Chapter 269: Guilliman: Why Didn’t Father Act for Me?

Regret, shame—an indescribable sense of humiliation.

The moment Magnus recalled that towering golden figure and the disgusting presence of the Daemon Eater, his body involuntarily shuddered.

In the world of Warhammer, such utter humiliation would be hard enough for any proud warrior to endure, let alone the vainglorious, arrogant Crimson King.

After all, it's a universe where people kill one another over who's stronger. Being subjected to such a galaxy-wide and ultimate public disgrace—especially one that's recorded and can be replayed endlessly—is unbearable for anyone with dignity.

Unless, of course, they serve Slaanesh and relish that sort of shame play.

Some still live, yet they are already dead in spirit.

Magnus knelt there, stripped of all fighting spirit, bereft of any will to resist.

He stared blankly as Guilliman approached him.

The Crimson King no longer intended to do anything. Having lost most of his soul's power, he was extremely weakened, nowhere near a match for this Primarch brother before him.

Shattered by one devastating blow after another, he did not even feel like running.

A flash of golden flame—

Thud—

The Emperor's Sword pierced his heart.

"It hurts, but…compared to Father's attack, it's almost comforting…" For a split second, such a thought flashed through Magnus's mind.

He could distinctly feel his life being devoured by the golden flames that coursed along the Emperor's Sword.

Moments before death, he felt only relief, finally free from all this…

Guilliman pushed the Emperor's Sword further in, driving it deeper.

Right then, the blade felt heavier than ever in his hand.

After all, ending the life of a brother Primarch with one's own hands is no easy thing.

"Magnus…"

Guilliman's face was grave. At the end, he could not help but speak a few words.

But to Magnus, who was suffering severe PTSD, the sight was twisted into something very different.

He abruptly widened his single eye.

In the Crimson King's vision, Guilliman's visage grew sharper and more mocking—his scornful sneer all too clear.

It looked like the triumphant victor's merciless ridicule of a defeated dog.

He believed that, before delivering the killing blow, Guilliman wanted to subject him to one last wave of crushing humiliation.

They were even recording it, the filthy scoundrels!

No!!!

Damn you, Roboute—do you intend to desecrate what little remains of my dignity at the final moment of my life with your vile tongue?

He could scarcely imagine what terrifying words his brother might utter.

He absolutely refused to die while hearing Roboute's venomous taunts.

That would only make his death an eternal laughingstock across the galaxy, forever brought up in mockery.

Roar!!!

With a final desperate effort, Magnus unleashed every bit of Chaos power he had left, triggering a violent, uncontrolled explosion.

A shock wave blasted out in all directions, sending the two Primarchs flying apart.

When the dust settled—

Guilliman got back up and spotted the fallen Magnus at the entrance of the Webway Gate. His heart gave a sudden jolt.

"Not good. Magnus is going to escape!"

Boom!

The rockbed collapsed.

The Primarch of the Ultramarines sprang up with all his might, cutting a streak through the air as he swung the Emperor's Sword straight at the Crimson King.

At the Webway Gate, Magnus struggled to his feet and, with difficulty, picked up the Wandering Blade-Staff from the ground.

"Roboute…"

He stood upright once more, regaining his proud bearing, gazing resolutely at the onrushing Emperor's Sword.

Even though the Webway Gate was only steps away, he had no desire to flee.

And what if he did escape? He would still face sneers and mockery; he wouldn't even know how to face his own sons.

Seeing them would only revive memories of himself being thrashed by Father and bawling like a pitiful wretch—a scene etched into him forever.

Runic sigils of the sorcerous rite flared as space around the Webway Gate warped.

Thud!

In tandem with the ritual, Magnus drove the Wandering Blade-Staff into his own body, letting his life slip away.

In that instant, the surrounding space twisted violently.

It was as though two massive hands from the Warp's currents had reached out and yanked him inside.

Magnus had chosen to use a sorcerous rite to banish himself!

Glancing at the crowd's reactions, he had but one thought: It's too shameful—this universe…is no place for me!

Whoosh—

Just as the Emperor's Sword came crashing down, the Crimson King vanished, dragged into a boundless lost dimension.

Magnus, thoroughly disgraced, chose to run—hiding away in a lost realm where no one could find him…

…

Planet of the Sorcerers.

Sorcerers and warriors of the Thousand Sons discovered they could no longer sense their Primarch at all.

