Chapter 461: The Emperor's Blessing! The Great Strategist! Awakens!
Squelch—!
A Chaos warrior swung his blade down, severing the arm of one of Celestine's twin handmaidens. The handmaiden let out a muffled cry of pain, staggering back several steps.
With a sharp thud, her pale arm fell to the ground. Blood spurted wildly from the stump, and her face instantly drained of all color.
She was fortunate—had that Chaos warrior's strike landed just a little higher, it wouldn't have been her arm sliced away, but her entire head.
Seeing this, Celestine's heart seized with panic as she rushed toward her maid, only to be intercepted halfway by a fresh wave of Chaos elites.
In the blink of an eye, the wounded handmaiden was surrounded. On such a chaotic battlefield, once injured and stripped of the ability to fight, one was all but doomed.
Yet the twin handmaiden showed no fear. From the moment she had sworn her life to the Emperor, she had already prepared herself to die for the Imperium at any time.
Just as she was about to meet death calmly, she suddenly saw her severed arm blazing with dazzling light. A tremendous power was surging outward, spreading at frightening speed.
In an instant, the Chaos warriors around her were scorched beneath the radiance, their flesh hissing and smoking as though baked dry under a merciless sun, swiftly burning and evaporating away.
The holy, blinding brilliance did not diminish despite their howls. Instead, it grew fiercer still. When the light engulfed the entire great hall, both the daemonic entities and the Chaos warriors screamed in agony.
The Ultramarines did not waste this golden chance. With a fierce counterattack, they seized the momentum and turned the tide.
Then, to the handmaiden's stunned disbelief, a brand-new arm began sprouting where the old had been severed. White and flawless as polished jade, the fresh limb pulsed with mysterious, divine power.
"It's the Emperor's blessing—!"
Overjoyed, the handmaiden snatched up her fallen weapon and leapt back into battle. The miracle of her restoration, combined with regained strength, sent ripples of exhilaration through the Imperials.
The Chaos warriors, on the other hand, were dumbstruck. They could not believe the Emperor's power had reached this far across the void.
It was utterly inconceivable!
Fortunately for them, the sacred light did not last long. With the profane beacon still active, the Chaos host poured Infinityly through from the Warp.
The Ultramarines once more found themselves locked in bitter struggle.
Seizing the moment while Calgar and the others were distracted, Archmagos Cawl led Yvraine and Tigurius in slipping toward Guilliman's throne.
Cawl quickly adjusted the parameters of the Armor of Fate, then gingerly draped the device upon Guilliman's body.
Meanwhile, Tigurius, Yvraine, and the crimson-armored warrior Larraean fended off threats on all sides, shielding the Archmagos as he worked.
But with more and more Chaos warriors spilling into the hall, the situation was turning grim.
The enemy's numbers were simply overwhelming, while Imperial reinforcements were nowhere in sight.
Though the twin handmaiden's blessing had greatly lifted morale, sheer numbers were grinding the defenders down. Their line was breaking.
"May the Warp's curse fall upon you—may you drown in Infinity torment and madness."
A Chaos sorcerer intoned his foul cant, unleashing one twisted incantation after another. Reality itself warped, thoughts grew muddled, and the Ultramarines' combat rhythm faltered beneath the sorceries.
At the same time, Chaos warriors hurled themselves forward in crazed, suicidal charges, utterly indifferent to death. Wave after wave battered the beleaguered defenders.
The Ultramarines clenched their teeth, pouring every ounce of strength into holding the line.
Both sides were burning themselves out, sacrificing everything for their cause.
Each knew full well the weight of this battle—not only for the Imperium, but for the entire galaxy.
The Chaos legions had to tear out the heart of Macragge and extinguish the flame of Imperial rebirth. The Ultramarines had to hold, or humanity's last spark would be snuffed out.
"Stop! How dare you profane a Primarch!"
During the clash, Sister-Captain Katarina, wounded and crouched behind cover, finally noticed Cawl and the others at the throne.
The heavy Armor of Fate was being fitted piece by piece onto the slumbering Guilliman. To Katarina, this was nothing less than sacrilege. Cawl's group was no better than the Chaos scum they fought.
She tried to rush forward to stop them—but fresh waves of Chaos warriors surged in, pinning her down.
The Infinity tide left her no chance to intervene.
But her cry of outrage carried across the battlefield, reaching Calgar's ears. He turned toward the throne—and froze.
Cawl was already there. His Primarch was being clad in some strange power armor, and the sight looked almost absurd.
"Damn it! Stop at once! Do not lay hands upon our gene-father!"
Fury rose in Calgar's chest until his jaw ached. With every ounce of strength, he hammered Chaos foes into paste, desperate to break free.
But the ones blocking him were elites, many and strong. He could not cut a path in time.
Now Yvraine raised her blade.
It was the Sword of the Crone, forged from five finger-bones of the Aeldari goddess Morai-Heg, a weapon that could channel the powers of soul and fate.
The sword-tip leveled at Guilliman's chest.
Despair gripped Calgar's heart. He remembered Yvraine's words of a death-and-resurrection. He believed only the death—never the resurrection.
"Tigurius! Stop them!"
He sprinted toward the throne, parrying blows with his gauntlets, but the Chaos warriors ahead—seeing Cawl's group apparently intent on killing Guilliman—were only too pleased.
That saved them the trouble.
Laughing grimly, they locked shields and formed a wall, barring Calgar's path. Rage and dread warred within him, threatening to break his mind.
Tigurius could not bear to watch his brother's anguish any longer. Hardening his heart, he ground his teeth and shouted to Yvraine:
"Do it now! Before the traitors realize what we're attempting—finish it!"
The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Soon the heretics would catch on. Delay was death.
