The Terran Crusade fleet plunges back into the churning tides of the Warp, continuing its push toward Terra. The Immaterium is so perilous that the fleet tosses endlessly upon its violent waves; with every jump, more ships are lost to the abyss.
Once-safe trade routes are now shrouded in screaming Warp storms, forcing continuous rerouting. Each translation back into realspace strays further from their calculated destination. Yet, the crusade fleet loses no heart. Their Primarch is with them! The Living Saint walks among them!
Faith alone sustains every soul as they push forward through gritted teeth. But as they reach a specific point in the Warp, every Navigator across the fleet collapses into endless, agonizing shrieks.
The light of the Astronomican has vanished before their eyes.
Guilliman and his fleet commanders swiftly make a calculated decision: abort the Warp transit immediately and drop back into realspace. Yet, as warship after warship tears through the veil and emerges into the cold, dark void, the unexpected strikes.
The leading cruisers at the vanguard come under immediate, overwhelming fire. Their void shields overload almost instantly, and their hulls are reduced to drifting wreckage in a blinding barrage of heavy macro-fire.
"Enemy attack!"
As alarm klaxons blare and the fleet commander shouts orders, the command bridge of the 'Macragge's Honour' enters a state of maximum emergency alert.
Guilliman gazes through the armored viewport toward the Maelstrom, whose chaotic energies run wild from the opening of the Great Rift. Though the origin of the attack remains unknown, he recognizes that the Terran Crusade fleet is locked in a desperate battle for survival.
In the shadows of the command deck, Alexei stands silently. He gazes calmly past the vanguard, fully aware of who the enemy is and where their fleet lies hidden. Yet, the moment for him to act has not yet arrived. Beside him, Inquisitor Diana stands equally composed at his back.
Amid the chaos, the serene presence of these two figures in the corner draws a few glances. Yet, given Guilliman's clear favor toward the Governor of Aiur—and the mysterious Inquisitor who remains steadfastly at his side—no one voices a word of complaint.
Suddenly, a violent shudder rocks the bridge. The 'Macragge's Honour' takes a direct hit. Their auspex arrays finally break through the distortion, detecting the massive enemy fleet concealed deep within the Maelstrom.
Taking in the sprawling array of baroque warships, Guilliman immediately recognizes the foe: the traitors of the XV Legion—the Thousand Sons, the sons of Magnus.
At the epicenter of that vast fleet floats a structure of unimaginable scale. Shaped like a colossal pyramid, Guilliman knows exactly what it represents. It is a terrifying rebirth of the Tizca Grand Pyramid, the crystalline wonder that once stood on Prospero, the homeworld of the Thousand Sons.
Once thought reduced to ash, the structure now stands resurrected from the dust of the Primarch's memory, magnified hundreds of times over.
Its bulk rivals that of a minor asteroid, casting even the mighty 'Macragge's Honour' into shadow. Bristling with countless heavy turrets, it serves indisputably as the enemy flagship. There is little doubt that his brother, Magnus the Red, is overseeing the battle from within its halls.
In an instant, the entire crusade fleet finds itself caught in a deadly vice. Before them lies an overwhelming enemy armada; behind them rages the turbulent void of the Maelstrom.
Waves of madness and ruin sever the pilgrims' retreat, while the Tower of Magnus blocks their path forward.
Even so, the crusade fleet does not flinch. Spurred on by the roaring command of their Primarch, they launch a desperate, all-out assault.
Across the fleet, torpedo tubes flush, launching dense salvos toward the traitor warships. Closing the distance rapidly, crimson lances split the void, striking enemy void shields in endless succession.
As the engagement range closes, flight decks burst open across the Imperial warships. Squadrons of brave strike craft swarm into the void like a dense hive of insects, hurtling directly toward the enemy line.
They know this run is a one-way flight, yet they press forward, confident their sacrifice will carve open a sliver of hope for the fleet behind them.
However, the enemy holds a massive numerical advantage. Bolstered by raw Warp energy, the traitor firepower heavily outmatches that of the crusade fleet. One Imperial void shield after another buckles under the assault.
Imperial captain after captain pushes forward through the barrage, attempting to forge a breach for their allies, only for their vessels to be reduced to drifting debris before the terrifying pyramid.
Aboard the 'Macragge's Honour', Guilliman issues command after command, his mind working at maximum capacity to stem the tide of collapse. He constantly reorganizes their scattered formations, searching desperately for a corridor to break through.
The Primarch burns with intense fury—not merely from confronting his twisted, fallen brother, but from failing to anticipate this ambush.
---
In contrast to Guilliman's rage, Magnus sits comfortably within the Grand Pyramid at the center of his fleet, watching his brother's struggle with quiet amusement.
'The Revenge of Tizca'—such is the name he bestowed upon this flagship. To construct this terrifying engine of war, the Crimson King plundered multiple Imperial worlds and siphoned immense reservoirs of Warp energy.
He is confident that nothing in the material realm can rival it—not even the stubborn Imperial Fists' 'Phalanx'.
"It is over, my brother," Magnus murmurs with delight. "Receive the gift bestowed upon you by the Lord of Fate!"
Behind him, a cabal of Chaos Sorcerers begins chanting profane incantations.
It is not yet time for Guilliman to die; Magnus opens his jaws, intending to plunge his brother into absolute despair with his own hands...
Or so it should have been.
The incantation chokes in Magnus's throat. He stares in horror toward the edge of the Maelstrom, where an unknown fleet has materialized out of nowhere—an army of reinforcements completely unheralded by fate.
Aboard the 'Macragge's Honour', total silence falls over the bridge. Guilliman stares at the gleaming, golden warships. Who are they? Where did they come from? Are they friend or foe? Questions flood his mind.
Yet soon, part of the Primarch's confusion is answered. Before the horrified eyes of all present, a multi-tiered, pyramid-shaped warship fires a micro-black hole straight into the center of the Thousand Sons fleet.
The terrifying gravitational pull obliterates two-thirds of the traitor armada in an instant. A dead silence grips the entire battlefield as a massive force of warships pours out from within a shimmering field, unleashing total destruction.
In the next second, a message broadcasts across every ship's vox-array. Once translated, it conveys a single, undeniable declaration.
A proclamation to all present:
"We are the Firstborn of the Gods."