Must Be Stopped

His body was majestic and towering; one look was enough to tell that the giant contained boundless, surging, terrifying strength.

His voice was like thunder born between heaven and earth, deafening and enough to make his enemies tremble.

He was a majestic God who should have existed only in myth, yet had come into the mortal world out of pity for humanity's suffering.

The difference in size between the giant and any Space Marine was as great as that between a Space Marine and an ordinary mortal.

The radiance reflected by his azure armor was like hopeful morning light, bringing reassurance and making despair feel less overwhelming.

This armor was clearly of extraordinary origin, the culmination of ten thousand years of effort by the Adeptus Mechanicus's greatest sages, fused with countless advanced technologies.

Its surface was covered in numerous runes, but the most eye-catching feature was the golden Imperial Aquila at the center of its breastplate, set against a backdrop of wheat stalks.

Behind the majestic figure radiating an aura of light streamed a pure white cloak.

The face exposed above the breastplate was cold and proud, like the flawless work of the finest master craftsman.

Even without doing anything, he exuded an oppressive authority that inspired awe.

The Iron Halo behind his head further emphasized his majestic, inviolable bearing.

That deity descended from the heavens and slew the Plague Warrior with a single stroke, leaving every enemy stunned and terrified.

His arrival represented victory.

The impact of Guilliman's landing made the earth groan under the strain, throwing the Cultists off balance and filling them with panic.

Many traitors trembled as they witnessed a God descend upon the battlefield.

His arrival left the Cultists and Plague Warriors standing frozen. The dreadful pressure robbed them of their courage.

Guilliman swept his authoritative gaze across the enemy, once again marveling inwardly at the power of a Primarch and the Armor of Fate.

He had jumped from sixteen hundred meters in the air and emerged completely unscathed.

With a body this powerful, he was practically Superboy.

If he returned to his own world, he would kill any man who stood in his way and slaughter any Buddha who blocked him.

Jumping straight down from such heights had indeed dealt a severe blow to the enemy's morale. These people were practically dumbfounded.

They had victory firmly in their grasp, only for a Primarch to suddenly appear. Their mentality was about to collapse completely.

"You cannot change anything, Corpse Emperor's son. Your era has already passed."

The flesh-covered Plague Dreadnought was the first to roar. The enormous Cannon mounted on its arm fired wildly, attempting to smother a Primarch beneath sheer firepower.

The Iron Halo trembled faintly as a visible protective force field enveloped Guilliman.

The enemy bombardment could only stir waves of vicious fire across the force-field shield.

The traitor Dreadnought's attacks were weak and futile.

They could not break through the Primarch's defenses at all.

"Die, traitor."

Guilliman strode forward in a charge, the flames rising from the Emperor's Sword growing ever more brilliant.

Before the shocked and disbelieving eyes of the entire battlefield, the Dreadnought forged from flesh and steel was pierced through by the Primarch's sword.

Golden flames spread along the blade and began to burn fiercely across its body.

"No!"

The ruined body of the Plague Warrior champion within the Dreadnought Sarcophagus screamed.

Every Dreadnought contained a nutrient tank, known as a living coffin or sarcophagus.

It was used to house the remains of warriors who had been grievously wounded, shattered beyond repair, and could no longer be restored, allowing them to continue serving.

The maggot-infested flesh and the flies coating the Dreadnought crackled beneath the golden flames, all burning into charred husks.

Even the alloyed steel melted in the searing golden fire, turning into molten iron.

Dzansk stared dumbly at the godlike man, unable to recover for a long while.

Only when the shriek of rushing air sounded beside his ears did he lift his head from his numb stupor.

A boxy Thunderhawk roared past at low altitude. The Burst Cannon extending from the front of its fuselage unleashed Burst Beams, while the Autocannons beneath it swept automatically.

Cultists and traitor soldiers were suppressed into fleeing in all directions, howling in panic.

Wherever the Thunderhawk Gunship passed, it raised a Sea of Fire of explosions. The Imperial Air Force was efficiently clearing away every enemy.

Stormbirds and other aircraft streaked through the skies above, carrying out saturation bombardments against the ground.

