"Don't even think about it. I'll kill you," the Nurgle daemon growled, its voice a rancid gurgle. "I will imprison your soul, infect you with a million plagues, and show you why death is mercy."
Guilliman chuckled coldly. "You think you can win? That your grotesque form will make me retch and fall? That's… possible, I'll grant you that."
He raised the Emperor's Sword, its holy flame crackling in the tainted air. "Enough games, daemon. Let's get to the real business. What font do you prefer? I'm merciful—I'll let you choose the language of your epitaph."
With that, Guilliman surged forward. Power radiated from his body like a tidal wave, and his sword cleaved through the daemon's rusted weapon, severing it cleanly.
The burning blade forced the daemon back. Even a Great Unclean One felt fear at the sight of the Emperor's Sword. Its flames were anathema, its divine fire a direct rejection of everything Nurgle represented.
"Name yourself, daemon," Guilliman said, the tip of his sword pressed against the creature's chest. "Be respectful. Don't make me change my mind. You know what this sword does. I won't just kill you—I'll end your existence completely. You'll vanish from the warp, turned to golden ash."
The Great Unclean One stared at the sword, its bloated body quivering. It knew the truth—this was the weapon of the Damned Emperor. Many lesser daemons had been utterly destroyed by its touch just moments ago.
On the battlefield, Gurlo, the traitorous warlord, saw the daemon falter. In a desperate bid, he charged to intervene.
If the daemon died, their plans would crumble. Nurgle's grip would weaken, the warp storms would recede, and this world would no longer belong to the Plague Father.
"I'm your opponent, traitor," said Captain Sicarius, intercepting him. Their weapons clashed with explosive force—Sicarius' power sword against Gurlo's plague-ridden battle axe. The impact staggered them both.
Gurlo's corpulent frame rippled from the shock, nearly bursting his corrupted Centurion armor. Maggots spilled to the ground, and flies burst from his armor in buzzing clouds.
A nearby Space Marine unleashed a burst from his flamer, incinerating the swarm in a gout of fire. The stench was unbearable.
"Out of my way!" Gurlo bellowed, swinging his axe toward Sicarius' head.
"You're so round, you must roll fast," Sicarius quipped, parrying the blow. He fought with determination, holding the line to give Guilliman time.
Seeing the Emperor's Sword nearing its heart, the Great Unclean One finally broke. It did not wish to die.
"I am Gath the Slow, a Great Unclean One of Nurgle," it admitted with a shudder.
Guilliman raised an eyebrow. "Great Unclean One? With that pitiful body? Gath the Slow… more like Gath the Useless."
Rage simmered within Gath, but it dared not speak. It had underestimated its foe and paid the price. This was not a battle it had prepared for properly—it had not brought its full power into the Materium.
Demons' true names held immense power. To know one was to control or banish them. But using those names carried risk—merely uttering them could corrupt an unprotected soul, turning the speaker into something… wrong.
The Imperium had seen many tragedies from such mistakes, especially among rogue psykers. That's why the Inquisition, the Ecclesiarchy, and the Grey Knights kept such knowledge tightly guarded.
But Guilliman was no ordinary man. As a Primarch, he was forged with the Emperor's design, tempered by the warp yet untainted. His mastery over the immaterium, and his divine authority, gave him dominance over such beings.
"Good," Guilliman said, his voice cold. He swung his sword, slicing off Gath's limbs with ruthless precision, then plunged the blade into the daemon's chest.
"Return to the warp—and tell Mortarion I'm coming for him. If he doesn't want to be found, he'd best start hiding."
As Guilliman spoke, Gath felt the warp pulling him. Reality rejected its presence.
"I'll return," Gath hissed, but one glance from Guilliman silenced him. The daemon vanished, banished in golden fire.
"No!" Gurlo screamed, feeling the tides of the warp retreat. His elaborate scheme, years in the making, crumbled in an instant. Nurgle's grip loosened. The garden withered.
With the daemon gone, Guilliman turned to face Gurlo. Sicarius still fought him, but he wouldn't need to much longer.
Guilliman stepped forward. One swing of the Emperor's Sword shattered Gurlo's battle axe.
"This world belongs to the Imperium," Guilliman said simply, before driving the sword into Gurlo's chest. The traitor fell, lifeless.
The remaining daemons scattered, vanishing into the warp. They knew the tide had turned. Any who lingered would be destroyed.
Unlike mortal warriors, daemons could not be permanently slain through conventional means. But those consumed by holy fire took eons to reform—if their patron even allowed it.
Guilliman knew destroying Gath meant little in the long term. Nurgle would make more. His true focus had to be on unifying the Imperium and confronting the traitor Primarchs.
The Dark Gods were still engaged with the Emperor across the warp. They had no interest in a full confrontation with Guilliman—yet. If they saw him as a true threat, they might unite against him.
But for now, their conflict with one another—and the Emperor—held them at bay.
Even if Guilliman wrote Gath's name in flames across the stars, Nurgle wouldn't open a portal for personal revenge. It would risk too much. In the warp, hesitation meant defeat.
His real enemies were the Traitor Astartes and their Primarchs.
Daemons couldn't cross into realspace freely. They needed rituals, sacrifices, cultist devotion. But the traitor Marines were already here. Already plotting.
If he remembered correctly, Magnus, Fulgrim, and Mortarion were the ones actively working against him. Eliminating them quickly would shift the balance. Fighting them was already difficult—especially with so many of them in hiding.
"If only my status weren't so complicated," Guilliman thought grimly. "I'd bring back loyal Primarchs."
Lion El'Jonson, the First Legion's stoic leader, once considered a rival to Horus, likely still slumbered in the Tower of Angels. Or perhaps he was lost in the warp.
A reliable warrior and a leader—Lion would've been a powerful ally.
Then there was Vulkan, the Eighteenth Legion's unkillable giant. Last seen during the War of the Beast, he'd died with the Ork Warlord—but Vulkan always came back. Death was merely a pause.
Guilliman guessed he remained on Nocturne. But until he solidified control of the Imperium, he couldn't risk reaching out.
The loyal Primarchs were too intelligent. They might guess what had changed in Guilliman. So might the Emperor—or the Ruinous Powers.
Until then, secrecy was essential. A single misstep could doom mankind again.
The war was far from over. Another civil war… would be the end.
As the smoke cleared and silence fell, the soldiers of the Imperium erupted in cheers. On Sara Star, people wept for joy.
"Clean the battlefield," Guilliman ordered. "Execute any traitors still alive. Rescue the wounded. See to the civilians. Have them send a representative to me."
His voice was calm, but his mind remained sharp.
This victory was just the beginning.
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