Interlude: Aftermath of Destruction (I)

Valentius felt a trickle of blood sliding down his cheek. He raised his hand to wipe it, but felt a sharp pain.

This was not normal; his wound should have healed by now. After much thought, Invictarii could only attribute the cause to the Word Bearers poisoning the blade— Chaos toxin from the Warp.

There's no better explanation. The Word Bearers are inherently despicable; poisoning someone on the blade is probably the least of their worries. Who knows what else they might do? Warp magic?

Invictarii coldly lowered his head and began to stare at his blood-stained gauntlet, his face showing neither sorrow nor joy. At that moment, a huge flash of light swept through the porthole, illuminating everything before him.

The crowd behind him made a commotion for a moment, then quickly fell silent. Civilians, soldiers, and legion warriors huddled together, gazing at the gradually crumbling planet, silently observing.

Valentius closed his eyes, not wanting to see, but he couldn't resist. He opened his eyes and saw Macragge's last moments.

Led by the Macragge's Honour, twelve heavily armed battleships followed closely behind, unleashing Cyclonic Torpedo at the core world of the Five Hundred Worlds, supplemented by bombardment from Macro-cannon.

This is not a simple Exterminatus mission; the Combined Fleet's objective is not merely to destroy Macragge's biosphere, burn up its atmosphere, and turn it into a Death World.

Their aim is to destroy it completely, from the inside out; therefore, Valentius could say that after this day, Macragge will cease to exist.

This is a necessary measure.

Because the damned Word Bearers completely altered it through sacrifices, arrays, rituals, and the dark power summoned from the Warp Storm. Without these methods, it would have gradually eroded the Five Hundred Worlds, and indeed the entire Ultima Segmentum, under the influence of Chaos forces.

These words were spoken by Roboute Guilliman himself. No one asked why, and few objected, at least not Valentius.

He tried to voice his objections, but his intuition told him otherwise. ♠♟ 🍩😂 So, at that brief, hastily convened meeting, Valentius remained silent and did not offer any opinion.

Tarasha Euten was not among them; the housekeeper stood firmly beside the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds, without uttering a word.

The only person to voice dissent was Perturabo, who vehemently argued that Roboute Guilliman's actions were "completely excessive and unnecessary."

So Roboute Guilliman himself took the initiative to explain the reason.

He mentioned the Emperor.

The Invictarii of Oculus closed his eyes, hatred surging within him, trying to engulf him. He refused; he needed rational thought more than the bloodlust for Vengeance that might ignite his ferocity.

Meanwhile, in the command center of the main bridge of the Macragge's Honour, a conversation between Primarch was taking place. There were three participants: Roboute Guilliman, Perturabo, and Vulkan Primarch still in a state of death.

"Our losses have been far too great," Perturabo said, his tone no longer as vehement as it had been during the meeting, but rather calm.

"Thinking about it carefully, it's all too coincidental, like a pre-arranged drama. You were ordered to Calth, while we were transferred to Isstvan. If only one of those events— Typhus' betrayal or the sacrifice of the Word Bearers— had been missing, things wouldn't have turned out this way."

Roboute Guilliman shook his head slightly.

"No, it's not a coincidence, Perturabo," he said hoarsely. "There are no coincidences in this world, only elaborate schemes. If the weak want to win against the strong, they must do everything in their power to create so-called coincidences."

"That's how traitors are. On paper, they are no match for us. No commander with a sound mind would attempt to declare war on the enemy head-on in a war where the enemy is strong and we are weak."

"So they did everything they could to gain the upper hand, and they succeeded. Often, the outcome of a war is decided in an instant; they seized the initiative, and we fell into a disadvantageous position. That's all."

Perturabo frowned; he had no intention of refuting, but simply felt a subtle empathy for Roboute Guilliman's current emotions.

This shouldn't have happened, but he could vaguely sense Roboute Guilliman's emotions at that moment. ♞👣 Claw ♔🐺 After all, it was two losers talking.

As the commander-in-chief of the allied forces, he commanded three corps with complete armies, yet he ended up with such a crushing defeat, which shows his utter incompetence.

Roboute Guilliman, needless to say, is known for his deep affection for his homeland, yet he is now personally ordering the destruction of Macragge.

"But we still have hope," Roboute Guilliman said.

Perturabo looked at him.

"Hope remains." Roboute Guilliman repeated, the burning Radiance in his eyes still bright, showing no sign of fading.

"My father told me they would wait in Terra. Horus had no one left to use, Lorgar was dead, and the Word Bearers had retreated in numbers less than one-tenth."

