As Guilliman listened to the reports from his adjutants, his understanding of the Dark Angels' capacity for obstinate folly reached a new zenith. When a representative of the Unforgiven, salvaged from the void, was brought before him, Guilliman pressed the issue of their conduct.
The veteran's response left the Primarch in a heavy, contemplative silence.
"We cannot verify if the Primarch has been tainted by the Ruinous Powers," the Dark Angel stated, his voice a grim rasp. "The only certainty is our loyalty to the Imperium. Actions taken by the Primarch in the distant past make it impossible for us to trust one who might have fallen to corruption. Even if he lives."
Guilliman could not fault their loyalty to the Throne, but this borderline-filial rebellion was a logistical and strategic nightmare. He briefly imagined if his own Ultramarines were as pathologically stubborn; the conclusion was clear, the Imperium would have collapsed millennia ago.
Pushing these distractions aside, Guilliman focused on locating the enemy's main host and the Rock, specifically searching for the Wrath of Baal. As for the notion of the Lion's corruption, Guilliman dismissed it outright. If the Lion could fall, the Warp would have consumed the galaxy long ago. He knew his brother's soul; he held total confidence in the Lion's iron will.
"Energy surge detected. Conflict confirmed."
The warning from the vox-array chimed across the entire fleet. At the vanguard, several reconnaissance frigates were instantly vaporized, turning into brief, brilliant sparks against the velvet black of space.
The fabric of reality began to buckle. A colossal rift tore open, and a shadow of such magnitude manifested that it blotted out the light of the local star.
Across the Imperial fleet, cogitator systems flickered violently as the screaming energies of the Warp flooded the local vox-channels with static. Guilliman, flanked by his Custodian guard, strode onto the bridge. He stared in silence at the moon-sized silhouette looming before them.
"My Lord, a wide-spectrum broadcast is being transmitted from an unknown unit."
The visual feed snapped into clarity. The bridge crew beheld a face that inspired both terror and righteous loathing: a high, braided topknot, hollowed cheeks, eyes burning with a fusion of cruelty and fanaticism, and a jagged, predatory grin.
"Vashtorr was correct," the voice crackled. "Roboute Guilliman. The Thirteenth Primarch truly has allowed sentimentality to lead him here for the sake of a dead brotherhood."
Guilliman's gaze remained ice-cold, radiating the absolute majesty of a son of the Emperor as he stared back at Abaddon the Despoiler.
"Abaddon," Guilliman spoke, his voice a low thunder. "You were once a son of the Emperor. Now you are this… a degenerate cur leading a pack of Chaos mongrels. Have you not a single shred of remorse for what you have become?"
Abaddon's face twisted into a grotesque sneer, his eyes dancing with madness. "Remorse? You remain as naive as ever, Guilliman. The False Emperor abandoned us an eternity ago. Only Chaos grants the power to achieve true goals. You say the age of the Primarchs has passed? No. I will see it reborn in a new image. And I shall be the master of this new epoch!"
At the mention of the "False Emperor," a Custodian standing at Guilliman's side let out a guttural roar of fury. "Silence, you blasphemous traitor!"
Guilliman's fist tightened slowly, his voice rising in condemnation. "Your 'goals' are nothing but ruin and cacophony. You betrayed your father, and you betrayed Mankind. You shall receive the justice you deserve."
Abaddon let out a raucous, mocking laugh. "Justice? Look upon the stars, Guilliman. The power of Chaos is everywhere. Your Imperium is a dying beast gasping its last. I am the one who shall topple this rotting edifice! I will let you watch as your Empire crumbles beneath my heel!"
The wide-spectrum broadcast carried this exchange to every vessel in the Imperial fleet, and into the ears of Axion.
As the transmission cut, colossal beams of energy erupted from the moon-sized shadow. These lances of light punched through several cruisers in an instant. Though void shields flared to their limits, the sheer volume of energy was overwhelming. Any vessel struck by more than three beams simultaneously was broken in two as if made of glass.
"Battle formations! Form a defensive phalanx!" the Admiral roared. The battleships moved into a dense array, with cruisers and smaller escorts tucking into the shadows of the capital ships' hulls. The fleet began to return fire, targeting the Ark's weapon batteries.
But the futility of their efforts soon became apparent.
Macro-cannon shells, lance beams, and concentrated las-fire rained upon the Ark's surface. They ignited thousands of fires across the hull, but the enemy's retaliation only grew more ferocious. Void shields groaned under the strain as the protected cruisers launched desperate volleys of torpedoes, to little effect.
Abaddon's mockery boomed through the vox-channels once more. "Hahaha! Did you think you could stop me, Guilliman? Your counter-attack is weak, pitiful!"
Despite the deteriorating tactical situation, Guilliman would not suffer a clown to boast before him. He laughed, the sound carrying a sharp, regal edge of contempt.
"Is this your triumph, Abaddon? You are a coward who hides in the Eye of Terror. Your 'Black Crusades' are a litany of failures, jokes told to amuse the bored gods you serve."
Guilliman's words seemed to strike a nerve.
"Coward?! I will give you the chance to witness the cost of your arrogance!" Abaddon snarled.
The Ark's fire shifted, pointedly avoiding the Dawn of Fire where Guilliman resided, instead intensifying its focus on the surrounding fleet.
Watching the incoming fire, Axion felt a surge of cold irritation. The lack of refined materials meant his reconstructed vessel lacked a primary weapon capable of harming a target of this scale. His upgraded lances and macro-cannons were ill-suited for a moon-sized fortress.
Using his high-precision optical sensors, Axion analyzed the foe. This monstrosity was made of the same "architectural" logic as the space hulk he had salvaged—it was a floating fortress-world, a patchwork of fused ship-wrecks.
Every shot fired from the Ark came from weapons stripped from these wrecks. A macro-cannon might be mounted next to an Aeldari starcannon; even the lances were multi-tonal hybrids. These Arks of Omen, forged through supernatural artifice, possessed erratic and unpredictable attack patterns. Daemonic corruption had fused the hulls into a singular, controllable entity, governed by a malevolent Warp-Machine Spirit.
The reason the Imperial fleet's fire was so ineffective was simple: when an explosion peeled away a layer of wreckage, the layer beneath might reveal the armored prow of a buried battleship, or yet another battery of weapons. Every time a surface component was destroyed, it merely unmasked another corrupted gun-deck ready to join the fray.
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