Chapter 469: Reunion with Fulgrim, Guilliman's Shifting Moods!
Warhammer 40K Universe!
In a remote corner of the Ultramarines' warship, Yvraine ground her teeth in barely contained frustration. "I thought coming to Macragge to revive Primarch Guilliman would put him in our debt."
"That way, we could have him tied down against the Chaos Legions. Who could have guessed we'd run into that troublesome figure here!"
The troublesome figure Yvraine referred to was, of course, the Emperor himself. She dared not speak His name aloud, for fear of drawing His notice.
At this moment, Yvraine felt nothing but anxiety. She truly could not fathom how the Emperor had suddenly awakened—was this a recent revival, or had He never truly slept at all?
All that effort, traveling so far to Macragge to help revive Guilliman—utterly redundant!
One Emperor alone was already enough to make the Eldar's very souls quiver. Add Guilliman on top of that, and it was disaster piled upon disaster.
The Eldar certainly needed a powerful ally like Guilliman to restrain the forces of Chaos, but they absolutely did not need the Emperor surfacing to upend everything.
"With his stance toward the Eldar, I fear we'll have no choice but to ally with Chaos…"
The Crimson-armored warrior Larrien shook his head with a sigh. Every xenos in the galaxy knew the Emperor was an absolute xenophobe—if you weren't human, you were marked for death.
If the Emperor led the Imperium back to full strength and launched another Great Crusade, the Eldar would be driven once again to the galaxy's edges, forced to contest territory with the Tyranids.
Seeing Yvraine and Larrien so pessimistic, Archmagos Cawl stepped forward and intoned with calm detachment: "Praise the Emperor, praise the Omnissiah."
"The galaxy faces the brink of death. That the Emperor can rise from the Golden Throne is a blessing to all living things in the galaxy. There is no need to despair so deeply."
Cawl's perspective differed entirely from Yvraine's. He had long since recognized the galaxy's dire unraveling: Chaos gods ravenously harvesting emotional sustenance, Tyranids beyond the galactic rim poised to invade at any moment.
The Eldar gambled recklessly, attempting to summon their death god.
Every major power in the galaxy seemed intent on self-destruction, playing with forces beyond control. At this rate, the galaxy was doomed.
From humanity's perspective, Cawl of course rejoiced at the revival of both Emperor and Guilliman, who could restore the Imperium's crumbling state. But even more than that, he rejoiced that the Emperor might halt the galaxy's collapse.
For apart from Him, none had the power to turn the tide.
The Emperor considered the galaxy as a whole, the greater pattern. Yvraine, by contrast, still fretted over paltry tactical alliances.
Cawl's words drew a bitter smile from Yvraine. Trust this grease-stained machine-priest to spout platitudes. Had he forgotten? It was the Emperor's Great Crusade, ten millennia past, that drove the Eldar out of the galaxy's heart.
That exile had forced them to fight the Tyranids and other savage species for mere scraps of territory. Now, just as they finally managed to creep back into the galaxy proper, they had run headlong into Chaos—and now the Emperor's return.
Was it fate, that Eldar and humanity were forever set against one another?
"I only wish your great master could show a measure of tolerance, and not persecute our long-wandering race. But do you truly believe there is any hope of that?"
Yvraine knew well that the Emperor had never once valued alien lives. She hoped for galactic peace and balance, a steady equilibrium—but feared that this domineering Emperor would never allow it.
In her ideal blueprint, the best scenario was Chaos and the Imperium locked in stalemate, each checking the other. Only thus could the Eldar secure the longest reprieve and most breathing room.
If either Chaos or the Imperium gained a decisive advantage, the balance would shatter—and for every other xenos, the result would be the same.
The Chaos warbands would not spare them; the daemons required emotion to feed, treating them like livestock in a pen.
Nor would the Imperium relent; in the Emperor's eyes, they were verminous pests crawling through His house. The very sight of them was intolerable.
Yvraine never once believed the Emperor would suddenly change, would suddenly soften toward the Eldar.
After all, history itself had shown the pattern.
