The first sign that something was wrong with Marcus's chainsword came three days after he took command of his squad.
They were in the training halls—a daily ritual that Marcus had instituted primarily because he felt he needed practice and his squad had interpreted this as "the Exemplar is so dedicated to improvement that he trains even when he doesn't need to, truly we are blessed to serve under such a humble commander."
Marcus had given up trying to correct this interpretation.
Brother Corvinus was running him through close-combat drills, the heavy weapons specialist having revealed an unexpected aptitude for melee instruction that apparently came from "centuries of practice beating things to death when my gun runs out of ammunition." Marcus was grateful for the training, even if Corvinus's teaching style could be charitably described as "aggressive."
"Again!" Corvinus barked, his practice blade whirring toward Marcus's midsection. "Your guard is too wide! You're leaving your—"
Marcus parried.
The chainsword screamed.
Not the normal sound of motorized teeth engaging with resistance—this was something else entirely. A sound that seemed to resonate in frequencies that made Marcus's enhanced hearing ache. A sound that caused every servitor in the training hall to freeze mid-motion. A sound that made Corvinus stumble backward, his practice blade raised defensively.
"What," Corvinus said slowly, "was that?"
Marcus looked at his chainsword.
It was glowing.
The blue lightning that Techmarine Maximus had added was still there, crackling along the blade's edge, but now there was something else. The metal itself seemed to be shifting, the molecular structure rearranging in patterns that Marcus's enhanced vision could barely track. The teeth were longer than they had been that morning. The blade was wider. The grip had somehow adjusted to fit his hand more perfectly.
"I don't know," Marcus said honestly. "It's never done that before."
"Done what before? Evolved? Adapted? Screamed like a daemon being exorcised?"
"Any of that?"
Corvinus stared at him, then at the chainsword, then back at him.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said slowly. "I have served the Ultramarines for two hundred and forty years. I have seen many weapons. I have wielded many weapons. I have never—never—seen a weapon change while its wielder was holding it."
"Maybe it's a feature? Techmarine Maximus was very enthusiastic about modifications."
"This is not a modification. This is..." Corvinus trailed off, apparently struggling to find the right word. "This is something else."
Marcus examined the chainsword more closely. The changes were subtle but undeniable. The blade was now approximately three inches longer than it had been when he woke up that morning. The teeth were sharper—sharper than should have been possible for standard adamantine. The power field crackled with increased intensity, and when Marcus experimentally swung the blade through the air, it left a faint trail of blue-white light that persisted for several seconds.
"It feels... heavier," Marcus said. "But also lighter? That doesn't make sense."
"Nothing about you makes sense, Sergeant."
"I'm aware."
The other members of the squad had gathered around, drawn by the commotion. Brother Thaddeus examined the chainsword with the practiced eye of a three-hundred-year veteran, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern to something that looked disturbingly like religious awe.
"The Mechanicus would pay a fortune to study this weapon," Thaddeus said quietly. "A blade that adapts to its wielder. That grows stronger through use. That evolves in response to need." He looked at Marcus. "Where did you acquire it?"
"Techmarine Maximus made it for me. He said it was standard issue with some modifications."
"This is not standard issue. This has not been standard issue since approximately... never."
Marcus sighed. "Of course it hasn't."
"May I?" Thaddeus reached for the chainsword, and Marcus handed it over without thinking.
The moment Thaddeus's fingers touched the grip, the blade snarled.
There was no other word for it. The chainsword made a sound like an angry predator, the motorized teeth spinning up to maximum speed without any trigger input, the power field flaring bright enough to leave afterimages. Thaddeus released the weapon immediately, and it clattered to the ground, still growling.
"It burned me," Thaddeus said, looking at his gauntlet. The ceramite was scorched, hairline cracks spreading from where his fingers had made contact. "The blade burned me."
Marcus picked up the chainsword.
It purred.
