"This is my fate, not yours. You still have an unfinished purpose in this life. Go back — the Father and the Imperium still need you."
That was the last thing Lorgar heard before he lost consciousness.
He still remembered clearly how the traitor had channeled his final shred of psychic power into him, preserving the last thread of his awareness, whereupon the Emperor and the Warsmith had forcibly torn open a Warp rift and sent him back.
This was not something Lorgar could easily accept. He could not accept that his life had been saved by a traitor — one he had judged to be beyond all forgiveness, no less. Yet for the sake of a shared purpose, "he" had sacrificed himself, and left Lorgar to live on.
To Lorgar, this was nothing short of humiliation.
He felt no honor in having survived. No pride in anything he had done.
He simply could not accept that he was still alive while the other was gone. It made him feel as though he himself was the true traitor.
This was why, after waking, Lorgar had been unable to bring himself to face his sons. He could not forgive himself.
It was only when Guilliman personally broke away from the front lines and came to him that Lorgar began, slowly, to emerge from that shadow.
"The very fact that you are alive has meaning, brother."
"There is no need to punish yourself for this. Your purpose is greater than you imagine. The goal you still need to fulfill — saving humanity as a whole — is still a very long way from being reached."
And it was because of this that Lorgar found his way back. The Anathame returned to his hand. The Apostle of Truth, the Golden Speaker before whom traitors trembled, had returned.
"Our most pressing concern right now is how to break this battle line completely. But it's obvious he has made no mistakes. I cannot find any viable avenue of attack — we can only grind away at his lines piece by piece."
"Mortarion and Fulgrim's advances are painfully slow. 'I' have fully mapped their rhythm of attack, and even though they continue to inch forward, the resources consumed are enormous and the worlds reclaimed remain unstable."
"Corax and Corvus have performed well enough, but the worlds they've taken are plagued with constant uprisings — and those are proving harder to manage than they were under the traitors."
"Toramino and the Grey Knights have made some progress, and 'Dorn' was also exiled by Toramino — but the front lines still face enormous obstacles."
There was a faint weariness in Guilliman's eyes. Lorgar had never seen this brother look like this before.
Dark circles had appeared. The hair he had always kept immaculately groomed now showed traces of dishevelment.
He had grown thinner. The lines of his cheekbones were starting to show through his face.
He was exhausted. Lorgar could see it plainly — this brother had already been grinding himself down for a long time, locked in endless contest with "himself" at the front. And yet he had still taken the time to come here and help Lorgar out of his darkness.
"I owe you an apology for my earlier despondency, brother."
Lorgar offered the apology to this brother who was already worn through and yet had still made time for him.
"But you need rest as well. We cannot afford to lose you here."
"Without you, we are not his equal."
Lorgar understood this clearly. Someone like "Roboute" — his individual tactics and strategy might not be the absolute strongest, but once he had been given command of everything, and had mapped out his opponents' patterns of war in advance, he could deliver precise, targeted strikes against every weakness they possessed.
And his most terrifying quality was his stability.
How stable, exactly?
Even when you had him pushed to the very edge of desperation — even in the moment before you achieved victory — he could still hold that teetering, half-ruined stance, continue holding the line, and then somehow turn the tables and pull a defeat back into a win.
Don't doubt Guilliman's ability. He could absolutely do it.
Otherwise their battle lines would not have been advancing with such grueling difficulty.
The numbers on paper meant nothing. Every Primarch could read the true cost of this war from their own devastating casualty reports.
"Roboute's" defenses were not exceptionally strong — not even exceptionally resilient. Yet he kept finding ways to extract losses from the Imperium in places the Imperium itself hadn't thought worth watching, losses that sent chills down their spines when they tallied them up.
Dorn was a stone — hard, immovable, enduring wind and rain without shifting.
But Guilliman was a merciless machine. With calculations more precise and rational than even Ferrus, he fed every person, every variable, every condition into his reckoning, and produced battle after battle that appeared unremarkable on the surface yet could not be ignored.
The great majority of Primarchs had overlooked this about Guilliman. Most of them only saw this brother's "overweening ambition" and missed entirely the genius of his strategic mind and his capacity to win from a position of disadvantage.
It was only when the Imperium formally launched its offensive that Lorgar and the others truly began to appreciate it.
"His threat is far greater than we imagined. No wonder the largest concentration of force was deployed here. I didn't understand it at first. But only now do I truly understand how terrifying 'you' are."
"I am glad you still stand on our side, brother."
Lorgar looked at Guilliman and tried to imagine what would have happened if this galaxy's Guilliman had also turned traitor — how the Emperor and the Warsmith could possibly have dealt with that. The thought defied imagination.
