Chapter 484: For We Truly Possess Iron with a Will
"Correct—isn't it?"
Guilliman stared at Ramesses.
He understood his brother's words perfectly, catching the subtle undercurrent of meaning. He looked down at a specific contingency he had drafted within his nascent Codex Imperialis.
It involved the formation of the 'Logos Historica Verita'—an organization dedicated to deconstructing ten millennia of Imperial myth to reveal the stark, rational reality of the Great Crusade. His goal was to present the Emperor's original vision to the currently ignorant masses and bureaucrats, using that enlightened era as a blueprint to reverse the Imperium's descent into madness.
In Guilliman's own mind, the Crusade had always been the golden peak of human history.
But now...
Guilliman watched the battlefield feed.
A squad of pilgrims on Calth cried out: "Let the Burning Angel witness me!" They followed the shout with a precise data-burst—their battlefield grid, name, unit designation, and objective.
Then, in a flash of incandescent gold fire, these soldiers charged. They moved through a storm of enemy fire as if they could see the trajectory of every shell, storming the traitor trenches completely unscathed.
The official propaganda stated: "Every human is unique; the Angel must know every soul fighting for the future of the race."
But only Guilliman knew the cold "Practical": This was merely to facilitate the administrative staff currently working within Karna's divine domain. They cross-referenced the records and signaled Karna to deliver specific Warp-blessings—be it precognition, physical enhancement, or localized teleportation.
Some of the more complex battlefield variables were even being "outsourced" to Ramesses.
He saw a priest bellow: "O Emperor! Greatest Sacrifice of Mankind, shield Your subjects!"
Immediately, a colossal sword of flame lanced down from the heavens, intercepting a jagged blade of Khorne-fire that was about to level a bastion.
With the Dawnbreakers providing the legal framework, the modern Ecclesiarchy rarely referred to the Emperor as a "God." Their public dogma claimed: "The Divine is humble; His majesty requires no verbal affirmation."
Again, Guilliman knew the "Theoretical": Telling the Emperor He wasn't a God made the "Old Man" happy. It reduced the psychic pressure in the three-way war inside the Emperor's mind—the conflict between the "Dark King," the "God-Emperor," and the "Man." A relaxed Emperor responded to prayers much faster.
No written report could match the visceral impact of these images.
Guilliman set aside the briefing files presented by his Victrix Guard. His new secretarial pool, guided by the ancient experience of Drakus, was evolving rapidly. They could retrieve any data-set the Primarch required in seconds.
If this were mere superstition, Guilliman would have critiqued it with his usual clinical coldness and used his authority to decree its non-existence.
But now?
Guilliman couldn't call this superstition. It felt disturbingly... materialist.
Part of him wanted to blame Lorgar for poisoning the Imperial well, but when he considered that he had spent ten thousand years in a box while the Ecclesiarchy kept the heart of the Imperium beating until the "Dawn" arrived, the words died in his throat.
He sighed, looking at his grand plans for the Logos Historica. In the face of this reality, they felt almost... redundant.
The greatest virtue Guilliman possessed, compared to most of his brothers, was that he didn't become stubborn after a defeat. He didn't use his power to deny reality; he sought to understand it so he could counter it.
In the past, his failures were born of a cognitive vacuum. Now, with a mountain of popular science on the Warp before him, he could not afford to look away.
"It's true, brother. It's all true," Ramesses said, leaning into Guilliman's space and pointing a finger at his own brow.
"Think about it. In the past, when the Gods stirred the tides, we couldn't even get a ship out of the starport. Communication was a fantasy. We had no counter for a surprise boarding action. But look at us now—"
He gestured to the hololith, where the icons of the various Legions flickered with a new light.
"We have our own people in the Warp. Nineteen has fully 'awakened'; the sons of the Raven report to his domain upon death. The Lion has begun his awakening; eventually, he'll lead a strike force capable of jumping anywhere in the galaxy. And with Karna and myself, we can place 'orders' for the Legion of the Damned directly from the Golden Geezer. We've achieved the ultimate cycle: wealth from the people, used for the people."
Why did Karna fight so ferociously? Why did he need to "recharge" after every duel?
Because he was actually spending that power.
He listened to the prayers of the citizens and "paid their wages." He organized the spirits of the Blood Angels to conduct local inspections of the hive-sectors. Every time he struck a major threat, he was physically venting the collective power he had gathered from trillions of humans. His "mana bar" was literally emptied.
He wasn't like the Four Gods, who wanted to consume their followers body and soul, doling out "blessings" like a miser and focusing only on KPIs, as if letting their subordinates have a better life was a personal insult to their divinity.
"I see..." Guilliman muttered, trying to process the data.
Ramesses continued to shove "spiritual dossiers" and psychic organization charts into the Regent's hands.
