Perturabo was currently preparing gifts for each of his brothers, getting ready to head to Terra for a reunion dinner — he needed to properly arrange things for his brothers.
He just couldn't work out why he'd felt so unsettled lately.
Had he overlooked something?
This inexplicable unease — where was it coming from?
Perturabo couldn't understand it. Surely at this point, there was nothing left that could deliver a devastating blow to the Imperium?
The Necrons awakening? The Great Devourer arriving? Chaos mounting a full-scale invasion?
Something was wrong.
Perturabo immediately got up and used the logic engine to transmit to all his brothers: proceed to Terra immediately, without fail.
He had a strong feeling something bad was coming — something with the potential to cause enormous disruption. Whatever it was, Holy Terra absolutely could not be allowed to fall. If it did, every effort of the past years would have been wasted.
He hoped he was wrong. If this turned out to be an overreaction, a false alarm, pure overthinking on his part — that would be the ideal outcome.
The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar were full of celebration. Those worlds, which rarely experienced festive nights, were now blazing with light around the clock, turning darkness into perpetual day.
The festivities had been running for three days. Even Guilliman had tacitly allowed this particular indulgence.
The Ultramarines had deployed across the celebrations to prevent accidents or incidents among the civilian population.
Guilliman himself was in the administrative hall, continuing to work through his affairs. He didn't particularly enjoy this kind of atmosphere — but a celebration was called for at this moment. Letting the people feel hope was how future prosperity was built.
Though it wouldn't be long now. A few more things to arrange, then a trip to Holy Terra, and he could step down from this burden.
A quiet, pastoral life. That sounds wonderful.
For the first time in his long career of managing affairs, Guilliman genuinely paused.
Dressed in a white and magnificent long robe with enough gold ornamentation to draw even the Emperor's admiring comment, he leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to imagine a better future.
But for some reason, drowsiness came on unusually fast today. Guilliman decided this was probably because he was finally allowing himself to relax after so long — and made a decision that violated his fundamental operating logic.
He was going to allow himself a small indulgence. Just three minutes. Just a brief moment.
And so Guilliman drifted off with a small smile on his lips — and even he didn't notice that the noise from Macragge had quietly stopped at the same moment he closed his eyes.
The entire planet went terrifyingly silent. But Guilliman couldn't perceive the abnormality. Because even as the logic engine kept transmitting messages to him, even as mechanical arms kept injecting compounds into his body, he had no reaction whatsoever — like a corpse, his life signs completely absent.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Robert Guilliman" walked through the corridors of the Macragge palace.
The decorations here were so familiar. And yet so strange.
When had all these new ornaments appeared? And when had all this Resentment Intelligence arrived?
He couldn't quite work it out — but that wasn't what he actually cared about.
Was his mother well? Was she still in good health? Had the False Emperor already moved against her?
If so, he would sacrifice Ultramar again — and then bombard Terra and slay the False Emperor.
But fortunately — he could see it. Mother was alive. Her body had even been modified with life-extension procedures, her lifespan considerably extended. She looked almost identical to the woman who had taken him in, just as he remembered her.
The Victrix Guard were inexplicably collapsed on the ground. There were no mortal attendants anywhere along the route. "Robert Guilliman" walked on, step by step, his breathing slightly elevated — but his footsteps unhurried and level.
He was thinking: if Mother found out what he had become, how would she react? Would she open her mouth and rebuke him? Would she say he had betrayed his adoptive father's hopes?
He didn't find this easy to contemplate. But it didn't matter. As long as Mother was alive, that was enough.
He would rather hear criticism every day than have his mother harmed by the False Emperor's reach.
He came to stand before the great doors. The ornate relief carvings and decorations were ones he had carved and arranged himself — and it seemed the version of himself here had the same taste.
Mother was still working. She typically worked well into the night. Even though "Robert Guilliman" had advised her against it many times, she persisted — because this gave her a reason to wait until she heard the sound of her son retiring to the adjacent room.
Without that familiar sound of the door closing, she couldn't quite sleep.
It was a bad habit. Bad for her health. He had told her so many times. And it appeared the version of himself here had told her the same things equally often, to equal effect.
