordinary crewmen felt a tremor of fear course through them.
"Report, Captain Breher," Guilliman addressed the officer occupying the command chair. "What is the current situation?"
"Enemy forces have converged on Planet Number Two within the Sara Galaxy," Breher responded, his voice strained under the scrutiny of the Primarch.
"Based on their insignia and battleship characteristics, our intel appears accurate. The enemy is indeed the Death Guard."
A wave of grim recognition washed over Guilliman. The Death Guard – Plague Spreaders, Cursed Betrayers, the Empire's eternal enemies, unforgiven traitors.
They were once the Fourteenth Legion, a force instrumental in the Great Crusade and the unification of mankind under the Emperor's banner. Led by the Primarch Mortarion, their contributions were undeniable.
However, the tides of loyalty had shifted during the Horus Heresy. Mortarion, in a pivotal act of betrayal, turned his legions against the loyalists in the Itari Galaxy, joining the rebellion alongside other traitor legions and unleashing a bloody massacre.
Their treachery deepened during a warp transit. Aboard their flagship, Mortarion fell prey to the machinations of a young psyker named Typhon, who deliberately sabotaged the vessel's Gellar Field, plunging the fleet into the perilous depths of the warp.
Left stranded and vulnerable, they became easy prey for the corrupting whispers of Chaos.
Mortarion, a Primarch renowned for his staunch resistance to witchcraft and a loathing for all things chaotic, found himself an unlikely target. Through a torturous ordeal, Nurgle, the Chaos God of Plague, Death, and Stagnation, twisted and warped him to his will.
Mortarion, once an unwavering defender of the Imperium, became a puppet of the very forces he once despised. He was a cautionary tale – a testament to the insidious nature of Chaos, capable of seducing even the most resolute souls.
Nurgle's tainted influence transformed Mortarion into a Daemon Primarch, a living embodiment of decay. He led the Death Guard, now corrupted beyond redemption, in the Battle of Terra, unleashing a plague upon the Imperial Palace that claimed countless lives.
Following the rebellion's defeat, the remnants of the Death Guard scattered, fleeing to the Eye of Terror, the festering heart of Chaos, and the fringes of the Imperium. They remained a constant threat, a thorn in the side of the Emperor's dominion.
Guilliman digested the report on the Death Guard, his brow furrowed in contemplation. He turned back to Captain Breher, his voice resolute.
"Victory is unquestionable," he declared. "However, the situation on the planet's surface concerns me. Has there been any response to our communications attempts?"
Breher's face mirrored the weight of the grim news. "No, my lord. All transmissions, electromagnetic and astrological alike, have been intercepted. It's highly likely the enemy controls all communication channels. Worse still, the astropaths stationed there are either corrupted or dead."
Anger flickered in Breher's remaining eye. Another planetary massacre, another toll of billions sacrificed to the insatiable hunger of the Chaos Gods. He silently prayed for the souls of the unfortunate civilians, hoping the Emperor would grant them his mercy.
"Perhaps this is a turning point," Guilliman mused, his gaze drifting towards the tactical console. The whirring machinery hummed a constant melody as the Adeptus Mechanicus instruments whirred to life.
A holographic display flickered into existence, depicting the strategic layout of the Sara Galaxy and the enemy's fleet composition. All Plague ships were concentrated in orbit around the second planet.
"Indeed," Breher agreed, a flicker of hope sparking in his eyes.
"We attack," Guilliman declared with unwavering determination. "Eradication is paramount. If any survivors remain, we offer them salvation. If not, we avenge their sacrifice."
"As you command, my lord," Breher acknowledged, a solemn oath hanging heavy in the air.
The Macragge's Glory, leading the Imperial fleet, surged forward, the planet Sara II filling their view. A verdant world, capped by polar ice sheets, unfolded before them.
Lush green plains and sprawling forests dominated the landscape, punctuated by scattered desert regions. It was a picture of idyllic beauty, a haven for humankind with exceptional colonization potential.
Six sprawling hive cities dotted the surface, one particularly gargantuan structure covering a staggering 26 million square kilometers. Data projections estimated a population exceeding 50 billion, a vital asset to the war-torn Imperium.
The arrival of the Imperial fleet did not go unnoticed. The Plague Fleet stirred, their vessels launching a counter-offensive as they sought to intercept the Imperial ships.
Guilliman observed the unfolding battle on the tactical display. The enemy fleet comprised three separate groups, lacking any semblance of coordinated strategy.
Guilliman's keen eyes recognized the inherent weakness of the Chaos forces – their mutual distrust. Unlike the disciplined ranks of the Imperial Navy, these warbands preferred independent operations.
