Material universe.
On the bridge of the Macragge's Honour.
Guilliman stood there, his tall frame resembling an immortal monument. His eyes pierced through the observation window, fixed upon the void torn apart by cannon fire. There, the Chaos fleet fled like stray dogs.
Yes, that was the only way to describe it.
The marauders who once ran rampant through the Empire's darkest hours, the desecrated ships that had repeatedly brought fear and destruction to human territory during Abaddon's Black Crusades, were now vanishing like snowflakes in the terrifying fire-grid of the Gloriana-class battleships. Chaos warships saw their void shields shatter under suffocatingly dense bombardment, followed by the hulls themselves being torn to shreds by plasma beams, macro-cannon shells, and lance arrays. Every flower of explosion blooming in the void signified the correction of a ten-thousand-year error.
Guilliman's gaze was as steady as steel. The days of those Chaos bastards running free were over. Judgment had arrived.
"Lord Guilliman!"
The fleet commander's voice exploded in his ear, carrying a hint of undisguised tension. "The augurs are detecting abnormal gravitational fluctuations around our fleet! Something is wrong!"
Guilliman's brow furrowed slightly before smoothing out. Finally, it was here. A heavy weight actually lifted from his heart. In the meeting days ago, Adam had made everything sufficiently clear.
These six thousand Macragge's Honours—these Gloriana-class battleships, once considered incredibly precious—were consumables in this battle.
Six thousand Gloriana-class ships. This was a number that would cause any Imperial Navy general's heart to stop; it was a wealth that would have made the Great Crusade-era Guilliman dizzy. Yet now, their sole mission was to pin down every ounce of power Chaos projected into the material universe and exhaust it. The old way of thinking—treating every Gloriana-class ship as an irreplaceable relic—had to be discarded.
"Deploy the holographic display," Guilliman said deeply.
A massive sandbox-style holographic projection expanded before him. Guilliman's gaze swept across it, his superhuman comprehension parsing the battlefield situation instantly. At the center of the fleet array, uninvited guests appeared.
Seven void whales.
Guilliman's pupils contracted slightly. As giant creatures inhabiting the depths of the Warp, void whales were traditionally known for being docile. They rarely crossed the veil of reality and never showed aggression toward Imperial fleets. But the creatures appearing before him now had lost every trait associated with the word "docile."
Their bodies were bloated to the point of near-bursting, like corpses soaked in rot for too long. Dark green pustules densely covered their skin, each one writhing slightly as if gestating something indescribable. The stench of plague emanated from them, turning into a visible green mist that drifted through the void.
They roared. They struggled. But they could not defy the will of the Chaos God who controlled all rot and decay.
This was Nurgle's handiwork.
Guilliman confirmed this instantly. Previously, dragging such massive Warp creatures into the material universe and twisting them into plague carriers would have required a large-scale ritual—countless sacrifices, elaborate arrays, and specific blasphemous acts. But for a Chaos God focusing their attention directly, such rituals were unnecessary. It was merely a flick of the wrist.
Guilliman did not know that in another timeline, these seven void whales were supposed to appear in the orbit of a hospital world as a footnote to a different campaign. Now, they were summoned here early to serve as Nurgle's first barrier against the Imperial fleet.
Gravity indices on the hologram climbed wildly. The seven void whales began releasing an eerie field—a profane power defying physical laws. Gravitational waves surged from their bloated bodies, weaving and resonating to form a gravity well large enough to cover the entire fleet.
The readings on the inertialess drives fluctuated violently. The propulsion speed of the entire fleet slowed, like a giant beast caught in a swamp. Every struggle only drew them deeper. Meanwhile, the fleeing Chaos fleet took advantage of this gap to open the distance.
A petty trick. Guilliman made his decision in an instant.
"Seventh Fleet and Third Fleet, heed my command," his voice was cold and firm. "Immediately focus all fire on the void whales."
The fleet adjusted its formation. Three sub-fleets detached from the main array, carving lethal arcs through the void. The massive Gloriana-class battleships adjusted their posture, aiming their terrifying broadsides at the seven bloated whales.
Then, they fired.
It was a sight that would haunt any witness for a lifetime. The broadside fire of a Gloriana-class battleship was the pinnacle of the Empire's ten-thousand-year shipbuilding expertise. When the macro-cannon ports opened in unison, the entire side of the ship became a wall of light. Blue-white plasma beams interlaced with the golden beams of the lance arrays, torpedo tails left dense trails in the void, and macro-cannon rounds tore through space at near-light speeds.
A torrent of fire. That was the only way to describe it.