Literally purred—a low, contented hum that vibrated through his arm and settled somewhere in his chest. The power field dimmed to its normal intensity. The teeth slowed to their resting speed. The weapon seemed, insofar as an inanimate object could seem anything, happy to be back in his hands.
"Okay," Marcus said. "That's concerning."
"Concerning is one word for it," Corvinus muttered.
"Miraculous," Brother Castor breathed, the youngest member of the squad staring at the chainsword with naked wonder. "It chose you. The blade chose you. Like the legends of—"
"Please don't finish that sentence."
"—the daemon weapons of ancient warriors, but in reverse! An anti-daemon weapon that bonds with its wielder and rejects all others!"
"I said please don't—"
"This is unprecedented! The Mechanicus will want to know! The Chaplains will want to study it! The—"
"Brother Castor," Thaddeus interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of practice at managing overenthusiastic subordinates. "Perhaps we should allow the Sergeant to process this development before we alert the entire Imperium to its implications."
Castor subsided, though his eyes remained fixed on the chainsword with an expression of barely contained excitement.
Marcus looked at his weapon—his weapon, apparently in a way that was more literal than he had realized—and felt a growing sense of unease.
The chainsword purred contentedly.
This was going to be a problem.
The second sign that something was wrong came approximately four hours later, when Marcus attempted to store the Conflagration-Dominus in the squad armory.
"I'm going to put you down now," Marcus told the weapon, feeling slightly ridiculous about talking to an inanimate object but having learned that his equipment seemed to respond to verbal communication. "I need to sleep. You need to... charge, or whatever it is you do."
The Conflagration-Dominus hummed in what Marcus chose to interpret as acknowledgment.
He placed it carefully on the weapons rack, stepped back, and turned to leave.
The humming intensified.
"No," Marcus said firmly. "Stay. I'll be back in the morning."
The humming became a whine.
"I mean it. Stay."
Marcus made it approximately three steps before Brother Gaius entered the armory from the opposite door, saw the Conflagration-Dominus on its rack, and made the mistake of reaching toward it.
"Don't—" Marcus started.
The weapon ignited.
Not in the controlled, precise way it had during the daemon incursion. This was different—a sudden eruption of flame from the primary barrel that lanced across the armory and missed Gaius by approximately two inches, scorching a perfect line across the wall behind him.
"THRONE OF TERRA," Gaius yelped, throwing himself backward with reflexes honed by centuries of combat. "IT'S FIRING BY ITSELF."
"THAT'S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE," Marcus shouted, sprinting back toward the weapon.
The Conflagration-Dominus was still on its rack, but its barrels were tracking—actually tracking—following Gaius's movements like a living thing. The promethium igniter was cycling, ready to fire again.
Marcus grabbed it.
Immediately, the weapon settled. The igniter powered down. The barrels stopped moving. The whole device seemed to relax in his hands, like an attack dog recognizing its master.
"Good," Marcus said, slightly desperately. "Good. Calm. We're calm. No more shooting at my squad members."
The weapon hummed apologetically.
"What," Gaius said from his position on the floor, "in the Emperor's name was that?"
"I think it doesn't like other people touching it," Marcus said weakly. "Or... apparently coming near it when I'm not holding it."
"It's a gun. Guns don't have opinions about who touches them."
"This one apparently does."
Gaius stared at him. Then at the weapon. Then back at him.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said slowly. "Your chainsword burns anyone who tries to hold it. Your heavy flamer shoots at anyone who comes near it. Are all of your weapons... sentient?"
"I really hope not."
"Because if they are, that raises some very concerning questions about the nature of your armament."
"I'm aware."
"Questions like 'who made them' and 'why do they respond only to you' and 'are we all going to die if we accidentally startle your bolter.'"
Marcus looked at the Conflagration-Dominus, which was humming contentedly in his hands. He thought about the chainsword, currently hanging at his hip and purring softly. He considered the implications of weapons that had apparently decided, of their own volition, that they belonged to him and only him.
