This is the bonus chapter for reaching 300 Powerstones.
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The chaotic, multicolored currents of the Warp churned slowly against a backdrop of absolute nothingness.
Here, there was no up or down, and time held no meaning. There were only eternally shifting, grotesque colors and endless whispers.
Those whispers emanated from unformed Warp entities and the unconscious murmurs of unspeakable horrors.
And within this Empyrean, where the laws of physics themselves constantly failed, two colossal fleets were sailing.
Propelled by their Warp drives, they relied on conventional engines only for minor course corrections to maintain formation.
The hull of every vessel was shrouded in a hazy, faint glow.
This was the manifestation of the Geller Field, a safety bubble forcibly propped up by the laws of realspace, completely isolating the ships from the outside madness.
Their navigation depended on the genetically modified third eyes of the Navigators aboard, as well as the beacons transmitted by Astropaths at the cost of their very souls.
The first fleet was painted in iron-grey.
Its hulls were covered in weld marks and rivets, clad in armor as thick as moving mountains. Every sharp angle exuded a cold, pragmatic aesthetic.
This was the fleet of the Iron Hands Legion, thirty-seven vessels in total, centered around three battle barges with cruisers and escorts deployed in a standard wedge formation.
Just two planetary systems ago, this fleet had received an urgent order from the Departmento Munitorum to deploy to the Segmentum Obscurus for a mission.
They had already sailed past the borders of the Ultramar Sector, and the Navigators had even begun adjusting their course for Warp reentry.
And then, they were intercepted.
–
The second fleet bore the colors of Ultramarine blue and gold.
The core of this fleet was a gargantuan vessel stretching twenty-six kilometers in length.
Its armor was layered with polished arcane bronze and adamantium, the lines of its hull resembling a walking historical monument.
Broadside lance batteries were packed as densely as a forest, while the macro-cannon turrets at the bow and stern looked as vicious as fangs.
Torpedo tubes on both flanks were arranged in honeycomb patterns, and the muzzle of the Nova Cannon mounted in the center of the bow was wide enough to swallow a hive city residential hab block whole.
Colossal hangar bays flanked the ship, possessing enough capacity to house an entire Astartes strike force.
The most eye-catching feature, however, was the ship's shielding. It wasn't a conventional Void Shield, but rather some highly advanced Aegis shielding technology.
It was visible to the naked eye—the local spacetime around the vessel subtly warping, as if the fabric of reality was being forcibly folded.
Any ranged attack would be swallowed, deflected, and annihilated by that distorted spacetime before it could even touch the hull.
Imperial official registry GQ-013.
The Gloriana-class strategic flagship, the Macragge's Honour.
If [I'm Not the Regent I'm Just Passing By Guilliman] were here right now, he would definitely jump out of his skin with excitement.
Wasn't this the exact same limited-edition paint job as the one sitting in his miniature display cabinet at home?
Except this one was supersized, could actually fire its cannons, and traverse the Warp!
–
The Macragge's Honour, top level of the towering command spire. The Primarch's private sanctum.
The circular chamber spanned over forty meters in diameter with a fifteen-meter-high ceiling. Its overall color palette matched the Ultramarines' iconic blue and gold.
The walls were inlaid with ore specimens gathered from the Five Hundred Worlds, and the floor was covered with carpets woven from the wool of Macraggian snow sheep.
A holographic tactical hololithic table stood in the center of the room, currently projecting the real-time formations of the two fleets and the Warp route data.
And the man sitting in the high-backed throne at the far end of the room made the entire space seem... tiny.
Standing 3.74 meters tall, he looked like a small mountain even when seated.
Gold accented his pauldrons, and finely woven silver ornaments could be seen gleaming within his hair.
They were a coming-of-age gift from his adoptive father, Konor, and they never left his body.
His features were classically perfect, his jawline resolute, and a deep light reflected within his ice-blue eyes.
He wore custom-artificer power armor. Set against an Ultramarine blue base, a golden Aquila and twin-headed eagle motifs flowed across the ceramite plates.
His pauldrons were sculpted into the shape of griffons.
The heraldic beast of House Konor.
The planetary crest of Macragge was etched onto his left breastplate, and the scar from his gene-seed implantation was visible on the back of his right hand.
Roboute Guilliman.
Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion, ruler of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, and the future Regent of the Imperium.
And...
Right now, he was quietly tapping his fingers against the hilt of his sword.
Tap, tap, tap.
His fingertips striking the crossguard produced a rhythmic, soft sound.
The blade lay flat across his knees. It lacked excessive ornamentation, save for a single ice-blue gemstone inlaid in the pommel that perfectly matched the color of his eyes.
"Father."
The sanctum doors slid open, and a figure strode in.
Marius Gage, Commander of the Ultramarines Primarch's Honour Guard, First Chapter Master, and Captain of the First Company.
He stepped up to the tactical table, pounding his right fist against his left breastplate in salute.
"The Navigators and Astropaths have synchronized and confirmed. We will translate out of the Warp in nine standard hours and arrive at the periphery of the Aurelian IV system."
Guilliman's fingers ceased tapping the hilt.
"Nine hours..." he repeated softly, his ice-blue eyes gazing out the observation port on the side of the sanctum. Beyond the armaglass lay the twisted, chaotic currents of the Warp. "The distress signal was sent seven days ago... and there has been nothing but silence ever since."
