The galaxy is like a giant beast that has been disemboweled.
From Segmentum Obscurus to Segmentum Solar, from Ultima Segmentum to Segmentum Pacificus, the territories of the Imperium of Man are being extinguished piece by piece.
The light of the Astronomican flickers uncertainly in the tides of the Warp; Navigators lose their way amidst screams, and entire fleets vanish into the cracks between reality and delusion, never to return.
Seven years after the fall of Cadia—this time node is recorded in every functioning archive of the Imperium.
When that rift spanning the galaxy—the Great Rift—tore through the structure of reality from the direction of the Eye of Terror, the High Lords of Terra knew that the old era had ended.
But this was only the beginning.
Abaddon, Son of Horus, Warmaster of the Black Legion, achieved a victory in the Thirteenth Black Crusade that his predecessors had never reached.
He not only destroyed Cadia, the Imperium’s strongest fortress world, but used that destruction to tear reality itself apart.
And now, the rift is widening.
Data Record M41.999.017: Eye of Terror expansion rate: 0.03 light-years per day, growing exponentially.
Confirmed fallen star systems: 4,217 (conservative estimate by the High Lords of Terra Council).
Warp storms blocking major routes: 87.
Sectors lost contact with Terra: 38.
The Chaos fleets pour out from the Great Rift like festering pustules.
Strike cruisers of the Black Legion, raiding fleets of the Red Corsairs, siege fleets of the Iron Warriors, plague fleets of the Death Guard…
they are no longer satisfied with looting; they intend to devour.
Countless worlds die in screams.
Some are corrupted by Nurgle’s plagues into breeding grounds for writhing flesh; some are twisted by Tzeentch’s sorcery into geometric nightmares; some are turned into seas of blood by the slaughter of Khorne’s Berzerkers; and some dissolve into sweet dust during the ecstatic rituals of Slaanesh’s cultists.
And the Imperium’s response seems so pale in comparison.
On the eastern fringe of Ultima Segmentum, a blue and white planet still holds firm.
Macragge.
Homeworld of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman, home world of the Ultramarines Chapter, and center of the Five Hundred Worlds.
Even under the shadow of the Great Rift, the orbital defense platforms here remain operational, the fleets continue their patrols, and the cities on the ground function according to schedules precise to the second.
But everyone knows this is merely a facade.
Deep within the mountains beneath the capital, Tartarus, the silence of the Correction Temple has lasted for ten thousand years.
At the deepest part of the temple, the light of a stasis field is like frozen amber.
In the center of the field, a massive figure is suspended in mid-air—he is clad in blue Mark X Maximus-pattern power armor, the golden aquila on his chest has dimmed, yet his silhouette remains majestic.
Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the XIII Legion and Regent of the Imperium, had his throat pierced by the God-Slaying Sword of his brother Fulgrim ten thousand years ago during the Horus Heresy.
He is not dead, but he is not alive.
The stasis field froze his injuries, and it froze his time.
Until today.
In the ritual hall of the Correction Temple, the air is thick enough to be cut.
The servants of the Adeptus Mechanicus—half-human, half-machine acolytes, floating servo-skulls, and multi-legged maintenance Servitors—are lined up on both sides of the passage like silent statues.
Their crimson monocles flicker with data streams, but no one makes a sound, for the masters here are in a standoff.
On the left side of the hall, the blue armor of the Ultramarines stands like mobile fortresses.
The Lord of Macragge, Second Captain and Chapter Master Calgar, stands at the very front.
His Terminator armor is taller than anyone else present, and his Storm Bolter is gripped tightly in his hand; though the muzzle points toward the ground, everyone can feel his suppressed rage.
His gaze is fixed on the figures on the other side of the hall—figures that are slender, elegant, similar to humans but fundamentally different.
Aeldari.
More accurately, the Ynnari.
There are only seven of them, yet they make the air in the entire hall turn cold.
Leading them is a female Aeldari, clad in dark purple robes and holding a longsword that emits an eerie green light.
Her face is partially obscured by the shadow of her hood, revealing only a sharp jawline and eyes as deep as a nebula.
Yvraine.
The Emissary of Ynnead, God of the Dead, and leader of the Ynnari.
“Xenos.” Calgar’s voice comes through the power armor’s vox-caster, low and heavy like the tremors before a landslide.
“I am giving you one last chance: leave Macragge, leave the Primarch’s place of rest.
Otherwise, the wrath of the Ultramarines will burn you and your kin to ash.” The warriors behind him—Chief Librarian Tigurius, First Captain Agemman, and Vitrius of the Honor Guard—are all ready for battle.
Power swords hum in their scabbards, and the safeties of Bolters are silently disengaged.
Yvraine does not answer.
She does not even look at Calgar.
Her gaze passes over the Ultramarines’ formation, casting toward the stasis field in the center of the hall, toward the sleeping body within.
Her lips move slightly as she says something in Aeldari, her voice as faint as a sigh.
Then she looks up toward the third faction in the hall.
Between the Aeldari and the Ultramarines, directly beneath the stasis field, the roar of machinery is gradually intensifying.