Lacking the ability or will to fight under a unified command. As the distance between the fleets dwindled to a mere 3 million kilometers, a brutal close-quarters engagement erupted.
The Imperial vessels unleashed a devastating salvo. Torpedoes and missiles fanned out in a wide formation, forming a staggered barrage.
Simultaneously, tons of anti-ship artillery shells rained down, aiming to restrict the enemy's maneuverability. Space combat, however, was a dance of constant flux.
Engagement distances could shift dramatically, stretching to millions of kilometers at a moment's notice. This made targeting with torpedoes, missiles, and artillery shells a challenging prospect, as enemy ships constantly adjusted their positions.
Coordinating such a chaotic battlefield demanded immense processing power. Guilliman, ever vigilant, monitored every change, his gaze sweeping across the tactical display.
He had previously envisioned a future where energy weapons like lances would take center stage, rendering torpedoes and missiles obsolete.
Witnessing the unfolding battle, however, shattered that notion. Each weapon possessed its own strengths. Missiles boasted automatic tracking capabilities, allowing them to strike any point on the enemy vessel.
Lance weapons, while undeniably fast, lacked maneuverability, firing in a straight line with destructive power easily countered by shields. Physical projectiles, like torpedoes and shells, offered undeniable advantages in their raw power.
Their previously lamented slow speed could even be a tactical advantage, forcing the enemy to hold their positions for fear of direct impacts.
Likewise, stationary torpedoes and mines, though slow, held the potential to bypass void shields entirely, wreaking catastrophic damage upon detonation.
The distance between the fleets, while vast on an ordinary scale, constituted close quarters within the context of space warfare.
Lance beams and colossal shells zipped through the void, transforming the space between them into a deadly ballet of light and metal.
The Macragge's Glory's void shield flared repeatedly under the onslaught of energy weapons, its surface rippling and undulating.
The strain of dissipating energy caused the shield generators to whine under the pressure, some even spitting out alarming sparks.
The Plague Marines, with an uncanny awareness, zeroed in on the Macragge's Glory, recognizing it as the lynchpin of the Imperial fleet. Yet, despite their characteristic disorganization, they launched a coordinated assault.
The Imperial flagship, unfazed by the concentrated fire, met it head-on, unleashing a devastating counter-barrage of its own. Artillery shells, with the firepower to level entire cities, rained down upon the enemy ranks.
A Plague ship, its void shields overwhelmed, found itself a victim of a torpedo strike. The torpedo slammed into the vessel's prow, sending it into a sickening spin as it became a target for a relentless volley of attacks.
Torpedoes, missiles, and lance beams tore through its hull, followed by the catastrophic detonation of its plasma energy core.
The vessel erupted in a silent explosion, engulfed in flames that slowly consumed it, transforming it into a blazing pyre adrift in the void.
The debris from the exploding battleship included a hunk of metal resembling a mansion. This unintended projectile slammed into another Plague ship, overloading its void shield.
The hapless vessel was then ripped apart by a relentless hail of macro-cannon fire from an Imperial cruiser. The Macragge's Glory, the linchpin of the Imperial fleet, acted as a monstrous blade, carving a bloody swathe through the enemy's heart.
The tide of the battle was swiftly turning. The Imperial forces, emboldened by their early successes, pressed their advantage with relentless fervor. Victory, it seemed, was within their grasp.
"This behavior is aberrant," Phikris muttered, shaking his head in bewilderment as he observed the unfolding scene. "Logically, they would have initiated a retreat upon realizing defeat."
"Perhaps they've been craven with fear," Breher sneered, a hint of dark amusement coloring his voice.
His greatest pleasure lay in personally overseeing the destruction of enemy vessels, their wreckage destined to become macabre ice sculptures in the cold embrace of space.
"A dead traitor," he declared with grim satisfaction, "is a traitor duly recognized."
Guilliman, however, remained unconvinced. He averted his gaze from the tactical display, a frown etching itself onto his face.
"There's more to this," he declared, his voice heavy with unease.
"Focus your efforts on retrieving intel from the surface of Sara II. The key to understanding this anomaly might lie there."
Despite being a time traveler, he had inherited the memories and power of his predecessor, essentially undergoing a form of fusion.
The tactical prowess and wisdom gleaned from this inheritance left him feeling suspicious of the Plague Marines' uncharacteristic bravery.
Their behavior reeked of desperation, more akin to Khorne's blind rage than the methodical approach favored by Nurgle, the Plague God. Nurgle championed decay and entropy, not mindless slaughter.
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