Chapter 479: The Warmaster's Incandescent Fury
"Hahaha!"
A booming, irreverent laugh erupted from the Formless Lord, Ramesses. He was currently conducting a psionic tutoring session for the Regent.
He slammed a piece of chalk onto the desk, leaning his weight against the edge of the heavy oak table with one hand while clutching his face with the other. He looked like a man who had just witnessed the greatest jest in the history of the galaxy.
Roboute Guilliman, who had been utilizing his rare free time to study with a scholar's intensity, looked up in surprise.
The Primarch's finger paused, his stylus resting across the cover of a manual titled Logic of the Empyrean: A Primer for the Greenskin-Minded. It was his personal journal of psionic theory, filled with his own analytical cross-references and theorems, awaiting Ramesses' critique.
The fundamental laws of the Warp were easy enough to map, but their deeper applications always carried a certain flavor of "Intuitive Subjectivity"—especially for a Primarch.
Take this journal, for instance.
Chief Librarian Tigurius, one of the premier psykers of the Imperium, allowed his gaze to drift toward the Primarch's book. As an officer of the highest rank, he was permitted to audit these sessions.
Ordinarily, a record of Warp-lore written by a mortal would eventually manifest as a cursed artifact, much like the journals of the Death Guard's Vorx. Yet this book appeared entirely mundane.
Even a Librarian as sharp as Tigurius could perceive no anomaly within it. It was as if the very paper lacked the metaphysical soil required for Warp-taint to take root.
"Huron has engaged the Despoiler over Badab," Ramesses chuckled, even as his mind worked to triangulate Abaddon's position for a potential Legion of the Damned orbital-drop. "I told him to stall for time, and he's managed to trigger the Warmaster into an absolute, incandescent rage."
He reached out and snatched Guilliman's notebook, skimming the latest entries.
"Hm. This approach is correct. You don't have to use the power, but you cannot afford to be ignorant of it."
The Formless Lord offered his validation.
Guilliman's rejection of the Warp acted as a sort of internal displacement. He was using the sheer density of his own "rational" Warp-signature to crowd out external influences—a metaphysical capacity-fill.
If a typical Warp-initiate wrote such a book, it would be a beacon for daemons. But Guilliman, in the act of writing, was saturating the pages with his own rejection of the supernatural, effectively "elbowing" the Immaterium away from his work. To any observer, the book felt like a blank void.
It was a sound tactical line. Although Guilliman could never truly manifest an "Avalon" like Arthur due to his inherent nature as a creature of the Emperor's design, he could at least secure his own mind.
In truth, Guilliman's natural psionic resistance was formidable. From a purely physical standpoint, even the "Excalibur" projection Ramesses had copied from Arthur couldn't easily strike him down. However, because he lacked understanding of the Empyrean, the Regent was vulnerable to containment spells and reality-warping bindings.
Once immobilized, the rest was a matter of attrition.
Because of the influence of the Blood God, many conflicts in this universe were settled by cold steel, and in a pure duel of blades, Guilliman was often outmatched by his more bellicose brothers.
"I understand," Guilliman nodded.
"Shall I withdraw for a moment?" he asked, sensing Ramesses was occupied with something urgent.
Since his awakening, Guilliman's schedule had been a logistical nightmare: reclaiming Ultramar, drafting the Codex Imperialis, familiarizing himself with the political landscape of the High Lords, and processing the grassroots data models provided by Karna. His only "rest" was these mandatory tutoring sessions with Ramesses.
It was grueling. Especially after discovering the catastrophic state of the Imperium outside the Five Great Special Zones. Even a mind as vast as his found the weight of it daunting. Yet, strangely, Guilliman found a genuine zeal for his Warp-studies.
To have Guilliman acknowledge the necessity of the psionic arts would have been unthinkable during the Great Crusade.
Back then, the behavior of Magnus the Red—the "Crimson King"—had been that of a child playing with viral weapons. Guilliman had been terrified of the knowledge Magnus held, let alone supported its use.
But according to Ramesses' logic, they weren't rushing to ascend Humanity into a psychic race. That was a path they might never take. However, in an age where the Warp Gods were the primary threat, and the Primarchs were the only stable anchors remaining, a systematic understanding of the Empyrean was a strategic necessity.