"I think," he said finally, "that I'm going to have to carry everything with me at all times."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
Gaius considered this.
"That seems inconvenient."
"That's one word for it."
The deployment orders came two days later.
Marcus was in his quarters—if "quarters" was the right word for a space that was larger than his entire previous apartment and decorated with enough religious iconography to stock a small cathedral—when Brother Thaddeus delivered the news.
"The planet is designated Crucis Majoris," Thaddeus explained, projecting a tactical display from his armor's built-in cogitator. "Formerly an Imperial hive world with a population of approximately four billion. Fell to Chaos forces during the last Black Crusade. Current status: occupied by a warband of the Black Legion under the command of Chaos Lord Varkhan the Despoiler."
"That's a very dramatic name."
"Chaos Lords tend toward the theatrical. It's a cultural trait."
Marcus studied the display. The planet looked thoroughly unpleasant—massive hive cities that had been twisted into shapes that hurt to look at, wastelands that pulsed with visible corruption, orbital defenses that consisted primarily of daemon-possessed weapons platforms.
"What's our objective?"
"Liberation." Thaddeus's expression was grim. "The Imperium has decided that Crucis Majoris is strategically valuable enough to warrant reclamation. A full battle group has been assembled. Multiple companies from several Chapters. A force sufficient to engage a fortified Chaos position and emerge victorious."
"That sounds reasonable."
"It is. However..." Thaddeus hesitated.
"However?"
"However, Chapter Master Calgar has specifically requested that our squad be deployed as the advance force. We are to make planetfall ahead of the main assault, identify defensive positions, and prepare the way for the larger army."
Marcus blinked. "Just us? Ten Space Marines against an entire planet?"
"The Chapter Master expressed confidence in your abilities, Sergeant. He indicated that your... unique approach to problem-solving might prove valuable in an advance reconnaissance role."
"My unique approach to problem-solving is accidentally doing things I didn't intend to do and having them somehow work out."
"Yes. The Chapter Master is aware of this."
Marcus opened his mouth to protest, then closed it.
He had tried protesting before. It had never worked. No matter how many times he explained that he was not qualified for the absurd expectations being placed upon him, people just nodded and praised his humility.
"When do we deploy?"
"Six hours."
"Of course." Marcus sighed. "Brief the squad. Standard loadout plus whatever additional supplies they think they'll need. And Thaddeus?"
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"If we somehow survive this, I'm putting in a formal request for assignments that don't involve being sent ahead of entire armies to fight Chaos forces alone."
Thaddeus's expression suggested he knew exactly how effective that request would be.
"Of course, Sergeant."
The drop pod hit the surface of Crucis Majoris with the kind of bone-jarring impact that Marcus had, unfortunately, become accustomed to.
"TOUCHDOWN," the servitor voice announced. "ATMOSPHERIC BREACH SUCCESSFUL. LOCAL HOSTILITY: EXTREME. RECOMMENDED COURSE OF ACTION: IMMEDIATE TACTICAL WITHDRAWAL."
"Thanks for the advice," Marcus muttered, releasing his restraints. "Noted and ignored."
The squad moved with practiced efficiency, their weapons raised and their senses alert. Marcus took point—because apparently that was what he did now, take point against impossible odds—with the Conflagration-Dominus primed and ready.
They had landed in what had once been an industrial sector. Massive manufactorums stretched in every direction, their structures warped by Chaos influence into shapes that suggested architecture had given up and started taking suggestions from nightmares. The sky was the wrong color—a bruised purple-red that seemed to pulse with malevolent intent. The air smelled of burning metal and something worse, something that made Marcus's enhanced sinuses protest.
"Movement," Brother Septimus reported, his scout training allowing him to spot things the others missed. "Multiple contacts. Grid reference seven-seven-alpha. Approaching fast."
Marcus turned toward the indicated position.
