Chapter 311: Why Shouldn't Romulus be the One to Die?
"…"
Silence spread through the command sanctum.
"The connection is right here."
After handing the last physical document to a Hetaeron Guard and requesting it be delivered to Vigilus alongside the Custodians, Romulus pulled the star-chart to the forefront.
Overlaying the standard Imperial cartography was intelligence provided by Eldrad Ulthran, representing Craftworld Ulthwé. It was far more detailed than anything the Imperium possessed.
The scale of this Chaos invasion was truly significant. According to the prophecies of Ulthwé's Seer Council, practically every faction with a voice within the Chaos hierarchy had received an invitation from Perturabo.
Legion-strength forces entrenched in the warp: the Plague Fleets of the Death Guard, the Dark Apostles of the Word Bearers…
Secondary warbands of note: renegade Astartes chapters, cults worshipping lesser Chaos entities…
The Primarch, known for his petulant and fractured nature, was displaying a rare temperament. He was reportedly communicating calmly on matters of tactics even with the Phoenix Lord, a being he loathed.
Romulus couldn't guarantee how many would answer Perturabo's call, but even if only half—or a third—agreed to attend, it would be a monumental test for the Dawnbreakers.
Over a thousand Chaos warbands.
And that was just the number currently ravaging the Veiled Region. That didn't count the Dark Mechanicum, the traitorous elements of the Imperial Navy, or the main fleets led by the Iron Warriors and the Conqueror. Nor did it account for the many entities still lurking deep within the warp, waiting for the Primarchs to decide who would be the Warmaster of Chaos.
"How can Chaos still field this much military strength after ten thousand years?" Karna frowned as he glanced at the data, the red dots on the star-chart forming a dense cloud. The numbers seemed absurdly high, a blatant mockery of the material Imperium.
Arthur's expression grew grim as he absorbed the detailed movements and affiliations of these forces.
"Don't think too hard about warp logic," Romulus shrugged, looking helpless. Chaos reinforcement numbers were notoriously nonsensical. He could scratch his head until his skull was bare and still not understand how the Iron Warriors could field a hundred thousand Legionaries in the 41st Millennium. If not for the intel from Ulthwé, he might have been deceived by surface appearances.
The reality was cruel. A total defense was impossible.
So the question was: Which defensive lines must be held at all costs?
First, Cadia.
Romulus marked the planet standing defiant in the center of the Veiled Region. The Gate of the Eye of Terror. The floodgate of realspace. If it fell, the tide of Chaos would no longer seep through cracks in the valve; it would burst the pipe and flood the Materium. None of them were foolish enough to believe the Four Gods or their enemies would politely wait until the year 999.M41. If an opportunity arose, they would take it. Cadia was paramount.
Second…
Was Romulus himself.
This wasn't vanity. It was a statement of fact.
Before Romulus could even move, Arthur, under Drakus's intensely grateful gaze, placed the icon of the Dawnlight right after Cadia in priority.
Romulus's fingertip unconsciously tapped the desk. Each tap emphasized an irrefutable fact.
The Primarch could not fall. He could not retreat. And he absolutely could not die.
And right now, he was the brightest target in the entire war.
Not because the Chaos Gods favoured him—as the most moderate of the four Primarchs, the Dark Gods viewed him as a backup plan to be considered only after a catastrophic failure to corrupt the others.
The real reason was that everyone wanted him dead.
Why shouldn't Romulus be the one to die?
Because the moment Romulus died, the entire support system pouring resources into the Veiled Region would collapse. The wartime government structure he directly oversaw—which had evolved from a passive monitor to an active interventionist force, vastly expanding its powers and responsibilities—would disintegrate.
The remaining three Primarchs would be forced to retreat to their corners, using limited strength to put out local fires. Rebuild such an efficient system? The time required would be enough for Chaos to gnaw half the sector to the bone.
If Romulus died, Chaos would lose the greatest obstacle to their encroachment on reality. The Imperium would fall back to its default state, once again wrestling with Chaos in the mud like two incompetent giants, sinking deeper with every struggle.
The Iron Warriors, the Emperor's Children, the World Eaters—they were all using their own methods to deduce the same conclusion: That Primarch, the one analogous to the Ultramarine, is indeed the perfect breakthrough point for the entire war.
Historical precedent had implanted a single cognition in everyone's mind: The Primarch of the Ultramarines is irreplaceable. And the combat capability of an Ultramarine-pattern Primarch makes him the ideal prey. He is strong enough to be worth killing, yet just "weak" enough to be killable.
Thus, the forces of Chaos had reached a bizarre consensus: Kill this Primarch.
The Iron Warriors were hunting for his coordinates, convinced that defeating the "true operator of the battlefield" would seize the initiative. The Emperor's Children were searching for him between drug-fuelled hazes, paranoid that he was the shackle binding the other three Primarchs, and intent on "liberating" their brothers from his constraint. Even the World Eaters were hunting this "soft target," eager for the honour of spilling a Primarch's blood.
Combining his own intelligence with Ulthwé's prophecies, Romulus had reached this unpleasant conclusion.
The problem now was: Could he defend against a decapitation strike aimed solely at him?
Before he could even shed the suffocating burden of administrative duties, Romulus knew a brutal truth. He could not defeat any of the combat-focused Primarchs in a duel.
At least in this regard, he felt he had more leeway than Guilliman. He wouldn't be forced into a desperate boarding action on the Pride of the Emperor, seeking a breakthrough via a duel with Fulgrim only to find himself trapped. He had companions he could rely on. He wouldn't have to face the pressure of a duel alone. He wouldn't be isolated like Guilliman.
Romulus stood up, his massive frame blocking out the light. He stared at the star-chart. In this game of regicide, he was the "king" whose survival kept the entire board alive.
His shadow fell across the holographic map, perfectly covering Cadia. It seemed like an omen of fate.
Romulus disliked sacrificing others to save himself, especially when he saw a danger that could also be a path to victory.
So, his final conclusion was to abandon orthodox tactics—the cautious, move-countermove style of warfare—and instead catch Chaos off guard.
He would reveal his position. He would merge his location with Cadia.
Chaos might wipe them out in one stroke, achieving two strategic goals simultaneously. Or, it might force Chaos to concentrate its power in one region, relieving the defensive pressure on the rest of the Veiled Region.
Before deciding this, Romulus had hesitated. He had worried. He had pondered.
Was the timing right? Could the Dawnbreakers and the Imperium withstand the pressure of this decision? Should he wait? Wait for their deployment to mature, for more troops to arrive, for the situation in the Veiled Region to stabilize, for everything to reach the perfect state he envisioned?
But after much thought, he abandoned that somewhat luxurious idea.
"Since the fist of Chaos must eventually strike a target—"
Romulus suddenly smiled, his decision made.
"Why shouldn't it be me?"
He swiped his hand across the star-chart, lighting up countless red enemy markers.
"After all, everyone has decided on my importance. And they have also decided…"
His fingers, unarmoured, curled into a fist, crushing the projected red arrows lunging towards Cadia.
"…that I need to be protected."
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