Mortals and Astartes had limits. They died too soon, or lacked the authority to hold the line. Harmless knowledge would inevitably be distorted into dogma over a thousand years if left in their hands.
The education of the Primarchs was the lynchpin. As long as the Sires remained unfooled, the Imperium's margin for error remained high.
Especially Guilliman.
On the surface, he had opposed the Warp during the Crusade, yet he had secretly maintained psychic units. Even after the Shadow Crusade, when the Lion "visited" Macragge, Guilliman had signaled his Librarians to probe the Lion's mind to verify his loyalty.
Me? Probing the Lion's mind? Ramesses had snickered when he read that report.
The Lion's mental fortress was so impenetrable that not even the Four Gods could breach it. To ask a standard Librarian to peak inside was the height of unintentional comedy.
The goal now was to ensure Guilliman "understood" the logic of the Empyrean, allowing him to expand the framework of his rationality so that he didn't remain a static target for the Ruinous Powers.
"No need. Stay if you wish," Ramesses said, generating a temporary data-packet for the Primarch.
Guilliman took the file and managed a small smile.
He had always wanted the world to be like this.
His brothers mocked his dueling skills and teased him for being a "psionic layman," but it wasn't the end of a conversation—it was the start of a shared burden. They relied on his administration, and in turn, they pushed him to evolve.
Did Guilliman hate this?
No. He relished it.
There was no suspicion here. No stereotypes. Analysis was settled through logic and discourse rather than slander and cross-Legion rivalry.
Then there was the action. A cautious, iron will supported by decisive deeds, leading to a tangible result.
Guilliman remembered his state of mind during the Horus Heresy.
From the first day of the rebellion, everything he encountered had sought to shatter his spirit. During the Shadow Crusade, which had set half of Ultramar ablaze, the things he had trusted proved to be fragile illusions, while the things he had dismissed as superstition proved to be terrifyingly real.
It had forced him to redraw the boundaries of his reality. He had to understand the "Theoreticals" of the Warp to apply the "Practicals."
He had faced the ascended Angron and been forced to retreat. He had faced Fulgrim, whom he loathed with a burning intensity, and had been broken.
Was that arrogance? Or was it simply the weight of despair? To watch the Imperium bleed, to see the Khan's suicidal charge result only in Mortarion's arrogant rebirth... had he charged Fulgrim in a desperate attempt to slay a brother just to reclaim a shred of his own lost superiority?
If he had defeated Fulgrim—if he had achieved that miracle on his own—would the whispers of doubt have been silenced?
Guilliman asked himself, then shook his head.
Probably not. The failure wasn't external. It was internal.
He knew that now.
His eyes swept across his desk. Beyond the mountain of administration and the nascent Codex Imperialis, there were stacks of books his brothers had compiled specifically to educate him.
The rot had always grown slowly within him. He knew its horror. He knew the catastrophe that a single moment of slackness could bring. He had tried to reject it, but the longer a problem is ignored, the harder it is to overcome.
Even for a man as "proud" as he.
And now?
Guilliman examined the notes corrected by Ramesses.
He was being pulled forward, hand-in-hand, by a group of peers. He wasn't being coerced onto a path; he was expanding his horizons.
Machines built upon the chassis of Daemon Engines. Wards based on the soul-binding ciphers of the Neverborn, repurposed to shield the spirits of men. A divine domain identical to the realms of the Dark Gods. A Legion of the Damned that mirrored the hosts of the Warp.
Blasphemy?
Perhaps.
He set aside the notebook. Noticing Ramesses was in the middle of a vox-link, Guilliman opened the technical reports provided by the Dark Angels. He read of the benefits of popularizing these technologies, the regulatory frameworks, the educational pipelines, the logistical foundations, and the thousands of successful test logs...
In these reports, Guilliman saw a path of moderation and extreme responsibility.
It wasn't a case of someone claiming to act "for your own good" or for a "Greater Ideal" while shoving incomprehensible filth down people's throats—only to double down when the disaster hit.
"I envy your temperament," Guilliman said, seizing a moment of quiet. "I find myself wondering what your lives were like before you came to us."
He looked at his brothers and saw reflections of himself. He wondered if they, too, had possessed families, or had been heirs to ancient kingdoms.
I am not alone.
"It's not important," Ramesses said, clutching his chest with a look of mock agony as he petitioned the "Golden Geezer" for more reinforcements.