He had felt nothing when he drove the Dark Blade through his brothers and the Emperor alike. He had felt nothing when he stood atop the Eternal Wall and looked down on Terra below.
But he didn't want to disappoint Mother. His adoptive parents had put everything into trying to shape him into a philosopher-king. And in the end, he had failed their trust. That was the guilt a child felt toward parents who had loved him immeasurably.
But now, he was no longer that philosopher-king Guilliman. The Dark King who had once unified the galaxy was about to walk the same road a second time.
"Robert" rose slowly to his feet. Nothing could stand in the way of his dominion over the human Imperium. Not Chaos. Not the Greenskins. Not the Necrons. Not humanity itself.
"Just to be safe — I should put you to sleep for now. When I've resolved everything, I'll wake you again, and find you somewhere pleasant on Terra to spend your remaining years in peace."
"Robert — don't compound mistake upon—"
But Lady Euten didn't finish. She had already lost consciousness, and was placed into a stasis field by "Robert."
He would not allow words to influence his resolve. He didn't like surprises or things that slipped beyond his control. He didn't like emotional decisions.
This was the best option he could devise. When everything was resolved, he would be there to see her through her final years. That was enough.
"Robert" came to the administrative hall and looked at the sleeping Guilliman. He felt the shared fundamental nature resonating between them, and a faint sneer crossed his mouth.
If a god's inner core needed to disguise itself in a mortal's clothing, that was simply a form of self-deception.
"Robert" still thought, even now, that his past self had been somewhat foolish — to have actually believed in that False Emperor. But it didn't matter. He had killed him once, and he would certainly be able to kill him again.
He watched the logic engine panel flashing with activity, mechanical arms driving compounds steadily into Guilliman's body.
A wicked smile appeared on "Robert's" face. He thought about everything Chaos had prepared for the Imperium this time — it was going to give the False Emperor a very great surprise.
He just needed to see how the other brothers were performing on their respective fronts. With any luck, he might be able to catch everyone in a single net.
Something was wrong.
The Emperor, who had been sitting in the administrative hall eating cola-flavoured crisps and bickering with Malcador, suddenly felt it — something off — and came to his feet in a single motion.
"What's the matter, Revelation?"
Malcador was puzzled by his old friend's sudden movement.
The Emperor reached out — and felt it. The psychic ability that had always felt unconquerable and all-encompassing — why had it suddenly diminished so substantially?
More than half gone. At minimum.
How was that possible? How could Erosion and Destruction suddenly have a competitor this powerful?
There was no logical reason for such an opponent to exist without him having noticed earlier.
What was happening?
Something was wrong. Twelve kinds of wrong.
Chaos was playing its opening move.
It had to be that damned blue bird's work.
"Immediately alert all Primarchs. Order them to maintain absolute vigilance and watch for anything abnormal in their immediate surroundings. Chaos has moved."
"Get Dorn and Russ to reinforce the Solar Segmentum defensive line. Order the Fourth Legion and the Sixteenth Legion to return to Terra immediately and assist with the line."
"Get Magnus and Perturabo back to Terra right now. Other Primarchs, withdraw in an orderly fashion. This is serious."
The Emperor immediately had Malcador issue the orders. Get people back in defensive positions first, then figure out the rest.
The Emperor actually didn't like this overwhelming psychic power, in normal circumstances. It was eroding his humanity too quickly — if this continued, sooner or later he was going to become something resembling a Chaos God himself.
But even if he wanted to diminish his own power, this was absolutely not the moment for it.
And to be diminished in this sudden and complete way, with him not even understanding the circumstances—
"What exactly has happened, Revelation?"
Malcador, having rapidly issued the orders, pressed the Emperor again.
"My power has dropped significantly. Chaos has somehow cultivated a counterpart to Erosion and Destruction — and a strong one."
"They shouldn't be capable of that."
"I don't know either. But something has clearly gone wrong somewhere. Magnus and Perturabo need to be recalled immediately. I suspect Chaos has begun moving against the Primarchs."
"How would they have the strength to breach barriers this thick?"
Malcador's expression shifted sharply. If the Emperor was saying this, there was absolutely no possibility of a mistake. Chaos had laid its trap without anyone noticing — and was only now activating it.
