Human Effort Has Its Limits (6k)

Roboute Guilliman could hear the warning signals coming from the engines of the Macragge's Honour, along with thousands of other continuous warnings. 🐸☆ ♢🍬

At this moment, the main bridge was completely engulfed by flashing red light, and everyone's face was illuminated by the light that represented danger. The rationality and order of the past had vanished here. Emotions were high, steps were frantic, and expressions were serious or urgent.

Only the most primal and purest thought remained in their minds.

Rush out.

This is necessary; it must be done at all costs.

Engines can be overloaded to the point of burning up, decks can vibrate to the point of near disintegration, and even the Void Shield can be temporarily shut down to power the overloaded engines. Even the navigators' screams have become acceptable.

Since entering the Warp, three navigators on Macragge's Honour have fallen into madness and fainted while guiding the way. It began with reports that the Radiance of the Astronomican was intensifying. Then came hallucinations, as if they were somewhere beneath Terra.

Finally, there were screams and incessant chanting of Terra's name.

Someone inquired further, but the answer was only one word.

Combustion.

What's burning? Terra? This question was quickly put on the blacklist. The unconscious navigators were led away and placed under strict guard; after all, this was the Warp, and who knew what they were seeing?

Some objected, arguing that we should no longer follow the navigators' directions. Naturally, this suggestion was personally rejected by Roboute Guilliman.

The Lord of Macragge's answer left no room for argument—if not them, how could one possibly discern the appearance of the Warp with the naked eye?

Of course, this wasn't the main reason, and Roboute Guilliman never voiced it. He trusted his intuition, but others might not.

"Keep going," Roboute Guilliman thought. "Keep going, don't stop."

He uttered the words almost pleadingly in his heart. He was not weak, but what lay behind that plea was something that could completely destroy his reason.

He was afraid of being late, and he was afraid that they would land somewhere else after they jumped out. He was afraid of seeing Macragge engulfed in flames, civilians slaughtered, and defenders nailed to the ruins screaming to their deaths. And of course, there was Tarasha Euten.

The Word Bearers and that thing in the guise of Lorgar Aurelian will not let her go; in fact, they will not let any Macragge go.

Roboute Guilliman had already thought of this when he entered the Warp. All the cover-ups and preparations they made were to reach Macragge before Roboute Guilliman.

Why?

Because of that bloodshed, because of that damned Perfect City.

You destroyed what a group of fanatical believers once cherished most, even disgracing them before their former god. Now these believers have returned with the blessings of their new god, and are even more fanatical. What do you think they will do?

Roboute Guilliman has given up trying to figure out the answer.

He was so engrossed in these thoughts that he didn't realize the furnace within his chest was stirring once more, and a bright light was shining from his eyes.

Marius Gage looked over with concern, but suppressed the urge to speak up and offer a warning.

Just then, a violent jolt came from the starboard side of the ship, so strong that it felt as if it had been hit by ten large Macro-cannon from a battleship.

The crew members immediately staggered and fell, and even activating the magnetic boots was of no use. Some even suffered fractures due to the excessive impact and the effect of the magnetic boots.

Even the Primarch was inevitably tilted to one side by the impact of this magnitude. Primarch, the furnace also throbbed at the same time, as if summoned by some kind of divine intervention, and suddenly burst into light, causing the world before Roboute Guilliman's eyes to explode in the light.

In the blink of an eye, he left the impatient bridge of the Macragge's Honour and arrived in a misty area.

Then, he smelled a burning odor, but the air was freezing cold, like a knife cutting his throat. 🌷🐙 ♪♟

Where is this?

Roboute Guilliman instinctively drew his Sincere Short Sword his waist, his expression turning icy. No matter where he was, he had to leave.

The power belonging to the furnace began to accumulate, and this power, which even he himself did not know what it was, roared in his chest—if he hadn't heard that sound, Roboute Guilliman probably would have blasted it out without hesitation in the next moment.

"Stop," The Emperor said. "Have something to say, Roboute."

The man, filled with cold rage, whirled around and saw his father—no illusion, no deception, no Deceit. The Emperor stood there before him, his golden armor stained with blood.

"Father?"

"You already know the answer, so why do you keep calling me?" The Emperor asked.

He looked as if he had just come from the battlefield, yet he was still able to smile and crack a small joke. This did not comfort Roboute Guilliman; instead, it made him even more uneasy. In his memory, the Master of Mankind had never acted like this.

