Sweeping Ultramar Clean

The Void of the Ultramar Sector resembled velvet soaked in tainted blood, Chaos corruption spreading like mold and eroding the Imperium of Man's last pure land.

Macragge's Honour's massive hull hung at the edge of the shattered system's gravity well. Below it, a torrent of steel centered around the Ultramarines, supported by Imperial Navy fleets, Adeptus Mechanicus arks, and the remnants of dozens of Astra Militarum regiments, slowly bared its fangs.

Guilliman stood before the bridge's enormous observation window, his blue-and-gold Armor of Fate flowing with metallic texture beneath the cold light of the projected star map.

His gaze pierced the Void and settled upon the death world marked "Plague Garden"—where Nurgle's corpse army lurked, its filthy fungal carpet already covering two-thirds of the planet's surface.

"Purge the orbit. Establish a landing zone." His voice was as steady as stone, yet it stirred invisible ripples across the silent bridge. "In the Emperor's name, the cleansing begins."

The order became an encrypted stream of data, instantly igniting war in the Void.

Macrocannon batteries unleashed lances of Destruction, tearing through the Void and striking the Chaos fortresses in orbit around the plague planet with precision.

Twisted metal and blasphemous energy shields screamed as they shattered beneath the Imperium's saturated bombardment, becoming cold space debris.

Imperial Navy fighter squadrons swooped upon the remaining Chaos vessels like hornets leaving their nest, bolts and lasers weaving a net of death.

Carter and his Spartan Squad stood on an observation platform at the side of the bridge, maintaining a subtle distance from a silent Ultramarines Honor Guard.

Their upgraded MJOLNIR Armor bore faint energy patterns across their pauldrons, glowing a dim blue as their helmet visors steadily surveyed the vast, brutal war beyond the viewport.

Six compact "Swarm" drones hovered behind them like ghosts, silently recording every detail of the battlefield—the fleet's formation changes, firepower projection efficiency, energy-shield overload thresholds, even the collapse patterns of the Chaos warships' blasphemous structures.

"Data collection efficiency: 97.8%." The squad's tech specialist reported calmly over Carter's helmet comms. "Enemy shield technology has obvious phase vulnerabilities. Imperium firepower allocation has a 3.7-second coordination delay."

"Record it." Carter's voice was utterly flat.

His gaze passed over the burning Void before finally returning to the blue giant at the center of the bridge, standing there like an anchor in a storm.

Through a holographic tactical display, Guilliman was issuing combat orders down to company level to commanders scattered throughout the fleet. His mind, like the most precise processor, coordinated the entire battlefield amid its every-changing chaos.

"He's processing real-time information streams from seventeen war zones at once and adjusting the deployment of more than three hundred combat units." The squad's tactical analyst whispered, unable to hide a trace of awe. "His neural response speed... exceeds our current recorded limits."

"It's more than reaction speed." Carter's eyes remained fixed on Guilliman. "Look at his energy fluctuation readings. They're terrifyingly stable even while he's commanding."

Greyfax appeared soundlessly in the shadows at the other end of the observation platform. The hood of her Inquisitorial robes concealed most of her face, leaving only tightly pressed thin lips and a pair of hawk-sharp eyes.

Her gaze never left the Spartan Squad, especially the humming drones behind them and the steady flicker of data streams deep within their helmet visors.

The recorder hidden in her sleeve silently captured it all.

Three days later, on the surface of Plague Garden: the Foul Plains.

The air was as thick as grease saturated with pus, and every breath carried a sickeningly sweet stench of blood.

Nurgle's army—bloated Poxwalkers, Chaos cultists wielding rusty cleavers, and enormous Nurglings—poured ceaselessly from rotten forests and poison-fuming swamps like a filthy tide.

The Imperium's combined forces spread their steel defensive line across the plains.

The Ultramarines' blue formations stood like bedrock. The thunder of Bolters was deafening, every volley tearing foul channels through the corpse tide.