Seeing Tigurius unmoved, Calgar made one last desperate charge, heedless of the blades carving into his flesh. With sacred fists raised high, he hurled himself toward Yvraine.
But it was already too late.
Yvraine wielded the Old Crone's Sword with practiced precision, slicing through the stasis field's conduit in a single stroke. Almost instantly, Guilliman—already wrapped within the armor of fate—expired on the spot.
The Old Crone's Sword had carved a mortal wound into him, killing him outright.
Their own primarch, their gene-sire, was truly dead. For Calgar, who was already consumed by grief and fury, this was the final spark that ignited a storm of unrestrained rage and bloodlust. He roared madly, hammering the Chaos warriors before him into mangled pulp.
The Chaos Space Marines still fought fiercely to "cover" Belisarius Cawl's team, buying more time to delay Calgar from reaching the throne.
Shattered limbs spun through the air, foul blood splattered into Calgar's eyes, staining his vision blood-red.
For a moment, he thought he heard the laughter of Khorne.
Overwhelming bloodlust surged through him, and Calgar vented every drop of fury upon the thrice-damned traitors before him.
Meanwhile, the Armor of Fate began to stir.
Mysterious runes shimmered, flickering with light, as though running through a deeply complex sequence of protocols.
"O eternal Omnissiah, hear our prayer. We are your children, devout servants upon the path of the Machine…"
Magos Cawl's chanting awoke the machine-spirit. His body contorted as mechanical structures expanded outward, forming a miniature weapons platform bristling with cannons across every angle.
Reviving Guilliman would take time—time in which Cawl would need to clear the throne dais of intruders.
BOOM!
Countless cannons fired in unison, annihilating anything within range into bloody scraps.
As the Archmagos of Mars, Cawl had spent over ten millennia transforming his own body into a multi-purpose platform—research, engineering, and weapons all in one.
In the galaxy, one must always carry some safeguard for survival.
At full deployment, his firepower was equivalent to an entire Honor Guard.
With Cawl's guns blazing, the Ultramarines felt the crushing pressure on them ease; what had been a desperate 60-40 split shifted back to a deadlocked 50-50.
But the balance didn't last.
A fresh wave of Drop Pods crashed through the shattered ceiling, disgorging hundreds of Chaos Marines onto the battlefield.
Clearly, the fortress-monastery outside was on the verge of collapse. The traitors were landing their pods directly into the central sanctum.
With the Infinity tide of reinforcements, the Ultramarines' defense finally shattered.
Even Calgar himself was swallowed by the black sea of Chaos, buried under blades and trampling boots, cut to pieces from every direction.
The Chaos horde surged toward the throne, intent on slaughtering Cawl and his companions, and defiling the corpse of a primarch.
By this point, only Celestine and her attendants—empowered by the God-Emperor's blessing to heal as they fought—still stood tall. The rest of the warriors had been slaughtered in droves.
Casualties among the Ultramarines were catastrophic.
On any other day, Celestine would have already reached her limits—but today, the Emperor's grace flowed in abundance. Her strength was multiplied; her mightiest abilities unleashed more often, their drain lessened. Where others played by mortal rules, she fought in a realm of Infinity combat.
And yet—even with such miracles—the three of them could not hold back the limitless tide of Chaos alone. Without reinforcements, their strength too would eventually fail.
HUMMMM—!!
At the brink of despair, the Armor of Fate finally shifted. Red warning lights flickered over to green, the color of safety.
Using the power of death itself, Yvraine had dragged Guilliman's soul from the Warp and anchored it into reality. Exhausted but triumphant, she exhaled in relief and managed a tired smile:
"It's done!"
At once, Cawl disengaged his weapons, rushing back to the throne. Under his watchful eyes, Roboute Guilliman stirred for the first time in ten thousand years.
Click.
The gears within the armor synchronized with the primarch's blood. The crisp grinding of machinery fused with Guilliman's heavy, labored breaths—sounds that froze everyone in awe.
Even the frenzied Chaos Marines fell silent, staring toward the throne, straining to hear the deepening breaths and creaking joints.
When the towering figure stood once more—wrapped in blue armor, chest heaving with steady breaths—every mind seemed to explode in shock.
Roboute Guilliman, Master of Ultramar, Father of the Ultramarines, the Great Strategist, the Emperor's own son—had returned!
The cerulean Armor of Fate whirred as blood flowed, muscles revived, and the dormant Emperor's Sword blazed with renewed flame at its master's touch.
Guilliman inhaled deeply, then released a long, heavy exhale. The iron scent of blood filling the sanctum threw his thoughts back to Terra, to the moment he crossed blades with Fulgrim ten thousand years ago.
Beneath the throne, a grievously wounded Ultramarine lifted his head with the last of his strength, longing for one final miracle at the end of his life.
He didn't know if this was a dying vision or reality—but in that moment, all he wished was to gaze once more upon his primarch.
Guilliman met his eyes—stern, yet filled with paternal compassion—then swept his gaze around the temple, assessing the battlefield in an instant.
It was clear: Chaos had invaded, seeking to destroy Macragge while he lay dormant. If not for his awakening, the traitors would have already triumphed.
BOOM—!!
Guilliman blurred into motion, lightning-quick, plunging into the traitor ranks. The Emperor's Sword carved through the air, unleashing swift, merciless slaughter.
Though he was not the most ferocious of his brothers, against such rabble his strength was overwhelming.
The storm of carnage he unleashed tore through the Chaos lines, breaking them without mercy.
The sudden return of the fabled strategist, the primarch Roboute Guilliman, shattered the traitors' morale. Confusion spread; they forgot to fight back, paralyzed as they endured his onslaught.
Near the throne, Yvraine watched, her scalp prickling with dread. If Guilliman turned his wrath upon her, not even Larrian in his crimson armor could save her.
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