The massive scanning arrays aboard the Void Sword swept across that expanse of absolute nothingness.
Every sensor ping fell dead and silent within that void.
The cascading warp tides, upon crossing into this sector, plunged directly into the vacuum and vanished entirely from existence.
Fortunately, this localized tear of non-existence exhibited no unique gravitational pull; it behaved precisely like a simple hole torn in the side of a sack.
With repeated scans yielding no further data, the Void Sword ignited its warp engines, tearing open the veil of reality to begin its return voyage.
Within the hollow zone left behind by the shattered Webway, countless pale-blue lines of energy were constantly intertwining.
The fractured dimensions were gradually knitting themselves back together.
This was the automated response of the Webway control architecture.
The ancient network infrastructure was actively repairing this localized breach within the labyrinthine dimension.
Simultaneously, the Inquisition fleet was busy transferring personnel from the Iron Man vessel designated Ship-0113.
Jaghatai Khan and his genetic sons were still packed into the transports like standard-issue rations.
Yet, there had been no other alternative.
The hull of the strike cruiser possessed finite capacity, and this cramped arrangement was the only space available after a portion of the Heavy Combat Drones had been cleared out.
Time, after all, had been their most precious commodity.
Had they waited for the White Scars' transport echelons to maneuver away under their own power, the Webway would likely have sealed shut before they could escape.
The logistical transfer proceeded without incident.
Aboard the Black Ships of the Inquisition, the attending Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus could only stare in rapt astonishment at the Stormbirds brought back by the White Scars.
These massive, ancient gunships were an exceedingly rare sight in the modern Imperium.
As the Inquisition fleet shifted its vector toward Terra, the interrogators began verifying the identities and physical states of all recovered personnel.
The moment Jaghatai Khan's towering silhouette and the unmistakable, crushing aura of a Primarch manifested, every single Inquisitor paused their screening protocols.
The sheer presence of a demigod was too absolute; it was a phenomenon that, once witnessed, could never be forgotten.
And if the Primarch Himself was genuine, there was no logical basis to question the authenticity of the White Scars warriors accompanying Him.
To attempt to impersonate a genetic son in front of his own gene-sire?
Only the most utterly unhinged lunatic would commit to such suicidal madness.
It had not been long since the Lord of Drakes had loudly demanded to settle accounts with Belisarius Cawl.
Lightning could hardly strike twice in such rapid succession.
Furthermore, the Khan's temperament was notoriously far less patient than that of the Promethean gene-sire.
Following a voyage that spanned nearly two months, the Inquisition fleet, escorted by a mechanical armada, finally arrived at Terra.
Within his personal quarters, Jaghatai Khan stood in total silence. His gaze pierced through the viewport, fixing upon the world that grew clearer and more defined against the backdrop of the stars.
This was Terra. The heart of the Imperium, a sacred domain bearing the weight of infinite glory and history, and the home he had departed twelve millennia ago.
The crushing torrent of time surged through his mind, and ancient memories flooded back like a relentless tide.
He remembered when the skies of Terra were a pristine, gemstone blue; when the spires of the Imperial Palace gleamed with a divine radiance under the sun; and when the laughter of his brothers still echoed through those grand corridors.
Returning now, he knew with absolute certainty that everything had changed beyond recognition.
Beside him, the White Scars stood in rigid formation, their expressions reflecting an identical mix of profound awe and quiet anticipation.
This soil was not merely the political nucleus of the Imperium to them; it was the ultimate manifestation of the Emperor's light, the anchor of their eternal faith and unyielding loyalty.
The Black Ship docked smoothly within the high berths of the Terran orbital plates, and the colossal primary pressure doors groaned open. Jaghatai Khan took a deep breath and took his first solid step onto the homeworld.
Greeting him was a vista of solemn, militant austerity.
The ochre-armored Space Marines of the Imperial Fists formed a careful, defensive cordon around the perimeter, while further back stood cohorts of the Legio Custodes.
