Chapter 463: The Artist of War! A Forceful Return! Roboute Guilliman!
It didn't take long for Guilliman to gain a basic understanding of those present, as well as a clearer picture of the galactic situation.
Macragge, after all, was the center of Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds. For such a vital region to be nearly overrun, with Chaos forces breaking through all the way to the Hera Fortress and almost taking it—this was nothing short of shocking.
That could only mean things elsewhere were likely just as bad, if not far worse!
The thought that the Imperium of Man had been driven to such dire straits by the forces of Chaos filled Guilliman with deep sorrow.
He recalled how, ten millennia ago, the Great Betrayal sparked by Horus had indeed been massive, triggering a chain of disastrous events across the Imperium. Yet, despite its scale, the rebellion had ultimately been suppressed.
Even the Warmaster of Chaos himself, Horus, had been slain by the Emperor's own hand. The remnant Chaos legions should have been scattered, incapable of forming any real threat again.
And yet, against all expectation, over the course of ten thousand years, those so-called shattered remnants had grown into such a colossal force that even the entire galaxy now lay under their shadow.
At this moment, Guilliman found himself increasingly curious—and troubled—about the state of his father. He could not understand why the Emperor had allowed the legions of Chaos to run rampant across the galaxy for so long.
"What exactly is my father's condition now?" Guilliman turned to ask the Living Saint, Celestine.
"The God-Emperor, due to reasons beyond his control, must remain on Terra. But his will and his power can reach any corner of the galaxy."
Celestine deliberately avoided telling the whole truth. Though it was by now fact that the Emperor was confined to the Golden Throne, his shattered body sustained only by the mechanism, many still did not know of his physical state.
And the fewer who knew, the better.
"When you have the chance, you should go to Terra and pay him homage yourself."
Hearing is one thing; seeing is believing. Celestine felt that only by seeing with his own eyes would Guilliman fully understand.
But for now, the situation on Macragge remained unstable. Should the truth become known, or if Guilliman were to suffer some mishap, Chaos forces might seize the moment to strike again.
Guilliman nodded, accepting Celestine's advice.
He could still hear faint but scattered gunfire beyond the walls of Hera Fortress, proof that the battle was not yet fully over—Chaos stragglers were still trying to seize their prize.
"From this moment, I take full command of all operations on Macragge. All forces will heed my orders—!"
At once, Guilliman took supreme command from Calgar, ready to announce his return with a display of flawless strategic artistry.
…
…
By this time, the Emperor had already learned the details of the battle for Macragge and the origins of this parallel Warhammer 40K universe. He now had a comprehensive grasp of the situation.
"Our objective here is to minimize interference as much as possible. We must gather sufficient data and wait for headquarters' precise instructions."
"Your presence is already exposed. Entities in the Warp are aware of you. But we still need to remain in hiding, maintaining absolute secrecy."
Alongside the Emperor was a senior executive of the Megacorp, David Martinez.
Not long ago, the Emperor had foreseen Macragge on the brink of falling, with no reinforcements coming to its relief. In his desperation, he had no choice but to lift the concealment of his subspace shielding device, thus fully revealing himself.
Instantly, his immense projection blazed forth across the Warp—that was the truth behind the vision of two suns shining together.
The effect was immediate. The Chaos legions were forced back in vast numbers, and countless worlds that had been under siege were spared from devastation, surviving because of that single intervention.
But at the same time, the Emperor had now drawn the gaze of the Ruinous Powers themselves. His manifestation in the Warp would sooner or later be discerned for what it was.
The Megacorp's mission here was the God-Making Project. Revealing their identity or their ultimate intent too early was unacceptable. They could not afford to interfere in the wars or politics of any given world.
The only guarantees were the Emperor's safety—and their own.
David Martinez paused, then added, "Of course, if you truly require it, we can apply to send a detachment to assist you."
But the Warhammer 40K universe was far too complex. Even deploying the entire 9th Expeditionary Legion here might not be enough to secure victory in the short term.
Mass mobilization and brute-force conquest had always been a costly and inefficient method of integration.
