After confirming his reward, Guilliman nodded slightly.
This "golden finger" (his cheat ability) wasn't too bad—barely acceptable, but usable.
By combining the advanced technology of the Dark Matter Computer with the Primaris Space Marine project in the hands of the Archmagos Belisarius Cawl, he could create a new generation of super-soldiers to fight against traitors and the forces of Chaos.
The existing Space Marines of the Imperium were simply too weak when facing Chaos. More often than not, the Imperium won battles by sheer numbers.
The casualty ratios were brutal—horrifying to behold.
But now, with these powerful new troops, Guilliman could maintain the boundaries of the Imperium more effectively.
He had no other choice. Either he helped the Imperium defeat Chaos, or he would end up as a slave to them.
Escape?
Best not to even dream about it.
The nearest galaxy beyond the Milky Way was hundreds of thousands of light-years away—how could he possibly flee that far?
No Astronomican. No star charts. How would he even navigate?
Even if a ship could theoretically reach the speed limit of the universe, it would still take hundreds of thousands of years. If anything broke mid-flight, it would be endless drifting until death.
As for using the Warp to escape—even more dangerous.
The Warp was ruled by the Chaos Gods. Without the Emperor's Astronomican to guide him and a strong Gellar Field, the ship's protections would collapse within days.
Without a Gellar Field, the Chaos Gods could do anything to him—literally anything.
Even then, other galaxies might not be any safer.
In the Warhammer universe, there's another terrifying race: the Tyranids.
They came from outside the Milky Way, a race so fearsome they devour everything they encounter—and they were fleeing from something even worse when they entered this galaxy.
Imagine what must be chasing them.
The universe beyond the Milky Way might be even more horrifying.
If he tried to escape, his fate would probably be even worse.
He had only one option—win. Otherwise, he would die miserably. There was no third choice.
"Go. Clear them out."
Guilliman stepped out, his eyes burning with fury. The flames of the Emperor's Sword blazed even more violently in his hand.
Calgar, Saint Celestine, and Amalrich gathered around him once more, regrouping and preparing to strike back.
Outside the sanctum, the thunder of artillery echoed. The Imperial forces were still fighting desperately, trying to push the Chaos invaders out of their homeland.
Macragge City, the massive hive city, was engulfed in chaos and bloodshed.
From factories to spaceports—everywhere was a battlefield.
Space Marines from various chapters fought in their distinct armors, clashing with the forces of Chaos in brutal close combat.
Imperial Guardsmen and Macragge's own planetary defense forces were firing non-stop, using makeshift street defenses to fight off heretics and daemons.
Beams of lasfire cut through the reeking battlefield, searing into the foul creatures and ending their twisted lives.
But there were so many enemies. Heretics, traitors, monsters—countless.
Wave after wave smashed into the loyalist lines, forcing the defenders to retreat slowly, inch by inch.
"For the Chaos Gods! For supreme glory! Kill them all!"
A heretic mutated into a bone-spiked monster screamed, waving a crude weapon and urging his followers into another suicidal charge.
Another man, covered in tumors and boils, shrieked in an unnatural frenzy:
"For the blessings of the Father! For the end of all things!"
All around, other traitors shouted obscenities and blasphemous slogans.
The defenders held on desperately, protecting the last refuge of Macragge. There was nowhere left to retreat.
Inside that refuge, terrified civilians huddled and prayed at statues of the Emperor.
"Save us…"
"Don't let those monsters reach us…"
"Please… save us…"
As the sounds of gunfire and Chaos war cries grew louder, their fear deepened.
They knew—falling into Chaos hands was worse than death. Death would be a mercy compared to what awaited them.
Even the commander of the Imperial Guard defense fell into despair.
He had nothing left. No more reserves. All he could do was squeeze every last ounce of strength from his troops and hope to buy a few more minutes.
Over a hundred regiments had been wiped out in this meat grinder. Countless guardsmen had perished.
Their only hope was that the Imperial fleet in orbit could retake space superiority. Only then could the tide turn.
The battlefield was a nightmare—bodies piled high, blood flowing like rivers, the air thick with the stench of death.
No hope in sight.
The surface had been cut off from orbit. No one knew how the space battle was going—had the fleet won? Or were they in full retreat?
Large green flies buzzed through the air, swarming over fresh corpses. They burrowed into the flesh to lay eggs, spreading the blessings of their Plague Father Nurgle, filling the dead with viruses and diseases, raising them again as plague zombies.
The defenders were falling apart. Chaos was growing stronger. The powers of the Warp were whispering, corrupting, seducing the minds of the loyalists—luring them away from the Emperor to fall into the twisted garden of the Chaos Gods.
"Are we doomed?"
The commander looked at the collapsing front lines and despaired.
How could they possibly win this?!
No air support. No tanks. No Titans. No reinforcements.
He looked up at the sky. Even the skies belonged to the enemy.
That despair seeped into every soldier on the field.
Many gripped their weapons tighter, trying to keep their trembling hands steady.
Veterans made the Aquila salute, whispering final prayers, hoping their souls might rest at the Emperor's side.
Then—the whispers stopped.
Everyone felt something powerful stirring inside them. Pain, fatigue, and despair were suddenly driven away. Their bodies felt strong again.
The twisted smiles on the faces of daemons and traitors disappeared, replaced with fear.
Guilliman walked out from the sanctum—like an angry god of war stepping from the realm of myth into reality. The Emperor's Sword burned furiously, and wherever its light touched, the shadows of the Warp were torn apart.
"I have returned."
He roared his war cry and charged into battle. Saint Celestine and the others followed him, diving into the ranks of the enemy.
Like a spear thrust into a festering wound, they tore through the Chaos horde—limbs flew, blood sprayed.
"Counterattack! All forces, charge!"
The Imperial commander saw them—a demigod flanked by saints and generals. He understood instantly: Cawl's plan had worked. A Primarch had returned.
Victory was within reach. Humanity would rise. The Emperor's light would never fade.
He roared in triumph and ordered an all-out assault.
"For humanity! For the Emperor!"
"For humanity! For the Emperor!"
Soldiers scrambled from trenches, shouting oaths and charging the now-panicked Chaos horde.
"For humanity! For the Emperor!"
A single guardsman screamed with all his might, inhaling smoke and coughing violently—but he didn't stop. He rammed his monomolecular bayonet into a heretic's gut without hesitation.
"Pay for your betrayal!"
Another soldier climbed out, firing his lasgun in rage, venting all his fury on the enemy.
The tide had turned. The Chaos forces were being driven back, losing ground they had just taken, crumbling under the Imperium's renewed wrath.
Then—a monstrous roar.
Sensing their side's defeat, the heretics performed a dark ritual. Sacrificing their followers, they summoned a massive Warp Daemon, burning with fire.
The creature was gigantic, its body lined with metallic bone spikes, exuding a terrifying presence that shook the battlefield.
The cultists died instantly—drained of life, then bursting into ash.
"A Primarch?"
The daemon sniffed the air as it materialized, immediately detecting Guilliman's presence.
Its flaming eyes locked onto him.
To the daemon, Guilliman's skull would make the perfect offering to Khorne, the Blood God.
With a hideous grin, it roared and charged directly at him.
(End of Chapter)