When the expedition fleet reached the edge of the Maelstrom, the pilgrims were shocked to find the area had already been warped and swollen by a new, terrifying power—far beyond any past records!
The previously navigable safe routes were ripped apart and swallowed by violent Warp turbulence.
"Aaah!"
"No! The routes—all the routes are gone!"
The fleet's navigators screamed in agony almost simultaneously.
They clutched at their third eyes, crimson blood seeping through their fingers.
"Emergency exit! Get out of the Warp now!"
Experienced captains wasted no time. The instant the navigators raised the alarm, they ordered an emergency translation.
One after another, ships' hulls shimmered with twisted lights as the fleet tore through the veil between dimensions, returning to the cold, lonely realspace.
Violent tremors shook every hull. The dizziness from translation hadn't yet faded when shrill alarms blared in every captain's ear like funeral bells.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A new barrage hammered the fleet's freshly raised void shields, erupting in dazzling energy flares.
In a flash, several escort and destroyer-class ships at the edge of the formation had their shields overloaded and shattered.
Thick adamantium armor was torn and pierced like parchment.
Internal explosions followed as the decks and crew were consumed by fire.
Despairing wails, deafening blasts, and the screech of rending metal drowned all communications.
"All ships, report in! What the hell is attacking us?!"
Guilliman did not panic. He immediately began reorganizing the fleet, coordinating defense and counterattack.
Each ship's bridge was a scene of chaos, officers desperately combing through garbled sensor data for the source of the threat.
Did they stumble into an asteroid belt? An enemy's territory?
The auspex arrays and optical sentinels quickly revealed the truth—a truth that made everyone's hearts sink.
The fleet, forced out of the Warp, had delivered itself straight into a pre-arranged kill zone!
This was no accident, but a meticulously crafted ambush.
The attackers' ships were twisted, baroque constructions, their hulls painted with ominous sigils—the mark of the traitorous Fifteenth Legion: the Thousand Sons!
The Thousand Sons fleet was arrayed in strict formation, their firepower precise and deadly.
The moment the pilgrim fleet appeared, it was hit by a saturation barrage.
All evidence pointed to a chilling fact—the enemy had precisely predicted the loyalist fleet's time and coordinates, laying a perfect trap.
At the very heart of the Thousand Sons fleet stood an unimaginably colossal structure.
Guilliman recognized, with a mix of anger and sorrow, what it once was.
It was the famed Tizca's Revenge, a massive pyramid from Prospero, now corrupted and transformed into a planet-sized warship—the flagship of the Thousand Sons.
Each sloping face was studded with massive, living crystal red eyes, coldly scanning the void, exuding a suffocating psychic pressure.
"Magnus…"
Guilliman slammed his fist onto the control panel, the metal console clanging and startling nearby crew.
Staring at the monstrous pyramid, he slowly spat out the name of his former brother—now a sworn enemy of the Imperium.
This ambush and scheme—it could only be the work of the Magnus the Red, who had stolen the power of the Warp and betrayed the Emperor.
The pilgrim fleet was trapped. Behind them, the Maelstrom's raging psychic arms cut off all retreat; ahead, Magnus and his Thousand Sons barred the way, an iron wall across their course. There was nowhere to run.
"Fire."
Seated on the sorcerous throne, Magnus watched the struggling fleet in his carefully laid trap.
A sneer curled his lips. He had spent much effort for this moment.
Everything was unfolding as he had foreseen.
Guilliman had indeed leapt right into his trap. Now, it was time for the fool to feel the despair of being outmatched in both strategy and intellect.
The Thousand Sons unleashed devastating firepower. The Imperial fleet fought back with all their might.
The battle was unprecedentedly fierce. Battleship guns blazed, launching shells the size of cargo containers.
Lances and lasers wove a web of death, outlining brilliant, deadly constellations.
Wings of fighters hurled themselves at the enemy line like moths to flame.
Every time a void shield flickered, a powerful energy beam dissipated.
Disruptions interfered with movement, secondary system alarms echoed everywhere, and city-flattening firepower flashed in the void.
Yet, despite fighting with all their might, the Imperial fleet inevitably began to lose ground.
The pilgrims' numbers and firepower were no match for the Thousand Sons.
One ship after another saw its void shields collapse, hulls torn apart.
Engines failed under fire, turning whole ships into drifting coffins.
Warp-tipped torpedoes hit, seething energies turning bridges and magazines into hell.
Torn decks and screaming crew were flung into the icy void.
Guilliman issued orders without rest, striving to reform the lines and organize counterattacks, trying to salvage the impossible battle.
But his opponent was also a Primarch of superlative genius.
The fleet was sliding towards doom—Guilliman could feel the icy chill of fate.
This was a deadly ambush. The blood and glory of the loyalists would soon be swallowed and erased.
Tizca's Revenge.
To build this war engine, he had plundered hundreds of Imperial worlds, drawing unknown energies from the Warp.
Now, he watched Guilliman's misery through the crystal corridors, delighted.
This time, he would grind Guilliman into the dirt and drag him back for Tzeentch to torment.
Even if the Emperor himself came from Terra, it would be useless—so said the Scarlet King.
Macragge's Honoury—the flagship's strategium.
Guilliman was tense, mind racing for a way out of this hopeless situation.
Saint Celestine, Belisarius Cawl, Marshal Amalrich of the Black Templars, and other senior officers all wore grim faces.
No matter how they calculated, the outcome was always defeat.
Their pilgrimage seemed doomed to end here.
Clang~~
On the tactical display, Datch hopped and slid with his jump pack towards the bridge doors, sometimes tripping over neatly stacked crates and knocking out corridor lights.
A tech-priest, just finished stacking boxes with his servitors, covered his flesh-starved head with mechanical tendrils and screeched like a prairie dog.
"Just because I'm a wage slave, I have to be bullied, huh?!"
Datch ignored him, skipping past the crowd to stand before Guilliman.
"Lord Regent, is there anything I can do?"
…
Bonus chapter at 100 PS