Li Ang's directive was clear: the priority was the God-Making Project. As such, the less fighting, the better—it must not jeopardize the grand strategy.
The Emperor nodded, thanking David for his offer.
He, too, understood such basic truths. If he had truly wished to intervene, when Chaos forces first flooded Macragge, he could have wiped them out in an instant.
But what he had projected into the Warp was only a vision, not a tangible manifestation of himself.
What had not been confirmed as real still left room to maneuver.
Through this parallel universe, the Emperor also saw the chance to accomplish what he had once considered, but never acted upon: to raise up a god within the Warp, to balance the power of the Dark Gods.
…
Macragge!
The revived Guilliman proclaimed his triumphant return to the entire Ultramarines Chapter.
As one of the greatest military strategists ever born, Guilliman understood that his awakening could electrify the morale of his warriors, while striking dread into the hearts of the enemy, driving them into error after error.
Though the Chaos Legion had withdrawn in haste, countless Chaos stragglers were still scattered about the fortress's outskirts, spreading destruction unchecked.
Guilliman began by carefully surveying the battlefield. Then, in his mind, he swiftly ran through countless tactical simulations, before dispatching precise orders to combat squads across every sector.
In that instant, Guilliman revealed his genius for command.
Every command seemed to breathe spirit and purpose into the battlefield itself. The vast theater of Macragge suddenly came alive, every street turning into a killing ground ready to devour the foe.
From every shadowed corner, squads of blue-armored warriors armed with bolters leapt out, unleashing devastating ambushes.
Ambushes, raids, superior numbers, flanking maneuvers…
The momentum of battle flipped like the turn of a tide.
The Ultramarines, invigorated and coordinated, wove through the field with lethal precision. What began as a desperate defense shifted steadily into a relentless counteroffensive.
The scattered Chaos troops faltered, then broke, their formations collapsing as they were cut down one after another.
Ten millennia had passed since the gene-sires and the flourishing Imperium had vanished from living memory. Few had any true concept of what a Primarch truly was.
But now, with Guilliman reborn and holding the reins of battle, all realized the truth: Primarchs were nothing less than gods walking among mortals.
Within a short span, the Chaos presence on Macragge dwindled at a pace visible to the naked eye. Without Abaddon the Despoiler to direct them, the traitor forces were nothing more than a disorganized rabble.
Guilliman's memory was flawless, his mind capable of recalling every detail with perfect clarity, mapping the battlefield in his thoughts with ease. And this was Macragge—his home, his fortress.
Even after ten thousand years had passed, the structures here remained just as they had been, almost unchanged.
The fallen positions were steadily reclaimed, the Chaos warriors who had been driven back step by step were now forced into a desperate corner. This battle was reaching its end.
Listening to Calgar's jubilant battle reports, Guilliman nodded thoughtfully. The outcome was already decided, and what remained no longer required his personal attention.
"Well done. From here on, I'll leave the rest in your hands."
Guilliman gave the unfamiliar Chapter Master a friendly pat on the shoulder. Bonds of camaraderie between men were forged quickly—there was no need for slow warming. A single battle fought side by side was enough to make them brothers-in-arms.
All the more so when these warriors were his own sons. Though they looked utterly different from the sons of ten millennia past, blood ties and faith bound them together inseparably.
From strangers to comrades—less than an hour was enough.
"Yes, my lord!"
Calgar accepted the order with excitement, then withdrew.
As for the war's result, Guilliman was not surprised.
The moment he had crossed blades with the Chaos host, he had immediately sensed their hollow strength.
On the surface, this force seemed ferocious, but their command structure was in disarray. There was almost no tactical coordination between them; they fought and charged relying solely on brute strength.
In the days of the Great Crusade, such troops would have been nothing more than fodder, mercilessly crushed. If not for their raw power, Calgar would have annihilated them long ago.
It seems that ten thousand years later, the Astartes are on the verge of forgetting how to fight as one.
Guilliman sighed inwardly. Too many matters now demanded his attention. First, to strengthen the Ultramarines and restore their tactical training.
