Chapter 471: The Second What?
Is the Codex Astartes a good thing?
The Codex is an peerless reference work, governing every facet of Chapter organization and battlefield doctrine. For any given tactical scenario, the Codex offers hundreds of strategies dedicated to overcoming the obstacle. A Primarch's intellect, combined with the distilled combat data of the early Imperium, was poured into its pages—covering everything from Chapter logistics and unit assignment to the smallest details of planetary conquest.
One could argue that as long as an opponent was recorded within the Codex, a commander needed only to follow its scripts to achieve victory.
However, the strict limitation on the number of Astartes within a single Chapter had a direct, devastating consequence: it transitioned the Space Marines from the primary heavy infantry of the Great Crusade to a marginalized force of elite specialists. They could no longer independently prosecute high-intensity wars on a sectoral scale.
But ten thousand years ago, that was exactly what Roboute Guilliman intended.
While the Codex Astartes served as a tactical manual, its mandatory implementation was a profound political maneuver.
It fundamentally dismantled the command hierarchy of the Legiones Astartes and neutered their naval assets—their most decisive strategic strength. By assigning homeworlds to individual Chapters, it scattered the Astartes across the galaxy. From that moment on, even a Primarch would find it almost impossible to reunify that power into a single, cohesive blade.
Given the vastness of the Imperium and the catastrophic nature of Warp-based communication, even if a Chapter attempted rebellion, they could never replicate Horus's feat of amassing four Legions in six months. It granted the other military arms of the Imperium the space and time to react.
Guilliman's objective was twofold: to ensure the horrors of the Horus Heresy never repeated, and to declare his own "harmlessness" to his brothers.
As Guilliman often noted, his friction with his peers during the Great Crusade wasn't just because he had a foster mother. The accusations regarding his "ambition" were never entirely baseless; the sheer scale of his "Five Hundred Worlds" naturally invited suspicion.
A unified military and political entity, hereditary rule, and a Primarch whose prestige within those worlds far exceeded that of the Emperor—to an outside observer, Ultramar looked very much like a breakaway state.
The classic example occurred at the conclusion of the Siege of Terra, when Guilliman finally broke through the Warp's interference to reach the Throneworld.
His fleet was pristine, shimmering under the sun of the Sol System. His Ultramarines were glorious, their armor unblemished and free of the soot of war. As they descended in bulk-lifters laden with supplies to meet the ragged, hollow-eyed defenders of the Imperial Palace, the sons of Ultramar weren't thinking about politics. They were raised in a systematic, logical society, and their conclusion was simple:
The Angel is dead. The Emperor has fallen. A realm cannot endure without a King. As the Lord of the Thirteenth Primarch still holds the Five Hundred Worlds and a Legion of two hundred and fifty thousand warriors, surely he must now be crowned Emperor of Mankind?
That was the mindset of the Ultramarines. That was the logic of Ultramar.
In that timeline, if they had continued on that path, the very hounds of Ultramar would have been shipped to Terra to serve as Arbites!
Fortunately, Guilliman's ambition was rooted in local sentimentality rather than a desire to usurp his Father's throne. He had never truly craved absolute power.
So, when he proposed the Codex, although he was dragged through the mud by other Primarchs and Astartes alike, the execution of the decree was absolute.
Except...
Guilliman's jaw tightened as his legendary composure began to fray.
How in the name of the Throne has the Codex Astartes remained unpatched for ten thousand years?
"Failed nations generally follow a remarkably similar trajectory," Arthur offered, his tone clinical.
As the military leader of the Dawnbreakers, the one who had reconstructed a Legion-scale hierarchy in the Dawnstar Sector and coordinated forces through stable vox-links, Arthur understood the mechanics of stagnation better than anyone.
He recalled an ancient record of a petty kingdom where a pilot failed to calculate fuel consumption because the refueling tanker was crewed by women; he deemed it "unholy" to accept their aid and crashed his craft—only to be hailed as a model of piety by his peers.
When a system becomes sanctified, its impact on military efficacy is almost always terminal.
"Regression leads to obsession. Obsession leads to further regression. Eventually, the entire system sinks into an inescapable abyss of dogma."
True enough.
When Guilliman first learned of the Ecclesiarchy, he honestly thought Lorgar had won.
The fundamental reason the Codex Astartes had become little more than holy toilet paper was because the author hadn't issued an update in a hundred centuries.