"Has any communication come from the Primarchs or the Legions recently?"
"The most recent was Robert — but that was a month ago."
Neither the Emperor nor Malcador had thought anything of it at the time. But now that something had clearly gone wrong, it looked very suspicious.
"Quickly — send again. Have them respond today, by any available means — Navigator message, logic engine communication, anything — just tell us they're safe."
The Emperor was genuinely alarmed now. Starting off like this — what an opening move.
These damnable creatures.
Perturabo had been feeling increasingly uneasy. The entire galaxy had gone strangely quiet — and while this was naturally attributable to the Crusade fleets having swept through most of it, combined with high-pressure governance, this particular silence felt wrong in a way he couldn't immediately define.
This was not normal peace.
He was certain something had gone wrong somewhere — he just hadn't found it yet.
"Have all the brothers' replies come in?"
"Yes. All Primarchs have received the message. They indicate they will proceed to Terra after completing immediate work."
"Did I not tell them to go immediately?"
Perturabo felt an unreasonable irritation rising in him.
"Now — transmit again. Tell them this is a joint requirement from the Emperor and the Warmaster. Return to Terra. Immediately. Without exception."
"Yes."
"Has anything come through from Terra recently?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing."
Perturabo stood up. Terra and the Emperor had better not be in trouble.
He'd built that absolute defensive wall around the Solar Segmentum for nothing if they had. It made no sense.
"What about the Legions? Has Dantioch sent anything back? What's the situation at the Eye of Terror?"
"Data uploaded a day ago — all normal."
Chaos had moved.
Perturabo understood it almost instinctively — something in the Warp had shifted.
No wonder the Warp had been so quiet recently. Even the loss rate for supply convoys running through Warp lanes had dropped substantially. They had been waiting. Waiting for this.
"Immediately mobilise the fleet. We proceed to Terra at once. Except for Dantioch, who holds the Eye of Terror — all other Chapters return to defend the Solar Segmentum now."
"Yes."
Perturabo's presence vanished. He went immediately to find Vulkan inside the Webway.
Vulkan had been crafting gifts for his brothers — forging weapons shaped to each of their preferences, fusing wraithbone and necrodermis together and adding considerable ornamentation on top. He was confident his brothers would be pleased.
"Vulkan."
Perturabo arrived inside the Webway with an expression that was not his usual one.
"What's wrong, brother?"
"Something's happened. We have to go back to Terra. My fleet is already mobilising — get your Legion mobilised, we go together."
"All right."
Vulkan put aside the questions for a moment and immediately had Cassavantes begin the Legion's mobilisation.
"What's happened, brother? What has you this worried?"
The large fleet moving at speed through the Webway interior lit up the surrounding darkness. Twenty-two Star Forts flanked the fleet, the Iron Blood at the very front.
Perturabo had even used his psychic ability to boost the fleet's firepower by a further three degrees.
Vulkan asked again.
"Chaos has definitely moved. And the targets are Terra and our brothers."
"Almost every reply I've received has been extremely standardised in tone. And Terra hasn't sent a single communication for a full month. I should have noticed this earlier."
Perturabo said it with visible frustration at himself.
"But isn't that fairly normal?"
Vulkan couldn't see why this was a cause for such urgency.
"It isn't normal. During the Great Crusade, a year of no communication was perfectly ordinary — even Horus would rarely reply. But the Crusade is over. We have the Webway now. Our brothers have largely found their post-retirement paths. Under those circumstances, how could they have no time to reply to me — and when they do reply, in such formal and official language?"
In recent months, most of the brothers had already let their hair down entirely. Russ and the Khan had essentially stopped pretending to maintain any professional decorum. The closing stages of the Crusade had felt almost like leisure travel for them.
Even their replies had started to become florid and personally expressive. Under those conditions, reverting to cold formal text was simply impossible.
And the Mechanicum Archmagos — they had stopped using the honorifics "Dear Warmaster" and "Omnissiah" entirely.
Granted, there might be exceptions. But two transmissions. Both the same. And covering every single brother. And Terra also not responding.
Chaos had found a way to intercept physical communications.
Where had they gotten the technology for that?