There was no need for a unified Imperial government yet. Local development and the neutralization of the primary threats were the priority.
After this, Ramesses would work with Cegorach to map the Webway. Arthur and his fleet would begin the pacification of Commorragh and the Necron dynasties. Romulus already had a thousand plans in motion. Once the Maelstrom was cleared, everyone would be drowning in work. And then there was the matter of the Eldar Goddess...
Ramesses thought of the "Little Widow" currently being held in Nurgle's manse.
And then, we build the Pantheon.
In metaphysical terms, a Pantheon was a divine domain forged from the convergence of many titles and authorities. In "PowerPoint terms," it was a massive Warp-platform capable of unifying multiple Lesser God domains into a singular tactical network, ensuring the safety of their personnel during Warp operations.
This war had to end quickly. The "to-do" list was infinite.
"So don't worry about the 'Theoreticals' for now," Ramesses said. "We have the conditions. Why would we force men to rely on 'Iron Will' alone when we can give them actual armor for their souls?"
The thought of the decades-long sieges that had characterized the Imperium before their arrival made Ramesses' head ache.
"I understand," Guilliman nodded in agreement.
During the Shadow Crusade, when Lorgar ambushed him, many of his Ultramarines had been slaughtered simply because they didn't understand Chaos sorcery. They had attempted to board ships only to find themselves fused into the bulkheads. It had been a catastrophe.
If Thiel hadn't prepared a sequence of contingencies, and if the Word Bearers hadn't been so obsessed with their own internal squabbles, the losses at Calth would have been terminal.
But now, it was Abaddon—the representative of Chaos—who was swallowing the bitter pill.
This is progress, Guilliman realized.
He knew not everyone possessed the capacity for such things. There was no need to mock his other brothers with the Dawnbreakers' achievements; perhaps the Dawnstar Lords were simply unique.
But the most precious gift they offered was this: cautious, practical sharing.
There were many in the galaxy capable of resisting the Warp's influence—Perpetuals, Primarchs, powerful psykers. But few, after realizing the Warp was a cesspool, would bother helping others use the "waste" as fertilizer for growth rather than just trying to keep their own robes clean.
Looking at the Dawnbreakers' specialized Warp-departments, Guilliman rubbed his chin. He wondered if he could get Ramesses to recruit some spectral Ultramarines to fill his own ranks.
"In the past, Imperial citizens had to rely on iron will and raw intellect to face these monsters," Guilliman summarized. "Now, it is the enemy whose will shall be tested."
"They had better have hearts of steel," Ramesses sneered, watching the tactical display.
"Because on our side, the steel truly has a soul."
"WE ARE INEXORABLE!"
Falkus Kibre roared, struggling against the overwhelming pressure of Tyberos the Red Wake.
He was unfamiliar with these Space Marines who prowled the "No-Man's-Land" of the Ghoul Stars. The Carcharodons were a quiet Chapter, even more reclusive than the Ashen Claws who had returned thirty years ago.
The only reason they were known in the wider Imperium was that they were the first to welcome the Dawnstar Lords. Aside from that, their records were a void. Especially since their "second emergence" thirty years ago, all data on them felt shrouded in shadow. Even sorcerers struggled to scry their movements through ritual sacrifice.
But those who had faced them knew: they were the ultimate pragmatists.
BOOM!
As Kibre clashed with the "Great White Shark," realizing that his Warp-hardened flesh was still outmatched by the Primaris-upgraded monster before him, a Contemptor Dreadnought leapt from a gantry above.
The Dreadnought landed directly on Kibre's chest. The impact was a symphony of shattering ceramite and groaning adamantium as the Justaerin's Terminator plate buckled under the weight.
Kibre was pinned. The air around him was scorched as the machine's systems vented heat. He dropped through a floor-grating into a lower gallery, kicking up a cloud of pulverized rockcrete.
"THE VICTORY IS MINE, MY LORD!"
The Dreadnought's voice was distorted by its vocal emitters. It turned its armored chassis toward Tyberos, its cry full of martial pride.
It had neutralized its own opponent first.
From Kibre's perspective, the front of the Dreadnought's sarcophagus had been partially torn open. The Black Legion were not weak; they knew the vulnerabilities of a walker.
But the exposed cabling and strange components within revealed a shocking truth: there was no "Honored Ancient" inside the tank.
Kibre's pupils contracted. He fired a twin-linked melta blast at the sarcophagus, utilizing the recoil and the Dreadnought's momentary stagger to roll free of its massive foot.
"..."
Tyberos did not deign to argue with the "War Hound." He lunged after Kibre.
