Round Table Viewing: Guilliman Branch

Roboute Guilliman stared blankly at everything before him.

His mind was gradually shedding every adjective like "clever" or "wise," plunging instead into the abyss of clumsiness. For someone like him, becoming stupid—or realizing that he was stupid—was probably one of the hardest things in the world to accept.

But he truly had no time to concern himself with that now.

He pressed himself against the viewport and gazed out at the planet in the distance.

Twelve warships were approaching it in a threatening formation. They had not come in friendship; one glance at the weapons warming up was enough to make that clear.

On his way to Terra, Guilliman had reviewed much material concerning the Imperium. He did not much like the Imperium's warship designs, but he had to admit that their firepower was truly astonishing. And now, twelve of these terrible vessels—each capable of carrying out an Exterminatus on its own—were resolutely aiming their weapons at Macragge.

At his homeworld.

Why? Why were they doing this?

Trembling without even realizing it, he turned and strode toward the group conversing nearby.

There were mortals among them, as well as Astartes and two primarchs, who naturally dominated this seemingly informal meeting. One was white-haired and utterly weary; the other was expressionless, yet had his fists clenched tight.

"I disagree!" Guilliman heard the giant with clenched fists growl.

"Listen to me, brother." The white-haired man sighed. "The Word Bearers' way of waging war has become vastly different from what you and I remember. They once used words and guns; now, they use rituals, sacrifices, and formations—today, how many people died on Macragge? And how many of their souls were captured by the dark gods worshipped by those traitors? Macragge has already been destroyed. From the moment they set foot upon it, this