Destruction poured down like a waterfall, striking the void whales precisely. Then, Guilliman's brow furrowed deeper. The fire hit its mark, but the effect fell far short of expectations. A layer of eerie green light emerged on the whales' surfaces—Nurgle's blessing, the doting love of the Grandfather for his creations. Macro-cannon shells rotted the moment they touched that light. The barrage only managed to leave shallow scorch marks on the skin, which healed instantly.
The seven void whales maintained the gravity well like seven wedges driven into the fleet's heart. The rate at which the distance between the fleets was closing slowed visibly.
Fine, if that's how you want to play... Guilliman's eyes narrowed. His voice boomed across the communication channel again.
"The following numbered ships—3001, 7002, 9000..." He called out the designations of seven Gloriana-class battleships. "Immediately turn course and charge the following coordinates."
The coordinates were sent to the bridges of the seven ships—the core positions of the seven void whales.
"Execute."
Guilliman's voice was devoid of emotion. It was the voice of a man ordering the sacrifice of seven Gloriana-class battleships, yet it was as calm as if he were simply ordering a course correction.
He had never fought a war with such abundance. Even in the golden age of the Great Crusade, the Lord of Ultramar never had six thousand Gloriana-class ships to squander. Furthermore, these ships were manned by Abominable Intelligences that could be replicated or Legion of the Damned warriors who could return from death. He felt no guilt.
The seven chosen battleships turned. It was a suffocating sight. Behemoths over twenty-six kilometers long slowly rotated their solemn frames. Plasma engine trails turned from blue to brilliant white as power climbed at a mad rate. Their prows aimed at the void whales.
The prows of the Gloriana-class were fitted with the oldest and most brutal weapon in Imperial design: the ram. These were adamantium rams blessed by Adam himself, inscribed with cleansing prayers and baptized in hundreds of rituals. Usually, they were decorative symbols, as almost nothing was worth a Gloriana-class ship ramming.
Now, they would fulfill their primitive purpose.
The engines roared. The ship spirits howled—ancient consciousnesses bound in steel letting out a battle cry as they sensed their impending destruction, a burst of ecstasy at knowing they would complete their mission in the most glorious way.
They looked like falling stars or spears of judgment thrown by a god.
The rams pierced the void whales. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. The adamantium clashed with the plague shields, gold and green light interlacing in a blinding surge of energy. Then, the shields shattered. The rams cut into the bloated bodies like hot knives through butter.
Green pus erupted from the wounds, vaporizing into foul plague clouds upon contact with the void. The void whales let out silent screams that bypassed physical laws to enter the minds of every crew member. But the battleships did not stop. They pushed their twenty-six-kilometer frames forward, grinding ahead. The rams tore through muscle, organs twisted by plague, and parasitic pustules. The massive ships punched entirely through the creatures, tearing the bloated beasts in half.
The seven void whales began to die. The gravity well collapsed. The trapped ships regained their freedom.
Guilliman withdrew his gaze and looked toward the distant Chaos fleet. Six thousand Gloriana-class ships. Five thousand nine hundred and ninety-three remained. For the fleeing Chaos ships, this was still a number that induced madness and despair.
"Attention all units," Guilliman's voice rang out, hard as steel, cold as ice. "The ship commanding the retreat is the Vengeful Spirit."
His gaze locked onto the massive flagship at the center of the Chaos fleet. It was a ship carrying too many curses and sins—the flagship Horus once trod upon, the command core of the Black Crusades for ten thousand years.
"Abaddon is on board," Guilliman said, emphasizing each word. "Don't let him escape!"
...
On the other side.
The Vengeful Spirit, Bridge.
"So, what do we do now?" Erebus's brow was locked. His face, covered in Chaos scriptures, finally showed a full expression. He tilted his head, scrutinizing Abaddon.
Abaddon's face was terrifyingly dark. Just moments ago, he had proposed a bold idea—innovation born of despair. The plan was simple: as the Chaos Gods rained calamity on the Imperial fleet, order several "unlucky" ships to turn back and fight. He didn't expect them to kill many; he just needed to disrupt the pursuers' rhythm for a moment so the Vengeful Spirit could cross the astronomical distance that looked short on a map but felt eternal now. He had already chosen the sacrifices—three ships led by rivals he wanted to eliminate.
Two birds with one stone. A perfect plan.
Yet it had vanished like smoke. Abaddon hadn't even had time to taste hope from the void whales' appearance before watching them be torn to shreds by Imperial ships in a barbaric fashion.
"Escape," Abaddon said, the word squeezed from the depths of his throat. "We continue forward."