Macragge is burning.
This beautiful and prosperous world was once one of the Human Imperium's greatest jewels. Only the light of Holy Terra and Mars could barely overshadow it. Its wild climate, its vast oceans, its tall and winding giant mountain ranges—all spoke of the vibrant life of this great world. As the homeworld of a Primarch,
Macragge's originally somewhat barren and harsh environment had long changed under Roboute Guilliman's decades-long meticulous governance. Snow-white cities, gardens, and plazas now covered the former wastelands. Muscular young people and serene elders walked with heads held high, proudly displaying their status as the happiest citizens of the Imperium.
This world was so beautiful, so prosperous, so happy, so proud, and so unreal, so envied, even inciting the burning of fury. Therefore, when the flames of war ignited in the galaxy, there was naturally no reason to spare any citizen of Macragge. Thousands of meteors fell from the firmament, trailing twisted skies of high temperature and extreme speed. When they crashed onto the ground, what emerged were Angels of Death in black, dark blue, bright bronze, and bearing many other sinful colors.
Macragge began to burn. Shrieks and death now ran rampant in the once peaceful streets. Tens of thousands of iron hooves brought the boundless malice of the traitors. They herded the wailing mortals, and though they had no intention of slaughtering or ravaging them, they hoped these desperate cries for help would lure out the trapped sons of Guilliman, allowing the battle to proceed in a more open slaughterhouse.
The clash of Astartes was like sparks scattering from a falling hammer, burning fiercely in every corner of the world. From Fortress Hera to the main city of Macragge, from the cold steel peaks to the fortress clusters at the poles, everywhere roared, everywhere bled.
Powerful warriors, armed with reinforced tendons, bones, and brainwashed, fearless will, were now scattered as casually as the cheapest coins. The casualty of a single tank or even a company could not even shake the control of a single intersection.
Looking out, one could see panicked crowds rushing through the streets. Most of them were children, or young mothers clutching their infants. Only a few sturdy young men, armed with guns, ran at the rear of the group. A mother stumbled through the street, her skin cut by twisted rebar and shattered glass, leaving scattered drops of blood on the ground.
Perhaps due to severe blood loss, or perhaps simply fatigue, she unwittingly deviated from the group. As a squad of Ultramarines passed by the front of the crowd, she laboriously dodged, unexpectedly turning into another street alone. And before she had run two steps, she was forced to fall headlong into a nearby alley, for at the other end of the street, several figures in dark crimson and bright bronze appeared. These were the Word Bearers; they were clearly not the guardians of Macragge.
The explosive clash of Astartes came from behind. The mother naturally dared not linger. She simply clutched her child tightly, fumbling forward through the gloomy alley filled with rubble and debris, praying that the swaying tall buildings on either side would hold on for a little longer. But no one heard her prayers. A chunk of debris, intermingled with three layers of concrete, happened to fall.
It cast a shadow, a shadow large enough to obscure anyone, a shadow large enough to extinguish any hope. Large chunks of concrete and rebar crashed down, completely crushing the mother and her child. At first, there were struggles and muffled cries, but soon, only trickling streams of blood remained. The blood nourished the dark earth, polluting the bricks, stones, and vegetation, until it stopped before a pair of black boots, forming a small, pooling lake.
Morgan lifted her foot, stepping over the foul-smelling pool. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the grotesque grave, then once again returned to the sounds of slaughter. Her figure weaved through the crumbling ruins. She walked into the center of one battlefield after another, as if unnoticed by anyone. The sons of Guilliman were defending their home with the most fanatical fervor. Morgan could see the battle unfolding in the plaza and by the small fountain. It was a clash between Ultramarines and Word Bearers.
Four strands of blue and nine red-armored figures unleashed malice with the most exquisite techniques. In terms of numbers, it seemed to be an overwhelming situation, but the Word Bearers were merely an ordinary small squad, while the Ultramarines' leader was a warrior clad in ornate armor: a veteran of countless victories, a warrior capable of serving as a Primarch's bodyguard. With his strength alone, he held back three opponents and quickly counter-killed one of them.
But the progress of the battle was far more complex than imagined, because more shadows could be drawn by the sounds of slaughter here: at least twenty Night Lords arrived aboard Raptors, their claws fierce and merciless, and Ultramarine reinforcements continuously surged from the breaches. Not long after, Morgan could even see warriors in black, green, and even dark green armor joining the fight.
