"Don't even dream of defying me," Guilliman thundered, his voice echoing across the battlefield. "I will cast you back to the warp and watch your pathetic existence dissolve into nothingness."
"You wouldn't dare!" the Nurgle Demon roared back, its voice a guttural rasp.
"I will capture your soul and expose you to the wonders of decay, the inevitable cycle of life and death! You'll understand that life, in all its ugliness, is far preferable to oblivion!"
"Do you truly believe you have a chance against me?" Guilliman scoffed, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Perhaps you think your revolting form is enough to disgust me to death? That's a distinct possibility, I admit." The playful facade shattered in an instant.
With a flick of his wrist, Guilliman sent the Emperor's Sword singing through the air. The blade, a beacon of holy light, cleaved through the demon's rusted weapon with contemptuous ease.
The flames emanating from the Emperor's Sword sent a tremor of primal fear through the demon. It stumbled backward, its massive form dwarfed by the Primarch's unwavering resolve.
Guilliman pressed his advantage, the holy blade held aloft like a divine executioner's scythe.
"Identify yourself, demon," Guilliman commanded, the Emperor's Sword poised over the creature's corrupted heart.
"Show some respect, lest you force me to renege on my offer. Remember, while I prefer not to sully this blade with your essence, complete annihilation is still on the table. You recognize this weapon, do you not?"
"The blade of the Damned, they call it in your foul tongue. It will utterly destroy your soul. One touch, and you won't even return to the warp. You'll simply cease to be, consumed by the purifying golden flame."
The demon's gaze darted between the merciless glint in Guilliman's eyes and the terrifying power emanating from the Emperor's Sword. Fear, raw and primal, flickered in its fetid eyes.
It knew the legends, the whispers of the Damned One's weapon, a weapon capable of banishing demons to a final oblivion. Many lesser daemons had met their end this very way on this battlefield.
Gurlo, witnessing this scene, bellowed in fury and charged towards Guilliman, desperate to save the demon. If the daemon perished, his plan would crumble to dust.
The Father's power would fade, the warp storms would recede, and this world would be spared the fate of becoming Nurgle's festering garden.
"You're finished, traitor!" Sicarius roared, intercepting Gurlo. Their blades met in a clash of steel, the force of the impact sending a tremor through the Centurion's armor.
Gurlo, his obese form straining against the power armor, grunted in exertion. The impact rattled him more than Sicarius.
A shower of maggots rained down from his body as startled flies buzzed away from the armor's surface, forming a dark, buzzing cloud.
A nearby Space Marine, wasting no time, unleashed his flamer. A torrent of cleansing fire erupted, engulfing the swarm of flies and burning their putrid forms to ash.
"Get lost, maggot-feeder!" Sicarius roared back, holding his ground against Gurlo's relentless attacks. His main objective was to buy time for the Primarch.
Back at the heart of the conflict, the Nurgle Demon, staring down the Emperor's Sword, finally broke.
With a whimper that echoed with a deep-seated terror, it rasped, "I am Gath the Slow, Great Unclean One of Nurgle."
Guilliman's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Great Unclean One? That diminutive frame hardly inspires awe, Gath the Slow. You truly are a waste."
Gath the Slow, though consumed by a burning hatred for the Primarch, could do nothing but endure the humiliation. He knew this defeat was a product of his own carelessness. Had he entered the real world with his full power, the outcome might have been different.
Real names held a particular power over demons. Knowing a true name allowed one to potentially enslave or banish them, but such knowledge was a double-edged sword.
Uttering a demon's true name without proper safeguards could have disastrous consequences. Even an ordinary human reciting such a name could become corrupted by the whispers of Chaos, transforming into a monstrous parody of their former selves.
Throughout the Imperium's history, such incidents were not uncommon, particularly among untrained psykers.
The Ecclesiarchy (the Imperial Church), Inquisition, Grey Knights, and the Officio Assassinorum all worked tirelessly to suppress knowledge of Chaos to prevent such corruption.
Guilliman, a Primarch blessed with the power to draw upon humanity's collective belief, was immune to such dangers. He could not only wield the demon's true name but also use it to banish the creature with ease.
"Excellent," Guilliman declared, his voice dripping with disdain. With a swift, brutal swing of the Emperor's Sword, he severed Gath the Slow's limbs, then plunged the holy blade deep into the demon's chest.
"Return to the warp," Guilliman commanded. "Carry a message to Mortarion: I will find him. If you value your existence, hide well."
As Guilliman's words echoed, Gath the Slow, his form wracked with pain, felt the pull of the warp, a force rejecting his presence in the real world.
"I will return!" he gurgled, a desperate threat laced with fear. Guilliman's icy gaze silenced him. The Great Unclean One, defeated and broken, vanished into the roiling chaos of the warp.
Gurlo, sensing the fading warp energy of the banished demon, let out a roar of despair. All his meticulous planning had come to naught. He couldn't accept this crushing defeat.
