The line on the other end of the vox fell silent for a moment, clearly weighing the offer.
“When you accomplish all this,” Abaddon dangled the bait, “I assure you that providing an additional ten thousand pure gene-seed stores is entirely open for discussion. After all, your… ‘mutation’ issue is in dire need of a fresh, stable genetic source, isn’t it?”
This condition clearly struck Huron right in his lifeblood.
A low chuckle came through the communicator: “…A worthy trade, Warmaster. I will do it. This decaying Imperium should have collapsed long ago. It… has no need for a living Primarch to arrive on Terra safe and sound.”
“Then I look forward to your good news, Huron.”
Abaddon cut the transmission, his single eye glinting with cold malice.
He turned toward the void, whispering as if to an absent audience, or making an oath to himself:
“You will fall into my hands, Guilliman… a living, whole Primarch. Once I corrupt you, make you kneel at my feet, and turn you into the greatest Warmaster under my Black Legion… Heh, that sight alone is enough reason to raise a glass!”
Inside the command hall of the Fortress of Hera, the capital of Macragge.
Although countless servo-skulls and Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus were urgently repairing the breach in the vaulted ceiling, the atmosphere within the hall was starkly different from the previous despair and chaos.
A heavy mood filled with hope and determination had replaced the earlier gloom.
Roboute Guilliman, the newly awakened Primarch, sat at the head of the chamber.
His physique was even grander than during his slumber, his raven-black hair standing in sharp contrast to his azure eyes, while the Armor of Fate shimmered faintly under the interior lighting.
Seated before him were the key figures who would decide the future fate of the Imperium:
On the Ultramarines’ side were Chapter Master Calgar, First Captain Agemman, Second Captain Cato Sicarius, and Chief Librarian Tigurius;
For the Adeptus Mechanicus, Archmagos Belisarius Cawl, his mechadendrites curled quietly behind him;
Saint Celestine, her form still shrouded in a faint golden radiance;
Yvraine, representative of the Ynnari, sitting to the side with an air of elegant detachment;
Marshal Amalrich of the Black Templars, standing like a silent black reef; and Grand Master Voldus of the Grey Knights, whose very presence dispelled the invisible whispers of the Warp.
Guilliman’s gaze slowly swept across the gathering, finally resting on Calgar, breaking the brief silence:
“So, according to my directives before I fell asleep, during my ‘absence,’ actual control over the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar was returned to their respective Planetary Governors, correct?” The source of this chapter is novelping . com.
His voice was steady, betraying neither joy nor anger.
Calgar immediately rose, bowing his head respectfully in response.
“Yes, Father. Everything was executed strictly according to your decree from ten thousand years ago. We, the Ultramarines Chapter, primarily handle defense and campaigns against foreign foes, while internal civil affairs… are managed independently by each world.”
There was a subtle note of complexity in his tone, as his hands had clearly been tied during the execution of those duties.
*Just as I thought…
My past self was an idealized fool,* Guilliman sighed inwardly with helpless amusement.
*Handing power back to mortal governors ruled by personal greed and shortsightedness?
What else can they do besides exploiting their own worlds and pulling tricks on Imperial tithes?
It’s like leaving the sheep in the care of wolves.
Looks like it’s time to employ more ‘loyal’ and ‘efficient’ administrators—perhaps my sons, or…
‘borrowing’ some Custodes from Terra in the future?
They are certainly loyal enough and give real ‘peace of mind.’*
These thoughts flashed through his mind like lightning, but his face remained unruffled.
He merely gave a slight nod, guiding the conversation to a grander scale:
“I see. Then, based on everything I have seen and heard, the Imperium’s current situation is… far less optimistic than it was ten thousand years ago.”
He deliberately left the sentence hanging, turning his eyes toward the others to give them a chance to speak.
It was a piece of political wisdom, serving both to understand their perspectives and to observe their stances.
“You speak with absolute truth, honored Primarch,” Marshal Amalrich of the Black Templars said in a thunderous voice, steadfast as iron.
“Compared to the glory before your slumber, the Imperium today is more than a thousand times weaker. The deeds of that era have become little more than myths and legends in the eyes of many mortals—and even Astartes. Countless Chapters are scattered across the stars, fighting their own isolated battles with fragmented strength. Worse still, countless once-honorable Chapters have betrayed their faith and thrown themselves into the embrace of Chaos!”
He clenched his armored gauntlet.
Guilliman looked at him, his gaze holding approval.
“You must be Marshal Amalrich, an outstanding son of my seventh brother, Rogal Dorn. Excellent. You have inherited Dorn’s fortitude and unyielding nature. I can even see the shadow of Sigismund, former Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists, within you.”
Hearing the Primarch mention his gene-sire and that legendary hero, Amalrich straightened his chest and said solemnly:
“We shall forever inherit the will of the Primarch and Senior Sigismund, purging the heretic with blood and fire!”
“I believe in you. One day, the glory of the Imperial Fists will shine even brighter,” Guilliman affirmed.
Then, shifting the topic, he brought up the core issue: “Since the Imperium is plagued by troubles both within and without, as the returned Primarch, I believe I must immediately set out for Holy Terra. I will consolidate all the Imperium’s strength, re-establish unified command and authority, and pool our resources to face this crisis. What do you all think of this proposal?”
“That is precisely the God-Emperor’s will!”
Saint Celestine stepped forward.
Her words carried sacred authority, and her eyes burned as if with the Emperor’s divine flame.
“The Emperor wishes for you to return to Terra to lead this precarious Imperium in His stead.”
Guilliman looked at her, a well-placed look of mild resignation crossing his face.
“It seems my father has communicated His decree to me through you. But why can’t He… communicate with me more directly?”
Celestine shook her head slightly, her expression devout yet apologetic.
“Regrettably, my Lord Primarch, I can only vaguely perceive and convey the Emperor’s majestic will. As for the God-Emperor’s specific plans and requirements, even I cannot fully comprehend or transmit them.”
“Very well, I understand.” Guilliman dwelt on it no further.
He took a deep breath, his voice turning firm and unyielding, filled with unquestionable resolve: “Then it is settled. The entire force will rest and resupply for one month! Within this month, I will personally lead the army to completely purge all Chaos threats within the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, returning this domain to order and peace!”
He swept his fiery gaze over the crowd.
“And after reclaiming Ultramar, I will gather every available force and march on Terra! We will head to the heart of the Imperium’s power to reclaim the authority that belongs to a Primarch, consolidating this shattered realm for the survival of humanity!”
His declaration echoed through the hall like a ringing bell, signaling that a storm sweeping the entire galaxy was about to roar out from Macragge.