Nearly a century had passed, and even with his brothers by his side, Ramesses still felt a phantom sting when he thought of his old life. To have enjoyed thirty years as a wealthy heir on Earth, only to spend a century and counting eating "manure" in this galactic pit to pay off a debt...
What a bad trade.
"I think it is very important. The Heresy happened because of a failure of 'upbringing.' That is the greatest lesson I took from Father," Guilliman said, watching the data-streams of the various Chapters.
The long schism had led to fragmented cultures. The limits on Astartes numbers had made recruitment processes increasingly extreme and brutal. Fanatical religion and the Chaos threat had allowed brainwashing and persecution to become the norm.
The Imperium was effectively feeding its greatest enemy while trying to fight it.
"You can apply whatever genetic modification you like to a man to ensure he achieves a goal," Guilliman continued, "but if he is not raised well, it is all for naught. If they are given a proper education and a stable environment, they grow strong. They find success."
He was articulating the core of his philosophy. He wanted to understand the environment that had birthed these four brothers. It was something he needed to apply to his own wayward Chapters.
"There are fourteen billion more like me where I come from," Ramesses replied with a dismissive wave.
He didn't care to elaborate. Back on Earth, he had worked in a clinical hospital environment that had driven lesser men to flee; those who survived that post were the true superhumans.
"Can we bring them here to help us?" Guilliman's eyes lit up.
The refugees of Dawnstar had become the lynchpin of the sector's administration after simple modifications.
"That would be a cruelty beyond words," Ramesses said, signaling the end of that particular line of inquiry.
The discussion on the educational standards of the Imperial elite—and the impact of family dynamics on the state—concluded. Ramesses turned back to the Warp.
He was planning something massive for Abaddon. The high-stakes thrill of the maneuver turned the bitterness of his memories into a sharp, focused pleasure.
The "Everchosen" was a special case. Nurgle was special too, so the tactics used against Mortarion couldn't be a direct template. He wanted to use Abaddon as a benchmark to see just how much the Four Gods would tolerate before they moved against them personally.
And using Huron as a verbal provocateur was a stroke of genius.
Taunting the other two "Great Generals" of the Crusade era might have been useless, but Abaddon was an exception.
Looking at the ten-thousand-year record of the Despoiler losing his temper, the Warmaster of Chaos was known for having very thin skin.
And reality was proving that record correct.
The Vengeful Spirit — Bridge
A terrifying low-pressure zone wreathed the command deck.
The senses of the Chaos Astartes and the daemons were preternaturally sharp. Their bond to the Empyrean made them hypersensitive to the shifting tides of emotion.
In an instant, silence fell. Laborers moved with stiff, mechanical terror through the utilitarian corridors of the flagship. Every soul could hear the background noise of the ship's internal machinery: the clatter of assembly lines, the hum of chain-gears, the rhythmic blare of security klaxons, and the low, bubbling groans of the daemonhosts.
No one dared speak. Information was passed through stiff, silent gestures—reports of battlefields needing support, of warbands deserting, of cultists driven mad by the Warp and abandoning strategic objectives to slaughter civilians.
It felt as though the very act of Abaddon drawing breath had sucked the sound from the room.
Even Haarken World-claimer, who had achieved more in three years than Abaddon had in ten millennia, fell silent. The herald lowered his voice, glancing warily at the Despoiler.
The Warmaster, clad in his gods-blessed plate and wielding the Talon of Horus, was a vision of shadow. His black topknot blended into the cavernous darkness behind him. A crimson psychic aura flared around his gorget, making him look disturbingly like his father.
His eyes were fixed on the tactical display, staring at the defiant image of the man taunting him.
Slowly, Haarken began to understand. Falkus Kibre, the leader of the Bringers of Despair; Kibre's duel-master; Khayon the sorcerer...
The warriors of the Black Legion met Abaddon's gaze one by one.
He nodded once.
"You," he said, looking at his assembled subordinates. "All of you. Come."
Abaddon was enraged.
"Hm~"
Ramesses, watching the feed, checked his chronometer. His brow twitched.
Rather than Abaddon's fury, he was more concerned by the fact that Huron was running out of insults and becoming too cautious.
"Needs more spice," Ramesses muttered. He prepared to assume direct control of the vox-relay.
"It's time to get on the account myself."
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