Baal

The earth—if it can still be called the earth—has been completely transformed.

The fungal carpet, like the rotting skin of a living creature, covered everything in sight, pulsating with eerie purplish-red and dirty green light.

Jagged organic structures, resembling giant skeletons or insect shells, burst forth from the earth, creating a chilling landscape.

The once sacred spire of the Baal Monastery is now half-buried in this swamp of writhing flesh and blood, covered with a network of pulsating veins.

Then, he "saw" the "tide".

A biomass tide formed by the convergence of billions of individual lives, devouring everything.

They were not orderly armies, but rather a chaotic yet terrifying torrent of ultimate efficiency.

They come in all shapes and sizes, from the swift, hound-like "Hormagaunt" wielding bone Hormagaunt to the mobile fortress-like "Termagant" (Biovore) spewing acid or biological Termagant.

Then there's the "Tyranid Warrior," which is covered in a thick chitinous shell and resembles a living tank.

In this suffocating swarm of insects, occasionally an even larger and more ferocious figure will appear— Hive Tyrant.

Like mobile command towers, their contorted forms display the absolute majesty of predators.

A visible distorted ripple of Psionic Energy formed around them, and each swing of the bone blades and whip whiskers could easily tear through steel and flesh.

Resistance is like a lone reef in a raging sea.

He saw a red figure.

The red and gold Power Armour is now covered in filth, bloodstains, and exposed mechanical structures from its damaged parts.

They formed a line, relying on the ruins not yet completely swallowed by the fungal carpet, the remains of fallen comrades, and their deep-seated loyalty and anger, to wage a resistance that was doomed to be futile yet tragically heroic.

The roar of the Bolter was drowned out by the shrieks of the insect swarm, and the hiss of the Chainsword grew fainter amidst the cracking sounds of chitinous carapaces.

"We shall not betray the Blood of Sanguinius!"

A battle cry pierced through the noise, brief yet clear.

It was a Blood Angels with a shattered helmet and a blood-stained face. He raised his nearly broken Power Sword and launched a desperate counterattack against several swarming Hormagaunt.

A flash of sword light, and two Tyranids were severed, but more bone blades pierced his body.

With his last strength, he plunged his Power Sword into the eye socket of the nearest Tyranid Warrior, perishing together with it. His mangled body was instantly engulfed by the swarm of insects.

"I am Dante, Chapter Master! Sons of the Blood Angels!"

From another direction, a more authoritative voice, yet filled with endless weariness and determination, rang out.

The Power Armour's loudspeakers temporarily drowned out the noise of the battlefield.

The figure, carrying a massive Jump Pack and wielding a legendary Power Sword, charged through the swarm of insects, leaving a trail of flying insect limbs in its wake.

But his solitary figure, set against the backdrop of the boundless sea of insects, appeared heartbreakingly small.

"Raise your swords! Grip your Bolter! Let us perish together with these monsters that have invaded our homeland and tainted the glory of our holy blood!"

"We shall not betray the Blood of Sanguinius!"

"For Baal! For the Primarch!"

"Fight to the death! Fight to the death!"

One roar after another echoed from every corner of the battlefield, like the final roar of a dying beast.

Each sound was quickly extinguished by the swarm of insects, but a new sound immediately arose from another place.

This is no longer a tactic, but martyrdom; it is to write the final, crimson swan song with the most fervent blood and life for the glory of the mother planet and the Gene-Father.

Grief, anger, and a profound sense of powerlessness gripped Guilliman's "heart."

He recognized the armor styles, and he understood the meaning of the battle cry.

This is the Blood Angels, the offspring of his brother Sanguinius, waging a final, desperate struggle in their home world.

My holy angelic brother, will you simply continue to watch this sorrowful scene?

Why didn't you ask me for help sooner? Why wait until now?

Those are all my nephews and nieces! How could I bear to watch them die?

The image became increasingly fragmented and shaky, as if seen through the eyes of a dying person.

Shouts of battle, explosions, the cracking of carapaces, the tearing of flesh, the dying gasps and curses...

Ultimately, all these noisy, destructive sounds gradually blurred and faded away, returning to a void like background noise.

And in the deepest void, a voice emerged.

It was no longer a battle cry, but Whisper that was almost a plea, faint yet carrying a soul-stirring penetrating power, echoing repeatedly:

"Save them... brother... save my children!"

The voice was filled with pain, anxiety, and a compassion that transcended the mundane.

Guilliman's "vision" struggles to penetrate this crimson and despairing fog, attempting to find the source of the sound.

He was no longer the "Psionic Energy Muggle" who was relatively insensitive to deep Warp fluctuations.

Having absorbed a new essence and resonated with the Emperor's Psionic Energy multiple times, his Psionic Energy perception has been elevated to a whole new level.

He focused his will, as if parting layers of curtains, and looked toward the very core of the plea.

The mist of the Warp was dispelled by a soft yet resilient golden light.

Finally, he "saw" it.

A tall figure, radiating a warm glow, hovered above the crimson horizon that symbolized the battlefield of Baal.

He has a perfect, classical sculpture-like outline, but his overall state is ethereal, a form that exists between substance and spirit.

The golden light defined him, yet also obscured his details.

All that could be seen was that incredibly familiar, majestic face belonging to Sanguinius, now etched with deep sorrow and anxiety.

What's most eye-catching is what's behind him.

A pair of enormous golden wings, composed of pure light and Psionic Energy, fluttered slowly.

Each fluttering feather of light scattered specks of golden light, attempting to purify the bloody scene below, but it seemed like a drop in the ocean.

He is an archangel.

Sanguinius.

It is not a physical entity, and may not even be a complete soul.

It is more like a strong imprint he left in the Warp, an unfulfilled obsession, and a manifestation of his deep affection for all his offspring.

"Brother..." Guilliman's consciousness cried out, filled with disbelief and sorrow, "Sanguinius?"

The golden phantom seemed to hear the call; its light flickered, and its face turned toward the direction where Guilliman was "located".

The anxiety in those eyes, though blurred, was almost overflowing.

"Save them, brothers!"

Sanguinius ' voice entered Guilliman's consciousness directly, clearer and more urgent than before:

"My descendants... they are being attacked by those greedy devourers!"

Baal... is in grave danger!

They are still fighting, still persevering, but... time is running out!

The golden phantom stretched out a hand made of light, as if to grasp something, pointing towards the crimson inferno below.

"Help them! Please, Robert! Help my children!"

His voice carried a rare, almost fragile plea among Primarch.

That compassionate expression instantly reminded Guilliman of the image of a saint who endures suffering for the world in some ancient religious paintings.