Hi, my name is Vulkan. I'm a personal trainee who's been in the business for ten thousand years. As a Primarch, I have 230,000 Salamanders Space Marines under my command. Sure, some unknown little punk ambushed my home and left me with terrible losses, but I believe I can make a comeback.
But just three seconds later, my mood began to shift a little. Especially after I saw that enormous Kobold clutching my Flame in its claws. There was only one thing I wanted to say:
"Damn it! Wenbai, you're useless! You've surrendered our sovereignty and humiliated our nation! Grandfather, please save me!"
"Still trying to call for help? You could scream until your throat gave out, and no one would come!"
With a metallic screech, the viewport—one that could withstand a direct Macro-cannon hit—was ripped apart. If the Salamanders hadn't all been deeply corrupted, exposure to the Warp would have finished them off on the spot.
Five enormous figures emerged through the smoke. At their head was the bastard who'd tricked him earlier, claiming he wanted a fair fight before blowing him up with a torpedo.
As upbeat music started playing—some very old song, by the sound of it—the Salamanders hadn't even had a chance to counterattack before scarlet lightning surged across their bodies and bound them in place. All they could do was watch as the five big guys came forward to humiliate their father.
His damaged body was still regenerating. With half his body gone, Vulkan could only lie on the floor and glare at the newcomers.
"Mortarion, Angron, two Curzes? I never thought Guilliman would go to such lengths to assassinate me. You even called in four Primarchs. You've got the numbers, so I'll admit defeat this time. Do whatever you want with me."
Seeing Guilliman