His voice was calm, but Marius could hear the turbulent waves beneath that tranquility.
"Father," Marius chose his words carefully, "Lord Sanguinius is the Ninth Primarch, the Great Angel of the Imperium. His martial prowess is among the very best in the entire galaxy. Even in the face of a massive warp invasion, he could—"
"I know," Guilliman interrupted, a rare trace of irritability in his tone. "I know how strong he is. But Marius, have you ever seen Sanguinius when he truly fights?"
Marius paused. "I've seen him a few times during joint Legion exercises."
"Those were merely exercises." Guilliman stood up, his towering frame casting a massive shadow across the sanctum under the overhead lumens. "The real Sanguinius... When he decides that something absolutely must be done, you cannot even begin to imagine the kind of danger he is willing to put himself in."
He walked over to the observation port, turning his back to Marius. "Forty years ago, we were purging Orks in a certain sector. A Greenskin Warlord had hidden inside a radioactive waste pool deep within a planet's core, untouchable by conventional means. Sanguinius simply said, 'Leave it to me.' He then plunged into the planetary core alone, fighting for six solid hours in an environment saturated with enough radiation to instantly kill an Astartes."
Guilliman's voice lowered. "When he returned, half the feathers on his wings were scorched to ash by the radiation, and his body was grievously wounded. It took the Apothecaries two entire months to fully heal him. And yet, on his second day lying in that medicae pod, he smiled and told me, 'Roboute, it's your turn to buy the drinks next time.'"
A brief silence fell over the command sanctum.
Marius lowered his head. "...That was an oversight on my part."
"No, you aren't wrong." Guilliman turned around, his face once again settling into an expression of cool rationality. "Logically speaking, Sanguinius is fully capable of handling the vast majority of crises. But Marius, there are things beyond cold logic." He tapped his left breastplate, right over his heart. "This tells me that he needs help."
Marius stood solemnly.
Having followed Guilliman for over a century, he deeply understood his Primarch father's nature: majestic, just, strict, rational, disciplined, responsible, tolerant, and merciful. These were the qualities that made him the perfect ruler and commander.
But very few knew that deep within Guilliman's heart lay an exceptionally soft spot, reserved only for the scant few people he truly cared about.
And once that boundary was crossed, his rationality would temporarily be overridden by emotion.
He became prone to anger, to pain, and his judgment clouded by concern.
Just like this time.
"Father," Marius finally spoke up, knowing full well it might be inappropriate. "I understand your bond with Lord Sanguinius. But deploying twenty-five Ultramarines companies, and intercepting an already-departed Iron Hands fleet to force them to turn back with us... Even though our Ultramarines Legion boasts two hundred and fifty companies in total and this is a mere tenth of our strength... this scale of military force already exceeds the theoretical maximum required to purge a warp invasion on a fringe mining world several times over." He paused, lowering his voice. "The Council of Terra will likely have something to say about this."
"Let them have their opinions." Guilliman's voice went ice-cold. A flash of light pierced through his ice-blue eyes—the near-divine majesty of a Primarch. "Marius, let me ask you: What is Aurelian IV?"
"A... mining world?"
"It is a legally registered colony within the borders of the Imperium," Guilliman pronounced each word with heavy emphasis. "And who is Sanguinius?"
"The Ninth Primarch. Master of the Blood Angels Legion."
"He is a son of the Emperor. He is my brother," Guilliman cut him off. "A Blood Angels fleet, personally overseen by a Primarch, encounters a crisis on a legitimate Imperial colony world and broadcasts a distress signal. Tell me, who would dare suggest we abandon them?"
Marius was rendered utterly speechless.
"Those old men in the Council of Terra..." Guilliman's lips curled into a slightly mocking arc. "They sit in the Imperial Palace on Terra, looking at the numbers on their starmaps and calculating the cost-to-benefit ratio of troop deployments. But they forget that behind every single point of light on those starmaps are billions of living, breathing people. And the Primarchs, my brothers, are not expendable resources."
He walked back to the tactical table and tapped the hololithic projection. The model of Aurelian IV rotated and zoomed in.
"This planet was only brought back into the Imperial fold by Ferrus eighty years ago. House Blaec was annihilated, and billions died in the ensuing turmoil... The Iron Hands' methods are clean and efficient, but the wounds they leave behind take decades to heal," Guilliman's voice softened slightly. "Now, eighty years have passed. Just as it showed the slightest signs of recovery, it gets hit by a warp invasion. If we drag our feet on this rescue due to cost calculations, allowing Sanguinius to fail and this world to be completely lost..."
He looked up at Marius.
"Then every single world within the Imperium's borders, every Planetary Governor, and every mortal citizen will ask themselves: When the crisis comes for us, will the Imperium abandon us too?"
Marius took a deep breath, fully grasping the weight of his father's words.
This wasn't just a rescue mission; it was a political statement. It was a declaration to the entire Imperium that the Primarchs watched over each other, and that the Imperium would not abandon a single inch of its territory or a single one of its citizens.
No matter how steep the cost.
"I understand, Father," Marius nodded heavily. "I was too short-sighted."
Guilliman waved a hand dismissively. "Go inform the shipmasters. We will hold a tactical briefing two hours prior to our Warp translation. Also..." He paused. "Open a channel to the Iron Hands' flagship. I need to speak with Ferrus."
"Yes, my lord!"
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Next Goal = 600 Powerstones.
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