Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

"Sir, is there any specific reason you called for me?"

Sicarius entered the chamber, his gaze fixed on Guilliman, who sat upright in his throne-like chair. His expression conveyed mild confusion.

Guilliman rose to his feet, his armor producing a melodic chime with his movements. He always wore the armor that had brought him back from death—a creation of the Mechanicum, but one that contained a trace of the God of Death's power. This otherworldly force had mended the wounds of his very soul, enabling his resurrection.

During the battle on Thessala, the traitorous Primarch Fulgrim had inflicted a grievous wound upon Guilliman, driving his blade through his neck and forcing him into a slumber that lasted tens of thousands of years. The injury went beyond mere flesh; it had pierced his soul. Without such a profound assault, even the loss of a Primarch's heart would not result in death.

Ferrus Manus had met his demise under similar circumstances—slain by Fulgrim's Chaos-tainted weapon. Without it, the death of a Primarch would have been nearly impossible.

To this day, Guilliman remained bound to his armor, unable to remove it. Perhaps, when his vast repository of knowledge unlocked its second level, he might discover a way to free himself.

"The astropaths received a distress call from the Sara system," Guilliman stated. "They are besieged by Plague Warriors and require assistance. After analyzing the situation, I realized the system lies on our current route. I have decided to dispatch the Glory of Macragge along with a portion of the fleet to resolve the issue. Assemble the warriors immediately; we must be ready to deploy the moment we exit the Warp. Our mission must be swift—once we cleanse the Sara system, we will regroup with the main fleet and continue to the industrial world of Konor."

Sicarius hesitated before responding cautiously, "Lord, you need not take this mission upon yourself. Captain Phikris is more than capable of handling it. You should not risk yourself on the battlefield—we cannot afford to lose you."

"No," Guilliman replied firmly. "I cannot make decisions and expect others to fight in my stead while I remain in safety. The fleets will inevitably be divided to aid different systems. As a Primarch, I must secure victory with my own hands. The Imperium needs me triumphant, and that is final. Prepare the forces."

Guilliman's voice left no room for argument.

Beyond the need to pacify the populace, Guilliman had his own motives for taking direct action. The Master Template—a hidden mechanism—transformed the people's faith into raw power. The greater his renown and victories, the stronger their belief would become.

It was much like a warrior honing his edge through successive triumphs, each victory compounding upon the last until he became an unstoppable force.

Guilliman had always known his true enemy: the Chaos Gods.

If he lived, they would fall. If he perished, they would prevail.

There could be no compromise between them—only the utter annihilation of one side would bring an end to their war.

To strengthen his standing and reinforce the people's belief in him as the Empire's Thirteenth Son, the Lord of Ultramar, and the beacon of salvation, he had to seize every opportunity.

Seeing Guilliman's unwavering determination, Sicarius relented, bowing respectfully before departing to gather the warriors aboard the Glory of Macragge, ensuring they were ready to purge the plague-ridden Sara system with precision and speed.

Guilliman's fleet would travel separately, with other Imperial heroes commanding their own forces. While a united armada would have been powerful, dividing their strength was necessary to stabilize Ultramar swiftly.

Heroes such as Celestine and Amalrich would lead separate fleets, each tasked with liberating different systems from the grip of Chaos. Their ultimate destination remained the industrial world of Konor—Ultramar's outermost bastion, bordering the edge of Imperial space.

By taking different paths and aiding systems in distress, the combined forces would eventually converge at Konor for the decisive confrontation.

Though many, including Saint Celestine and Inquisitor Grey, opposed Guilliman's direct involvement, fearing a repeat of his fall ten millennia ago, they ultimately relented. Each hero took their fleet and set off to rescue the suffering citizens across the star systems.

On the bridge of the Glory of Macragge

The tech-slaves connected to the control systems quivered, their neural interfaces linked to the ship's cortex trembling with strain.

"Coordinate data detected: Sara system," announced a mechanical voice.

The ship's captain, his bionic arm gleaming under the dim lights, scrutinized the data displayed on his screen through his augmented eyes.

"Prepare for realspace transition," he commanded.

Every department—navigation, power, intelligence—worked in unison, updating their data streams in perfect synchronization to ensure the ship's smooth transition out of the Warp.

"Realspace coordinates verified."

"Energy circuits stable, transitioning now."

The 26-kilometer-long Glory of Macragge surged from the Warp into realspace, accompanied by a fleet of warships, each bearing the heraldry of Ultramar.

The bridge erupted with activity as data flooded in from all sides.

A shrill alarm pierced the air.

"Alert! Chaos ships detected!"

The announcer, nerve-cables plugged directly into his vocal cords, twitched violently as he relayed enemy positions through his brass-augmented throat.

"Activate void shields! All units prepare for engagement!" the captain bellowed, gripping the railing tightly. "Open fire at will! Let these traitors know our strength!"

Sara System – Grix Hive Capital

The once-glorious hive city of Grix had fallen to ruin under the relentless assault of the Plague Warriors.

Surviving civilians huddled within the massive Starfort, the last stronghold with a functioning void shield, their final hope against the encroaching tide of rot and decay.

Artillery thundered as the last remnants of the planetary defense force clung to their fortified positions, desperately trying to repel the advancing hordes.

However, the relentless tide of plague-infested corpses continued to press forward, slowly eroding the defenders' ranks.

Within the fortress, civilians pressed together in fear, seeking comfort in each other's presence as despair settled over them like a shroud.

An elderly woman clutched two trembling children, their wide, tear-filled eyes reflecting their dread.

"Grandma, you always said the Emperor would protect us," one of the children whispered. "Why hasn't He sent His angels to save us? Why didn't He save Mom and Dad?"

The old woman forced a weak smile, holding them close with frail, bony arms.

"I... I don't know, child. Perhaps His angels are too busy elsewhere," she murmured softly.

In the distance, the hollow prayers of the faithful filled the air, but hope was fading fast as the shadows of death drew ever closer.