On the Macragge's Honour, there was a study belonging solely to Guilliman.
This layout had existed since the Great Crusade. Even after ten thousand years, his sons had never altered it, preserving it exactly as it was.
All the study's collections, books, and documents had originally been sent to the Library of Ptolemy for safekeeping.
But after the Primarch's resurrection, these items were brought back.
Beneath the lofty dome of the study, bookshelves clung to the walls, stretching seventy meters up from the floor.
At a desk surrounded by these shelves, Guilliman pored over the reports compiled by the Astropaths. His flawless, resolute face was shrouded in a heavy gloom.
The pilgrimage fleet had been voyaging through the surging tides of the Warp for some time now, ever farther from Ultramar. Yet the storms of the High Heavens never ceased for a moment.
The gods' roars grew ever more frenzied, thirsting to utterly destroy the material universe, to devour the souls and flesh of all living things.
Each time the fleet struggled free of the Warp, pausing for a brief respite in realspace, the Astropaths would exhaust themselves, parting the endless whispers and shrieks of the Warp, to gather fragments of information from across the Imperium.
Yet what they could capture was mostly broken, chaotic, and agonizing.
Even the rare few fragments they managed to piece together revealed only darkness and horror.
Supernatural calamities rampaged across the star systems; daemon invasions and deadly plagues spread like wildfires beyond control.
The number of psykers and mutants was soaring at an unprecedented rate, bringing with it all manner of terrifying, blasphemous phenomena.
Imperial servants were reduced to slaves of warp entities. The confused populace, in their madness, became shrieking cultists.
Xenos armies followed in the daemons' wake, riding the warp tide to launch mass invasions.
Countless worlds were lost to flames of war, their cries for help and despair echoing endlessly through the Warp.
Even fortresses once deemed impregnable found their communications replaced with distorted static or utter silence, becoming lairs of warp-beasts.
Manifested nightmares roamed the corridors and chambers, hunting the defenders of the Imperium.
Scattered across the galaxy, Imperial fleets no longer sent news of victory—only unending pleas for aid.
"The state of the Imperium is worse than my most pessimistic predictions..."
The Primarch's mind was heavy as lead, wracked with grief.
"Facing such catastrophic collapse, how can I possibly turn the tide?"
"This mess... it's just too vast, Father."
Alone in his study, Guilliman often sighed, staring at the Astropaths' reports in confusion, wishing he could confide in a brother.
But he had learned that his brothers of old were long lost. The Primarch could only bear his confusion and hesitation alone, pondering how to save the Imperium.
The study had become Guilliman's last refuge for peace and brief relaxation.
Once he stepped out, he had to don the mask of strength and control, leading the pilgrimage fleet resolutely toward Terra.
…
The captains of the Pilgrimage Crusade were always extremely cautious while navigating the Warp.
Yet, accidents struck without warning.
The Pride of Hera's Geller Field suffered a sudden malfunction.
The shield that kept reality's boundary and blocked daemons flickered, riddled with cracks like a candle in the wind.
For the daemons lurking alongside the fleet, waiting for such an opportunity, this split-second weakness was enough.
Within seconds, Nurgle's plague daemons surged into the ship like a tide of foul pus breaking a dam.
Their bodies were grotesque, bloated and rotten, dripping with putrescent ichor.
Each step left a sticky trail on the metal deck.
The air reeked of rotting flowers and corpse-pits.
Just one breath was enough to make unprotected mortal soldiers retch and send their minds reeling.
The armed crew swiftly organized the first line of defense, lasguns blazing through the dim corridors.
But physical ammunition was of limited use against Chaos abominations.
Shattered daemons burst like overripe fruit, spraying corrosive pus that hissed on armor, and triggered horrifying rot and mutation when it hit flesh.
Worse, warp corruption was twisting the ship itself.
Cold steel bulkheads grew throbbing flesh-tubes; flickering indicator lights turned into murky eyeballs; whispers echoed directly in people's minds.
Some soldiers became dazed, their bodies twitching uncontrollably.
The worst emitted inhuman howls, their limbs twisting and mutating before everyone's eyes, turning into new monsters.
"For the Emperor! Purge the unclean!"
Inquisitor Greyfax led a support force of Battle Sisters, Astartes, and Grey Knights into the fray.
Her roar cut through the chaos, restoring confidence and stabilizing the line.
The Sisters sang hymns, their flamers spewing purifying fire that burned swarms of Nurgling and bloated Plaguebearers into rolling char.
Their unwavering faith formed an invisible shield, partially dispersing the warp's psychic oppression.
Meanwhile, the superhuman Astartes demonstrated lethal efficiency.
Their bolters precisely targeted larger daemons, each round blasting huge holes in the bloated bodies, flesh flying.
Power swords and chainswords roared, hacking apart Nurgle vanguards wielding rusty plague-blades.
Their presence was a shot of adrenaline, shoring up the crumbling defense.
…
Datch had originally been on the Macragge's Honour. On his minimap, he saw a golden question mark appear above NPC Greyfax's head, so he used his Sadako videotape to "crawl" his way over.
Datch deftly dodged a duel between chainsword and plague greatsword, leapt through the fiery curtain created by the Sisters' flamers, and bounced to the inquisitor's side.
"Inquisitor, is there any task I can assist with?"
Datch got straight to the point, his tone completely at odds with the hellish scene around him.
Greyfax looked surprised for a moment, but quickly suppressed it.
She used psychic power to crush a Beast of Nurgle—so bloated it was like a walking corpse-pile—trying to approach.
"Emperor's Angel, the ship's Geller Field core has malfunctioned. It must be repaired IMMEDIATELY to restore the shield, or these abominations will keep pouring in!"
"Go check the Geller Field's core and repair it."
As soon as she finished, a clear mission interface unfolded in Datch's vision:
[Mission: Repair the Pride of Hera's Geller Field Generator and stop the daemon incursion.]
The generator has malfunctioned, letting daemons in. Inquisitor Greyfax organized the defense, but no matter how tenacious the resistance, it can't last against endless daemons.
Please assist Greyfax in reaching the generator core, identify the problem, and fix it to halt the invasion.
Rewards: 1,500 XP, 1,500 points, Reputation +150, Invincible Star 1
…
Bonus chapter at 500 PS