Had the Necrons actually entered into some kind of arrangement with Chaos?
"Brother — stay calm. The Solar Segmentum defensive line was something you and Dorn built yourselves. Even if they're attempting a siege, they have to get through your line first."
"And even inside the Solar System, you've deployed dozens of Resentment Intelligence armies. Even if they've been attacked, they wouldn't have collapsed to this degree yet."
"The same goes for the brothers. We all trust that everything you've worked for over these years has not been wasted. Taking down an entire Legion couldn't be done without decades and enormous cost."
"This may be us overthinking things. Or there may have been some kind of attack, but nothing approaching a life-or-death crisis."
Vulkan offered what comfort he could — but Perturabo's unease was only deepening.
He also hoped it would develop the way Vulkan described. But he feared Chaos wasn't going to give them that chance.
Boundless psychic force extended through the fleet once more. Speed spiked again — nearly to the point where even the logic engine was struggling to keep track.
"You won't succeed. The Emperor and the Warmaster will come and stop you. You have no way to contend with them."
"Even if you sacrifice Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds again, you will not succeed. The Warmaster's guns will blast all of you to pieces."
Guilliman had been resisting "Robert's" corruption continuously. His willpower and tenacity had exceeded "Robert's" estimates.
Even when told that the current Ultramarines had already been slaughtered down to the last, that the Five Hundred Worlds were on the edge of sacrifice, Guilliman's inner resolve had not wavered.
"I remember I was once like you — very fond of my sons. But you've held on longer than I expected. I'm somewhat impressed."
"Robert" looked at the significantly-mutated Guilliman with something like curiosity.
"That is why you are a traitor — while I remain loyal to Father and the Imperium. The Warmaster will avenge us. I will die and be recorded in history, remembered for ten thousand years. You and your fellow traitors will be nailed to the pillar of shame and endure the contempt of all humanity for eternity."
"Robert" had no particular interest in spending more effort on his own person. He didn't really need to — holding the basic situation stable was sufficient.
"That depends on who survives. On who becomes the victor. You know as well as I do — only the living have the ability to record anything."
"The Imperium will not lose."
"You don't think Chaos spent this much effort and cost just to send me alone to overturn the human Imperium?"
"The False Emperor and your brothers are about to be hunted down and destroyed. I might even, for practical purposes, be one of the very few who could actually help you — so do you really think you're in a position to say these things to me?"
"Robert" looked at Guilliman, trying to find some trace of anger in that body which was beginning to resemble his own more and more with each passing moment. He found none.
"The Warmaster will show you that everything you're doing is nothing but futility."
"I'm genuinely curious why you trust Perturabo this much. Is it the Resentment Intelligence? I'll admit — right now he's the single strongest force in any faction. Even their forces avoided attacking his domain during the offensive. But I can tell you: even Perturabo cannot save any of you this time. He can barely save himself."
"You clearly only know the Warmaster from logic engine records. If you had actually faced him in person, you would never have the courage to say that. He will personally blast you and your kind to powder."
"Robert" lost interest in this conversation. Guilliman wouldn't hold much longer regardless — willpower alone couldn't withstand corruption indefinitely.
When the time came, "Robert" would let him experience firsthand what it meant to have no say in your own actions — to watch his own hand drive itself toward his beloved Father, to deliver the final blow, to know that horror of helplessness.
Of course, it was too early to say any of that yet. This war had a long way to run. There was no need to have his own sons thrown against Perturabo and Dorn's defensive lines. Plenty of fools would volunteer to charge into those positions first.
"Robert" seated himself in the administrative hall's throne and began working through Ultramar's affairs — and the worlds the "Ultramarines" were steadily extending their reach into.
"Robert" was more clear-headed than anyone. He understood that trying to overwhelm the Imperium through sheer volume was genuinely difficult. If the corruption didn't begin at the roots of this enormous structure, killing the Emperor alone would still leave residual forces that would be extremely troublesome to deal with.
And an Imperium rotted through entirely was something that, once you took it over, would only produce endless wars and disease — ultimately benefiting Chaos rather than him. "Robert" never did things that didn't benefit him.
The human Imperium would inevitably become his. And what was his — he preferred to build it properly himself.