It was the first time Lorgar had ever offered Guilliman genuine praise. But Guilliman took no comfort in it — the war's slow, grinding advance had left him deeply, bone-deep tired.
This was destined to be a war measured in centuries. Even with the Imperium holding every strategic advantage, this was not the kind of war that could be resolved quickly.
Losses on both sides climbed in turns — the Imperium gained the upper hand one exchange, and the traitors answered it the next.
It was as though a mirror had been placed between the two forces. Every move received an identical yet precisely opposite response from the other side.
Now the contest came down to who made the first mistake. Who cracked under the weight of attrition first. Both sides had already pushed their tactics and strategy to the absolute limit.
Even with Lorgar and the others sending back reports of victories from every corner of every front — it still could not change the direction of the larger tide.
This war was vast enough that even multiple full Legions could not alter its true strategic trajectory.
The fighting in this galaxy bore no resemblance to the wars in the other galaxies — they were not even in the same category.
The other galaxies were scattered and incoherent. Every engagement was its own isolated affair, fought without coordination or cohesion. The defensive lines laid down there were like paper screens, collapsing before the Imperial fleet without mounting any meaningful resistance.
Ultimately, it was because none of the other traitors had truly unified their Imperium the way "Roboute" had. They were still traitors. "Roboute" had completed a transformation in his very identity.
In any strict sense, "Roboute" had not truly committed rebellion. From the standpoint of the victor — from the standpoint of the legitimacy his position possessed — what he had accomplished was a violent transfer of power, and one completed with remarkable efficiency.
This was a fundamental difference from the other traitors. "Roboute" had completed the transition of authority. Here, he was the unquestioned and absolute legitimate ruler.
And the worlds under his governance were infinitely better off than they had been under the old Imperium — which was another reason why fighting Guilliman's war here was so much harder than anywhere else.
Because in the eyes of the people living here, it was the Imperium's forces who were the invaders — and monstrous, brutal invaders at that.
Guilliman was silent for a long time.
Long enough that Lorgar wondered if his brother had sunk into his own thoughts entirely.
"You are right. I do need rest."
Guilliman finally spoke, and his voice carried exhaustion.
"But I cannot."
He turned and walked to the hololithic projector, raised a hand, and enlarged the tactical situation at one section of the front.
Green and red lights interlocked and tangled there like a knot — and yet within that tangle, a strange, half-hidden order could be perceived. The boundary between green and red was locked in constant mutual erosion, but it was visible: the green was slowly consuming the red.
"Look at this."
Guilliman pointed to that region.
"Seventh Warzone. In the past seventy-two hours, he has conducted five small-scale probing attacks here. The force composition, fire support allocation, and axis of advance for each attack all differ in subtle ways."
Lorgar stepped closer and studied the data carefully.
"He's testing your reaction speed?"
Lorgar identified one layer of it.
"Not only that. He is measuring my margin for error."
"He wants to know — under my command structure, how large a cascading effect does a single misjudgment produce? How long does it take me to correct the misjudgment? And how many openings appear in our fleet during the correction process?"
Lorgar drew a slow breath.
The idea of treating a war as a precision instrument to be disassembled — of mapping out the function of every component and every gear until the complete operating pattern was understood, and then using that data to redesign a machine capable of crushing the opponent entirely — left him feeling genuinely unsettled.
"Were you always like this?"
Lorgar looked at Guilliman and asked.
"No."
"Oh?"
"I preferred direct confrontation — overwhelming through force of momentum. I am certainly skilled at calculation, but my calculations were always oriented toward ensuring a frontal offensive could achieve maximum results at minimum cost."
"This is different."
"He has become a player. And the entire galaxy is his board."
"Then where do you think he will launch his main offensive?"
Lorgar asked.
"He will not launch a main offensive."
Guilliman's answer surprised Lorgar.
"Why?"
"Because he has no need to."
Guilliman closed the hololithic projection and walked back to his seat, settling into it slowly.
He closed his eyes to give his exhausted mind a moment of respite.
"His current strategy is fundamentally a defensive war of attrition."
"He leverages his control over this territory and his knowledge of my tactical patterns to stretch every front line into a grinding war of consumption."
"He knows that in terms of raw materiel and manpower, he cannot outlast us. The Imperium's industrial capacity and population base far exceeds anything within his control zone."
"Then what is his objective?"
"Time."
"He is buying time. Every additional day he holds, his lines become more fortified, his Legions more refined, his understanding of our tactics more complete."
Lorgar fell silent. He understood now what Guilliman was saying. The outcome of this war was not determined by who made the first mistake — it was determined by who had more time.
