Chapter 24: You Are Late

Chapter 24: You Are Too Late

Wherever Guilliman went, victory followed; no enemy could stem his tide. The majestic body of the Primarch was indestructible, easily crushing all abominable foes beneath his feet as he declared the arrival of the Imperium. The Armor of Fate and the Iron Halo deflected every attack directed at him; bolter shells and malicious melta beams alike were thwarted by powerful force fields. Those terrible impacts and energies were either dissipated or redirected.

A Plague Marine was mercilessly cut down by his blade, its bloated body erupting in a spray of foul, maggot-ridden slime. As it hit the ground, a burst of golden flame flared up. That rotting, putrid blood burned upon the battlefield, the golden light so brilliant that even the corrupted soul within was thoroughly purified by the Emperor’s will.

Seeing the Primarch’s arrival and overwhelming power, the other Plague Marines roared in fury, attempting to rally and use their numbers to overcome a Primarch. However, the Honor Guard stood firm in his defense, ensuring the Primarch was never left to fight alone. Clad in Terminator armor, they formed a defensive perimeter around Guilliman. To besiege the Primarch, one had to first break through them.

This rendered the Plague Marines’ plans stillborn. Each member of the Honor Guard was a veteran of the Ultramarines, possessing immense combat experience and clad in massive, thick Terminator plate. Breaking their line to reach Guilliman was nothing more than a pipe dream. Even if they could barely pierce the perimeter, the Plague Marines would suffer catastrophic losses, being harvested at will by the Primarch. The plan to ambush and surround him was dead before it began. The traitors could only watch helplessly as the Primarch, like a tiger among sheep, slaughtered their comrades at will.

The coordination between Guilliman and his Honor Guard was invincible. Before them, the defensive lines so painstakingly constructed by the Plague Marines were as fragile as paper. Under their relentless assault, Plague Marines fell in droves. Forced back by the Primarch’s might, their lines continued to contract, on the verge of total annihilation.

At this moment, Sicarius swept in from the edge of the ruins, acting as the final straw that broke the enemy. He led his squad to destroy the enemy’s anti-aircraft and long-range firepower, securing a landing zone for the Astra Militarum, Titans, and Knights. The arrival of Sicarius and his men accelerated the Plague Marines' collapse, turning the engagement into a one-sided slaughter. The Imperium was steadily securing victory; the failure of Chaos was now inevitable.

"Your time has come, traitor." Watching a Plague Marine rise from a trench, attempting to hold back the loyalists with a bolter, Sicarius felt a surge of rage. His voice, emanating from beneath his helmet, echoed across the field. He sprinted across the battlefield toward the firing Plague Marine, the power sword in his hand humming with lethal energy.

Cultists along his path were swept away by his masterful swordsmanship, their bodies, covered in cursed runes, shattered by his power blade. A Plague Marine attempted to intercept him but swung wide, only to have Sicarius slice into its leg. As the creature collapsed, its support failing, Sicarius pressed his bolter against the traitor's helmet. "Repent for your sins," he declared, and blew the enemy's head apart.

Scanning the battlefield, he quickly found his next target, who was firing a meltagun; the upper torso of a loyalist Space Marine had been vaporized, leaving only a steaming half-corpse behind. Sicarius charged again, seeking vengeance for his fallen comrade. Soon, that Plague Marine was also slain. Sicarius did not pause, continuing his fight. The battlefield became a showcase for his peerless swordsmanship; no enemy could escape his blade. His gaze was like the judgment of death itself, and every traitor he marked was as good as dead.

A Plague Marine, struck by Guilliman’s blade, transformed into a golden torch, wailing in agony as it fell to the ground. With its final strength, it begged for the Grandfather’s salvation. Yet, before the Emperor’s will, even the Dark Gods were forced to retreat. Its flesh and soul were destined to be burned away.

"Sicarius, how is your sector?" Guilliman asked over the vox-channel.

"Everything is proceeding smoothly, my Lord. The traitors are breaking; victory is at hand," Sicarius replied.

"Good. Do not lower your guard. The traitors’ ritual is vile; even I can feel the Warp boiling. The endless malice is chilling. Clearly, they are summoning something."