From high in the sky, Lances tore through the plague clouds blanketing the entire planet and descended from above. When they struck, everything within several hundred meters was charred and vitrified.

The Plague Zombies, Plague Warriors, and Daemon Engines were all utterly destroyed beneath this attack, like the wrath of heaven.

Dzansk was dumbfounded. The reversal from despair at the brink of death to victory had come so suddenly that he had not been mentally prepared at all.

He stared fixedly at the majestic giant in azure armor. That face felt deeply familiar, yet he could not recall the man's true identity.

"Is he the Emperor's Archangel? I've seen him beside the Emperor's statues."

The little girl Dzansk had saved pointed at the blue figure that swept through everything and destroyed all enemies with irresistible force.

Dzansk's muddled mind cleared in an instant, like lightning flashing through The Mist.

"P-Primarch. The Emperor's son, the true Lord of Ultramar."

Having realized who the other man was, Dzansk could barely speak clearly.

The other soldiers wore equally stunned expressions. Primarchs and the Emperor had long since become unreachable myths.

Ten thousand years was enough to make many things lose their original form.

Much ancient history had already vanished into the river of time, leaving no way to glimpse the truth of those days.

Aside from the Primarchs' home worlds, many people doubted whether the Imperium had ever truly possessed those powerful, wise, godlike Primarchs.

But now, every doubt would crumble on its own.

A true Primarch had appeared before the people of the world. That was the best proof.

Just as the myths described, they were unstoppable and crushed all opposition.

Any enemy that tried to block them would be utterly destroyed.

Realizing that this planet had been saved, Dzansk showed a flash of wild joy. The despair and pessimism in his heart were swept away.

"Countercharge! Quickly, countercharge!"

"Countercharge! All units that hear my order, carry it out! Quickly, countercharge! We're going to win!"

Dzansk shouted with all his strength, issuing commands to every unit he could contact.

After shouting, Dzansk gripped his command sword and pistol, preparing to join the charge.

Victory was calling to him.

Glory and victory were calling as well.

Cough! Cough! Cough!

A violent fit of coughing forced him to stop. The tearing pain was so intense that it felt as though he might cough out his lungs.

His body suddenly became weaker than ever before, and he felt too exhausted to move.

Fatigue seeped into every cell, leaving him unable even to remain standing.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Seeing Dzansk's condition, the bodyguard beside him asked anxiously and uneasily.

"I'm f-fine, pff—"

Before he could finish, Dzansk spat out a mouthful of blood and fell backward.

"Medic, quickly! Medic!"

"Over here! Over here!"

"Uncle, don't die, Uncle!"

Dzansk's vision blurred as the anguished shouts of his bodyguards rang in his ears.

The little girl shook his body, her voice full of grief.

Many people lifted him and carried him somewhere else.

Dzansk did not know what it was.

Perhaps a stretcher, perhaps a Troop Transport.

He was terribly confused now, his perception of the outside world faint. He could rely only on hearing and touch.

Someone was crying, and someone was shouting.

It seems I'm not that hated. At least someone will cry for me.

As his thoughts gradually drifted away and thinking became harder and harder, Dzansk thought this to himself.

It gave him a small measure of comfort.

Merciful Emperor, forgive this useless life of mine. May I return to Your realm.

The tormented man offered his final prayer, then sank into darkness.

Guilliman strode toward the battlefield. No enemy could stop him.

Anyone who tried would meet the same final Destiny: being torn apart by him.

The arrival of a Primarch meant victory—an unstoppable victory.

"My lord, over there." The Chief Librarian of the Dawn Star Chapter pointed in one direction. "Extremely intense Warp fluctuations are emanating from there. The Veil of reality is weakening. The enemy's ritual is very likely on that side."

Guilliman looked in the direction he indicated. Dense plague clouds shrouded the ruins, faintly giving off an unsettling feeling, and he frowned.

"Advance."

He said nothing more, merely raising the sword in his hand to signal the other warriors to continue onward.

No matter what, stopping their ritual was the most urgent task now.

The recommendation votes have passed one hundred. I owe you one chapter; I'll make it up on the day this goes on recommendation.