The Chaos forces emerged from the manufactorum like a tide of corruption.
Cultists came first—hundreds of them, ragged humans twisted by dark worship, wielding improvised weapons and screaming praises to gods that should not be named. Behind them came larger things: Chaos Space Marines in corrupted power armor, their forms distorted by millennia of service to the Dark Gods; daemon engines that walked on legs that were half-machine and half-flesh; and at the back, rising above the horde like a monument to malevolence, something that Marcus's tactical instincts identified as a Defiler—a daemon-possessed war machine bristling with weapons and radiating pure wrongness.
"Contact front," Marcus reported, his voice steady despite the chaos (both literal and metaphorical) before him. "Looks like the welcoming committee found us."
"Orders, Sergeant?" Thaddeus asked, his bolter tracking targets with professional calm.
Marcus assessed the situation.
Ten Space Marines against several hundred enemies, including heavy armor and daemon engines. The tactical protocols buried in his hypno-conditioning suggested a fighting retreat—fall back to defensible terrain, call for extraction, let the main force handle this engagement.
But as Marcus looked at the approaching horde, something stirred in his chest. The same thing that had awakened during the Tyranid battle. The same thing that had burned the daemons out of existence. The same thing that made his weapons purr and his squad treat him like a living legend.
He didn't understand it. He wasn't sure he liked it.
But it was there, and it was angry.
"Squad," Marcus said, raising the Conflagration-Dominus. "Advance."
What followed would later be described, in official reports, as "an unconventional tactical engagement characterized by extreme aggression and unexpectedly favorable outcomes."
This was the Administratum's way of saying "Marcus went berserk and killed everything."
The Conflagration-Dominus fired first—a sustained burst that swept across the leading edge of the cultist wave like the wrath of an angry god. Promethium engulfed hundreds of screaming heretics, their corrupted flesh burning with flames that seemed somehow more intense, more righteous, than normal fire. The rockets launched in rapid succession, each one finding a target among the heavier units—a Chaos Marine here, a daemon engine there, systematic destruction that cleared paths through the horde.
Marcus advanced into the fire.
Not away from the enemy. Into them.
The chainsword came alive in his left hand, its teeth howling with an intensity that matched the weapon's apparent mood. It had grown again during the drop—Marcus had noticed with resigned acceptance that the blade was now roughly four feet long, more greatsword than combat knife—and it seemed to hunger for the corrupted flesh before it.
The first Chaos Marine to reach him swung a corrupted power axe at Marcus's head.
Marcus parried with the chainsword. The weapons met with a crack that seemed to echo in dimensions beyond the physical. The chainsword's teeth chewed through the axe's shaft in approximately half a second, and then continued through the Marine's armor, through the twisted flesh beneath, and out the other side in a spray of tainted blood.
The chainsword sang.
Marcus could hear it—an actual melody, high and clear and somehow joyful, emanating from the weapon as it cut through another Marine, and another, and another. Each kill seemed to make it stronger, faster, more eager for the next enemy.
Behind him, his squad followed in stunned formation.
"He's not stopping," Brother Corvinus observed, his heavy bolter barking as he provided covering fire. "Why isn't he stopping?"
"Because there are still enemies in front of him," Thaddeus replied, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been awe or might have been concern. "Keep up. Don't let him get too far ahead."
They tried to keep up.
They failed.
Marcus was moving too fast—faster than he had any right to move in full power armor, faster than the tactical doctrines said was possible, faster than the Chaos forces could react. He was a blue blur amid the sea of corruption, the Conflagration-Dominus blazing in one hand and the chainsword screaming in the other, carving a path of destruction that left nothing but ash and bisected corpses in his wake.
The Defiler turned its attention toward him.
It was massive—a daemon-possessed vehicle that walked on eight crab-like legs, its torso bristling with battle cannons and heavy flamers and close-combat appendages tipped with screaming daemon-faces. It oriented on Marcus, its weapons tracking, its corrupted machine-spirit howling with anticipation.