A massive mechanical device is operating—it is composed of tens of thousands of adamantine pipes, flickering crystal arrays, rotating gears, and conduits flowing with liquid energy.
In the center of the device, a figure is busy at work.
He is older than anyone present.
His body is almost entirely mechanized, with only the left side of his face retaining some pale skin and a human eye.
The right half of his body is entirely mechanical, with three precision mechadendrites extending from a rig on his back, respectively holding an analyzer, an energy regulator, and a data slate.
His robes are Martian red, embroidered with the cog and skull crest.
Belisarius Cawl.
Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, chief designer of the Primarch’s awakening plan, and a sage who has lived for ten thousand years.
“Chapter Master Calgar.” Cawl’s voice is an eerie mix of synthesized machine tones and human vocals, laced with electronic static.
“Your emotional fluctuations are interfering with the instrument calibration.
Please remain quiet.” “Quiet?” Calgar’s rage finally erupts.
“You allowed xenos into the Primarch’s sanctuary!
You allowed these pointed-eared monsters near Lord Guilliman’s body!
Archmagos Cawl, I demand an explanation!” “The explanation is simple.” One of Cawl’s mechadendrites points toward the stasis field.
“The Primarch’s wound was caused by Fulgrim’s God-Slaying Sword.
That blade not only pierced flesh but contaminated his genetic essence.
For ten thousand years, the stasis field froze the spread of the corruption, but it could not reverse it.” Another mechadendrite points toward Yvraine.
“The Ynnari believe in the God of the Dead, Ynnead—a deity specifically opposed to Chaos.
The sword of the old one in Yvraine’s hand can sever the corruption of the Warp.
Only she can purify the Chaos taint within the Primarch’s wound.” “And then?” Calgar takes a step forward, the floor trembling under the weight of his Terminator armor.
“After the purification, what price will the xenos demand?
Have you forgotten how the Aeldari betrayed humanity?
Forgotten their backstabbing when humanity was at its most vulnerable?” “I remember,” Yvraine actually spoke.
She finally opened her mouth, using fluent High Gothic with the ethereal tone characteristic of the Aeldari.
“I remember how your Imperium slaughtered my people, how you destroyed our worlds, and how you drove us to the brink of extinction.” She looked up, her eyes beneath the hood meeting Calgar’s for the first time.
“But I also remember how Horus betrayed his father, and how Chaos devoured your worlds.
And now, Abaddon has torn the galaxy apart, and the Great Rift is swallowing everything—not just the worlds of humanity, but also the last refuges of the Aeldari.” She raised the sword of the old one.
The eerie green light on the blade grew bright, and within the light, it seemed as if countless souls were whispering.
AI Model: deepseek-chat “The God of the Dead, Ynnead, is awakening, and his awakening requires time,” Yvraine said.
“If the Imperium of Man falls now, Chaos will gain enough energy to destroy him before he fully awakens.
So, no, Chapter Master Calgar, I am not here to demand a price.” She paused, her voice turning icy.
“I am here to give humanity a chance to survive a little longer, so that my god has time to wake.” The hall fell into dead silence.
Only the hum of Cawl’s instruments and the faint hiss of energy flowing through the stasis field could be heard.
“Chapter Master.” Chief Librarian Tigurius stepped forward.
Psychic runes hung from his blue power armor, and his eyes beneath his helmet glimmered with psychic light.
As the chief Psyker of the Ultramarines, he could perceive more.
“I…
can feel the truth in her words,” Tigurius said with uncertainty.
“Not goodwill, not alliance, but naked necessity for survival.
What she says is fact: without a Primarch, the Imperium will collapse within a decade.
If the Imperium collapses, Chaos will gain power beyond our imagination.” He turned to Calgar.
“And the data from Archmagos Cawl…
I have seen it.
The Primarch’s vital signs have been declining continuously over the past three hundred years.
The stasis field is decaying, and Chaos corruption is slowly seeping in.
If we do nothing, Lord Guilliman will be completely dead within fifty years.” Calgar’s fingers tightened, loosened, and tightened again on the grip of his storm Bolter.
The motion repeated three times.
Ten thousand years.
For ten thousand years, the Ultramarines had guarded this temple.
Since the day the Primarch fell, generation after generation of Chapter Masters, First Captains, and Honor Guards had sworn to protect Guilliman’s slumber with their lives.
And now, the decision he had to make might break that ten-thousand-year oath.
He looked at the gene-Primarch within the stasis field.
Even through the energy field, he could still feel that majesty.
Guilliman was not only their gene-father but also the hope of the Imperium.
In these days when the Imperium teetered on the brink of collapse, only a living Primarch could turn the tide.
“And if we fail?” Calgar finally asked, his voice hoarse.
“Then the Primarch will die completely,” Cawl replied calmly.
“Chaos corruption will consume his body in an instant, transforming it into some kind of daemonic entity beyond our imagination.
At that point, Macragge will become the core of a second Eye of Terror.” “And if we succeed?” “Then, the Imperium will have its Regent once more,” Cawl said, a glint in his human eye.