In truth, it wasn't hard for "Robert" to guess why Guilliman admired Perturabo. The meticulous approach to governance had always been his own pursuit as well — he just had no particular talent for the Resentment Intelligence aspect.
"Robert" acknowledged this limitation with some frustration. His aptitude in that domain genuinely fell short, even if he could bisect an entire planet with a single sword stroke. Raw strength was never the foundation of everything.
Which was precisely why, even now, he was being careful to keep his influence's spread from approaching anywhere near Olympia.
He would let the fools fight each other to exhaustion. The Imperium could patch one hole and find three more opening. The final victory would be his. Even the control permissions over Resentment Intelligence — he intended to claim all of that as well.
"What do you mean your power has dropped by half?"
Perturabo and Vulkan had come out of the Terra Palace's underground Webway exit, just congratulating themselves that the Solar Segmentum appeared intact — and then the Emperor delivered this to him.
"That's the reality. Right now I can't even reach Horus and the others. And we still don't know from what direction Chaos launched this."
The Emperor slumped in his throne. Malcador's worry was too tangled to unravel. Dorn had already arrived inside the Imperial Palace, working through with Vulkan and Valdor how to implement certain modifications to Terra's defences.
Everyone could see something was badly wrong — and Terra was certainly the enemy's objective. It had to be held no matter what.
Even the Astropaths' transmissions were fragmentary and discontinuous, and extremely likely to be carrying Chaos encoding within them. Those Astropaths were half-mad already. The entire Imperium was effectively blind.
"The enemy certainly knows we're using the Webway by now. But fortunately I haven't handed that technology over yet — they can't open Webway gates, and they can't navigate within it. That's still our advantage."
"We need to find our brothers. We need to know what their actual situation is. I'll go myself to confirm. While I'm gone — Terra and the Solar Segmentum are in your hands."
Perturabo still couldn't fully work out what was happening — but right now, rather than risk losing another high-combat-power ally by sending Vulkan, he needed to go himself.
"I've already recalled all Iron Warriors to the Solar Segmentum via internal Webway routes — they should all be back in defensive position within a few days. I'm also ordering Dantioch to return as quickly as possible. The Eye of Terror can wait."
"Dorn — whatever happens, hold the Solar Segmentum and Terra. Use the things I gave you at the right moment. With everything I've prepared, I refuse to believe they can do anything inside the Solar Segmentum."
"Unless they go through my corpse, they are not taking Terra."
Dorn gave a single nod and said nothing more. Everyone's hearts settled slightly. When Dorn committed to something, they trusted it would be done.
"Vulkan — follow Dorn's command. You're the emergency response force."
"Understood."
Perturabo then looked at the two old men — exchanged a brief nod with each of them — and that was that. They knew what they needed to do. Being the anchor was enough.
"Hold Terra. I've left you all the fleet elements here. I can't pull more from Olympia right now. You need to be prepared for the possibility that no reinforcement is coming."
"Because I genuinely don't know yet what Chaos has actually done. If you notice anything wrong — you remember those reserve Astronomican nodes I built? There's a master control here on Terra. Make sure our fleet elements know their locations."
That was what Perturabo said before leaving.
Prospero.
Magnus was researching how to release a wide-area destruction spell at greater effective power. His sons in their respective sanctums were each immersed in studying new knowledge.
Though the dangers of psychic ability were well understood now, controlled and measured contact with the Warp was still sometimes acceptable — a point both Perturabo and the Emperor had agreed to.
But just as Magnus was approaching a breakthrough, his powerful psychic senses caught something wrong.
He looked up.
A blue fleet was in the sky above.
The markings said — Space Wolves?
Magnus was puzzled. Why would Russ be coming to Prospero?
Wait.
Something was off.
The Space Wolves' fleet marking — it was different from what he remembered.
"Azhek."
"Father."
"Prepare fleet defences. They are not friendlies. These are almost certainly Space Marine Legionaries who have suffered Chaos corruption. Have all the sanctums prepare for defence. Resentment Intelligence units on immediate standby."
"Yes."
What had happened to the Space Wolves?
Looking at the Hrafnkel — so drastically altered from how he remembered it — Magnus's brow drew together.
What in the universe was going on?