Marcus didn't slow down.
The Defiler fired everything it had.
Marcus dodged.
Not just dodged—he moved through the hail of fire like water flowing around stones, his body twisting and turning in ways that should have been impossible for something his size. Shells passed inches from his armor. Flames washed over him and somehow failed to connect. Daemon-guided rounds that should have tracked his heat signature curved away as if repelled by an invisible force.
He reached the Defiler.
He climbed it.
The daemon engine tried to shake him off, tried to crush him with its close-combat appendages, tried to self-destruct rather than let this impossible warrior reach its vulnerable points. None of it worked. Marcus was already at the Defiler's torso, already raising the chainsword, already—
The blade punched through corrupted armor and into the daemon-core beneath.
The Defiler screamed.
It was a sound that existed in multiple dimensions simultaneously—a cry of agony and rage and disbelief that echoed across the battlefield and caused every Chaos warrior in range to stagger. The daemon possessing the machine was being hurt, its essence shredded by a weapon that should not have been capable of such damage, its grip on reality torn away by teeth that had somehow become anathema to corruption.
The chainsword drank deep.
And grew.
Marcus felt it happening—the blade lengthening, the teeth multiplying, the power field intensifying. The weapon was feeding on the daemon's essence, using its destruction to fuel its own evolution. When Marcus finally withdrew the chainsword from the dying Defiler, it was no longer recognizable as the weapon he had received from Techmarine Maximus.
It was something else now.
Something that pulsed with barely contained power.
Something that made even the Conflagration-Dominus seem modest by comparison.
The Defiler collapsed, its daemon-spirit banished, its mechanical form crashing to the ground with enough force to shake the entire sector.
Marcus stood atop its corpse, breathing hard, his evolved chainsword dripping with corrupted ichor that was already burning away.
The remaining Chaos forces stared at him.
"Anyone else?" Marcus asked.
They ran.
The liberation of Crucis Majoris took approximately six hours.
Not six hours for the main assault to arrive. Not six hours for reinforcements to land. Six hours for Marcus's squad to sweep across the planet and systematically destroy every Chaos stronghold, daemon engine, and corrupted defensive position they encountered.
Marcus wasn't entirely sure how it happened.
He remembered the initial engagement—the cultists and the Marines and the Defiler. He remembered advancing into the next sector and finding more enemies waiting. He remembered fighting through manufactorum after manufactorum, hive spire after hive spire, each battle blurring into the next in a continuous stream of violence and destruction.
He remembered the Conflagration-Dominus never seeming to run out of ammunition, despite firing almost continuously for hours.
He remembered the chainsword growing larger after every significant kill, until it was nearly as tall as he was and radiated power that made the air crackle.
He remembered his squad following behind him, increasingly silent, increasingly awed, providing covering fire when needed and eliminating stragglers but mostly just watching as Marcus did things that should have been impossible.
He remembered, with particular clarity, the moment when Chaos Lord Varkhan the Despoiler had emerged from his fortress to challenge the "foolish loyalist who dares to defile my world."
Varkhan had been impressive, Marcus supposed. Eight feet of corrupted power armor, festooned with the symbols of the Dark Gods, wielding a daemon sword that whispered promises of oblivion. He had been a veteran of ten thousand years of war, a warrior who had fought alongside Horus himself during the great betrayal, a champion of Chaos blessed with gifts from all four Ruinous Powers.
The fight had lasted approximately forty-five seconds.
Marcus's chainsword had eaten Varkhan's daemon blade on the first exchange, the evolved teeth somehow consuming the corrupted weapon and adding its power to their own. Varkhan had staggered backward, his primary weapon destroyed, and Marcus had pressed the advantage with a series of strikes that the Chaos Lord simply couldn't match.
The final blow had bisected Varkhan from shoulder to hip.
The chainsword had grown another six inches.