In humanity's Golden Age, mankind had forged amicable diplomatic ties with countless alien civilizations across the galaxy. Races coexisted in apparent harmony, a dreamlike vision of peace.
Yet this harmony existed only because mankind then wielded overwhelming technological might. The illusion of peace was founded upon the deterrence of force.
At that time, human civilization stood shoulder to shoulder with the Old Ones of antiquity, a single step away from true ascension.
But after the Iron Men rebellion, humanity's strength plummeted. And those very xenos who once smiled in friendship did not extend a hand to aid them—instead, they struck savagely, butchering humans without mercy.
Butchery, vivisection, genetic tinkering, soul-harvesting—every vile experiment imaginable was inflicted upon mankind. It was an age of unrelenting horror and despair.
Pure and radiant deities were torn apart by countless grotesque monsters. The Emperor had witnessed it all with His own eyes. Thus His hatred of xenos was etched into His very marrow.
In the Golden Age, humanity embraced the galaxy with open arms. Their reward had been slaughter. From then on, the Emperor would never trust another alien again.
Within the galaxy, there could only be humanity. Every xenos must be purged, to the last.
Nor was the Emperor lenient toward His own.
Worlds tainted by the warp, or infected with genetic corruption—regardless of gender, age, or innocence—were subject to exterminatus at His command.
Countless worlds burned at the Emperor's direct order. To the xenos, the Imperium's rise was no different from the ascent of Chaos itself.
This war of ten millennia was, at its heart, the struggle of loyalists against traitors, of the Emperor against the gods of the warp—two forces born of the same root.
And the xenos? Always the bystanders, the footnotes, never once grasping the deed to the galaxy's home.
"Cawl, did you truly have no forewarning? Mars is but a short step from Terra. You noticed nothing unusual?"
Yvraine's eyes sharpened with suspicion as she fixed them on Archmagos Cawl. She suspected she'd been used.
She had barely finished helping Cawl revive Guilliman, and scarcely afterward, the Emperor appeared. This seamless timing—who would believe it wasn't orchestrated?
The Emperor's power was vast indeed, but purging Fulgrim's poison was no trivial matter. Without the Eldar's god of death, Guilliman's awakening might never have been possible.
In Yvraine's mind, the Emperor must have coveted the Eldar's unique ability, deliberately luring her to Macragge to ensure Guilliman's resurrection.
In today's Imperium, where talent was so scarce, a single primarch's return was beyond measure in worth.
And yet, through it all, Yvraine had become the dupe—the traitor to her own people who had armed humanity's might. She had been well and truly conned by Cawl!
Cawl: "…"
The machine-priest dearly wished to protest his innocence, yet in this present state of affairs, he could not deny appearances. He did look very much the Emperor's accomplice.
After pondering, he simply chose silence, feigning deafness.
…
Warhammer Universe, Cthonia!
A week slipped by in the blink of an eye. Ever since Horus called upon the Primarchs to return and regroup their forces, each of them had eagerly led their armies to gather on Cthonia.
By now, the Primarchs had assembled an immense, elite host, docked at Cthonia's orbital ports, waiting for the order to formally march toward Terra.
"Horus, do we have any solid intel yet? Where are we going this time—who are we fighting, how do we fight, and how many years will it take?"
The Primarch of the Space Wolves, Leman Russ, impatiently stepped forward to ask. His nature was always impulsive, and after spending so long on Fenris, Russ had grown thoroughly restless.
"Yeah, why exactly are we running off to Terra? Is that where the battlefield is?" Mortarion couldn't help but speak up as well.
An entire cadre of Primarchs leading their elite legions in a headlong rush toward Terra—no matter how one looked at it, the scene was unsettling. Bringing troops to court was considered a grave taboo.
To anyone unaware of the truth, it might look like Horus was preparing a little "surprise rebellion" for the Emperor.
Faced with his brothers' confusion, Guilliman only shook his head, indicating he wasn't privy to the specifics of the campaign either.
"Father didn't tell me the exact location of this war, but judging from the edict he passed on, this battle won't be small-scale. It might last decades."
Having followed the Emperor for so long, Horus could more or less divine his intentions.
