'Father... Save the Empire, save humanity.'
'I cannot fall yet.'
'...Father!'
That was the whisper of descent from the bottomless darkness.
The angry, sorrowful, unwilling voice echoed through the mountain of corpses and sea of blood that exuded a deadly fragrance, repeating itself again and again. Each repetition brought with it a wail, until, at last, it became an exaggerated sobbing.
Time stopped at that moment when the great, alert consciousness froze at the brink of death.
That moment—the moment when the Emperor's loyal thirteenth son had his throat slit by his fallen brother's vicious blade.
This cycle had continued for ten thousand years in Terra's time.
Suddenly—crack!
With the simultaneous sound of glass shattering and flesh tearing, a blinding purple-red flash burst through the darkness. The sound of blood flowing and breath stirring came together as light and air poured through the rift torn in the black curtain.
Buzz—
In the gloom, the black world split apart. One by one, grand purple-red streaks of light pierced the darkness. Tiny fluorescent particles floated through the air beneath the beams, and the light pouring down from the broken curtain completely dispelled the eternal whispers of ruin and the toxic smoke of death.
'I...?'
The nearly broken consciousness gradually pieced itself back together through the advanced logic of its mind. The Primarch let out a questioning thought.
'Where... am I...? Pursuing traitors... The Emperor's son, the Emperor's pride—Fulgrim...'
A chill wind blew through the dark. After ten thousand years of stillness, the Primarch's mind stirred again—like the tolling of a bell, a pure and clear note rang out. The purple-red light slowly crawled across Guilliman's body. The demigod giant, illuminated by the cold, radiant light, opened his eyes in that humble, glowing space.
'I... was slain by Fulgrim... Was I dead?'
Guilliman was startled. He did not fear death, but he feared what his death would mean for the Empire.
I cannot die yet—not now. After the great betrayal that tore the Empire apart, with all its wounds still bleeding, there remains too much unfinished work. Too much—far too much.
If I die, what will Russ do? And Khan? My brothers... What will they turn the Empire into?
His thoughts stalled in chaos. Confusion swirled, but his superhuman mind swiftly organized the disorder, recalling the final scene before the darkness claimed him.
The serpent-bodied Fulgrim.
The former master of Chemos, the Emperor's Children's homeworld—the once-radiant Phoenix of the Empire, now fallen. The proud eagle had fallen to the dirt, transformed into a grotesque abomination. His once flawless human form had been twisted and reshaped, painted in garish colors and deformed into something monstrous.
It all felt close—too close. Guilliman remembered every detail of his pitiful and abhorrent brother's form—how alluring, how horrifying, how revolting it had become.
'Father... Is that you?'
As if in response to his unyielding will, a faint golden light shimmered within the purple-red glow. It was familiar—achingly so, yet distant. Guilliman strained to see through the brilliance, and for a moment—
Beyond the light, in a shattered reflection, a faint image appeared. Upon the colossal Golden Throne, the withered corpse seemed to move. The hollow eye sockets, filled only with agony, turned toward him.
The corpse's fleshless jaw seemed to split open. Was that... a smile?
Sorrow flooded Guilliman's soul. He reached out, wanting to touch that faint beam of light. But in that instant, from the corner of his eye, he saw something else—near the Emperor's broken body, a flicker of purple-red light, watching him calmly.
A towering shadow, vast as the sea of souls, loomed over him in that moment.
Those eyes—those scarlet, magnificent eyes.
Joy, amusement, scrutiny, calculation... Emotions Guilliman could recognize—or perhaps there was no concealment at all. They were so human in expression, yet utterly hollow and unreal.
Guilliman knew that gaze.
It was like the look of an engineer, wearied by endless toil, discovering a tool—one more efficient, one more useful.
'Rise, son of vengeance. It is time to awaken.'
From beyond the sea of souls came a voice, ethereal and indistinct—feminine, though faintly so.
"Who are you?"
There was no fear, only calm. Guilliman tried to rise, but the taut pain around his throat halted him.