And then, somehow, it was over.
The Chaos forces were broken. The daemon presence had been scoured from the planet. The surviving population—those who had hidden from their oppressors for years, those who had prayed for deliverance that they never expected to receive—emerged from their hiding places to find a single squad of Ultramarines standing amid the ruins of their former captors.
"Did we just liberate an entire planet?" Brother Gaius asked, his voice carrying the tone of someone who was no longer certain that reality made sense.
"In six hours," Brother Decimus confirmed, consulting his chronometer. "We liberated an entire Chaos-held planet in six hours."
"The main assault force hasn't even arrived yet."
"No. They have not."
The squad turned to look at Marcus.
Marcus was examining his chainsword, which was now approximately five and a half feet long and humming with barely contained power. The blade had changed color—no longer the original metal, but something darker, something that seemed to absorb light while simultaneously radiating energy. The teeth had become almost impossibly sharp, each one a perfectly engineered instrument of destruction.
"It's still growing," Marcus said quietly. "Every time it kills something powerful, it gets stronger."
"That's... concerning," Thaddeus offered.
"It ate a daemon sword. An actual daemon sword. Just... consumed it. Added its power to its own." Marcus looked up at his squad. "I don't think this is a normal chainsword anymore."
"With respect, Sergeant, I don't think it was ever a normal chainsword."
"Fair point."
The news of Crucis Majoris reached Abaddon the Despoiler three days later.
The Warmaster of Chaos was aboard his flagship, the Vengeful Spirit, when the report arrived. He was in the midst of planning his next assault on the Imperium—a careful calculation of forces, a strategic deployment of his Black Legion, a demonstration of the power that had allowed him to launch thirteen Black Crusades against humanity's domain.
The report interrupted all of that.
"What do you mean, 'liberated in six hours'?" Abaddon demanded, his voice carrying the weight of ten millennia of rage. "Varkhan had an entire warband. He had daemon engines. He had fortifications that took centuries to construct."
"The reports are consistent, Warmaster," the messenger replied, trembling before the most feared warrior in the Eye of Terror. "A single squad of Ultramarines made planetfall. They advanced through the defensive lines. They destroyed everything in their path. Varkhan himself fell in single combat."
"To whom?"
"A Sergeant, Warmaster. Recently promoted. His name is Marcus. They call him... the Exemplar."
Abaddon's eyes narrowed.
He had heard that name before. Whispers in the Warp, fragments of prophecy, warnings from daemon oracles who claimed that something unusual had emerged among the Emperor's servants. He had dismissed the reports as hysteria—the Long War had seen countless "chosen ones" and "living saints" rise and fall, and none of them had ever posed a true threat to his plans.
But this was different.
A Chaos Lord killed in single combat. A daemon sword consumed. An entire planet liberated by a force that should have been swept aside in minutes.
"Tell me everything," Abaddon commanded. "Everything they know about this 'Exemplar.'"
The messenger told him.
When the report was finished, Abaddon sat in silence for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
It was not a pleasant laugh. It was the laugh of a being who had sold his soul for power and had never regretted the transaction, the laugh of a warrior who saw challenge as entertainment rather than threat.
"The Exemplar," he said softly. "A loyalist who makes weapons that evolve. Who seals warp breaches with fire. Who kills Hive Tyrants and Chaos Lords as if they were training servitors." He rose from his throne, his towering form casting shadows across the command deck. "Interesting."
"Warmaster? Your orders?"
Abaddon smiled. It was not a reassuring expression.
"Add him to the priority target list. The Exemplar. I want to know where he is at all times. I want to know his movements, his deployments, his habits. When the opportunity arises..."
He paused, savoring the anticipation.
"I will kill him myself."
Far from the Eye of Terror, in the heart of the Imperium, another powerful being was reading reports about Marcus.
Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, Lord Commander of the Imperium, had not survived ten thousand years in stasis to be surprised by anything. He had fought gods and daemons. He had rebuilt an empire from the ashes of the Heresy. He had faced his own traitorous brothers and emerged victorious.
Nothing should have been capable of catching him off guard.
And yet.
"This report," Guilliman said slowly, "indicates that a single Sergeant killed a Hive Tyrant. In single combat. On his first deployment."
"Yes, my lord," replied Captain Sicarius, who had been summoned to provide context.
"And then he sealed a warp breach. With a heavy flamer."
"The weapon is somewhat... unusual, my lord. But yes."
"And then the Grey Knights swore loyalty oaths to him."
"Brother-Captain Stern was quite emphatic about it, my lord."
"And then he liberated an entire Chaos-controlled planet. In six hours. With nine other Marines."
"The reports are consistent, my lord."
Guilliman set down the data-slate and fixed Sicarius with the kind of stare that had made Imperial governors resign on the spot.
"Captain," he said carefully. "Are you telling me that one of my sons—a Sergeant who has been a full Battle-Brother for less than two weeks—has accomplished feats that would challenge warriors with centuries of experience?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And that his weapons have developed what appears to be independent consciousness and refuse to function for anyone else?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And that his chainsword consumes the essence of daemons and uses it to evolve into increasingly powerful forms?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And that everyone who encounters him becomes convinced of his exceptional nature despite his apparent genuine belief that he is nothing special?"
"Yes, my lord."
Guilliman was silent for a long moment.
"I want to meet him," he said finally.
Sicarius blinked. "My lord?"
"This Marcus. The Exemplar. I want to meet him personally. Arrange it."
"My lord, your schedule is—"
"Arrange. It."
Sicarius saluted. "Yes, my lord."
After the Captain left, Guilliman turned to stare out the viewport of his flagship, looking at the stars that he had spent his entire existence fighting to protect.
An anomaly, he thought. A warrior who exceeds all expectations. Weapons that bond to him alone. Achievements that should be impossible.
He remembered the reports from the Chaplains, the Librarians, the Techmarines. Everyone who had examined Marcus had come away with the same conclusion: his soul burned brighter than it should. His potential exceeded any recorded standard. His very presence seemed to inspire those around him to greater heights.
Like a Primarch, Guilliman thought, and the idea was disturbing in ways he couldn't quite articulate.
Like one of us.
But smaller.
He would need to see for himself.
The stories began spreading approximately two days after the liberation of Crucis Majoris.
It started with the survivors.
Four billion people had lived under Chaos occupation. They had endured horrors that would have broken lesser populations. They had watched their world be twisted into nightmare, their families sacrificed to dark gods, their hope systematically crushed by oppressors who wielded terror as a weapon.
And then the Exemplar had come.
They spoke of blue fire that burned corruption. They spoke of a warrior who walked through hails of fire without flinching. They spoke of a sword that screamed with righteous fury and grew larger with every kill. They spoke of a single squad that had done what entire armies had failed to accomplish.
The stories spread through the refugee ships, passed from survivor to survivor, each telling adding details and embellishments that made the already impossible narrative even more fantastical. By the time the survivors reached Imperial space, the stories had become legend.
The Exemplar, the whispers said. The Emperor's sword made manifest. A warrior of such purity that daemons flee before him. A champion whose weapons themselves have chosen to serve him.
The stories reached other worlds. Other systems. Other sectors.
Imperial citizens who had never heard of the Ultramarines suddenly knew the name of a single Sergeant. Guardsmen facing impossible odds told each other tales of the warrior who had liberated a planet in six hours. Ecclesiarchy priests found themselves answering questions about whether the Exemplar was a living saint.
Inquisitors began investigating the phenomenon. Administratum officials opened files. The High Lords themselves received reports about a spreading cult of personality centered on a Space Marine who had been promoted to Sergeant less than a month ago.
Marcus, of course, was completely unaware of any of this.