With the demonic threat neutralized, Guilliman turned his attention to Gurlo, who remained locked in combat with Sicarius. A silent exchange passed between the Primarch and the Captain. Guilliman had other plans for the demon, but the traitor leader was expendable.
The fate of Gurlo and Sicarius now hung in the balance as their blades clashed, the outcome of their duel a testament to the resilience of the Imperium and the desperation of a traitor.
The Primarch's gaze fell upon Gurlo, and the traitor leader knew his fate was sealed. Facing a being of such immense power, defeat was a matter of seconds.
The Emperor's Sword, a blur of holy light, met Gurlo's battle axe with a sickening crunch. The traitor's weapon shattered under the impact, leaving him defenseless.
With a pronouncement that echoed across the battlefield, Guilliman delivered the final blow.
"This world remains under the Emperor's righteous dominion," he declared, his voice ringing with authority. The Emperor's Sword plunged into Gurlo's chest, extinguishing the traitor's life in a single, decisive motion.
The remaining demons, sensing the tide of the battle turning decisively against them, scattered like frightened cockroaches.
They lacked the will to fight, understanding that continued resistance was futile. Unlike mortals, demons weren't truly destroyed by conventional means.
They could return from the warp after a period of recuperation, their essence reforming at the will of their patron god Nurgle.
Guilliman, ever the pragmatist, recognized the futility of utterly destroying the Plague Marines. Nurgle, the Chaos God of decay and disease, would simply revive them in time.
The true priority, he concluded, lay in securing the planet for the Imperium and dealing with the threat of the traitor Astartes and their Primarch leaders.
The Emperor, locked in his own epic battle with the Chaos Gods, kept them occupied. However, this precarious balance wouldn't last forever.
If the Chaos Gods realized Guilliman posed as significant a threat as the Emperor, they might shift their focus and unite against him.
Otherwise, they were content to let him and the Emperor exhaust themselves in their ongoing conflict.
Guilliman's humiliation of Nurgle with the inscription on the demon was a calculated risk. It wouldn't incite the Chaos God to launch a full-scale invasion, as such an action would leave Nurgle vulnerable to attacks from his rival deities.
The true threat, Guilliman realized, stemmed from the renegade Space Marines and their Primarchs.
Unlike demons, who relied on elaborate rituals and sacrifices to manifest in the real world, the traitor Astartes possessed the ability to enter and leave at will. They, along with the heretic Primarchs, were free to orchestrate plots and sow discord throughout the Imperium.
His mind raced, recalling the names of his traitorous brothers: Magnus the Red, Fulgrim the Phoenician, and Mortarion the Reaper. These were the enemies he needed to eliminate with utmost urgency.
Their continued existence posed a grave threat to the Imperium's stability, and their eradication would be a critical step towards securing the galaxy for mankind.
The weight of responsibility settled heavily on Guilliman's shoulders. Fighting a war on two fronts, one against a visible enemy and another against the shadows, was a daunting task.
"If only I had more loyal Primarchs at my side," he grumbled internally. The thought of Lion El'Jonson, the Primarch of the First Legion and a potential rival for the Warmaster title, lingered in his mind.
Lion El'Jonson, most likely slumbering within the depths of the Phalanx, the mobile space fortress, could be lost to time travel or some other unknown fate.
What a valuable asset he would be, a warrior of immense power and unwavering loyalty.
Vulkan, the perpetual Phoenix, the Primarch of the Eighteenth Legion, was another potential ally. Last seen active during the Beast War, he likely resided on Nocturne, his homeworld.
Though labeled immortal, his "death" was merely a temporary state, a period of dormancy before inevitable resurrection.
In a way, Vulkan defied categorization, a being skirting the line between man and immortal daemon.
Unfortunately, Guilliman lacked the resources to locate these missing Primarchs, at least not until he secured a firmer grip on the situation.
The Primarchs, after all, were the pinnacle of human potential, minds as sharp as any. He feared they would see through his facade, leading to unforeseen complications.
Even the Emperor and the Chaos Gods might eventually unravel the truth, the subtle changes in his thoughts and actions. Time was a fickle variable in this equation.
One thing remained certain: Guilliman needed to consolidate his power before things spiraled out of control.
He wouldn't risk his existence, and by extension, the fate of mankind, on a gamble involving the Emperor's or other Primarchs' acceptance. Another civil war, a galactic bloodbath, was the absolute worst-case scenario.
The battlefield erupted in cheers, the loyalist forces celebrating their hard-fought victory. The citizens of Sara Star, tears streaming down their faces, rejoiced at their liberation.
Guilliman, ever the pragmatist, pushed his internal turmoil aside. Orders flowed from his lips – clear instructions for battlefield cleanup, traitor executions, treatment of the wounded, civilian welfare assessments, and a request for a representative audience.
The machinery of war transitioned into the processes of rebuilding and restoring order.
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