Which raised the question: Why hadn't he updated it?
"Old Thirteen!"
Ramesses slid a pair of memoirs across the table—written by Aeonid Thiel and Drakus.
They detailed the moment Guilliman lost his head while hunting Fulgrim. He had ignored his naval assets, disregarded the pleas of his senior officers like Thiel, Drakus, and Andros, and insisted on boarding the Pride of the Emperor for a duel he couldn't win. The result was his ten-millennia-long nap in a stasis field.
The descriptions were vivid, detailing the sheer resentment his officers felt toward his decision.
"This particular operation... your tactical performance was... questionable," Ramesses said with a smirk.
Looking at Guilliman's record, from dealing with Omegon to the two-on-one fight against Lorgar and Angron on Nuceria, he had often been forced into corners. But the suicide charge against Fulgrim was purely self-inflicted.
If Thiel and the others could drag his broken body away from a Daemon Primarch and get him back to Macragge alive, there was no logical reason a healthy Guilliman couldn't have withdrawn.
One had to wonder if the Khan's victory over Mortarion or Dorn's dismantling of Fulgrim had given Guilliman some sort of "Main Character Syndrome"—a delusion that he, too, could solo a god-thing.
In truth, Guilliman had regretted it the moment the blades crossed.
To have a strategic failure of that magnitude caused by a rush of blood to the head was a profound embarrassment for a man who prided himself on "Theoreticals and Practicals."
"...Laugh if you must," Guilliman muttered.
The hall immediately erupted in a wave of suppressed chuckles and light-hearted vox-clicks.
The Lion blended into the crowd, enjoying the moment. Since his own "dark history" hadn't been brought up yet, he intended to mock Guilliman as much as possible. After all, they were the only two "Old Sons" here; if they couldn't roast each other, who could?
"..."
Setting aside his combat record for a moment—since his brothers treated it as a jest, it was no longer a crisis—Guilliman was still reeling from the fact that his ten-thousand-year-old edicts were still being followed.
He felt a sharp pang of annoyance.
If they had this level of discipline, why did no one listen to the Imperial Truth?
"Because the Imperial Truth was even worse toilet paper. At least the author of the Codex believed in his work. The Imperial Truth—"
Ramesses, laughing so hard his shoulders shook, handed Guilliman a deck of Emperor's Tarot.
"Don't let the Emperor and Malcador's slogans fool you. When the chips were down, they were both playing the Tarot and counting the numerology. They were the galaxy's premier masters of superstition. Why else do you think the Ecclesiarchy actually worked?"
This wasn't the first time Ramesses had tried to sell these Warp-based tools to Guilliman.
His goal was to get the Regent onto the "internal network," mostly to prevent a situation where Guilliman finally connected to the Emperor's psyche and became depressed because he could only understand half of what the "Old Man" was screaming.
"You must have faced immense resistance," Guilliman said, ignoring Ramesses' pitch. As a man who instinctively loathed the Warp, he was more focused on Arthur's grievances. He felt a flicker of guilt that these brothers had to clean up the mess he left behind.
"Not as much as you'd think," Romulus said, shaking his head slightly.
Sanctification brought problems, but as the objects of that worship, their burden was actually lightened.
When they first emerged from the Warp, the plan was simple: attach themselves to a lost Chapter, find a quiet world, and develop slowly. They would intervene in major events just enough to preserve strength, then wait for M41.999 for Guilliman to wake up and fix everything.
Instead, they were "cluelessly" granted Primarch status, inserted into the apex of the Imperial hierarchy, and used Ramesses' "accidental" humor to neuter the High Lords' reach. They "stumbled" into control of a sector and used Karna to hijack the most vital parts of the Ecclesiarchy.
Guilliman's first instinct was to play the political game. He weighed leverage and maneuvers. But the Dawnbreakers didn't think like that. They took the "forbidden path."
Except for the Dawnstar Sector, which they had reformed brick by brick, everything else was a mess. They weren't master politicians. If it weren't for the fanatical religious structures holding the weight, any idiot could see these policies would backfire within centuries.
"The hidden risks are numerous," Guilliman noted. Because of Lorgar, he had a biological repulsion to religion.
After hearing Romulus's detailed explanation, he quickly dissected the "unorthodox" methods the Dawnbreakers had used on the other sectors. He began calculating solutions, offering his critique as he went.
