The figure that descended was tall and majestic. Just one glance told of the overwhelming, boundless power coiled within his immense frame. His voice resounded like a thunderclap from the heavens, shaking the battlefield with a sound that made the hearts of his enemies tremble.
He was a god—one who belonged only in myth. Yet, out of compassion for the suffering of mortals, he had stepped into reality.
The size difference between the Primarch and even a Space Marine was as stark as the difference between a Space Marine and a mortal. Azure armor gleamed in the light like the dawn of a new day, filling allies with hope and silencing the despair clawing at their minds.
This armor was no ordinary warplate. One could tell, even without expertise, that it was forged by the most brilliant minds of the Mechanicum over millennia. In its construction were layered technologies lost and ancient, perfected to an art. The armor's surface was etched with sacred runes, and in the center of the breastplate glowed the twin-headed Imperial Aquila, gilded and crowned with rice ear laurels.
A white cloak billowed behind the radiant figure, and the face above the chestplate was cold, statuesque, and flawless—as though sculpted by a master artisan. Even standing still, he exuded an oppressive aura, a presence that bent the battlefield to his will. The iron cross-shaped halo behind his head amplified his divine, untouchable majesty.
This was no ordinary warrior. This was Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines. The god of war had descended, and with a single swing of his sword, he cleaved through a Plague Marine, leaving behind only ash and horror.
His arrival shifted the tide.
The impact of his landing sent cracks through the ground and shockwaves across the battlefield. Chaos cultists stumbled, disoriented by the psychic weight of his presence. Many fell to their knees, overcome by fear and awe.
Guilliman swept his gaze across the enemy lines, his stern eyes radiating ancient power. Within his heart, even he acknowledged the might of his warplate—the Armor of Fate—and the enduring strength of his gene-forged body. To leap from 1,600 meters and land unscathed? Such feats defied natural law. He might as well have been a demigod among mortals.
If he returned to ancient Terra, none could stand before him—no man, no daemon, no false god.
The sudden shift in the battlefield's momentum sent shockwaves through the traitors. Their advantage, moments ago so secure, had been shattered.
"You change nothing, son of the Corpse-Emperor! Your age is long past!" bellowed a corrupted Dreadnought, its bloated frame wrapped in diseased flesh and decaying armor. Massive cannons roared from its arms, spitting hellfire in Guilliman's direction.
But the halo shimmered. A force field, visible to the naked eye, shimmered into life and caught the barrage with contemptuous ease. Explosions flared against the shield, but the Primarch was untouched.
"Die, traitor."
With a single charge, Guilliman closed the distance. The Emperor's Sword blazed with golden flame, growing more intense with each step. The Dreadnought barely had time to react before the sword plunged through its sarcophagus.
The corrupted Astartes within screamed—a Champion of Nurgle bound into a living coffin now tasting death once more.
The sacred flame licked across his body, devouring pestilence and plague. Maggots sizzled, flies turned to ash, and even daemon-forged ceramite boiled away into molten slag. The Dreadnought collapsed, consumed in righteous fire.
Jie'an stood frozen, his eyes wide, watching the divine slaughter unfold.
It wasn't until the roar of turbines snapped him out of his stupor that he looked up. A Thunderhawk gunship screamed overhead, strafing the enemy with beam bursts and autocannon fire. Cultists scattered like rats, screaming under the barrage.
Above, Stormbirds soared through the clouds, dropping payloads in sweeping arcs. The sky itself turned against the enemy—lances of light from orbital strikes pierced the plague clouds and turned infected ground to vitrified glass. Entire formations of plague-walkers, daemon engines, and corrupted Astartes were eradicated in moments.
Jie'an could hardly process what he was seeing. Only moments ago, they had been teetering on the edge of annihilation—and now, salvation had descended with fire and fury.
He stared once more at the azure-armored titan. Something about that face felt familiar.
"I-Is he the Emperor's Archangel?" a small voice asked.
It was the little girl he had saved. She pointed at the figure cleaving through the enemy like a divine tempest.
Jie'an's fogged mind cleared in an instant, as though lightning had struck it.
"Primarch… The Primarch. Son of the Emperor… the true Lord of Ultramar."
His voice shook. Around him, soldiers gaped in silent disbelief. For ten thousand years, the Primarchs had become myth, their names lost or questioned, their truth buried beneath the weight of time.
But now, there was no denying it.
One had returned.
He was exactly as the old myths said: unstoppable, unmatched, and divine.
Tears filled Jie'an's eyes. A grin broke through the grime and blood on his face.
"Reverse charge! All forces, reverse charge!" he bellowed into his vox-link. "To victory! CHARGE!"
With renewed strength, he raised his command sword and pistol, preparing to join the advance.
But his body betrayed him.
A violent cough wracked his chest. His lungs burned, and he doubled over, blood spilling from his mouth. His limbs trembled. Fatigue overwhelmed him, stronger than any pain he had known.
"Commander?!"
A guard rushed to his side, panic in his voice. "Medic! We need a medic!"
"I'm—cough—fine…" Jie'an tried to speak, but collapsed backward, crimson pooling beneath him.
The little girl grabbed his hand, crying.
"Don't die, Uncle… please…"
His vision blurred. The chaos around him became sound and sensation—distant cries, hurried boots, the cold bite of a stretcher beneath him.
Someone screamed for help. Another begged for a stabilizer. He didn't know where they were taking him—an APC? A medical tent? It didn't matter.
He couldn't move. His thoughts slowed. The world grew faint.
But even as the darkness closed in, he found comfort in one thought:
At least… someone cried for me.
At least… the Emperor sent His son.
Merciful Emperor… forgive my failings… and grant me peace in Your light…
His lips mouthed the final prayer as consciousness slipped away.
Roboute Guilliman continued his advance across the battlefield. Nothing could stand before him. Any who dared try were sundered by his sword or scattered by his fury.
His arrival meant only one thing: absolute victory.
"My lord," a voice called beside him. It was the chief psyker of the Dawn Star Chapter.
He pointed toward the east. "Massive warp energies are surging. The fabric of reality is thinning. Their ritual—whatever it is—it's happening there."
Guilliman narrowed his eyes.
A heavy plague mist hung over the ruins beyond, thick and vile. A foul unease slithered in the back of his mind.
"Proceed," he ordered, raising the Emperor's Sword.
There was no need for a speech.
They had to stop this ritual.
Whatever it was, it must be stopped.
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