And "Roboute" had all the time in the world. Because this was his Imperium. His galaxy.
The Imperium did not. The Imperium could not sustain unlimited expenditure of soldiers and resources here. The revenge crusade was proclaimed as a war that would spare nothing to bring the traitors to account — but in practice, it could not truly operate that way.
Just as Perturabo had told them — the worlds on this side needed only to be destroyed outright. But how many had actually done it?
Not the Iron Warriors. Not the Olympia fleet. None of them had been that extreme.
"Tell me your honest assessment."
Lorgar's voice dropped slightly.
"This war — can we actually win it?"
Guilliman raised his head and looked into Lorgar's eyes.
Those deep blue eyes held exhaustion and resolution woven together, and they radiated a light that Lorgar found strangely familiar.
"We can win. But the battlefield where we can win is not here."
"What do you mean?"
Lorgar was puzzled.
"Defeating him cannot be achieved through strategic victory over him alone."
Guilliman rose to his feet and returned to the hololithic projector. This time, what he pulled up was not the tactical picture of a single front — it was the complete strategic overview of the entire galaxy.
"He knows me too well. Just as I know him. Every clash between us descends into stalemate. Every engagement devolves into attrition."
"The true key to defeating him lies over there."
He looked up, across to the far end of the galaxy — a completely different theater of war. And Lorgar understood what he meant.
"Father and the Warsmith?"
"Yes — but not only them. Also you."
"Me?"
Lorgar was confused.
"His greatest strength is not his tactical acumen. It is his ability to integrate resources."
"He can take formerly scattered, uncoordinated traitor Legions and forge them into a unified force. And he can integrate every resource this Imperium possesses — the Mechanicum and the mortal Auxilia alike — bringing them together into a unified command structure that extracts the maximum possible effectiveness from every element."
Guilliman paused. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"So what happens if that integrating ability is compromised?"
"Or — what if his authority and influence come under constant challenge, and begin to erode?"
Lorgar looked at Guilliman. He was starting to understand.
"What we're trying to do next is destroy his foundation?"
"Not destroy. Destabilize."
Guilliman corrected.
"Create fractures in his integration. Sow confusion in his command. Open weaknesses in his lines that we can exploit."
"And before any of that — I need you to do something for me."
Guilliman turned to face Lorgar.
"What?"
"Draw his attention away from me."
Lorgar looked at Guilliman and waited for him to continue.
"Take your Legion, insert it into his control zone from the flank. Do not engage him in direct confrontation. Don't attempt to attack the heavily-defended industrial worlds."
"Your targets are the ones on the edge of his control zone that look unimportant — but which are in fact the blood vessels sustaining his entire war machine."
Guilliman's fingers moved rapidly across the star map, tracing a winding, indirect axis of advance.
"These three star systems' transit corridors connect his eastern defensive line to his central command structure."
"If you can sever those corridors — even temporarily — the entire command chain of his eastern defensive line will suffer a blackout of at least twelve hours."
"A full twelve hours."
Guilliman repeated.
"And in those twelve hours, I will launch a full-line offensive, while our other brothers do the same — all-out assault across every front. Your Legion included. Drag all of his attention to the front."
"While he is occupied dealing with our assault, his surveillance of the eastern defensive line will develop blind spots."
Guilliman looked at Lorgar. Something peculiar flickered in those deep blue eyes.
"Then you take a portion of your sons and slip away quietly — and do what your Legion does best."
Lorgar was silent for a moment. Then he slowly nodded.
No one was better at reshaping mortal minds than the Word Bearers. It had always been their domain of supreme mastery — no other Legion could compare.
The humans he would be facing in "Roboute's" control zone — people who had known nothing but the benefits of "Roboute's" governance from the day they were born — would not surrender their birthright easily. They would not yield to these invaders who had shown them nothing but brutality.
But if Lorgar could shake their conviction — even just a fraction of them — then "Roboute's" iron machine would develop cracks.
And everywhere, in every society, there were always people whose certainty could be shaken. No matter how peaceful and prosperous the world they inhabited, there would always be those whose thinking ran crooked. You could find them without looking hard.
These were the people Guilliman needed to exploit. And the precise point where Lorgar would find it easiest to break through.
The method was not glorious. But these were extraordinary times, and extraordinary times permitted extraordinary means.
"Give me three days."
Lorgar said.
"You don't have three days. You have forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours from now, I will launch the full-line offensive. When that moment comes, whether you are ready or not, the plan goes forward."
Lorgar read the absolute resolution in Guilliman's eyes.
"Forty-eight hours. That is enough."