He was too busy staring at his chainsword, which had grown another eight inches overnight and was now technically large enough to qualify as a zweihander.
"This is getting ridiculous," he told it.
The chainsword purred.
"You're too big. You're conspicuous. People are going to notice."
The purring intensified.
"I'm being serious. You need to stop growing."
The chainsword, apparently, disagreed.
Brother Thaddeus found him like this—sitting in his quarters, arguing with his increasingly oversized weapon—and had the grace not to comment on the absurdity of the scene.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said instead. "There is a situation."
"There's always a situation."
"This one is... significant."
Marcus looked up, his attention caught by something in Thaddeus's tone.
"What kind of significant?"
"The Lord Commander of the Imperium has requested your presence. Personally. He wishes to meet the Exemplar."
Marcus stared at him.
"The Lord Commander," he repeated. "As in Roboute Guilliman. The Primarch. Our Primarch."
"Yes."
"He wants to meet me."
"Yes."
"Me."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Marcus looked at his chainsword, which had started humming in what might have been excitement.
"This is going to be a disaster," he said.
"With respect, Sergeant, that's what you said before the Tyranid battle. And the daemon incursion. And the liberation of Crucis Majoris."
"And I was right every time. Everything went terribly wrong in ways I didn't expect."
"And yet you succeeded beyond anyone's wildest expectations."
Marcus opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
Thaddeus had a point.
Every time Marcus had expected disaster, he had somehow achieved the opposite. Every time he had anticipated failure, he had stumbled into victory. Every time he had been certain that people would finally realize their mistake about him, they had instead become more convinced of his exceptional nature.
Maybe, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, maybe you should stop expecting disaster. Maybe you should start accepting that something unusual is happening here. Something you don't understand but can't deny.
Marcus shoved that voice into a mental box and sat on it.
"When does the Primarch want to see me?"
"Immediately. A shuttle is being prepared. We are to depart within the hour."
Marcus stood, gathering his equipment—the Conflagration-Dominus (still inexplicable, still possessive, still humming), the chainsword (still growing, still evolving, still purring), his armor (which had, he noticed, developed some unusual features of its own recently but he was choosing not to examine too closely).
"This is going to be a disaster," he repeated.
The chainsword purred reassuringly.
The Conflagration-Dominus hummed in agreement.
Marcus sighed and headed for the shuttle bay, his increasingly sentient weapons in tow, preparing to meet the demigod who commanded the Imperium.
Surely nothing could go wrong.
On the Macragge's Honour, Roboute Guilliman prepared for a meeting that he had a feeling was going to challenge his understanding of what was possible for a Space Marine.
In the Eye of Terror, Abaddon the Despoiler added another notation to his priority target file and began planning an ambush that he was certain would end the legend of the Exemplar once and for all.
Across the Imperium, the stories continued to spread, each telling making Marcus seem more legendary, more impossible, more chosen.
And somewhere in the Warp, in the space between spaces, the Dark Gods themselves took notice of a soul that burned too bright, a warrior that seemed immune to their influence, a threat that might—just might—require more direct attention.
The Emperor, still bound to His throne, still fighting His eternal war against the darkness, allowed Himself a moment of something that might have been satisfaction.
Interesting, He thought. Very interesting.
Let's see what happens next.
END OF CHAPTER FOUR
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Marcus's equipment has officially achieved sentience and is developing attachments. The chainsword is basically a pet now. A growing, daemon-eating, extremely loyal pet that refuses to be held by anyone else. The Conflagration-Dominus is jealous of the attention the chainsword is getting and has started shooting at people who look at Marcus wrong. This is fine. Everything is fine.
Next chapter: Marcus meets Guilliman and accidentally impresses him so thoroughly that the Primarch starts having Feelings about his genetic legacy. Abaddon's ambush goes spectacularly wrong in ways that will surprise exactly no one. And the chainsword gains the ability to talk, which Marcus really wishes it wouldn't.]