"Of course, I'll help, Lord Regent."
Datch accepted the quest.
The question mark above Guilliman's head disappeared. Before he could say more, Datch skipped out, bouncing away.
No quest, no time wasted on NPCs.
Seeing Datch turn and leave without hesitation, Guilliman's face twisted in speechless frustration.
What, you can't even let me finish my sentence? I'm a Primarch! Don't I deserve some respect? Just walking away like that is so awkward.
He resisted the urge to call Datch back and give him a piece of his mind.
As long as Datch worked for the Imperium, so be it.
Guilliman walked to the window, gazing at the shattered city.
People were feverishly repairing the scars of war, while Ultramarines stood proud and vigilant on the walls.
They were children of this dark age—knowing only hardship, struggle, and endless war.
Yet, they fought on unbowed, never giving up despite being surrounded by enemies.
Guilliman was lucky to have lived in the Emperor's golden era of hope and triumph, when reason and dreams shone throughout the galaxy.
He had witnessed humanity's limitless potential.
It made him believe that even if humanity faltered, it would rise again.
"If ordinary people can struggle on in the dark, still full of courage and strength, what right do I, the Emperor's son, have to wallow in self-pity?"
Guilliman's conviction grew firmer.
He thought of Archmagos Cawl's ten millennia of research finally bearing fruit—a small comfort, a sign that hope remained.
Meanwhile, Datch arrived at the ruins.
Pulling out his pickaxe, he chipped away at charred buildings; with a few clangs, the structures broke into floating cubes, which he collected—his cleanup faster than Mechanicus heavy machines.
A group of Tech-Priests followed, swinging censers and singing binary hymns to the Omnissiah.
They were convinced Datch was the Machine God incarnate, his miracles proof of divine power.
Other citizens saluted with the Aquila, faces full of reverence.
Seeing this, Guilliman smiled. Perhaps this odd Astartes was another gift from the Emperor.
He felt, deep down, that humanity might be saved because of such people.
"Traitors, gods—humanity will never surrender. You may have won for now, but I swear I will gather strength and drive you back into filthy warp.
One day, even if you hide in the warp, I will hunt you down until every threat is purged."
Guilliman swore to fight on, until every enemy of his father's Imperium was avenged, until every xenos invader paid for their crimes.
…
In many ways, the warp mirrored reality.
Whenever something major happened in realspace, the warp would ripple.
News of Guilliman's return swept through the warp like a storm.
Countless eyes turned to this upheaval—one after another, the Chaos Gods and their followers noticed the Primarch's return.
In a lavish palace, countless naked men and women writhed in orgiastic pleasure.
Daemon Primarch Fulgrim lounged on a velvet throne, lost in the feast of corrupted souls.
At news of Guilliman's return, Fulgrim leapt up in excitement.
Bored for so long, it was time for new amusement.
He promised the Dark Prince that this time, he would bring Guilliman to his knees and drag him back to Slaanesh's realm as a slave.
In the depths of Nurgle's Garden, in the filthy plague swamps, plague flies buzzed incessantly, spreading the news.
The bloated Great Unclean Ones listened with indulgent smiles, sometimes laughing so hard that bile splattered everywhere.
A Primarch, pure and untouched by the other three—such a gift would surely delight Nurgle.
The Great Unclean Ones hummed, debating how to lure the Primarch into the garden, perhaps even reconciling poor Mortarion with his brother.
That would be wonderful.
Thinking of it, they were full of energy.
Elsewhere, the Imperium and Khorne's daemon armies clashed—a war spanning star systems. The champions of Khorne burned 88 worlds, stacking skulls for the Blood God, rivers of blood flowing.
Just as the Blood God was about to enjoy the feast, news of Guilliman's return interrupted him.
With an earth-shaking roar, he ordered his champions to hunt the resurrected Primarch.
Khorne's champions immediately began slaughtering each other to decide who would claim the right to Guilliman's head.
In the Crystal Labyrinth, Tzeentch, weaver of fate, watched cracks fracture the tapestry of destiny with delight and alarm.
The future blurred into white mist—even the gods could not see what lay ahead. This was good for Tzeentch: the more chaos, the more power, though at the cost of less control.
"Guilliman's resurrection is not so simple,"
Tzeentch mused, beginning to plant pawns near Guilliman and others, seeking to unravel the truth.
News of Guilliman's rebirth shook even Chaos lords at the far edge of the galaxy.
Aboard the Vengeful Spirit, Abaddon smashed tables in a rage.
He had sent many warbands to destroy Guilliman before his revival, but even with surprise on his side, his minions failed.
His Sorcerer Zaraphiston and other Legion leaders stood silent in the shadows.
Magnus the Red of the Thousand Sons and Mortarion of the Death Guard received word of their brother's return.
Their reactions could not have been more different.
Mortarion was furious, vowing vengeance for the ancient grudge. Were it not for being in the midst of a vital plague campaign, he would have rushed at once to face Guilliman.
Let that arrogant son of Macragge rot and die with the Emperor's Imperium.
Let Guilliman live a little longer—for now. When Mortarion was free, it would be his doomsday.
Meanwhile, Magnus drew tarot cards, face grim.
He was not as strong as Tzeentch, but also sensed fate's turmoil. The once-clear future was now chaos—some force was interfering.
"Father, is this your doing?"
Magnus muttered. The Emperor was the only possible answer.
He could think of no one else.
A dark smile curled the daemon Primarch's lips.
"Too bad, Father. No matter what you do, it will all come to nothing.
I'll ruin all your plans, turn everything you cared for to ash."
The return of Guilliman roused every power in the warp, currents coiling like a nest of serpents.
Traitor warbands rode the storms of the warp towards Ultramar, vowing to offer Guilliman's flesh to the powers of destruction.
Warp storms ripped the galaxy asunder—because the ancient destroyers had turned their gaze on realspace.
A new, even greater war was about to erupt. No one would be spared.
…
Bonus chapter at 100 PS