The Vengeful Spirit.
The bridge.
Everything here was shrouded in a dark red glow. Chaos banners hanging from the dome swayed gently in invisible Warp currents, the blasphemous scriptures embroidered upon them writhing like living things. In the center of the bridge, Abaddon's massive frame was sunk deep into the captain's throne. This seat, forged from brass and living flesh, seemed fused with his body. Tubes embedded in the armrests constantly pumped Chaos energy into him, keeping him at his peak.
Abaddon's gaze pierced through the armored glass of the bridge, staring straight at the planet gradually appearing ahead of the fleet.
Lush.
That was the first word that came to Abaddon's mind. The planet stood out sharply in the dark void, like an emerald set on black velvet, full of life and vitality. It was entirely different from the daemon worlds corrupted by Chaos within the Eye of Terror.
He could hardly wait. A cruel smile appeared on Abaddon's face, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest with a dull thud.
Below him, the mortal fleet commanders were not nearly as composed.
"What exactly happened just now? What was that strange Warp turbulence?"
"Chaos preserve us... I hope there won't be more trouble."
"Are the Chaos Powers not on our side? Why did they not protect us? Why would such turbulence appear in the Warp?"
Chirping and chattering. Too loud. These voices converged in Abaddon's ears into an irritating buzz, like a swarm of flies circling incessantly. Abaddon frowned. His gaze remained fixed on the planet, but his right hand rose from the armrest and gestured slightly to the side.
The Bringer of Despair guard standing beside him nodded silently. Then, the sound of bolters exploded on the bridge. The overexcited, hysterical commanders didn't even have time to scream before their heads shattered under the impact of the bolts. Blood and brain matter mixed on the bridge floor, forming an abstract and bloody mural.
The remaining commanders fell silent instantly. They bowed their heads, not daring to make another sound, even making an effort to lighten their breathing.
Peace at last.
Abaddon nodded with satisfaction and refocused on the front. Just then, a familiar figure appeared in his vision. Erebus approached with measured steps, his robes covered in blasphemous scriptures flickering with an eerie luster in the bridge's shifting light. With every step, the scriptures shifted positions, as if silently reciting something.
"As expected of you, Ezekiel." Erebus stopped at a precise distance and bowed slightly, his tone full of flattery. "Your command is as forceful as ever. I presume we will soon achieve the results we desire?"
"Naturally. Is there even a doubt?" Abaddon responded coldly. His gaze lingered on Erebus for a moment before shifting away.
For some reason, he found the man strange. Occasionally, a sudden pang of pain would radiate from Abaddon's own body—a baseless agony, like an invisible wound being torn open at an invisible time. Accompanying this pain was an indescribable sense of déjà vu, as if a scene had already happened, a word already spoken. Yet it was so unfamiliar.
Unpleasant.
Abaddon's gaze turned fierce again. He turned to Erebus and spoke coldly: "Now you had better pray. Because of your and Magnus's intelligence, I abandoned my original plan for the Thirteenth Black Crusade to attack this remote planet. Simply destroying it won't be enough."
He paused, his tone turning even darker. "You had better hope everything you said is true. Otherwise, you know the consequences."
Even facing such a blunt threat, Erebus did not panic. A confident smile appeared on his face, which was tattooed with blasphemous text. The smile even held a trace of tolerance for Abaddon's threat—like a wise man tolerating a foolish child.
"Rest assured, Ezekiel. That goes without saying." Erebus's voice was calm and certain. "When the Four Gods of Chaos stand united, no enemy can block their path."
As he spoke, he took two slow steps forward, standing to Abaddon's side as if to overlook the planet with him. "On the surface, this planet is just an ordinary Imperial world. But ten thousand years ago, a Great Unclean One of Nurgle was sealed here."
Abaddon did not speak, only watching him silently.
"Ten thousand years, Ezekiel. Ten thousand years." Erebus repeated the number, his tone carrying a sense of awe for time itself. "The Grey Knights who originally sealed it—the oldest generation—could never have imagined that over time, the prolonged existence of this Great Unclean One in the material universe would blur the boundaries of the seal."
His finger tapped the air, and a tiny point of light emerged in the void. "A hole has formed." The light rotated slowly, emitting a sickly glow.
"Of course, viewed in isolation, this might be a negligible issue. But—" Erebus's voice suddenly became impassioned, "if the Four Chaos Powers strike this hole simultaneously, it becomes an ant-hole. An ant-hole in a dam."
Abaddon's eyes flickered slightly.
"And this place is near the Eye of Terror; the barrier between reality and the Warp is naturally thin." Erebus continued, his voice full of temptation. "When the Four Gods project their power here at once—"
His arms spread wide, as if to embrace the entire universe. "The flood from the Immaterium will pour into the material universe! A hole will be torn open here, second only to the Eye of Terror! Then, the power of Chaos will surge, and your pace in destroying that rotting Empire will be greatly accelerated!"
A brief silence fell over the bridge. The terrified commanders didn't even dare to look up, but their ears were sharp, unwilling to miss a single word.
"But the premise is that everything you say is true." Abaddon sneered and slowly closed his eyes. His body leaned against the back of the throne. The energy in the tubes seemed to feel his mood, the pumping speed visibly increasing.