This was the trait that had made him so unpopular during the Great Crusade.
The Lion, watching from the sidelines, finally understood why no one liked Guilliman back then.
During the Crusade, most Primarchs viewed themselves as generals following the Emperor's orders. Their gatherings were contests of boasting about honors won in fire.
But Guilliman viewed himself as a ruler. He didn't just look at the conquest; he looked at the governance that followed. And because the Emperor's ambition was always fueled by a desperate need for speed, Imperial governance was almost always a catastrophe.
Thus, Guilliman was always the wet blanket. Someone would say, "I conquered ten worlds in a year! Aren't I incredible?" and Guilliman would reply, "The administration is failing, the risks are high, and I have seventeen suggestions on how to fix your incompetence..."
"Yes, and that's why we have you now," Romulus said, without a trace of offense. He slapped Guilliman on the shoulder, his ornate robes rustling against the carpet.
"As one of the greatest statesmen in human history, I am confident you will solve these little issues for us."
He looked at Guilliman with earnest expectation, showing none of the jealousy a ruler should have for his power.
One of the great benefits of the post-Heresy era was that the Loyalists could truly, unconditionally trust one another. Even a man like the Lion, after ten thousand years of tempering, was someone you could rely on.
Frankly, Romulus and Arthur were exhausted. Thinking about the catastrophic state of Terra and the other two Segmentums made them desperate to "pass the buck."
Before, they had to carry the load because there was no one else capable. The Custodes were fine as long as they were being watched, but who knew what they'd do if left alone? Their consciences wouldn't let them leave the suffering billions to rot.
But now, Guilliman was awake.
Guilliman and the Dawnbreakers shared a striking similarity: a high moral compass and a crushing sense of responsibility. If he accepted a task, he would see it through to perfection.
Passing him the burden was a bit underhanded—like giving a man a piece of filth wrapped in a chocolate shell.
But better him than them. If he couldn't handle it, they could always discuss it later. Or, they could go and kidnap the other runaway Primarchs.
Calling Russ and the Khan.
Roboute Guilliman covered his face with one hand, a low groan vibrating through his armor. He never expected these brothers, who had secured such a magnificent opening for him, to look at him this way.
I have never been trusted like this, the Lord of Ultramar thought. Lady Euten was gone. His sons' experience was likely more visceral than his own. For a moment, he didn't even know whom to tell of his inner joy.
Guilliman realized he was no longer a solitary banner in the dark. Humanity, under the guidance of these new brothers, had entered a new era—one where hope still existed.
He knew that if he didn't say something, he would be failing the trust they had placed in him.
"Of course—" Guilliman replied solemnly. "I accept the duty."
It was his only choice. He had to show indestructible strength, lest his own hesitation fail the faith of his kin.
The room breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"Exactly," Romulus smiled. "We must learn from history. A major cause of the Heresy was the lack of mutual trust between Primarchs, leading to that catastrophe. Of course, the Traitors were equally idiotic."
"You have a detailed understanding of the Great Betrayal?" Guilliman asked, his estimation of the Imperial state rising again.
To have a complete, un-sanctified history survive suggested a core of rationality still existed.
Oh, it's detailed alright. It's as if they watched us live it.
The Lion crossed his arms, settling in to watch the show. Now that he had no secrets left, he was invincible.
"Oh, absolutely. For example: the Shadow Crusade. The 'Hide and Seek' championship between Guilliman, the Lion, and Curze on Macragge. The Nine Hours. 'Roboute Guilliman is on his way.' Oh, and—" Ramesses began ticking items off his fingers like a menu.
"..."
Guilliman's smile slowly died. Silence descended.
He looked at the grinning faces and realized that every secret he had ever hidden from his brothers was now transparent.
The bad feeling he'd had since sensing the Dawnbreakers' nature was confirmed.
These were the secrets of three Legions. Secrets that, after the Siege of Terra, were never to be known by any other Primarch or Legion.
After all, no one could accept that while they were bleeding in the trenches of Terra, a certain brother was slowly making his way there after building a "backup" empire.
"The Second—"
"NO!"
Guilliman let out a panicked, urgent shout.
In a blur of motion, he lunged across the table and clamped his hand over Ramesses' mouth.
"DO NOT SAY ANOTHER WORD!"
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