Are You All Right, Brother?

Malakim recognized that voice.

That was the sound of Power Weapon cutting through the air, but sharper and clearer than a regular Power Sword.

Even the fly's head heard it.

He stopped what he was doing and looked up at the sky.

The clouds were torn apart.

It wasn't caused by the wind, nor by the rain, but by some powerful energy.

Golden beams of light pierced through the plague clouds, illuminating the muddy earth.

A shadow is falling within the beam of light.

Many shadows.

The first one to land was only twenty meters away from Malakim.

It was a giant wearing blue armor.

The armor was deep blue Ceramite, trimmed with gold, and the shoulder armor bore a familiar emblem: a white inverted Ω topped with a white crown.

Ultramarines.

But he's not your average Ultramarines.

His helmet was white, the color of a veteran.

His shoulder armor bore a distinctive emblem: a sword piercing an inverted Ω, the symbol of the Chapter's Honor Guard.

His armor was more ornate and ancient, exuding an aura of battle-hardened craftsmanship.

He landed, his knees slightly bent to cushion the impact, then straightened up, the Bolter already fired.

Three bursts of fire, and the heads of three Plague Marine exploded.

Green blood and brain matter were splattered all over the ground.

Then, the second, the third, the fourth... blue figures fell like raindrops.

No, not raindrops, but thunder, a judgment, the wrath of the Imperium finally descending upon this forgotten corner.

"For Macragge!"

The first Ultramarines to land shouted, his voice clear and resolute, coming through the speakers of his helmet. "For the Primarch! For the Emperor!"

More voices joining in:

"Live Ultramar forever!"

The time for reckoning has come!

"Purify this land!"

Malakim couldn't comprehend what was happening before him.

Is it a hallucination?

Were they hallucinations created by the brain before death?

Or Nurgle's scheme to give him false hope and then take it away?

But illusions are never that real.

He could hear the vibrations of the Ceramite when the Bolter were fired, the hydraulic sounds of the Power Armour joints moving, and the concise and professional language used by the Ultramarines during tactical communication.

"Team A, clear out the heavy weapons on the eastern high ground."

"Team B, cover the civilian evacuation point."

"Team C, establish a defensive line and prevent enemy reinforcements."

The Plague Marine recovered from their initial shock and began their counterattack.

But their counterattack was disorganized, while the Ultramarines ' tactical coordination was flawless.

The main reason is that those guys are practically monsters; why are they flying in the sky?

This is supposed to be called Space Marines!?

Every Ultramarines has a clear objective, every warrior knows their position, there are no blind spots in fire coverage, and movement routes provide mutual cover.

This was a sight Malakim hadn't seen in a very long time: the Imperium's military power was being displayed in its purest, most professional, and most effective way.

Flyhead roared and charged at the Ultramarines in the white helmet, raising his knife.

But the Ultramarines calmly sidestepped, simultaneously swinging his Power Sword in a backhand motion.

The blade sliced through the fly's head at the waist, cutting the enormous body in two.

His upper body lay on the ground, his fly-like head still struggling and cursing.

The Ultramarines delivered the final blow, piercing the helmet and ending the blasphemous life.

Then he turned and walked toward Malakim.

Every step was steady, composed, and full of power.

His blue armor was splattered with the green blood of Nurgle Cultist, but the body remained clean, reflecting beams of light that pierced through the clouds.

He stopped in front of Malakim and looked down at the Lamenters kneeling in the mud.

Time seemed to stand still.

Malakim could see the fine details on the opponent's white helmet, every scratch left from battle on the shoulder armor, and the insignia of the Emperor and Guilliman on the breastplate.

The Ultramarines raised his hand and removed his helmet.

Beneath the helmet was the face of a young soldier.

Every Ultramarines today looks very young, and their lifespan is measured in tens of thousands of years.

This makes it difficult for the passage of time to leave its mark on their faces.

A resolute chin, sharp gray eyes, and lines at the corners of his mouth left by a long-term serious expression.

His hair was iron gray and cut very short, and he had a deep scar on his forehead that stretched from his hairline to his left eyebrow.

There was no pity, no sympathy on that face, only pure respect.

He knelt down on one knee, looking Malakim in the eye.

Are you alright, brother?

He said the voice was more human than when it came through a loudspeaker, carrying a hint of almost imperceptible concern.

brother.

This word struck a soft spot in Malakim's heart.

How long had it been since he'd heard that word from soldiers of other Chapter?

One hundred years?

Two hundred years?

Since the Badab War, other Space Marines have looked at them with suspicion, disgust, or a cold distance.

brother.

The Ultramarines extended his right hand, a hand adorned with a blue power glove and intricate servo systems at the joints, hovering in front of Malakim, waiting.

Malakim looked at the hand.

Clean, stable, without decay, without mutation, without blasphemous decorations.

It's simply the hand of a warrior, used to wield weapons, to kill enemies, and to protect humanity.

He raised his only remaining left arm.

My arms were trembling so badly I could barely lift them.

He used all his strength to place his hand into the Ultramarines's palm.

That hand immediately clenched.

Warm, powerful, and unwavering.

The Ultramarines stood up and pulled Malakim up with him.

Malakim's body could barely support him, but he forced himself to stand firm.

He was the Chapter Master; he couldn't fall in front of his brothers.

"I am Malum Kaido,"

The Ultramarines said, "Ultramarines First Company, Guard the Veterans."

Malakim wanted to speak, but no sound came out of his throat.

He could only nod.

Malum Kaido seemed to understand.

He looked around at the ongoing battle—no, it wasn't a battle, it was a one-sided purification.

The Ultramarines are methodically cleaning up every Nurgle Cultist, every Plague Marine, and every trace of blasphemy.

"We have received the mobilization order,"

Malum Kaido said his voice remained clear amidst the explosions and gunfire, "But the Warp Storm disrupted most communications."

We received your distress signal in this area while en route to Terra —it was very weak, almost drowned out by background noise, but our ships detected it."

He paused, his gray eyes looking directly into Malakim's eyes.

"The entire Ultramarines Legion has arrived, but my unit, as the Primarch's scout force, got here first."

He said, then corrected himself, "No, not just the Legion."

He pointed to the sky.

Malakim looked up.

The clouds have been completely dispersed.

It wasn't the wind, but some kind of enormous energy field.

In the sky, he saw the outline of the ship.

Not one ship, not ten ships, but an entire fleet.

The massive battleships, elegant cruisers, and fast frigates were all painted in blue and gold, with the Ultramarines emblem on their bows.

At the center of the fleet, on the largest and most magnificent ship, there was a distinctive symbol: a golden crown encircled by laurel leaves.

Malakim knew that symbol.

Every Space Marines knows this.

That's the mark of the Thirteen Primarch.

"Including our Primarch,"

Malum Kaido said that his voice carried an emotion that Malakim had never heard before.

It wasn't pride, nor fanaticism, but something deeper, more fundamental, like a lost child finally finding their way home. "The King of Ultramar, Robert Guilliman."