Guilliman was stunned. He had known that Sage Cawl had prepared an army for him. But never in his wildest dreams did he expect an army on this scale.
With this host, the Indomitus Crusade would rival, even surpass, the Great Crusade of old. This time, they wouldn't stop at reclaiming lost territories from Chaos—the task was to finally reunite the whole galaxy.
To fall short of conquering even a small galaxy—would that not be the ultimate betrayal of their ancestors?
Waging war on this scale was not what humanity desired. But the greed of the gods had tormented infinite Imperial souls, forcing them to live out their days in despair.
This was mankind's final chance for revival. No matter the cost, it must be seized.
If compromise fails to bring peace, then concessions would only lead to destruction.
So let war begin—from the skies of Terra to the void beyond the galaxy. Let the stars boil, let them fall, let the Warp dry up.
Even at an unimaginable price, the Human Empire would rise again.
If we cannot save our people from the hands of the gods, then let the galaxy burn—let it be destroyed utterly!
Rally the armies and declare war on every enemy—until the will of humanity stands as sole ruler of the galaxy.
"Forgive me for being so careful in hiding them. The scale of this project is so shocking that no one knew of its existence. Someone will declare me a heretic for it—sentence me to death and burn all the fruit of my labor. That's why I only revealed it now, as you arrive on Terra with ultimate authority," Cawl said quietly, with a pampering look toward Guilliman.
"Allow me to help you achieve this great cause, my master. My contribution to the Emperor is unrivaled."
Guilliman gave him the highest praise, then looked to the gathered high officials and generals who had boarded the Ark Mechanicus.
"This is humanity's legacy, everyone. It is the completion of Cawl's mission, begun ten thousand years ago—now, at last, the time to harvest."
"Since the Great Crusade, the Empire has never been this powerful."
His voice was strong, stirring the souls of all present.
"Today, we shall fulfill the Emperor's dream at last—uniting all humanity in peace and prosperity. Never again shall any human life be crushed beneath the desires of aliens or the gods of darkness!"
"We shall return to our rightful course, and fight for the rise of human civilization."
"This is a new era—rebuilding reason and science, restoring confidence to the people. We shall weather all hardship, push back the darkness, and reclaim what is ours."
"We do not seek to return to yesterday, or ten years ago, or even a thousand years ago. Not even to the golden age when the Emperor walked the world, but to a still greater time of glory, science and technology, peace, and beauty."
"This cannot be achieved by one alone. I need your aid. Once—ten thousand years ago—the Emperor attempted such a feat. Now, we will succeed. This time—we must!"
Guilliman placed his hand in the center of his chest.
"Now, we possess a new army, an unprecedented fleet. Our enemies will know fear, and darkness will be banished. The reconquest of the galaxy begins anew."
"For the Emperor, for Humanity!"
Guilliman struck his chest with a clenched fist, echoed by all those present:
"For the Emperor, for Humanity!"
Tieron, infected by the passionate crowd, cheered and shouted.
He was filled with contempt for the fools of Irthu and the mighty they had seduced. No wonder the Primarch was apathetic at the beginning of the rebellion—allowing the traitors to seize Terra. But with so many trump cards—each one a King Bomb, able to crush the rebels seemingly at will—the chance to witness a more glorious age had slipped by.
…
The Emperor sat on the Golden Throne, gazing out at the spectacle aboard the Zar-Quaesitor. He knew that Belisarius Cawl had fulfilled his ten-thousand-year mission, though he did not know the specific details, as most of his attention was locked in combat with the gods of Chaos, watching over humanity's fate on a galactic scale.
Only events of great significance echoed through the dimension, drawing his notice. Neither he nor the Chaos gods could intervene directly in the material world; only their followers could contest in reality.
If he could interfere directly, during the Beast's invasion the Emperor would've slaughtered the entire High Lords' Council with a slap.
Success is scarce; failure abounds. Everything has only survived thanks to heritage left by him, Malcador, and the Primarch—yet little truly was accomplished.