Captain Akia of the Carcharodons. A son of Angron, a loyal War Hound who had been interred in a sarcophagus during the Tyranid wars. After the Dawnstar Lords provided the "Spirit-Forged" technology, the Chapter had worked to restore their Ancients' mobility. Akia, however, had become obsessed with the interface. He had chosen to merge entirely with the machine.
In his own words, it allowed him to feel his ancestral rage more clearly, which in turn allowed him to anchor his will as an Astartes—denying the instinctual fury and choosing instead the disciplined slaughter of his duty.
A blood-soaked Kibre scrambled to his feet.
his body was broken, his chest-plate caved in. The impact of a Dreadnought was not something even a veteran of the Long War could simply shrug off.
He rolled away, even as his Warp-gifts struggled to mend the internal damage. He felt his strength waning.
Through the dust, he watched the half-melted, relentless Dreadnought advancing.
In the center of the shattered ranks, the leader of the Bringers of Despair forced his body to stand. He raised his mace, catching the flash of Tyberos's lightning claws once more, and let out a defiant roar.
"FOR THE LONG WAR!"
It's time to retreat, Abaddon thought, surrounded by a forest of burning skeletons.
Every scheme, every strategy had been erased by these "logical" monstrosities. From the lowest cultist to his most elite champions, his host was being dismantled.
Warrior after unique warrior was being ground into dust. It was enough to make any commander scream.
So what if this world is destroyed?
The idea was the thing. But now, having unified the Black Legion, he found that ideas were being replaced by a tedious, grinding struggle against two equally terrifying forces.
A tactical withdrawal. We live to fight another day.
Victory might belong to the future. Abaddon had proven his point; that he had failed to secure the station wasn't his fault. He was a rational warrior, not a fool. He could read the flow of battle.
As the ones holding the tactical initiative, they didn't have to stand and die like those "Yellow Idiots" on Terra ten millennia ago.
"KHAYON!" Abaddon bellowed.
The inner circle of the Black Legion was already moving.
Khayon, the second-in-command, was busy defending the Vengeful Spirit, smashing the crystal-projections of loyalists manifesting on his decks. Slaakshia was organizing recovery efforts. Haarken was shouting orders to rotate the warbands, using the outer auxiliaries as meat-shields to reduce the pressure on the Legion core.
They moved with practiced urgency.
As founders and "stockholders" of the Black Legion, they knew the drill.
This was just another crossroad on the path to inevitable victory.
But the crowd didn't move with the same frantic energy as before.
They moved out of fear of the Warmaster's authority, and out of greed for the visions he promised.
But once something is broken, it can never truly be mended.
"Slaakshia is attempting an emergency extraction, but the enemy's psychic interference is absolute. The Warp-tides will not settle!"
Khayon reported, his voice tinged with a rare fatigue. He watched as his automated defenses were systematically dismantled by Imperial "Spirit-bots."
"You must wait, Warmaster."
There was a hint of resignation in his tone.
The indifference shown by Ramesses had left him dispirited. Thinking of the brothers who had fallen at Fenris... perhaps this "Father's" attitude toward them was not a mystery at all.
Khayon understood the Four better than Abaddon did. He knew the difference between being "favored" and being a tool.
CRACK!
A flare of psychic energy erupted, expanding like an explosion.
The crew scrambled back. Servitors too slow to move were vaporized instantly.
Tarot cards scattered across the deck.
The "slaves" and "companions" Khayon had gathered over his millennia of wandering shrieked as they fled back into the Warp, leaving only a shower of grey, colorless cards to turn into dust in the air.
Another failure.
"Then find another way! Anything!" Abaddon snarled, parrying the strike of a burning skeleton.
"They have everything we have," Khayon replied bitterly.
Te Kahurangi was a monster among Librarians, second only to the "Three Immortals." As a psyker who had guided the Carcharodons through a thousand years of darkness where the Astronomican did not reach, no one short of a Primarch could take him.
And the enemy was not like them.
Khayon's eyes dimmed.
Not everyone was fortunate enough to have a "Father" in the Warp who was willing to shield them—to let them draw upon the powers of the Empyrean without being devoured by the Gods.
"Is this the standard mode of engagement now?"
Guilliman, the dedicated student, gestured to the data-feed.
From the heavens to the earth, from the macro-movements of the fleets to the micro-perceptions of individual psykers, he saw everything.
"Mm-hmm," Ramesses hummed. He realized the scene was a bit much for a "rookie."
"Mostly it's because the fighting at Badab is so concentrated and the Great Rift is right there. We can't keep using the 'Old Ways' and just take a beating, can we? It's... non-standard."
Normally, for the sake of the civilians, they wouldn't thin the veil so recklessly. But if the enemy summons a legion of daemons, you have to bring out your own ghosts.
The Four started it!
"..."
So this is an anomaly?
Guilliman watched the war for Badab in silence.
Is it... is it really?
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