"You will know soon enough... my appointed Chancellor of Internal Affairs."
There was delight in the tone—Guilliman recognized it instantly.
"What do you mean by that?"
But before he could ask further, everything before him quietly vanished.
"...Guilliman... my brother whom I have never met... you still have an unfinished mission... awaken..."
At the same time, another voice—a voice unlike the one that had spoken directly to his mind and soul—echoed beside his ear.
Yes, his ear. His heart beat once more, blood surging through his reviving body. The vibration of his eardrums let him clearly catch the sound of that bright, spirited voice.
Then—
The darkness scattered. The purple-red curtain of light dissolved, and his vision was filled with blinding white.
He knew it was sunlight because he felt the long-forgotten burn upon his retinas. His nostrils caught the unmistakable stench of waste, the metallic tang of blood, and the acrid scent of scorched flesh.
As his eyes adjusted, the first thing that came into view was the Roman numeral XVII—and the emblem of a burning golden flame within an open book.
His heart stopped.
The Word Bearers!
All doubts and thoughts vanished from Guilliman's mind.
Boom!
The steel boots of the Armor of Reason struck the floor of the shrine. With a thunderous crash, the ground shook, layers of dust exploded outward, and the adamantium-ceramite structure cracked like a spider's web. Massive fragments rained down from above.
Before anyone could react, in a flash faster than thunder, the blue-armored giant became a tank breaking the sound barrier at its first stride. Fueled by rage and contempt, he hurled himself like a living weapon straight into the smiling, open-armed preacher of the God-Emperor—Primarch Lorgar!
"LORGAR!"
BOOM!
The half-material shockwave burst outward like the detonation of a heavy bomb. The impact centered on Guilliman and Lorgar, clearing everything nearby in an instant.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The two towering figures collided and tumbled together, crashing from the shrine above the steps through the sanctum's entrance, shattering every wall and pillar in their path.
Like skipping stones, they gouged crater after crater into the scarred floor of the sanctum. Cracks spread in web-like veins across the ground. Pebbles and shards leapt into the air, fragments of steel mixing with dust, flesh, and blood.
Crash—
The already-ruined Sanctum of Hera groaned with a deafening, bone-chilling crack.
"Th-this..."
Celestine, her face turned heavenward in prayer, froze. Her eyes widened as she beheld the clash of two Primarchs' pure, physical might.
"++++++"
Belisarius Cawl muttered in binary, thick with machine-oil inflection.
Within the sanctum, both the remaining Omega Company Astartes and the freshly arrived God-Emperor's preachers stood in stunned confusion at the rapidly shifting scene.
"The Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds has returned!"
Calgar, his face alight with exultant fervor, stared at the back of his gene-father. "We must aid our father!"
But as Calgar prepared to charge forward, a power halberd, its disintegration field crackling, barred his way.
"Stand down."
The one who spoke was taller and mightier than Calgar, clad in ornate, devoutly wrought power armor—the Grand Captain of the God-Emperor's preachers.
"This is a dispute between Primarchs. It is for Primarchs to resolve."
The Grand Captain's tone was calm. "To put it bluntly—do you even have the strength to interfere?"
He had every right to say so.
For from that blue-armored giant named Guilliman, he could feel the same origin as their own—the mark of transformation by Honkai energy!
In other words, Guilliman had already received the Emperor's acknowledgment—at the very least, he bore the mark of kinship.
"You!"
Calgar looked ready to erupt but ultimately restrained himself. He knew he had no power to stop a clash between Primarchs.
"Relax, my brother. Lorgar is not me, and I am not the Lorgar of Colchis. I am Lorgar Aurelian."
Sensing the same source of Honkai energy within Guilliman's body, Lorgar's expression grew more earnest.
What nonsense is this?
Guilliman's eyes widened as he glared furiously at that smug, pious face.
Huh? Where were Lorgar's facial scriptures?
Chii—
"You have passed the God-Emperor's trial."
