Guilliman was unstoppable. Wherever the Primarch advanced, the enemies of the Imperium were cast down. His indomitable frame, clad in the Armor of Fate and wreathed in the halo of the Iron Cross, stood impervious to all attacks. Bolter shells, melta blasts, and warp-born corruption—all were turned aside by the might of his force field or dissipated by ancient, hidden technologies.
A single blow from the Emperor's Sword beheaded a Plague Marine, releasing a burst of putrid gore and writhing maggots. As the corrupted warrior fell, golden fire erupted across the battlefield, burning away the filth and scouring even the soul with the Emperor's purifying wrath.
The sight of the Primarch drove the Death Guard into a frenzy. They roared, gathering in force, hoping to overwhelm Guilliman with sheer numbers.
But the Honor Guard—veterans clad in ancient Terminator armor—closed ranks around their lord. Forming a tight defensive circle, they stood immovable. None would pass without paying the price in blood. Every warrior among them had faced horrors beyond reckoning, and each bore the scars of uncountable campaigns.
To reach Guilliman, the enemy would first have to break through these living bastions. But the Death Guard's hopes were dashed before they began. For every inch they gained, they paid with their lives, and even those brief gains were torn away by Guilliman himself, who struck with the precision of a god of war.
The Plague Marines could only watch in desperation as the Ultramarines cut them down, the Primarch's blade burning through their ranks like a sun-blessed scythe.
Then, from the periphery of the ruins, came reinforcements—Captain Sicarius and his strike team. His arrival shattered any remaining resistance. Having already neutralized anti-air defenses and long-range artillery, Sicarius had paved the way for the full might of the Imperium to descend: Titans, Knights, and the Astra Militarum.
Their presence turned the tide into a slaughter.
"The time has come, traitor!" Sicarius shouted, his voice crackling through the vox. He charged into the fray, power sword crackling with energy. With practiced ease, he cut down cultists en route to his quarry—a Plague Marine who dared raise a bolter against the Emperor's chosen.
The bolt rounds screamed harmlessly past as Sicarius closed the gap. One swift slash took the traitor's leg, bringing him to his knees. Sicarius raised his bolt pistol, pressed it to the helm of his fallen foe, and spoke coldly:
"Repent for your crimes."
A single shot ended the heretic's miserable life.
Sicarius turned. He saw another Plague Marine firing a melta gun, melting a loyalist into a puddle of slag. Without hesitation, Sicarius charged once more. The traitor was dead seconds later, his body joining the growing pile of filth and corruption purged by righteous steel.
The battlefield became Sicarius' proving ground. No enemy could withstand his blade. Every cultist that met his gaze met their end. His sword moved with deadly grace, cutting down all who stood against the Imperium.
Near the heart of the battlefield, Guilliman brought another traitor low. The Plague Marine burst into golden fire, writhing and screaming as his soul was seared from existence. Even in death, he reached out, begging for salvation from his "loving father." But the Emperor's wrath brooked no pity. No quarter was given. Flesh and soul alike were reduced to ash.
"Sicarius, report," Guilliman ordered over the vox.
"All is well, my lord. The traitors are in retreat. Victory is within reach."
"Remain vigilant. I sense foul ritual work at play. The warp churns with malevolence. They are calling for something."
"Understood, my lord," Sicarius responded. After a pause, he added, "I see a tower of corpses at the enemy's rear. The traitors are falling back, making their final stand there."
"Cleanse it. Purge every last heretic. Destroy anything that reeks of the warp. I will have the air corps provide bombardment support—crush their defenses beneath the Imperium's iron fist."
From all sides, the might of the Imperium pressed inward. The Chaos lines faltered under the combined advance of Guilliman, Sicarius, and the vast forces at their command.
From his perch atop the ruined heights, the traitor warlord Gurlo watched the battle unfold with grim resolve. The loyalist forces were advancing far faster than expected.
"How much longer for the ritual?" he rasped to his lieutenant.
"Soon, my lord. The warp stirs. The ritual nears completion, but we need more time."
Gurlo scowled beneath his helm and turned back to the battlefield. "Release the plague bombs. Let them choke on our father's gifts!"
With his command, the Death Guard rolled forth bloated, fleshy daemon engines. Grotesque plaguebeasts were loaded into the living cannons—foul creatures swollen with disease, their bodies distended by countless infections gifted by Grandfather Nurgle.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The plaguebeasts were hurled through the air, landing deep within Imperial lines. They exploded on impact, unleashing waves of rot and pestilence. Diseased slime rained down, eating through ceramite, melting steel, and boiling flesh.
The Honor Guard held strong, their Terminator armor and energy fields shielding them from the worst. But others were not so lucky. Power armor sizzled and sparked as it corroded. Some warriors fell, choking on rot. Others fought on, even as their armor broke apart around them.
Only Guilliman remained untouched. The foulness of the warp evaporated as it neared him, burned away by an unseen power—some divine protection rooted in the Emperor's will.
"All wounded fall back!" Sicarius barked through the vox. "Get treated by the Chaplains! Everyone else—find cover! Titans incoming! Let them level this corruption!"
Just as the Death Guard began to revel in their brief reprieve, the earth itself began to tremble.
The Emperor Titans had arrived.
Towering above the ruins like gods of steel and fire, they unleashed devastation with every step. Giant plasma lances lit the sky, vaporizing entire sections of the battlefield. Where once stood legions of traitors, now only scorched earth remained.
Even the might of Chaos could not stand before the fury of the Titans. Nurgle's most blessed warriors were nothing in the face of such overwhelming power.
Under the cover of the Titan barrage, Sicarius and his forces pushed forward, striking deep into enemy lines. Guilliman, ever the vanguard, surged ahead, bypassing the carnage to reach the heart of the corruption.
And there it was: the tower of corpses, a blasphemous spire built from the dead. Around it, mad cultists chanted and wept with joy.
"Praise the Great Father!"
"Merciful Nurgle! Embrace us!"
They were lost to reason, dancing in the filth, hands raised to the diseased skies.
Atop the tower stood Gurlo, clad in twisted Centurion armor—an abomination from the dark times of the 36th Millennium. Once, he might have been a brother of the Imperium, but now he bore only hatred and rot.
Guilliman's gaze hardened. The Emperor's Sword blazed with righteous fury, golden fire licking the heavens.
Gurlo met his eyes and laughed.
"You're too late, corpse-worshipper. This world belongs to Nurgle. Our loving father will claim it all."
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