Chapter 33: Leading the Charge
Guilliman was filled with sorrow, and the Iron Hands shared his grief, but they still expressed their gratitude to the Primarch of the XIII Legion.
"Our Primarch is dead, but the Tenth Legion still stands. We will kill the traitors of the Emperor's Children with our own hands, without mercy or hesitation!" roared Iron Father Sabik Wayland.
Guilliman issued his orders to the assembled warriors:
"Gather all forces. Every soldier, every heavy weapon. The traditional chapter organization is no longer a restriction. Reassemble into new combat teams on the spot. From now on, all squad leaders will have their helmets painted red."
"Red?" Gage asked, raising an eyebrow.
"In the past, red symbolized punishment," Guilliman explained. "But Sergeant Bucky's performance has proven that idea wrong. Besides, bright colors will allow us to coordinate command more efficiently in battle."
With the power systems restored, Macragge's Honour was finally able to set sail again. The reactor roared to life, and the ship's mighty engines released a brilliant burst of blue plasma, incinerating the last Word Bearers who were still attempting to breach its armor.
Enemy cruisers that had latched onto the hull were unable to withstand the immense force. Their docking clamps shattered, and the vessels tumbled backward, consumed by the ship's blazing exhaust and shredded by its void shields.
As Macragge's Honour surged forward, the heretics were reduced to nothing more than dying sparks in the void.
A Dark Revelation
From the bridge, Captain Houmid noticed something unusual on the ship's sensors. The orbital weapon arrays around Calth had suddenly shifted their firing trajectory.
But this was no cause for celebration.
"Sir, the weapon arrays… they've opened fire!" the captain shouted in alarm.
"Firing at what?" Guilliman demanded.
"The sun, my lord! They're targeting Calth's sun!"
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Low Orbit, Weapon Array Control Center
The Word Bearer Solot Choar, the same traitor who fired the first treacherous shot at Captain Luciel, received a transmission from the surface.
It was a direct order from the infamous Erebus, the master manipulator of the Word Bearers.
On Calth's surface, Word Bearer priests had already prepared the ritual, working to weaken the planet's connection to reality and allow the madness of the Warp to seep in.
Now, the final phase was in motion.
High above, Kor Phaeron, the dark commander of the Word Bearers' fleet, nodded at Choar, signaling him to proceed.
As the command was issued, the technicians manning the controls scrambled to execute the order. The orbital weapons—designed to obliterate entire fleets—were now aimed at the heart of the system itself: Calth's sun.
In the control room, two nervous Mechanicus adepts whispered among themselves.
"Damn it, why is the cogitator lagging today?" one grumbled.
"Shut up! You probably angered the Machine Spirit with your laziness," the other snapped.
Neither of them dared speak too loudly. They had already witnessed the Word Bearers sacrifice too many prisoners and civilians in their dark rituals.
The Word Bearers revered the stars as part of their twisted beliefs. The most devout among them, those who had fused their flesh with Warp entities, were known as the Jagged Suns.
For Kor Phaeron, this was a sacrament.
"A magnificent offering," he murmured to himself. "The sun of Calth shall be our final tribute. And in return, the gods shall reward me with their greatest blessings."
With a cold smile, Kor Phaeron pressed the activation rune.
The orbital stations trembled as their weapon banks unleashed their full destructive power.
Endless lances of energy, clusters of guided missiles, antimatter warheads, and high-yield atomic charges erupted toward the distant sun.
In eight minutes, they would reach their target.
Their objective was clear: disrupt the nuclear reactions within Calth's sun, forcing it into premature decay. The result would be catastrophic—a supernova, powerful enough to obliterate the entire system.
---
The Horror Unfolds
Guilliman and his fleet could do nothing but watch in grim silence as the Word Bearers' plot unfolded.
It was too late.
Standing at the auxiliary bridge's porthole, Guilliman gazed upon the golden star as the first impacts struck.
Alarms blared across the fleet. Explosion-proof shields sealed the ship's portholes against the impending solar radiation surge. At the same time, emergency warnings were transmitted to the surface.
The sun of Calth—once a beacon of life—now radiated an eerie, sickly light.
Sunspots bloomed like cancerous sores. Violent solar flares erupted, lashing out into space like the grasping tendrils of a dying beast.
The truth was undeniable.
Even if the Ultramarines drove out the Word Bearers, even if they won the battle, Calth could never be the same.
The scars left by orbital bombardment could heal. The oceans, once boiled away, could return.
But if the sun itself had been corrupted, no life could endure.
Guilliman clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening.
"The plan remains unchanged," he declared, voice like steel. "We will reclaim the orbital weapons array. We will not surrender this world."
No rage. No wasted words.
Every second counted.
He issued a final order to all remaining loyalists on Calth: retreat underground. Seek shelter from the coming storm.
The battle for Calth's surface no longer mattered.
The battle for Calth's future was now in orbit.
---
Leading the Charge
The kill teams had assembled.
Six hundred Ultramarines prepared to be deployed to Zersanvered Dockyard, the key command center for the orbital defenses.
Guilliman had made his decision.
He would lead them personally.
"My Lord Primarch, you do not need to take this risk. I will lead the attack myself!" Gage insisted.
But one look from Guilliman silenced him.
"We are at the edge of destruction. If not now, then when?" Guilliman's voice was unwavering.
"Who commands this Legion, Gage? You or me? Obey my orders!"
The force was split into three teams, led by Gage, Ventanus, and Bucky. Their mission: infiltrate the orbital stations, eliminate key Word Bearer commanders, and seize control of the weapon arrays.
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The Final Descent
The Tech-Priests worked swiftly. Guilliman received a newly-forged combat helmet, and his armor underwent emergency maintenance.
This time, he would not fight barehanded.
His left gauntlet was equipped with a colossal lightning claw, crackling with deadly energy.
In his right hand, he wielded a master-crafted bolter, its grip worn smooth by years of use.
The cobalt blue of his armor gleamed under the dim warship lights, golden laurels adorning its surface. The eagle insignia on his chestplate shone defiantly.
As the teleportation arrays powered up, the pungent smell of ozone filled the chamber.
The Machine Spirits howled in protest.
And in a brilliant flash—
Guilliman and his warriors vanished into the void.
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