For a time, the entire Legion fell into chaos and grief.

At the same time—

The Chaos Gods, Daemons, and the other Fallen Primarchs who had been watching the spectacle could also no longer locate Magnus.

Some were disappointed. They had been waiting for Magnus to return in disgrace so they could ridicule him.

The Fallen Primarchs, meanwhile—though they mocked their brother's plight—could not help but dread their ancient father more deeply.

They were lucky it wasn't them who ran headlong into Him.

At least the Cursed One, that False Emperor, remains bound to the Golden Throne. As long as they were careful…

He couldn't do much to them.

…

The Warp.

Time here was perpetually in flux.

No one knew how much might have passed.

In a certain patch of chaotic Warp currents—

A strand of consciousness belonging to Kairos, Tzeentch's chief Greater Daemon and Fateweaver, arrived. Following faint threads of causality, it located a hidden, shadowy region of real matter.

He had come to find Magnus.

He and several other Tzeentchian Greater Daemons had traced out this strand of fate, confirming the Crimson King was hiding here.

Kairos suppressed his presence, turning solemn.

The scene of Magnus being beaten by the Cursed One had already spread across the Warp. He himself had seen it multiple times, finding it hilariously absurd—unforgettable, really.

But he must not betray any hint of amusement or mockery before Magnus, not even the slightest mental smirk.

Otherwise, Magnus would sense it immediately.

And the plan to bring him back would fail.

Right now, the Tzeentchian host could not afford to lose this crucial figure.

Yet such is the nature of thought: the harder one tries not to think about something, the more vividly it appears.

Like the classic "white bear" phenomenon. The more you tell yourself "Don't think of a white bear," the more it materializes in your mind.

Kairos struggled to blot out all the images of Magnus's humiliation; but the scene only grew sharper, replaying in his thoughts.

His consciousness quivered just slightly, letting slip a wisp of silent laughter.

Fortunately, he regained control.

He was the Changer of Ways' arch-sorcerer, a weaver of infinite illusions; no matter what happened, he would not laugh!

Kairos did his best to erase every trace of that scene from his mind and returned himself to utter calm.

Only once he had fully stilled his thoughts did he slowly enter that dim physical corner of reality.

Then he saw the Crimson King, hunched in a corner, covered in some tattered fur.

"So humiliating…"

Magnus was muttering to himself. He crouched there, alone, occasionally trembling with silent sobs.

The trauma had driven him into a state of withdrawal, each reminder of that scene filling him with remorse and shame.

Witnessing this, the memories Kairos had sealed away came flooding back again.

He forced himself to remain composed, speaking in measured tones:

"Magnus, you must pull yourself together. The Changer of Ways needs you. Don't you wish to have revenge?"

Yet the instant he beheld Magnus's pitiful expression—

Pfft!

Kairos's consciousness jolted, and he inadvertently let out a stifled laugh in his mind.

Even if it was just for a second—

In Magnus's perception, it was as if Kairos had openly snorted.

Simultaneously, certain images in the daemon's thoughts grew clearer, practically magnified in this psychic space: the humiliating replay of Magnus being beaten, repeated in comedic loops.

This is bad!

Though Kairos immediately suppressed his thoughts, it was too late.

"Begone!!!"

Magnus roared.

He had just begun considering a return, but faced with laughter and that looping parody in Kairos's mind, he once again snapped.

Boom—

Kairos's fragment of consciousness was forcibly banished.

By the time he regained clarity, that shadowy region of matter had vanished into the Warp's tumult.

Now Magnus was completely gone, and even Kairos could not find him.

…

Tzeentch's Domain.

In a hidden temple—

"Yet another thread of fate that was never foreseen…"

Kairos's mind returned from the Warp's currents. He heaved a lengthy sigh.

Their plan to retrieve Magnus had failed. They had lost the fallen Primarch.

At present, Tzeentch's realm was beset by unprecedented crises.

The Changer of Ways continued to sequester Himself in a crystal chamber, refusing all contact with the outside.

No one knew what He might be scheming.

And to make matters worse, those savage Khornate daemons had lately been launching continuous raids against Tzeentch's territory.

Casualties among Tzeentch's servants were mounting.

Now they had also lost the fallen Primarch, Magnus the Red—an enormous blow.

The situation grew ever bleaker.

As Tzeentch's leading figure in the field, Kairos bore even heavier burdens.

His anxiety deepened.

