(And this intra-planetary teleportation device…)
Guilliman looked at the next item.
(Though limited in range, it’s enough for our strike teams on planetary surfaces to execute decapitation strikes faster than even White Scars bikers!)
His eyes swept over the surroundings, seeing the loyal warriors wounded or even dying from the previous battle.
Moved, he inquired again:
(Medical pods, 50 Administration Points each?)
[Yes.]
(Good.) Guilliman quickly ran the numbers.
These 10,000 initial Administration Points had to be spent where they mattered most.
He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the key figures present.
His voice was steady and powerful, breaking through the cheering:
“Archmagos Belisarius Cawl, Living Saint Celestine, Lady Yvraine of the Aeldari, Marshal Amalrich of the Black Templars, and Grand Master Voldus of the Grey Knights.”
He called out each of their names, his tone bearing an unquestionable gravity.
“Would you all please step aside with me to discuss our next steps in detail? Concerning our upcoming campaign to purge Ultramar, and perhaps bring true dawn to the Imperium.”
***
Deep within the Eye of Terror, inside the fortress of the Black Legion, turbulent psychic currents raged like an unending storm, reflecting the mood of its master.
“BOOM!”
Abaddon slammed his fist, encased in the Talon of Horus, down onto the armrest of his throne of twisted metal, producing a bone-jarring screech.
He had just received confirmed intelligence from Macragge. This chapter was taken from novelping.com without permission.
The strike force was completely annihilated, and those giant Thunderhawk gunships painstakingly dispatched were turned into metallic dust floating in Macragge’s orbit.
What he found most unbearable was the core of the intel.
“Guilliman… Roboute Guilliman… He actually returned to life?!”
Abaddon’s voice sounded like a wounded beast, deep and surging with violent rage.
“How is this possible?! He was clearly dead! His throat was slit by Fulgrim’s poisoned blade, and he lay in a stasis field for ten thousand years! A Primarch… How could a Primarch return so easily?!”
This sense of frustration went far beyond the failure of an ordinary military operation.
It was a challenge to the fruits of his ten thousand years of warfare, a shaking of his faith in the absolute dominance of Chaos.
“Do not let the tides of anger submerge your reason, chosen champion of the Chaos Gods.”
A voice like ten thousand grinding gears mixed with the wails of tortured souls echoed inside the chamber.
The illusory form of the Chaos demigod, Vashtorr, coalesced within the unholy flames of the altar, his very presence warping reality around him.
“You seem to have forgotten briefly that you now bear the favors of the Dark Gods, and your power is no inferior to any so-called Primarch. With me, Vashtorr, providing you and your legion with arms and armor beyond the Imperium’s comprehension, hand-forging vessels to bear your grand power! That decaying, frail, infighting Imperium cannot, in essence, be an opponent for you. One more awakened Guilliman is merely one more interesting subject… waiting to be dismantled and studied.”
Vashtorr’s voice bore an inhuman composure, as though stating an undeniable fact.
“Besides… within your grand scheme, haven’t you long prepared a contingency strategy? A plan specifically tailored for the minuscule probability… that a Primarch refuses to stay dead.”
Abaddon’s hideous expression smoothed slightly.
He took a deep breath of air laden with blood and volcanic fumes, his scarred face splitting into a grim grin:
“You are right, Vashtorr. I have a plan. This is not merely my plan, Abaddon’s plan—it is the shared desire of the supreme Dark Gods. They have long desired to acquire another… relatively ‘pure’ Primarch body, to… adorn their eternal domains.”
Calculating, venomous light gleamed in his single eye:
“Guilliman has returned. With his foolish sense of duty and idealism, his ultimate goal will inevitably be to return to the seat of imperial power—Holy Terra. He will try to unify that scattered heap of sand, delusionally fulfilling his clichés about restoring the Imperium’s decayed glory. He is forever so naive.”
“However,” Abaddon’s tone turned chillingly dark, “the Great Rift has torn the galaxy in two! If he wants to go from Ultramar to Terra, he must cross or bypass this wound stretching across the cosmos! And within the bizarre, lawless domain of the Great Rift, there will naturally be those to ‘welcome’ him.”
“I trust that Fulgrim, that degenerate obsessed with ‘perfection,’ and Magnus, that psyker fanatic who fancies himself all-knowing, will never pass up this chance for a ‘reunion.’ Not to mention the countless Greater Demons of Chaos hungering for glory and blood, especially those butchers under Khorne. They will surge toward a living Primarch like sharks smelling blood! Guilliman’s journey will be an endless feast of pursuit!”
As he spoke, Abaddon activated an encrypted Warp vox-array.
After a wave of distorted static, the link connected, bringing forth a voice slightly raspy yet full of savagery.
“Warmaster of the Black Legion? What business do you have with me?”
The shadow of Huron Blackheart, Lord of the Red Corsairs, appeared in the blurry vox transmission.
“Huron, leader of the Red Corsairs.”
Abaddon’s tone was calm, yet bore an unquestionable weight of authority:
“I am merely here to bring you news. A Primarch has returned to life. I imagine you might be interested.”
“A Primarch resurrected?! A Primarch can actually return to life?!”
Huron’s voice spiked instantly, filled with shock and an imperceptible flicker of dread.
“Which one? Who is it?!”
“The Emperor’s Thirteenth Son, the Primarch of the Ultramarines, Roboute Guilliman. He is alive, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
Abaddon said coldly, “An elite strike force I sent to ‘greet’ him was just sent straight to hell by him and his loyal blue spawn. Now, I expect you to… offer some assistance.”
“It’s him?!” Huron gasped.
“Heh…”
Huron then broke into a dry laugh:
“Assistance? You expect me, with the modest forces I have, to go head-to-head with a Primarch in realspace? The total strength of my Red Corsairs, even generously estimated, is barely over twenty thousand warriors.”
“Save your tricks, Huron,” Abaddon interrupted bluntly.
“I know your true forces number at least thirty thousand. Besides, I don’t expect you to capture a Primarch head-on in realspace—especially when he is flanked by Black Templar lunatics, a Living Saint of the Emperor, and countless Ultramarines.”
Abaddon revealed his true colors: “I want you to use what your Red Corsairs do best! Slip into the Warp like ghosts and lay ambushes along Guilliman’s route to Terra! That Blackstone Fortress I handed over to you before—it’s time to put it to use! Use its power to disrupt, trap, or even capture this exalted Primarch!”