Astra Militarum soldiers relied on mobile fortresses formed by Leman Russ tanks and Chimera armored vehicles, weaving intersecting fire nets with lasguns and Heavy Bolters.

The Adeptus Mechanicus Skitarii advanced along the flanks, plasma weapons and rotary cannons spewing torrents of Destruction that burned the Nurglings into charcoal.

Guilliman stood at the very front of the battle line.

He was not alone, but whenever he swung the Emperor's Sword, his blue figure became the focus of the entire battlefield.

The Armor of Fate gleamed brilliantly amid the filth, warding off the plague's corruption.

The Emperor's Sword burned with pure golden fire. Every slash vaporized blasphemous flesh and brought forth the shriek of Chaos energy.

His strength, speed, and precision had reached inhuman levels. A plague champion's enormous corrupted Chainaxe was as harmless as a child's toy before him, easily deflected and severed.

He was more than a warrior; he was a mobile tactical node. Every charge precisely tore apart the enemy formation, guiding the lethal strikes of the forces behind him.

The Spartan Squad did not enter the most savage meat grinder of the battlefield.

Like ghosts on the battlefield, they moved across relatively safe high ground along the flank.

Their upgraded MJOLNIR Armor granted them superior mobility and protection in the harsh environment.

Six "Swarm" drones spread out around them, skimming low over the battlefield. Their high-definition cameras captured every detail of Guilliman's movements, while energy detectors scanned the peaks of his energy fluctuations.

"Target: 'Blue Armor One.'" Carter's voice sounded. This was their internal codename for Guilliman. "Combat effectiveness assessment: sustained overload output. Energy core is suspected to be a semi-permanent psychic fusion device, with output remaining steadily above the critical threshold. Tactical prediction capability... unresolvable. Logical model exceeds the current database."

"Watch how he killed that Daemon Lord." Another squad member spoke up as footage from a drone replayed in slow motion on their helmet display. "Target Chaos organism's estimated threat level: Five-Star, Imperium standard. Energy-shield peak reached warship level. 'Blue Armor One' chose a breakthrough route that avoided 87% of frontal fire. He endured three nonlethal attacks during the charge. The target's shield was precisely disrupted by an energy overload and breached 0.03 seconds before contact with the Emperor's Sword. Kill time: 2.7 seconds."

The squad channel fell silent for a moment.

That level of combat efficiency surpassed their understanding of "individual power."

"Overall assessment," Carter said in a low, certain voice. "Target 'Blue Armor One' meets our Six-Star combat-power standard."

"Agreed."

"Confirmed."

"Six-Star Legendary Tier, without question."

Their words reached the Imperium's recorders clearly, like a cold verdict.

Within the Hilling Empire's power system, "Six-Star" represented peak existences capable of writing legends across the stars and influencing the larger course of war through individual strength.

That evaluation was based not only on power, but also on nearly perfect combat wisdom and unparalleled control of the battlefield.

A recorder followed the Spartan Squad. The miniature microphone hidden beneath his data slate clearly captured the keywords "Six-Star" and "Legendary Tier" from their channel, recorded them, and uploaded them in encrypted form to the database.

Greyfax stood atop the wreckage of a destroyed Leman Russ in the distance, cold rain mixed with tainted blood dripping from the edge of her hood.

She watched encrypted fragments flash across her holographic data slate—"Six-Star," "Legendary Tier," "Hilling Standard"—and the corner of her mouth curved into a cold, dangerous smile. She looked toward the invincible blue giant at the center of the battlefield, then glanced at the silent black figures recording from the edge of the high ground.

"Hilling... Six-Star..." she murmured, turning over this foreign system of evaluation in her mind, an unreadable light gleaming in her eyes.

Was this the arrogant overreach of heretics, or... a genuine understanding of some higher tier of power?

Perhaps the answer lay hidden within those mysterious warriors and the empire behind them.