"But it doesn't matter. Those dogs of the False Emperor can never field an enemy capable of matching my strength. Not even if a Primarch arrived in person."
Abaddon felt the surging Warp energy within him, rushing through his veins, roaring in his marrow, screaming in his soul. He felt omnipotent. The whispers of Chaos echoed in his heart, magnifying his arrogance and ambition to an incredible degree.
The era of the Primarchs was over.
"Even if those Primarchs crawled out of their historical graves, they could do nothing to change this Empire that has been rotting for ten thousand years." Abaddon opened his eyes, his voice echoing like rolling thunder. "Chaos will usher in its greatest revival at my hands. I will destroy this already decayed Empire."
His gaze swept over everyone on the bridge. The Chaos servants bowed their heads instinctively as they met his eyes.
"No one can stop me." Abaddon's voice was deliberate. "Mortals cannot, the Empire cannot, and the Primarchs certainly cannot." He stood up from his throne, his massive frame casting a giant shadow. "I will become the master of this galaxy, or watch it turn to ash."
Such grand words and overwhelming presence caused every Chaos servant who heard them to widen their eyes. Their gazes were full of fanaticism. Their will to fight burned fiercely. Erebus also nodded with satisfaction, the corners of his mouth curling up as if he had already seen that great future.
However, at that moment—
"What is happening?" a fleet commander suddenly shouted, his voice full of terror.
Abaddon's gaze snapped toward the armored glass at the front of the bridge. At the edge of his vision, in front of that lush planet, dense red dots appeared on the observation interface. Those red dots were like fireflies in the night, lighting up one by one and then converging into a vast sea of light.
A deathly silence fell over the bridge. Everyone stared with wide eyes at those red dots. Their faces were etched with disbelief, unable to believe this was real. But the red dots were displayed clearly on the auspex, on every observation screen—clear and undeniable.
Someone began to wonder if they had overdosed on drugs yesterday. How else could such a hallucination appear?
But it wasn't a hallucination. Everyone fell silent. Even Abaddon, even Erebus, fell silent.
An iron curtain from the Empire slowly opened before them. They pressed toward the Chaos fleet with righteous dignity, disdainful of using any schemes or tactical camouflage. It was the simplest, most direct frontal crushing force.
Within the fleet, there were no frigates, no cruisers, no common Emperor-class battleships or any other known models.
The count was: Six thousand.
By visual confirmation, every single one of these ships was the personal vessel of the Primarch Guilliman, a twenty-six-kilometer-long grand vessel, the symbol of the Ultramarines Legion.
The Gloriana-class battleship—The Honour of Macragge.
Erebus's eyes widened, the smile completely vanished from his face. This inexplicable development felt like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, leaving his mind blank. He instinctively formed hand signs, instantly casting dozens of Warp spells to pierce illusions. The runes at his fingertips lit up and died, lit up and died, as he confirmed again and again.
There was no mistake. This was not the Warp, not a dreamscape; this was the genuine material universe. He looked at the dense Imperial fleet before him, then glanced at Abaddon beside him, whose aura was on the verge of erupting.
How is this possible? Only this single thought echoed repeatedly in Erebus's mind.
...
As the saying goes—The Law of Conservation of Smiles. Smiles do not disappear; they only transfer to someone else's face.
At this moment, within the Imperial fleet, the Avenging Son, the Imperial Regent, the Lord of the Thirteenth Legion—Roboute Guilliman—was also seated upon a captain's throne. A smile appeared on his face.
This was a rare occurrence. In combat command, Guilliman always wore a dignified and solemn expression—brows slightly furrowed, gaze like fire, lips tightly pressed, as if always contemplating the next tactical deployment or Imperial governance. But right now, the corners of Guilliman's mouth were curving upward with an unstoppable momentum.
That upward curve was harder to suppress than a bolter's recoil. He tried once. He took a deep breath, attempting to restore his expression to its usual solemn state. Unfortunately, he failed. He couldn't hold it.
Guilliman gave up the struggle, allowing the smile to bloom freely on his face. His gaze pierced the armored glass of the bridge, through layers of the void, looking at the iconic warship in the distance.
The Vengeful Spirit.
As a poor soul who hadn't made it to the Siege of Terra, Guilliman had led two hundred thousand Ultramarines at that time, rushing to Terra in a desperate attempt to save the throne. Then, he had been trapped in the Warp. His path had been blocked by six thousand Vengeful Spirits. Guilliman had hesitated and did not proceed, so he failed to make it to that battle. For ten thousand years, this event had been a thorn in his side.
"I really didn't expect..." Guilliman whispered to himself, his smile widening further. "That guy could actually pull off such an incredible feat."
It was truly eye-opening!
And at this moment, on the bridge of the Honour of Macragge, the atmosphere was equally light. The Ultramarine officers assisting in command, the Astartes, the naval commanders—smiles were on all their faces. The Chaos enemy was right in front of them; the enemy that had tormented the Empire for so long was right there.
They, who should have been facing a great enemy, appeared exceptionally relaxed. To be honest, they truly couldn't imagine how such a military force could lose.
This time, the roles of attacker and defender had been swapped!