Guilliman departed quickly. He had worked out this plan before he arrived — Lorgar had simply run into a small difficulty at an opportune moment, so Guilliman had come to resolve both at once.
One day later.
Lorgar stood on the bridge of the Ash Annals, looking out at the unfamiliar stars beyond the viewport.
This was the edge of the Extreme Reach, within "Roboute's" zone of control — roughly six Terra-hours of travel from the nearest traitor defensive line.
According to Guilliman's plan, his fleet was supposed to wait here until the front-line engagement had begun, and then insert itself along the pre-planned route into the enemy's rear.
But Lorgar had no intention of waiting. War was never perfect. On this battlefield, the Word Bearers had already been categorized by "Roboute" as a pack of raving fanatics.
"All forces, advance."
Lorgar's order was concise and decisive — brief enough to leave everyone in the command room momentarily stunned.
"Father, this is not in line with Lord Roboute's—"
"Correct. It is not in line with his plan."
Lorgar cut off his son. Those golden eyes were blazing now with a light that sent a wave of exhilaration through every Word Bearer present.
"But he never said I had to follow his orders to the letter."
His hand moved across the star map.
"We depart now. We sever the connections at these points. Then, before Guilliman begins his offensive, we completely dismantle these transit hubs — and before 'Roboute' has time to react, we let him hear our voice."
"Let the humans of this galaxy hear — that the will of the Emperor has never been far away."
The Anathame at his hip trembled faintly, as though it too had felt its master's resolve.
Lorgar knew that what he was about to do was dangerous.
Even with their fleet's overwhelming superiority — even with no fear of being surrounded and destroyed — plunging deep into enemy territory without Guilliman's front-line engagement to pin the enemy down was, especially knowing "Roboute's" strength and the sheer size of the "Ultramarines'" forces, something that sounded very much like walking into a trap.
But Lorgar was gambling on something specific.
Compared to Guilliman, "Roboute" had one lethal flaw: he was too arrogant.
Guilliman's arrogance was buried so deep that even he himself could not perceive it — like a wealthy young lord who was genuinely approachable and good-natured, yet whose effortless sense of superiority, every time he appeared in company, even when he was only trying to help, landed with unerring precision on the sensitive, fragile pride of the brothers around him.
That was the fundamental reason he was never truly welcomed among the Primarchs. The Five Hundred Worlds was secondary.
"Roboute" was different. To call him arrogant was not sufficient. The word was contemptuous.
He had the ability to back it up — and he was too intelligent. So intelligent that he had convinced himself he had already accounted for every move Guilliman could make, anticipated every redeployment of the Imperial fleet in advance.
But precisely because of that, his thinking had a fatal blind spot: he had grown so accustomed to contending with "himself" that he had entirely lost the appropriate vigilance toward the other brothers.
When a fleet operating without Guilliman's direct command made a penetrating strike against a gap in his lines through an "irrational" approach, his immediate instinct would not be to read it as a premeditated operation. He would assume it was simply that particular brother's natural attack tempo — a lucky hit, a blind cat stumbling onto a dead rat.
He would respond with whatever contingency plan he had already prepared for that specific brother — without much difficulty, because he had worked it out long ago.
And that was exactly what Lorgar needed.
"Father, an enemy fleet has appeared at the edge of the Extreme Reach. After investigation — it is the Word Bearers Legion. Primarch Lorgar is with them."
"What is that pack of mad dogs' movement pattern?"
"They've been operating throughout the Extreme Reach. Their movements are entirely unpredictable."
A cold smile touched the corner of "Roboute's" mouth. These fanatics of the Word Bearers were exactly like this — for the Emperor, for their faith, they operated on this battlefield without any discernible pattern whatsoever.
Whenever they appeared on the front, what they brought was rarely prophecy. It was divine punishment saturated with the Emperor's wrath. It had made Lorgar's name quite well-known in this galaxy.
But at the end of the day, they were just a pack of raving preachers. "Roboute" had long since prepared his response protocol for them.
"Execute the standing contingency. Don't engage them in direct confrontation — those mad dogs aren't worth any strategic calculation on our part. Preserving strength is the priority."
"Yes, my lord."
"Roboute" turned his attention back to the star map. Guilliman had gone nearly two days without launching an offensive — which meant he was almost certainly building toward something large. Preparations were needed on all the likely axes of attack.
He had already deployed sufficient heavy forces at every favorable approach vector. This time, if they dared come — he would bleed them right where they stood.
On the other side, Lorgar looked at the fleet deployments and the planetary responses — they were using the same standard protocol against him that they always used for the Word Bearers.
The faintest smile touched the corner of Lorgar's mouth. He knew it.
"Roboute" had taken the bait.