After some time staring at the Nameless One, the Emperor turned his gaze to Baal on the far side of the galaxy.
The light of the Astronomican could not pierce the Great Rift, but his sight passed through unhindered.
At that moment, Baal was still shrouded in the shadow of the Great Devourer—the sons of angels still locked in desperate battle. Entering the Warp with a psychic sweep, the Emperor found only darkness.
Seeing nothing capable of halting the Tyranid, the Emperor abandoned the idea of guiding rescue forces to Baal. Instead, he dispatched cursed legions into the fray, reinforcing the warp-storms near Baal to isolate the Tyranids, disrupt their link to the Hive Mind, and buy time for Guilliman's arrival.
"Once Guilliman attacks, all will be resolved," the Emperor muttered, then turned his gaze elsewhere—dispatching cursed legions to critical warzones, guiding living saints to assist.
The whole galaxy was in turmoil. Each of the Four Chaos Gods and the Emperor struggled to overcome the others—utterly deadlocked...
…
Datch, feeling watched as always for being too handsome, wandered carefully. "Perhaps it's my beauty that draws so much attention?"
Getting no answer, he took a void airship, and headed for Uranus as instructed by the Inquisitor Arx to search for Alpha leads.
In detective garb, Datch soon discovered clues pointing to Uranus. The planet was the assembly point for the Fifth Fleet, a massive force for the Indomitus Crusade—hundreds of ships docked in the orbital yards above the planet's pole. Thousands more floated in formation in voidspace, awaiting orders.
The Fifth Fleet would be the first to depart, assembling here due to Uranus's stable warp routes, enabling ships to bypass standard Mandeville points for rapid jump entry.
Even 40,000 years of civilization had only marginally depleted the solar system's resources, and special materials, rare parts, and trained Astra Militarum were shipped in from elsewhere. To speed up the muster, the ships lay close together—a single deliberate explosion by the hidden Alpha could cause catastrophe.
Datch's task was to stop the plot in time and find clues about the perpetrator.
On arrival, Datch disguised his Terminator armor in Alpha Legion.
"For the glory of Hydra! I am Alpha! We are all Alpha!"
As he shouted while disembarking, the garrisoned Imperial troops suspected a fresh traitor attack. It took quick explanations by senior officials to avoid disaster. Still, assembled Space Marines eyed Datch warily.
"Clearly, personal appearance makes a big impact on NPC favorability—and my reputation, too," Datch muttered, but did not drop the disguise.
A bit of favor lost now could be repaid later. Under the name of Alpha, he could enjoy hunting other Alphas for fun... Is it really a player if you don't enjoy yourself?
…
The battleship Argos was docked at the port. Tech-priest Adori-4693 was a maintenance engineer, inspecting the plasma overflow pipes while chanting sacred invocation. His duty was to prevent failures before the Fifth Fleet's launch.
His all-purpose servo-automule followed behind, loaded with spare parts. The ship was running at low output, the pipes swelling with boiling gas, and no one else would enter this part of the vessel.
Adori-4693 delighted in his work. His robotic limbs darted overhead, a prophet's manipulator claws opening and closing, shredding the metallic tang in the heat-fog of the tunnels.
Occasionally, he'd halt for repairs, re-writing code for out-of-sync converters, resoldering power-saving modules, swapping out element amplifiers, and applying sacred unguents. Tedious, thankless labor.
Still, Adori-4693 was happy, praising the Omnissiah in earnest as he worked.
The Argos was a youthful ship—barely two thousand years since commissioning, barely any sign of wear, unlike the tired hulks of other voidships.
In the collection chamber, five conduits converged. His cybernetic eye gazed through mesh panels at the magnetic components inside—spinning at breakneck speed, stabilizing raw plasma.
When active, the magnets spun so fast that even cybernetic vision struggled to follow; now, they were calm, their silvered surfaces shining with polished radiance—a marvel of the Omnissiah's wisdom.
Adori's heart filled with reverence as he gingerly examined structure after structure, surveying data, plastics, adamantium fatigue, and soul health—all checked out fine.