The Custodians watched the two Primarchs step forward to embrace, their internal thoughts practical but deeply complex.
Once, it was these very Primarchs who had brought the Imperium to the absolute brink of total annihilation; yet following their disappearance, the state had spent ten millennia fracturing and decaying in the dark.
Then Roboute Guilliman had returned to hold back the abyss, and one by one, the gene-sires were reappearing.
By the Emperor, they wondered, is the Age of Primarchs truly dawning once more?
Was this the catalyst that would propel the Imperium back to its golden apex, or was it merely the opening movement of another catastrophic tragedy?
The Custodians were not the only ones whose thoughts were unsettled; the Imperial Fists present shared that quiet turbulence.
The gaze of the Sons of Dorn carried a raw envy that was almost tangible.
The Ultramarines, the Dark Angels, the Salamanders, and now even the White Scars had welcomed home their living progenitor.
As the two demigods stepped back, Jaghatai Khan's eyes met Guilliman's.
The bonds of their ancient brotherhood surged to the forefront of their minds. Those desperate campaigns fought side-by-side, those long centuries spent straining toward the Emperor's grand vision… it felt as though it had occurred only yesterday.
"Welcome home, my brother."
"It is a profound relief to see you standing once more, Guilliman."
The two strode side-by-side, charting a path toward the inner sanctums of the Imperial Palace.
As they walked, Guilliman spoke at length, detailing the grueling hardships, the endless perils, and the agonizing path of reconstruction the Imperium had endured since his awakening.
He described the horrific state of the galaxy at the conclusion of his resurrection: an empire broken, bleeding, and structurally hollowed out.
Cities had been reduced to ash, entire sectors of civilization were teetering on absolute collapse, and the guiding beacon of faith was flickering out in the encroaching dark. The transmission of technological knowledge had suffered a catastrophic regression, with countless priceless STC variations and technical sciences lost forever to the fires of war.
Jaghatai listened in silence, his mind filled with a solemn respect.
He could scarcely fathom the sheer weight of the psychological burdens Guilliman had carried, or the sheer quantity of lifeblood he had poured into this dying engine.
When Guilliman recounted the specific details of his resurrection, the Khan stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of surprise and genuine concern.
"It must have been the Emperor's own hand guiding you, Roboute. Everything you have executed was done for the survival and continuity of mankind."
The Khan smoothly shifted the conversation toward the presence of the Iron Men.
Jaghatai's brow furrowed slightly, his expression hardening with deep-seated reservation.
"When I first heard tales of these Abominable Intelligences, I found it difficult to credit. To my understanding, their very existence stands as an explicit defiance of the Emperor's core decrees."
Guilliman let out a quiet sigh, a flicker of deep exhaustion crossing his features.
"Though it may defy your baseline assumptions, those ancient Iron Men operate under the direct mandate of the Emperor's own will."
Hearing Guilliman explain the sequence of events regarding Axion, the Khan's expression visibly stiffened.
Naturally, Guilliman omitted the precise parameters of the secret compact ratified beneath the deepest vaults of the Imperial Palace.
The Khan was perceptive enough to realize that Guilliman was withholding specific nuances of the truth, but he chose not to press for those granular details.
He was not Lion El'Jonson, after all.
The dialogue between the two brothers persisted for hours.
Excluding the inherently difficult nature of the First Primarch, Guilliman's interactions with his surviving brothers had been remarkably harmonious.
As they spoke of their lost kin, even the Khan could not suppress a heavy sense of melancholy.
This was especially true upon learning of Leman Russ, how the Wolf King had been consumed by a bottomless, agonizing guilt for failing to arrive in time for the Siege of Terra and the defense of the Emperor. That guilt had ultimately driven him to plunge headlong into the Eye of Terror to hunt the traitors down and seek the fabled Tree of Life to restore their sire.
Hearing this, a spark of new intention began to take root within the Khan's mind.
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