"Rest assured, my Lord," Sicarius shouted back. A moment later, he added, "I can see a tower constructed of corpses; the traitors are pulling back their lines to defend it."

"Destroy them. Every heretic must die. And destroy anything that looks unnatural," Guilliman’s voice was heavy, filled with power. "Have the air wing provide support. Use an iron fist to shatter their lines."

The Imperial forces surged in from all directions, unstoppable. Standing high atop the ruins, Gurloth saw it clearly, and he knew that if things continued this way, he would lose. The Imperium’s rate of advance was far faster than he had anticipated.

"How much longer does the ritual need?" Gurloth asked his lieutenant in a raspy voice.

"Almost there. The Warp has answered us, but it requires a little more preparation time."

Gurloth turned to look at the battlefield, assessed the situation, and roared, "Release the plague bombs! Let them taste our power!"

At his command, flesh-grown Daemon Engines were pushed forward by the Plague Marines. Bloated Plague Toads were shoved into the muzzles of the Daemon Engines’ cannons and launched. These beasts, bred through the power of Grandfather Nurgle, had consumed countless horrific contagions. A mere touch would poison a normal human to death, transforming them into a plague-ridden zombie within seconds.

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

Several bloated, tentacled, and multi-eyed Plague Toads were hurled into the sky above the loyalists, where they ruptured, raining foul, diseased filth down upon the Imperial troops. Many soldiers could not dodge in time; the corruption splattered onto their armor, causing the ceramite to bubble and hiss.

The Honor Guard in their Terminator armor fared better, as the sheer thickness of their plate and their protective fields shielded them. The loyalists in standard power armor were not so fortunate; their armor structure was corroded by the toxic bacteria, sparking and hissing. They staggered, some emitting cries of agony.

Only Guilliman remained unaffected. The diseased filth evaporated against an invisible force field before it could even touch him. This power was not merely the defensive capability of his armor, but held a trace of mystical energy that protected him from the corruption of the Warp.

"Severely wounded brothers, fall back and receive treatment from the Chaplains! Others, find cover! Have them bring up the Titans and crush this filth!" Sicarius shouted, issuing tactical orders on the fly.

The Plague Marines, who had just felt a moment of satisfaction at stalling the Imperium’s advance, turned their bloated, rotting faces to stone in the next second. The earth shook as Emperor-class Titans, known as the Wrath of the God-Emperor, strode from the distance. These gargantuan machines were the most terrifying weapons on the battlefield. With internal plasma reactors powering cannons the size of office buildings, a single strike could shatter any defensive line.

The Plague Marines buckled before the Emperor-class Titans. A plasma beam several meters wide, radiating lethal heat, swallowed everything in its path. Nothing could withstand such slaughter—not even the Plague Marines, despite being the Emperor’s finest works once, now blessed by the Dark Gods. Before those beams of destruction, they were reduced to mere ants, swept away in a tide of annihilation.

Sicarius and his men advanced under the cover of the Titans, launching the final charge alongside the rest of the Astra Militarum. Guilliman’s progress was faster; even without Titan support, he used his own immense power to easily shatter the enemy lines and gaze upon the tower built of flesh. The cultists gathered around the tower, their faces twisted in fanatical ecstasy.

"It is Entropy! It is the Great Father! Praise be to him!"

"Woe, merciful Father!"

"Beautiful life, beautiful!"

Ignoring the ecstatic, fully corrupted cultists, Guilliman’s gaze locked onto the leader of the rebellion atop the flesh tower. The traitor wore a horned helmet and a suit of Destroyer Centurion armor, which had only appeared after the Age of Apostasy in the 36th Millennium. The traitorous Space Marines were not only from ten millennia ago; some had been driven to rebellion by the oppression of the Terra High Lords, the corruption of Chaos, or the fanaticism of the Ecclesiarchy over the passing millennia.

Guilliman’s eyes burned with righteous fury, and the golden flames rising from the Emperor’s Sword grew increasingly incandescent. Gurloth looked down at the Primarch from his perch, a triumphant glint in his eyes.

"You are too late, son of the Corpse-Emperor. This world belongs to Nurgle, to the Grandfather."