Next, to stabilize the Ultramar sector and establish a bastion against Chaos forces…
With these thoughts, Guilliman turned and retrieved several volumes from Macragge's library. He intended to make use of the war's closing hours to better understand the state of Macragge.
And to learn what his sons had accomplished over these past ten thousand years.
Just then, a towering Ultramarine entered the hall, his face completely hidden behind a visor that concealed his features.
This was none other than the Emperor in disguise, come under the name Neoth, preparing to speak with his son from this parallel world.
"Guilliman, it seems you haven't forgotten your skills. What do you plan to do next?"
At the sound of the voice, Guilliman instantly went on guard. He stepped back half a pace, resting his right hand on the hilt of the Emperor's Sword, ready to respond to any sudden move.
"Who are you, to trespass here unannounced?"
He had not heard the man's footsteps. Had the stranger not spoken, Guilliman would never have realized someone had entered.
"My name is Neoth. Like you, I've only just arrived in this new world. There's no need to be tense—if I meant you harm, I could have struck already."
The Emperor took another step forward.
Neoth was a name the Emperor had once used in ancient Terra's distant past. His true name was known to none but himself. Not even Malcador, his closest confidant, knew more than this alias.
Thus, when Guilliman heard this unfamiliar name, he did not immediately connect it to the Emperor.
Even so, he carefully studied the stranger before him. He could sense the man's extraordinary presence, and this self-proclaimed Neoth claimed to have also just come to this new world.
Perhaps he, too, was a relic of ten thousand years ago.
"Sit."
Closing the book in his hand, Guilliman seated himself, preparing for a face-to-face talk.
He carried far too many doubts, and hoped to find some answers.
The Emperor chose a seat and sat silently, watching, as though waiting for Guilliman to speak first.
"The Imperium has changed greatly. Macragge has changed greatly. Ten thousand years is too long." Guilliman let out a sorrowful sigh.
Through Calgar's words and the accounts preserved in the tomes, Guilliman had already learned the basic state of the Imperium.
Mortals believed their lofty, all-powerful God-Emperor still guided them. In truth, he sat forever upon the Golden Throne, half-dead, unable to govern.
The Primarchs had fallen, vanished, or turned traitor. The Imperium had plunged into decline without its great leaders.
The once-flourishing empire lived on only as a mirage in the pages of history. Mortals could close their eyes and imagine its glory, but upon opening them, all they saw was the devastation of Chaos hosts.
None could recall that golden age.
And the Emperor, in order to continue shielding humanity, had been forced into divinity, using psychic power to influence the Imperium and guide its course.
These changes left Guilliman at a loss. For now, all he could think of was to govern Macragge as best he could. Yet as the son of the Emperor, how could he remain unmoved before a broken Imperium?
But the times had changed beyond recognition.
Chaos had never been so rampant. The Emperor had never been a cripple nailed to a golden throne.
Even when Horus rebelled with half their brothers, the loyal half still fought to quell the war. But now the Emperor was incapacitated.
The Primarchs had all but disappeared. Their Legions were fractured, scattered, some still clinging to the ideals of the past—but how many could endure as the Ultramarines had?
To restore what was lost now was a task harder than reaching the heavens.
Guilliman viewed the galaxy's situation with deep pessimism. Never had he faced such a tangled and dire reality.
The only small comfort was that he still lived, more fortunate than his brothers who had vanished without trace.
"I cannot understand how this war has lasted for ten thousand years." Guilliman furrowed his brow. The Great Crusade had taken only two centuries.
From preparation to conclusion, at most three hundred years.
Ten thousand years—enough to fight thirty Great Crusades across the galaxy!
"The four Ruinous Powers of the Warp draw strength from the emotions of sentient beings," the Emperor patiently explained. "The longer the war burns, the more suffering it brings, the greater their power grows."
"That is why this war, once begun, can never truly end—unless the Chaos Gods are utterly destroyed, or some way is found to limit them."
The burning galaxy was like a pot of boiling stew, and the entities of the Warp were the famished diners.
They might control the flame so the galaxy was not consumed too quickly, but they would never allow the fire to die out.
For the dark gods, this war was best prolonged until the very end of the universe, until they ascended beyond all realms of existence.
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