"No, he also has Alpharius's help," Perturabo objected coldly. "They tried to assassinate your foster mother, just before the Word Bearers appeared."

For some reason, he didn't mention the warning he had received from Karyl Lohars, just as Roboute Guilliman didn't fully recount his conversation with the Emperor.

Roboute Guilliman paused for a moment, then raised his hand and rubbed his temples. "Then let's add the Alpha Legion to the mix."

"Perhaps there's also Jaghatai," Perturabo added. "Don't forget his usual relationship with Horus, not to mention his legions, and the Thousand Sons."

"Thousand Sons? Magnus is on Terra, how could they possibly—" Roboute Guilliman said, then suddenly paused slightly.

Perturabo sneered.

"Yes, a legion that has always dealt with the Warp and psionic energy; they are all wizards. What's even more interesting is that, although they have gradually faded from the spotlight during the Great Crusade in recent years, certain rumors about them have actually increased. Have you heard them?"

Roboute Guilliman had certainly heard of it.

The Thousand Sons were forbidden from using psionic powers after the Council of Nikaea, but they were still required to fulfill their duties as Astartes. Many members of the Auxilia responsible for fighting alongside them had submitted reports with similar or identical descriptions.

In the report, many Auxilia soldiers or officers pointed out that some Thousand Sons would fall to the ground for no reason during battle, convulsing as if having an epileptic seizure.

Those who were unfortunate would be killed on the spot by the enemy, but if they survived, other Thousand Sons would immediately take them away, and these people would never be seen again.

This matter escalated to the point that the Terra Departmento Munitorum specifically dispatched an observation team to monitor the Thousand Sons. However, the observation team found nothing during its three-year observation period and had to close the case, treating all previous similar reports as rumors and smears.

Now it seems that these things are not just baseless rumors or smears stemming from people's aversion to Psyker.

He nodded silently, accepting the Lord of Iron's words. If these things unfortunately came to pass, the journey back to Terra would likely be fraught with peril.

Perturabo didn't say anything more, but let Roboute Guilliman continue to think, while he turned his gaze to Vulkan.

The remains of the Lord of Drakes lay lifeless on a cold iron platform. Judging by appearance alone, it would be impossible to guess his true identity; his current physique was completely different from the Lord of Drakes in people's memories.

But Perturabo didn't care about that; he just wanted to know why Vulkan still hadn't returned from the dead.

More than four hours had passed since the thing in the form of Lorgar was beheaded, and the survivors evacuated Macragge, yet Vulkan remained completely silent—a stark contrast to the resurrection time he had previously demonstrated.

Could it be that the spell from that fake object is still in effect?

Perturabo fell into thought, an image of a headless corpse gradually dissipating in the blue smoke flashing before his eyes. He knew little about witchcraft; could it be that some spells could still be effective even after the caster was dead?

The Lord of Iron frowned in annoyance—if he had known this would happen, he shouldn't have gone to such extremes and completely abolished the Librarius.

Now, he had to explain all of this to Roboute Guilliman.

A few minutes later, he recounted the events in detail. Lord Macragge nodded thoughtfully, then rose and left the command room. A full twelve minutes later, he returned with a Midnight Blade.

"Adebiman Basley," Roboute Guilliman began, introducing him. "Current director of the Night Lords Chief Librarian and also the Third Company Captain Commander."

"Yes, adjutant, sir," Adebiman corrected. "I'm the adjutant of the Third Company, not the company commander."

"Alright, Lieutenant Adebiman. Could you please check on our brother?" Roboute Guilliman smiled apologetically and pointed to the wreckage.

He looked exhausted, and even the bright light in his eyes couldn't hide the deep-seated helplessness he felt, but he still performed all the proper courtesies.

Perturabo frowned; he could sense a strong sense of unease emanating from his adjutant. Nevertheless, he refrained from speaking up.

Adebiman slowly approached the Lord of Drakes, his eyes already glowing with a blue light belonging to psychic energy. He placed his hand on the charred corpse, and the room temperature began to drop rapidly, as if he were in a frozen wasteland.

A gentle breeze, seemingly from nowhere, ruffled Roboute Guilliman's short, gray hair. The Primarch lowered his head, made a gesture to Perturabo, and then turned and left the command room.

He heard a slight arguing outside the command room, and one of the voices was very familiar to him. The automatic door closed behind him with a soft click, drawing the attention of Marius Gage and Tarasha Euten.

Looking at them, Roboute Guilliman strode over.

I'm late because of writer's block. This chapter is 3,000 words long, and I have two more chapters to go to reach 10,000 words.