Reality.

"However, I think that's no longer important," The Emperor said, raising his right hand. The mist dissipated instantly, at least the mist in front of them.

Then, a burning planet appeared before Roboute Guilliman.

His eyes were bloodshot.

"The Word Bearers are committing atrocities." The Emperor approached him, much taller than him, yet his voice was unusually gentle. "They came to your homeland with a thirst for Vengeance. Clever, but also shameless. Fortunately, you still have help."

Help? What kind of help?

The Emperor gave him the answer in the next second. The fog continued to dissipate, and some people appeared in his field of vision. He recognized them: Iron Warriors, Death Guard, and Salamanders.

In the burning Macragge, they fought desperately, as if facing certain death.

Never before has life seemed so cheap. The Astartes are dying, the defenders are dying, and the civilians are dying—killed by Daemon, killed by artillery fire, taken by stray bullets, and cruelly disemboweled by the Word Bearers.

All of this flowed into the Primarch's mind like a torrent, and in that instant, he saw countless dead. From palaces to the outskirts, from ruins to burning forests. Rivers overflowed, waterfalls flowed backward, and oceans dried up.

Macragge is dying, everyone is dying, sooner or later, that's all.

Two seconds later, Roboute Guilliman's hands began to tremble.

"They—" he began, his words faltering. "—They?"

"Yes," The Emperor said. "Three legions, two Primarch."

"Two?"

Why are there only two?

"Because Mortarion is dead," Neos said. "He called himself the Lord of Death, what an arrogant child. But, in my opinion, he succeeded."

Roboute Guilliman stared blankly at the somewhat unfamiliar golden-armored giant and that fleeting, sorrowful smile, but received no further explanation.

The Emperor simply waved his hand calmly, causing the mist to dissipate once more, and another scene slowly began to unfold. In the rippling waves, Roboute Guilliman saw Perturabo.

His brother's somber Power Armour was no longer what it used to be; it was tattered. Every scratch testified to the fierce battle its owner had endured, and every dent a testament to the deadly danger the enemy had shown.

So, what about Perturabo himself? What is he like?

Before we get to that, you need to know that Roboute Guilliman never liked the commander of the Fourth Legion, never. In fact, he almost loathed him.

He disliked Perturabo's reaction to his own legion and other military forces, as well as his overly twisted personality. But he had already put all of that behind him.

Because he saw Perturabo fighting against Lorgar, facing countless Daemons, and facing the monster standing behind the Daemon using evil magic.

He didn't back down an inch.

Even if it meant being covered in wounds, he stubbornly protected the mangled body lying behind him. 69รђยא.ς๏๓

A purple flower was being shattered along with his Warhammer; it was a tulip from Macragge, Roboute Guilliman recognized immediately.

"That's Vulkan," The Emperor said. "Do you know him, Roboute?"

He suddenly brought up a legend.

"Long, long ago in Terra, people believed that creatures like dragons were immortal."

"Father," Roboute Guilliman interrupted him.

"Um?"

"Send me there," said Roboute Guilliman, his eyes burning like flames. "You summoned me here because you have a task for me. Show me these images, the cause and effect."

He slowly sheathed the Sincere Short Sword, the light in his eyes gradually dimming, but a sound completely unlike a heartbeat began to resound from his chest.

"So send me there, Father," he said. "While there's still time."

"Nothing is ever too late, Roboute." The Emperor shook his head. "You can go, in fact, that's why I paid a price to bring you here. But you can no longer save Macragge."

"I can," Roboute Guilliman stubbornly retorted.

Then the Emperor raised his right hand again, dispelling the fog before his son.

The burning Macragge reappeared completely before Roboute Guilliman's eyes once more, and this time, it was different.

The planet was still the same planet, but it was being ravaged by war. Suddenly, it changed color, as if it had fallen into a black and white world, simply dividing everything into two opposing colors.

And so Roboute Guilliman saw the truth—he saw the omnipresent power of Chaos. Utterly dark, utterly greedy.

It has seeped into the very heart of Macragge, and the hatred of both the loyal and the traitors perfectly fuels this power. All that's needed is a trigger, a catalyst, for this Chaos force to erupt completely.

Then came destruction.

"The Word Bearers came prepared, Roboute. They want a new, Perfect City, and they come with a thirst for Vengeance. What could be more desirable than that?"