“We will have a banner to rally against Abaddon, a leader to unite the fractured forces, and…
perhaps a chance to turn the war.” Calgar closed his eyes.
He saw the destruction of Cadia—the final images transmitted showed the fortress world shattering under the impact of the Blackstone Fortress.
He saw the distress signals from the border worlds of the Ultima Segmentum—signals vanishing one after another.
He saw the ultimatum from Terra: “Awaken the Primarch at all costs.” “By the Emperor,” Calgar whispered.
Then he opened his eyes and took a step back.
“Begin.” Yvraine showed no expression.
She merely nodded and walked toward the stasis field.
The other members of the Aeldari Ynnari dispersed, taking positions at the six corners of the ritual area, forming a hexagram.
They began to chant, their voices ancient and eerie, like the hollow echoes of wind through ancient ruins.
The air grew cold, frost flowers forming on the walls.
Cawl’s mechanical arms began operating at a dizzying speed.
The liquid light in the energy conduits flowed faster, crystal arrays began to resonate, emitting an increasingly high-pitched hum.
Servo-skulls flitted through the air, scanning every datum with lasers.
“Stasis field deactivation sequence initiated,” Cawl announced.
“Phase One: Physical stabilization.
Injecting bio-restorative fluids, preparing for cellular collapse upon thawing.” Massive transparent pipes descended from the ceiling, connecting to the base of the stasis field.
Emerald-green liquid began to pour in, gradually filling the interior of the field.
Guilliman’s body floated within the fluid, like a giant slumbering in amber.
“Phase Two: Warp barrier establishment.
Ynnari, commence your ritual.” Yvraine raised the sword of the old one.
A ghostly green light erupted—not a warm light, but a cold, abyssal glow.
Within the light, phantasmal images appeared: remnants of countless Aeldari souls drifted in the radiance, ultimately converging at the sword’s tip.
The power of the God of the Dead—the power specifically effective against Chaos—began to coalesce.
Simultaneously, Cawl activated another set of devices.
The Adeptus Mechanicus anti-Warp field generators began to operate, based on the principles of Dark Age technology, capable of isolating Warp interference within a limited area.
A golden energy barrier rose from the floor, enveloping the entire ritual site.
“Phase Three: Field deactivation countdown.
Ten, nine, eight…” Calgar tightened his grip on his weapon.
The Ultramarines behind him all raised their Bolters, not aimed at the Aeldari, but at the stasis field—if the Primarch transformed into a daemon, they had to open fire immediately.
“Seven, six, five…” Tigurius began chanting psychic protection incantations.
A blue psychic barrier enveloped the front of the Ultramarines formation.
“Four, three, two…” Yvraine pointed the tip of her sword at the wound on Guilliman’s chest—the wound left by Fulgrim ten thousand years ago.
“One.” “Stasis field, deactivated.” At the same moment, in another universe, another world, entirely different.
An ordinary apartment.
Lin Chen lay on the floor, the back of his head having struck the sharp corner of a solid wood desk.
Warm liquid seeped from his hair, spreading a deep red pattern across the floorboards.
His eyes were still open, but his pupils had dilated.
The last things to enter his sight were the swaying ceiling lamp and the Emperor figurine he treasured, placed on the top shelf of the cabinet.
That figurine was a limited edition he had bought three years ago, costing a month’s salary.
The Emperor, clad in golden armor, wielded a burning sword and sat upon the Golden Throne.
The craftsmanship was so exquisite that every texture of the armor was clearly visible.
Strangely, Lin Chen thought, why did the Emperor’s eyes seem to be glowing?
Not reflecting the light of the lamp, but a golden light emanating from within.
Then his consciousness sank into darkness.
In the final instant before his consciousness vanished, he heard a voice—no, not heard, but one that resonated directly in his mind, grand as a starry sea, majestic as a deity: “Need…
a vessel…” On the top shelf of the cabinet, the Emperor figurine’s eyes were indeed glowing.
A golden light, faint but steadfast.
In the Correction Temple on Macragge.
The light of the stasis field went out.
The emerald-green bio-restorative fluid drained rapidly from the base’s outlets.
Guilliman’s body—no longer floating—fell heavily onto the marble platform with a dull thud of metal against stone.
He lay there.
Motionless.
Calgar’s heart almost stopped.
He saw the Primarch’s chest rising and falling—faintly, almost imperceptibly.
He was alive.
But something was wrong.
Yvraine’s expression changed.
She gripped the sword of the old one tightly, the ghostly green light on its blade flickering violently, as if resisting something intangible.
“Something is wrong,” she whispered in Aeldari.
“The God of the Dead’s purification…
was interfered with.
Something…
intervened at the last moment…” Cawl’s mechanical arms flailed wildly.
On the data display screens, tens of thousands of parameters were jumping erratically, most deviating from predicted values.
“Warp readings anomalous!” Cawl’s synthesized voice held, for the first time, an emotion that could be called “panic.” “An unknown energy source intervened in the awakening process!
Origin…
untraceable!
Nature…
unanalyzable!”