With their combined legions, a minor conflict would hardly call for such a gathering. For a war that warranted summoning so many Primarchs, there could be no doubt it was something extraordinary.
The moment Horus said this, the Primarchs' faces lit up with anticipation. They had been waiting for this day far too long!
Seeing his brothers brimming with bloodlust, rolling their shoulders and readying their blades, Horus threw his head back in laughter. Among all of them, save Guilliman, nearly every Primarch was a battle-mad warrior who rejoiced at the prospect of war.
"So, does this mean we're going to fight alongside Father himself?"
A faint smile tugged at Lion El'Jonson's lips. The rare chance for so many Primarchs to fight side by side—if the Emperor joined as well, then this campaign was destined to be etched forever in history. Countless Imperial artisans would carve it into reliefs, prints, and frescoes.
"I think there's a chance of that," Horus chuckled, though he left it vague. He himself didn't know whether the Emperor would fight alongside them.
Clack—!
At that moment, a towering figure clad in blue power armor entered the council chamber of the Vengeful Spirit.
He wore a look of astonishment as his eyes swept across the room, his whole body freezing as though turned to stone.
One glance was all it took for Horus to recognize him. Wasn't this the very brother who had taken his place ruling the Imperium on Terra not long ago—Guilliman?
"Guilliman! I never thought you'd come to me of your own accord!" Horus was overjoyed.
He couldn't help but find Guilliman increasingly agreeable. If not for Guilliman sharing his burdens, Horus would still be mired neck-deep in Imperial bureaucracy, unable to extricate himself.
And under such crushing pressure, mistakes were inevitable—and mistakes brought punishment. Left unchecked, he might even have ended up like Magnus.
Now, wearing a warm smile, Horus strode forward and pulled Guilliman into a hearty embrace. "Guilliman, you've donned battle armor as well? Don't tell me you're joining the campaign too."
Releasing him, Horus's gaze roamed up and down the unusual suit of power armor. In his memory, Guilliman had never worn such a panoply.
But faced with Horus's overflowing enthusiasm, Guilliman's expression flickered wildly, shifting through sun and storm.
The Warhammer Universe's Guilliman was still on Terra, weighed down with Imperial governance.
The one standing before them was none other than the freshly resurrected Guilliman from the Warhammer 40K Universe!
Not long ago, he had been struggling within the Warp to rediscover his essence, when the Emperor abruptly pulled him out—sending him to first grow familiar with the Primarchs of this universe.
It was a precaution, to prevent needless misunderstandings later.
Moreover, the Emperor tasked Guilliman with serving as a messenger, relaying the situation from the Warhammer 40K side to Horus and the others, so they would understand their mission's objective.
If they were to assist, the Emperor could not keep them in the dark—he had to brief them on the background and details in advance.
Though not difficult in itself, this impromptu task was awkward for the newly revived Guilliman.
Especially when his eyes fell upon Horus, Angron, Mortarion, Perturabo—all traitors, Chaos's lapdogs. His face contorted with emotion.
When Horus embraced him so warmly, Guilliman was sorely tempted to draw the Emperor's Sword and run the faithless son through.
"Guilliman, you don't look well. Has something terrible happened?"
Fulgrim's voice cut in. His keen eyes had immediately caught the changes in Guilliman's expression.
As a perfectionist to the point of madness, Fulgrim demanded flawlessness in everything—from his appearance to his strategies. That obsession brought both torment and ecstasy.
Completing something perfectly filled him with bliss; the slightest blemish sent him into frenzied rage.
Among the Primarchs, only Horus and the rigorously disciplined Guilliman had ever won his approval.
Thus, it was Fulgrim who first detected Guilliman's unease.
But Guilliman's expression only grew more volatile, the subtle twitch of his features growing more apparent.
In that instant, memories of ten millennia past came flooding back—when he had watched Fulgrim, once his brother, drive a cursed blade of Slaanesh through his throat.
No prayers or cries had saved him then; only terror, grief, and dread as darkness claimed him.
Now awake once more, Guilliman burned for vengeance, to repay that stroke in kind.
But reason overcame rage. He mastered himself, holding his ground in silence, doing nothing rash.
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