The Armor of Truth remained pristine. Guilliman's massive frame was gradually lifted. Lorgar looked directly into his eyes, prying open the Primarch's iron grip that had been locked around his throat.
"My brother, calm yourself. Do not let rage and hatred consume you so easily. Judgment and observation are vital. On that point, Roboute was never lacking."
Rising from the massive crater of dust, rubble, and broken steel, Lorgar effortlessly suppressed Guilliman and leisurely rested the Staff of Truth against the side of his head, lightly tapping his shoulder plate.
"Think, brother. If I were the traitor of Colchis you imagine me to be—would you still be alive to see the sun today?"
"You're not Lorgar... Then who are you? Another of Father's gene-forged creations...?"
The cadence of Lorgar's voice, the rhythm of his pulse, even the sound of his blood—all of it told Guilliman that this man was utterly certain of his words.
And Guilliman could not feel the unique kinship that existed among true Primarchs.
Clang!
Watching Lorgar lower his staff and step back, Guilliman's hostility eased considerably.
He was, after all, a man of reason. His momentary anger was nothing. Reflection and adaptation—that was Guilliman's way.
He looked around. The scattered remains of the Word Bearers' enchanted warriors spoke wordlessly of what had transpired in this fortress-monastery before his awakening.
Instinctively, Guilliman reached to touch the wound at his throat—the rope-like scar that ran from left to right across it.
It still throbbed faintly.
A Primarch's body should not scar easily, yet Fulgrim had left him with a hideous, deadly mark.
"It was the apothecaries of that time who saved me."
Through the torn dome of the monastery-fortress, now almost exposed to the open sky, he could see the heavens—a dark red expanse without clouds. In low orbit, space battles cast fragmented shadows upon the smoke-choked world below.
Across the sky stretched barrages of artillery and blossoms of explosions. The atmosphere shuddered with every blast. Countless ship wrecks and enormous fragments of steel rained down. At times, entire warships the size of mountains broke apart as they fell, burning as they entered the atmosphere, blazing like colossal meteors.
Unbothered by Guilliman's lingering suspicion, Lorgar stood beside him, speaking patiently like a forgiving elder, explaining the state of the human Imperium.
Though Lorgar himself only half-understood the Empire's current state, that did not stop him from providing a crash course to a man who had slept for ten thousand years—a 'sleeping beauty' of legend.
After a candid and cordial exchange, the two Primarchs shared their thoughts and reached mutual understanding.
"So, you mean to say... it's now M41.999, and I've been in stasis for over ten thousand years."
"The human Imperium has become a colossal, rusted war engine—decaying as it slides irreversibly toward the abyss. The time for change has come. And my father... has entered a pact with the gods of the Warp, the Goddess of Finality and Order?"
Though Guilliman's emotions were complex, he was not shocked. He could picture it clearly.
Even ten millennia ago, he had been prepared—knowing that what was to come could only range from bad to worse.
"So then, what is your choice, Guilliman?" Lorgar extended his right hand, smiling warmly.
Guilliman chuckled bitterly. "Do I even have a choice? My tyrant father has already decided. As his son, what else can I do—rebel? Could things possibly grow worse?"
He clasped Lorgar's hand and looked up toward the alien sky of Macragge. The vast rift splitting the galaxy burned bright in the void.
"Father... how ironic."
"What is your next step? To reunite on Terra?" Guilliman asked.
"No. Our mission is to preach in the Eastern Fringe. To spread the Empress' faith throughout the mortal realm, and to eradicate all profane temples and blasphemous cults."
"...What?" Guilliman froze.
You want me to preach?
Does that mean I'll have to bring back the Book of Lorgar?
"Do not worry," Lorgar continued. "You will also improve the lives of the people in the Eastern Fringe. Strive to eliminate all plagues and disease. As for supplies and medical STC provisions, we will provide them."
"Guilliman, my brother—this will be a war of faith within the Immaterium itself."
...
[Warp]
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH—!!"
"Cry. Keep crying. The more you scream, the more excited I become."
—
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