Then his analyzer clicked—a fault detected.
After troubleshooting, Adori found a burnt fault at a panel junction. Disassembling the panel, he found an internal logic engine fried.
"So odd. Such a failure shouldn't occur naturally..." he mused, fetching replacement parts from the automule. Deactivating suppression shields to work, he set about the fix.
Midway, a shrill siren blared—the plasma reactor was about to enter full power for testing.
"Gears and wrenches above, Omnissiah above—no test runs during maintenance cycles!" But the suppression field and power coupling were deactivated. If the test went through, the superheated plasma would rip apart the overflow ducts and unleash a cataclysm on the ship.
Adori frantically tried to transmit a warning—but deep inside the ship, amid plasma static, all signals were blocked. Knowing he could not escape, he shuddered with terror for a few seconds, then rushed to complete his repairs.
"Great Omnissiah, I serve you until my final breath. Hail the Trinity, hail the primordial force, gears and wrenches…"
He worked at breakneck speed, reconnecting the failed component, soldering cables no thicker than a hair—
But time ran out. The siren fell silent; ducts began to vibrate. The reactor flickered live; indicator lights blinked one by one. Sizzling heat gusted through the pipes, rising ever hotter.
Suddenly, a figure appeared at his back.
"Move aside."
The newcomer pushed him aside, then raised a golden hammer and struck the fault.
In that instant, the cables leaped to life, linking up throughout the logic core; the new panel snapped into place. The suppression field was restored, automatic protection engaged, the soul stack detected an anomaly, end-program was initiated, alarms blared.
Adori stared in utter shock at the Astartes who'd appeared.
How had he gotten in? How did he repair the entire logic core in an instant, bypassing diagnostics and restoring all suppression systems?
"Thanks to time itself. Otherwise, the mission would've failed," Datch breathed in relief. As soon as he'd entered port and seen the minimap's gold exclamation mark turn red, he tapped it to find the plot mission on the verge of failing.
Gripped by fear, he'd used his Sadako video tape skill to enter via the display panel and intervene at the last possible moment—averting catastrophe.
The alarm soon summoned attention, and a rattled Adori reported what had happened. The maintenance manager realized the gravity of the situation and issued an emergency alert; Inquisitor Garen and Fleet Commander Tronion Prasorius arrived to investigate.
Their findings uncovered a sinister plot—a lieutenant with proper access credentials had rescheduled maintenance, failing to update the codes, creating confusion between engineering teams. While Adori was inside, a second crew started the reactor test. The saboteur's plan would have led an uncontrolled plasma beam to slice through Argos, detonating the half-loaded missile silo, chain-reacting through the main reactor and warp engine.
The resulting blast would have destroyed a dozen ships, causing untold tragedy without a single shot fired.
The damaged panel Adori found was artificial, likely tampered with by the traitor to ensure the suppression field was disabled—a highly sophisticated plot, executed link-by-link.
"Thank you for your help, Nameless Lord," Tronion Prasorius said to Datch, nearly overwhelmed with gratitude. Without his intervention, the disaster's consequences would have been unimaginable; not only would lives be lost, but the Primarch's leadership would've been thrown into question.
For now, the worst had not happened. Praise the holy Emperor! Praise the Primarch! Praise the great Primarch!
Datch ignored them, instead reading Garen the Inquisitor's investigation report. Coordinates updated on the minimap, pinging the lieutenant's position.
If the traitor was found, he could keep investigating.
Datch leapt away. Tronion Prasorius awkwardly withdrew his offered hand—the Nameless One neither shook hands nor uttered a word from start to finish. How sad—was it so wrong to just acknowledge one another's presence? At the very least, as fleet commander of the Indomitus Crusade, he ought to have exchanged a few pleasantries.
"Don't feel too bad," Garen consoled Prasorius, helplessly. "The Nameless one are always like that."
With that, he led his staff after Datch. He had received orders from High Lord Arx, confirming the Nameless One had been tasked with investigating the Alpha traitor. The only thing left—track him down and beat the secret from the Alpha traitor.