He didn't specify which event it was, but Roboute Guilliman knew. He had deduced, through simple logic and his understanding of the Warp, what the Word Bearers were about to do to Macragge, however...

"I've established an anti-psy force," he began hoarsely. "They might be able to—"

He couldn't finish his sentence. Under the Emperor's pitying gaze, Roboute Guilliman clenched his fists and slowly closed his mouth.

Yes, perhaps, but it's just a possibility.

What use would a 10,000-strong anti-psy force be in a disaster of this magnitude?

What impact could the anti-psychic equipment specifically designed to counter Psyker, and the Amatol Necron Technology devices acquired from the Ferrus Manus vault, have on the annihilation energy of a planet?

The answer is, it has no use or effect whatsoever.

"I've said everything I needed to say, Roboute."

The Emperor spoke slowly, his voice deep and different from before.

"I have done everything I planned to do. I have to tell you here that the Great Crusade has failed. However, the reasons for the failure cannot be simply attributed to any one person or any one event."

"No one is there for us to blame, no one for us to be responsible for. This is a collective disaster, one that we all created, and the ones who have paid the price with the most blood are one innocent ordinary person after another."

"The Imperium is about to fall into darkness, barbarism and superstition will return. I have seen them, but I must first welcome them."

He smiled, a smile filled with pain and self-reproach.

"I swore to free humanity from fear, but I failed, and instead brought even greater terror. And coincidentally, my son, as Macragge burns, Terra burns, Nostramo burns, Olympia, the Deliverance."

"Humanity's galaxy is burning."

"So, this is no longer a war. I won't use that word to refer to it. Do you know why?"

Roboute Guilliman couldn't utter a sound; his eyes were filled with tears, and he could only shake his head.

"For wars will end," The Emperor said. "Now go, go and save your brothers, your people. Saving people and losing land has always been the way. We will wait in Terra, we will fight to the last breath."

He suddenly smiled, a smile devoid of any sadness or regret, only pure rage.

He raised his hand, grasped the shattered, vain ambition, clasped his right hand together, made a fist, and calmly swallowed the bloodstained ambition.

The Master of Mankind's eyes shone with golden light, and he coldly issued his order with the bearing of the Emperor.

"Kill them all, Roboute Guilliman."

The thirteenth son roared and drew his sword; a beam of light swept over him, engulfing him.

--

"Give up, give up, give up"

The voice of Lorgar Aurelian whispered in his ear, noisy and foolish.

The Daemon pounced on him.

This time, the first monster to come forward to meet its end had a twisted, elusive form, like a Shadow. He ignored it and smashed it to pieces with his Warhammer.

So what if it's Shadow? It can still be killed.

The second was a strong Daemon, entirely blood red and clad in armor, who lunged at him while chanting words he couldn't be bothered to listen to.

It was a formidable foe, he admitted. It took several minutes to deal with, and another wound appeared on his breastplate.

It doesn't matter, who's the third one?

He seized the Daemon's head, raising it high, facing the dark tide of demons alone, his face serene. He was the ultimate authority; any Daemon that dared to cross him and touch Vulkan's mangled body would perish.

Perturabo spoke slowly.

Who's next?

He threw down the head and crushed it.

"Come."

He raised his Warhammer and brandished it demonstratively, scattering bits of flesh. Weaker members of the demonic horde immediately rushed forward, trampling or being trampled, just to lick a drop of blood. So chaotic, so repulsive.

He laughed contemptuously, tore a string of grenades from his belt, and threw them into the demonic tide.

"Come on!" he roared amidst the boiling flames.

The demonic tide stared at him with greedy eyes, each gaze imbued with evil power.

Perturabo felt a splitting headache, and thick, sticky blood was staining his pale lips red—it was Lorgar, no. It was the thing that had taken over Lorgar's body, its evil magic.

This place is completely surrounded by the power of the Warp, so casting a curse becomes quite easy.

The thing lurked behind the horde of Daemon he had summoned, patiently waiting for Perturabo to exhaust himself. The Lord of Iron could see through its intentions, but he disdained to mock it.

For now, he is only focused on doing one thing.

"Brother!" Across the demonic tide, Lorgar called out to him from afar. This time it was its own voice, not that nauseating spell. Finally, since stepping into the storm, Perturabo had a moment to escape the incessant whispers in his ears.

