Bound Legion

Guilliman didn't know how long he had been playing.

In this four-dimensional space, time has no meaning.

All he knew was that his body was becoming increasingly exhausted, his strength was waning, and his wounds were multiplying.

Dorn's sword sliced across his body again and again.

The Krork's fists pounded on his back again and again.

The weapons of those Necron Warriors pierced his flesh again and again.

He repelled them countless times.

But each time, they rise again.

Those Necron Warriors have a complete recovery system.

After being knocked down, they will get back up in no time.

Their bodies are made of Living Metal and can self-repair; as long as their core is not destroyed, they can resurrect indefinitely.

Dorn and the Krork were sent flying countless times by Guilliman.

But their madness makes them never tire.

Dorn is empowered by Living Black Rage, and the Krork have accumulated pent-up fighting spirit over 65 million years—they simply don't know what fatigue is.

Guilliman's situation is getting worse.

His armor was completely shattered.

His body was covered in wounds.

His golden blood dripped onto the dark green ground.

He felt an unprecedented loneliness.

Those warriors who once followed him are not here.

His brothers who once fought alongside him are not here.

His father, who once protected him, is not here.

He was all alone.

One person faces 250,000 Necrons.

One man facing two crazed comrades.

A person faces this endless, eerie green, and cold four-dimensional space.

He raised his head and looked up at the empty sky.

There was nothing in the sky that day.

No stars, no light, nothing--

etc.

What is that?

Guilliman's pupils suddenly contracted.

In that empty sky, a ray of golden light appeared.

The golden light was very faint, very small, and very inconspicuous.

But within this endless, dark green, it is like a --

A spark of hope.

The golden light grew brighter and brighter.

It's getting bigger and bigger.

More and more --

blazing.

Guilliman sensed the power contained within that golden light.

That is the power of the Emperor.

That is the power of the Dark King.

That was his father's power.

His eyes were a little moist.

That golden light finally illuminated the entire four-dimensional space.

It is like a sun, hanging in the empty sky.

The sunlight dispelled the chilling green gloom and brought golden warmth.

The light shone on Guilliman, on his wounds, and on his weary soul.

At that moment, he felt as if he were being gently embraced by an invisible hand.

That was a father's embrace.

From the depths of the darkness, a voice fell.

The sound was supreme, majestic, and grand, like the simultaneous roar of billions of stars.

"This was originally intended for a rotten, foul-smelling Garden of Nurgle."

There was a hint of regret in that voice.

A rotten, foul-smelling Garden of Nurgle refers to a Nurgle, corrupt area.

That was one of the Four Chaos Gods, the being who controlled plague and decay.

The Emperor had clearly intended to use this power against Nurgle.

"But in this desolate place, it is also its destiny."

Guilliman's body trembled slightly.

He recognized it.

That was the Emperor's voice.

That was his father's voice.

The voice continued:

"My son, do you think you have no legion to aid you?"

Guilliman did not answer.

He didn't know how to answer.

He did think that way.

One man, facing 250,000 Necrons, facing two crazed comrades-in-arms—

Who can avoid despair?

Do not grieve.

There was a rare gentleness in that voice:

"Don't despair."

Countless figures began to emerge from the golden light.

Those figures slowly emerged from the light.

Some were wearing worn-out Astra Militarum uniforms.

That was the most basic military force of the Imperium of Man, composed of ordinary humans, in vast numbers, using their flesh and blood to fight against countless terrors in the Milky Way.

Some were wearing blood-stained Sisters of Battle robes.

That was the Adepta Sororitas under the Imperial Cult, known for their fanatical faith, using fire and swords to purify all heresy.

Some were wearing tattered Space Marines Power Armour.

That is the Adeptus Astartes, the Emperor's Angel of Death, the strongest warriors of mankind.

The Power Armour was engraved with the insignia of different Chapter —some were Ultramarines, some Blood Angels, some Dark Angels, and some Space Wolves.

Others wore golden armor, gleaming with eternal glory, belonging to the Adeptus Custodes Guard.

Those were the Emperor's personal guards, the strongest warriors in the Imperium of Man.

Each Adeptus Custodes is an elite selected from among thousands, having undergone rigorous training unimaginable to ordinary people, and possessing strength comparable to the Chaos Demon King.

They emerged from the light, from death, from the eternal battlefield.

Golden flames burned in their eyes.

That is the flame of the Emperor.

That is the flame of loyalty.

That is--

The flames of revenge.

Guilliman stared blankly at those figures, at those former warriors, at those—

The spirits of the fallen heroes.

Bound Legion.

Those loyalists who returned from the Warp when the Emperor needed them most.

Those warriors who will never fade away.

Those souls that burn eternally.

They've arrived.

They came to help him.

From within the golden light, the last figure emerged.

It was a tall figure, a head taller than the soldiers around him.

He wore silver-gray Power Armour, the emblem of the Iron Hands engraved on it.

The Iron Hands, the X Legion, is renowned for its expertise in mechanical modifications and heavy firepower support.

Their Primarch, Ferrus Manus, was renowned for his Iron Hands capable of melting metal.

In his hand he held a huge iron hammer, the head of which was engraved with complex runes.