They fought side by side, fought amongst themselves, and even fought individually, quickly falling into a chaotic melee with almost no friendly fire. Each warrior could only trust the same color, and even slight differences prompted them to tear at themselves and their opponents with a meat-grinder-like attitude.
And when they fought to the death, a silver figure, slightly shorter than them, stood in the very center of this battlefield. In her eyes, there was only endless numbness and dead silence. That was the color her pupils were born with.
About half an hour later, only the panting Veteran Sergeant stood with his sword drawn; everyone else had fallen. The son of Guilliman seemed to be hesitating about something, but just then, a strange green light struck him from behind, followed by a storm of countless dark green energy beams, engulfing him in the blink of an eye. Morgan calmly watched this scene: the warrior's head was being corroded by some kind of energy.
She turned her head, only to see a squad of Astartes arriving belatedly through the mist. Their armor was unclear, but they wielded strange weapons and longswords, all emitting a ghostly green light that did not belong to human weapons. In the mist, one figure was exceptionally tall, at least a quarter of a body taller than his comrades, holding a very strange greatsword. The knowledge stored in her mind quickly told Morgan the name of the ghostly green weapon. It was a phase sword.
It ends here.
Like a film that was never finished, this incredibly real and vivid drama came to an abrupt halt at its most captivating moment. Morgan could hear some distant, sharp laughter. Accompanying this laughter, the entire Macragge almost instantly turned to dust.
And Morgan remained calm, for this was not the first time. She watched indifferently the darkness and dead silence before her. This was the true face of the Warp.
Since that explosion, she had been pulled into this place, and these real and vivid scenes of destruction constantly flickered before her eyes.
She saw burning in the void, an entire Astartes Legion fleet utterly torn apart and annihilated between stars and planets. She saw the terrifying appearance of the victors and the culprits: strange warships passing through the wreckage, adorned with sword and wing emblems, and black-armored warriors walking upon them.
She witnessed the death of a Primarch, the wailing of a mighty giant. He did not die in battle, but under the weeping of his brothers. Morgan strained to recall more details, but she had truly forgotten the faces of the deceased and the culprits. All she could hear were the continuous, mocking cackles in the void of her memory.
She saw the whispered Emperor, the Second Emperor, a tragedy exploited and deceived. He transitioned from Warmaster and loyal subject, destined to ignite a war that would make the gods wail, driven by surging ambition, unwilling fury, and deep love for his sons. His claws pointed at the stars, and the galaxy began to burn.
She saw: betrayal, abandonment, assassination, fury, trust spurned, innocence betrayed. The most foolish yet most excellent mortal lit a single spark, and caused all of Holy Terra to burn.
It was just one bullet, yet it killed a generation.
But none of this mattered, not to her.
She didn't care if Macragge burned. She didn't care which Legion silently disappeared into the void. She couldn't comprehend the sadness and anger contained within these events, nor did she want to. She opened her eyes wide, concentrated her focus, eager to find traces of herself in these illusory fragments, to confirm some of the hypotheses in her mind.
And finally, she found it.
It was a trace that couldn't be discerned at first glance. She saw some kind of manipulation and seduction that triggered the development of the tragedy. Behind all the flames of war and death lay a silver soul that had quietly passed by: growing steadier, more complete, more like a truly free soul.
The sharp laughter sounded again. This time, it was exceptionally close.
Accompanying this laughter, Morgan felt the approach of some kind of passage. As long as she moved a little further, she would reach an important place.
Her head slowly lifted, and then...
She hesitated.
When Morgan stepped with slow and steady strides into a new world, she was covered in numerous injuries. Her robe was tattered, as if she had just survived a storm, and her hair ties had completely blown away, leaving her silver hair scattered over her shoulders.
She looked up, her face exhausted, her eyes showing the discomfort caused by extreme fatigue, and even her soul appeared excessively weak.
It was in this very state that she appeared before her prey.
And that massive, foolish, incredibly valuable prey was right in front of her. He was looking left and right, constantly calling out for his sons, occasionally even calling Morgan's name. His soul's roar caused wave-like ripples in the Warp.
Ah...
Magnus.
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