Please Leave the Battlefield to the Son of War

Every swollen fold, every oozing sore, every stitched-up piece of rotten flesh, every foul-smelling intestine, every piece of moss-covered bone...

From the inside out, they simultaneously endured countless precise blows, compressions, tears, and grindings from an invisible, immense force!

There were no dazzling beams of energy, no deafening roars.

There was only a series of strange, dense, and teeth-grinding mixed sounds—a mixture of popping, crackling, popping, and buzzing—that were beyond the limits of human hearing.

Like a giant bladder filled with excessive fermentation, it instantly underwent a complete implosion and deconstruction under ultra-high pressure.

"What...?"

Grom Faser's remaining consciousness only had time to let out a half-scream, a mixture of extreme pain and bewilderment.

The next second, its hill-like existence exploded right before Trajann's eyes.

It wasn't an explosion, but rather "decomposition".

Like a poorly painted work of art with filthy paint, which was then brutally wiped off the canvas by an invisible giant hand.

The enormous body transformed into a torrential downpour, thick, foul-smelling, and colorful rain.

Rotten chunks of flesh, shattered bone fragments, boiling pus, swarming maggots, and shimmering fragments of plague runes... poured down relentlessly.

Trajann was struck head-on by the filthy torrent, and already exhausted, he was swept to the ground.

Warm, slippery, viscous liquid with a deadly sweet, rotten smell soaked through his tattered golden armor and smeared all over his face.

He even swallowed a little without thinking, and immediately felt a burning pain in his throat.

But even more intense than the physical discomfort was the extreme shock and bewilderment.

what happened?

The Greater Daemon... self-destructed?

No, impossible!

That was complete and forced annihilation!

He struggled, using his still-functioning left hand to wipe away the sticky grime covering his eyes, and strained to look ahead.

In the center of the filthy "rainstorm," the scene is undergoing a strange transformation.

The splattered substances, containing potent toxins and Warp energy, did not fall to the ground and accumulate. Instead, they seemed to be drawn, compressed, and purified in mid-air by an invisible force.

Crimson, murky green, and dark yellow light peeled away from the fragments, converging into streams of energy that shimmered with ominous light, flowing like rivers into the sea towards a newly revealed figure at the center of the filth.

The foul-smelling fluids, rotting flesh, and profane dregs melted and evaporated the moment they approached that figure, just as ice and snow met the scorching sun.

Only the most primal, violent Warp energy remained, which was then devoured and absorbed by that figure without any restraint.

As the filth was rapidly purified (or rather, plundered), the figure became clearly visible.

He stood where the Greater Daemon had just been, the scorching ground beneath his feet rapidly becoming clean and even slightly sunken.

Clad in blue and gold, and imprinted with the Power Armour of Ultramar and the Imperial Aquila —the "Armor of Destiny."

A heavy, scarlet cloak, tanned from the skin of Bloodthirster, billowed behind him without wind.

The demonic face on the cloak's shoulder, frozen in anger and fear, stares blankly at the battlefield where its kind had once ravaged.

He held no weapon; it simply hung naturally at his side.

The invisible and terrifying power that had just destroyed the Greater Daemon seemed to be nothing more than a casual wave of his hand or a crushing thought.

He slightly raised his head, his gaze beneath the visor sweeping over the battlefield, a scene of utter devastation where the demonic shrieks were rapidly being replaced by another kind of terrified howl.

Then, it landed on Trajann, who had just struggled to sit up, covered in filth and staring in disbelief.

The filthy torrent of Warp energy continued to converge on him, only to be captured, crushed, and absorbed by the unsettlingly stable material force field emanating naturally from his body.

This energy, enough to instantly mutate mortals and drive Space Marines mad, surged into his body, but seemed to vanish without a trace.

It only made the luster of his armor seem deeper and more restrained, and his scarlet cloak appeared even more vivid and dazzling, adding to his boundless domineering aura of devouring demonic obstacles and forging power with evil.

The great Lord Regent, Robert Guilliman, has finally arrived in his loyal Terra.

He didn't speak, but Trajann.

The hand was broad and steady, carrying a reassuring power that could soothe any turmoil.

Above his palm, the last few wisps of foul green light belonging to the Great Unclean One were emitting faint, whimpering hissing sounds as they were completely purified and absorbed.

A brief silence fell over the battlefield.

Even the demon's roar seemed to be choked.

Trajann looked at the hand reaching out to him, at the blue giant standing in the pure land.

Looking at that face, which I had seen countless times in Imperium statues and ancient books, yet now felt incredibly real and majestic.

All the exhaustion, despair, pain, and the disorientation of surviving a catastrophe.

Finally, it turned into a hoarse, almost inaudible, yet heavy Whisper, escaping from his blood-stained lips:

"Your Highness?"

Emperor: You may rest now, Trajann. Hand the battlefield over to the Son of War!!

"Yes, I've arrived."

Robert Guilliman's voice rang out calmly, not loud, but like a steady thunderclap, rolling across the filthy battlefield.

The Trajann's ears and also spread to the consciousness of all the Adeptus Custodes and Sisters of Silence who were still fighting to the death nearby.

The voice lacked the exhilaration of someone newly arriving on the battlefield; it was merely a matter-of-fact declaration, like the sunrise announcing the end of night.

He strode toward the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, who was kneeling on one knee.

His steps were steady and unhurried, as if the mud beneath his feet was not a mixture of demonic entrails and architectural ruins, but rather the smooth jade floor of the Macragge Council Hall.

He didn't look at the area around him where sporadic fighting was still taking place; his gaze was fixed solely on Trajann.

As he walked, Guilliman casually reached his right hand into the empty space beside him.

His fingers grasped some unseen entity.

On the Golden Throne, the dried-up corpse burst forth with intense golden light.

Emperor: Hahahaha, I have everything I need now! I knew it was the right decision to make Guilliman the Son of War!

Four Gods: Damn it, he's here.

What kind of good person would fly to Terra from outer space all by themselves!

Three Gods: Tzeentch, what's going on? You said you could hold him for 9 hours!

Tzeentch: It was all planned... Well, I didn't expect him to fly directly from the Realspace!