Unfortunately, the words spoken by that imposter were still disgusting, clichéd, and not even worthy of the slightest attention.

Perturabo glanced at him coldly, raised his Warhammer, and slammed it down with a terrifying force. With a single blow, five or six Daemon died instantly. Flesh and blood churned, yet their numbers showed no sign of decreasing.

Lorgar spoke again, her voice now tinged with anger.

"Why won't you listen to me? Damn it, you can't win! I'm sick of saying that. You're all so stubborn. What? Have you all suddenly become Rogal Dorn? You clearly can't win, so why do you keep fighting?! I just want you to see the truth, that's all!"

Save your breath.

Amidst the carnage, Perturabo finally responded.

"Keep your bullshit truth to yourself, you beast."

The Lord of Iron sneered and raised his Warhammer toward it.

"I've always despised cowards, especially someone like you."

"I don't know what happened to Lorgar Aurelian, but he's clearly not a piece of trash like you who can't even deceive himself. You're so stupid you can't see your true self, and so weak you're like a lump of mud, so you're nothing."

"Shut up, then come and die."

Lorgar's expression finally turned into resentment.

"You will pay for this, I swear!" it roared. "And what do you know, daring to judge me? Where were you when the Perfect City was burned down by that False Emperor's order? You think he would love you? No, he didn't even—"

"--Love? Is this what you crave?"

Perturabo sneered as he seized a hunting dog that was trying to ambush him, twisted its neck, threw it to his feet, and crushed its skull. His mockery was like a sharp knife, deeply piercing the rotten and diseased heart of the one being mocked.

"How naive. A great child, so self-important, so powerful, yet so mediocre that he doesn't even dare to have ambition?"

"You--!"

"Shut up!" The Lord of Iron boomed, his voice even louder. "Cowards have no right to confront me! Come and die!"

"I'm going to kill you--!" the fake roared in a mournful voice.

Its body soared into the air, its robes billowing, drifting in from the dark distance, its golden staff raised high. The Daemon, unwilling to submit to its power, vanished into the void, leaving only it and Perturabo standing there for a moment.

The Lord of Iron smiled with satisfaction, a smile so genuine it shouldn't have appeared on his face, but he was simply too happy.

He couldn't stop himself from smiling.

The next second, with a loud bang, the golden staff and the Warhammer collided.

The air was "shattered," and the dust covering the ground was instantly thrown up, as if it had been hit by a missile. The glass-like ground was shattered again, and Vulkan's body trembled twice. A faint flash of light appeared from what should have been a charred patch on his chest.

"Perturabo!" the thing roared, uttering his name. "You will suffer, you will perish, you will be tormented—the gods will taste every memory of yours!"

Steel shut his mouth and did not answer. He silently swung his Warhammer, forcefully crushing Lorgar's golden staff with immense power.

The latter realized something was wrong and tried to slip away, but was firmly grabbed by the shoulder by an Iron Hands.

Unaware of his own malice, Steel slammed it to the ground, followed by a hammer blow that turned Lorgar's right leg from the knee down into a bloody pulp.

The Great Word Bearers, both surprised and enraged, swung his golden staff and left his spot. Missing his target, he reappeared behind Perturabo, his sorcery now flowing as if by instinct.

Vulkan's remains floated gently, and Perturabo had already turned around—but he was a little too late; Lorgar's hand was already outstretched, about to touch the corpse of the Lord of Drakes.

From the smile that slowly bloomed on his pale face, you could probably tell what he was feeling at that moment.

Everything seemed to be heading towards the worst possible outcome, beyond repair, beyond salvation, and the vows shattered once again. Perturabo seemed to see the tulips withering away.

Until a dazzling light appeared in the darkness.

Then came the high temperature, and the sound of a violent heartbeat.

A giant emerged from the golden mist.

His eyes burned brightly, like the blazing sun in the sky. His face was contorted, like a demon from hell. His teeth were clenched so tightly they seemed to shatter, and his eyes were wide open in fury, a blood-red mass. At that moment, the Sincere Short Sword in his hand transformed into a pillar of immense power, its mere whistling sound enough to destroy all darkness.

Roboute Guilliman, the Lord of Macragge, has returned to his hometown.

"Die--!"

The sword blade slashed down, and a head flew high into the air.

Update complete. Please leave more book reviews; the author needs feedback. I'm not sure how well I've written it.