Taking a deep breath, he lifted a crystalline shuttle-like device and turned his gaze to the threads of fate, observing the ripples and turmoil they carried.

He intended to weave a new plot.

But seeing how hopelessly tangled the threads of fate had become, the Fateweaver fell silent.

"It's too chaotic…"

Kairos felt powerless. From the moment the Daemon Eater appeared, all destinies had become muddled.

Any attempt at weaving a cunning plan was more likely to trap them in their own schemes. The odds of failure soared.

Because of the Daemon Eater—

Tzeentch's servants now faced a 90% likelihood of defeat whenever they acted, up from perhaps 50% before.

Chaos might be more chaotic than ever, but their own risk of blundering into destruction had also skyrocketed.

Hence, Tzeentch's followers were diminishing at an alarming rate.

"It seems we must get rid of that Daemon Eater soon…"

"Yes. We must!"

Kairos's two raven-like heads, each covered in a myriad of blinking eyes, spoke one after the other.

The chief Greater Daemon prepared to take a gamble—piecing together a fresh scheme to corrupt or destroy the Daemon Eater.

He threw himself into selecting fragments of fate's tapestry and threads, weaving a grand conspiracy against the Daemon Eater.

But halfway through, the Fateweaver saw a vision of his own fate: being throttled by the Cursed One.

"Gah!"

Startled, Kairos forcibly unraveled that plan and tried again in a new direction.

Only to see yet another eventuality: the Daemon Eater transforming into a scorching sun, roasting Tzeentch's domain.

"Ga-gak!!"

Kairos was horrified and again broke off the plotlines.

Several attempts later, the Fateweaver flung down his crystal shuttle in exasperation, giving up on weaving any cunning plan around that being.

Damn the Daemon Eater!

Its fate was ungovernable. This challenge should be left to the Changer of Ways Himself…

——

Luna.

In the ruins of Tizca's pyramid.

Guilliman held the Emperor's Sword, gazing toward where Magnus had vanished, worried.

He hadn't expected the Crimson King to slip away after all.

Still, at least Magnus's scheme was thoroughly crushed. He wouldn't be able to cause trouble again in the near future.

Once calm, Guilliman recalled the earlier scene of that familiar golden silhouette.

"Father…was it truly you?"

He murmured, half believing that his father, under the weight of worship, had ascended to a new form.

A living god, one upheld by the faith of mankind—

Not so different from those so-called gods lurking in the Warp.

Guilliman felt sorrow for his father's plight: once an Emperor brimming with grand aspirations, now turned into the very sort of entity He despised most.

Over the years, Guilliman had received constant adoration from the people and thus knew that the power of faith was fearsome.

He realized that if one let down their guard, one might be completely consumed by that faith, reshaped into something else entirely.

He both grieved for his father's changes and grew wary.

Then he thought about another figure—a younger, hazy presence: the Daemon Eater.

He soon figured out the chain of events.

That Daemon Eater was attacked by Magnus—Father appeared to save him, delivering a brutal lesson to the Crimson King.

But…when I was under attack, why didn't Father come to save me?

Does Father think less of his own son than of that Daemon Eater?

At this notion, an uncharacteristic twinge of bitterness welled up in the steadfast Primarch's heart.

Yet he quickly reined it in.

Still, Guilliman's curiosity about the Daemon Eater deepened. He was determined to find that individual again. Once you've laid eyes on such a presence, you can never forget them.

Boom—

A thunder of artillery shook him from his thoughts.

Out in space, the fleets' battle was entering its final phase.

Planetside, the Thousand Sons' Chaos forces were in disarray, fleeing in all directions.

"Courage and Honour!"

Guilliman raised the Emperor's Sword high, leading the warriors of the Imperium in a final sweep against the Thousand Sons survivors.

Not a single one was to escape!

…

Holy Terra.

A small escort craft slowly approached.

Eden sat by a porthole, casually tapping away at a handheld mechanized game console in a carefree manner.

Once the crisis had been resolved, he had the Dreamweaver make a Warp jump to the vicinity of Holy Terra, then transferred to a Govindi-family–style escort craft to enter Terra's orbit.

Shahim and the others were still assisting the Imperial fleets in mopping up stragglers, so it might be a while before they came back.

This gave Eden a head start to reach Holy Terra.

He planned to explore a bit in advance and make preparations.

As soon as the local Terran traffic-control signals came through loud and clear, Eden set down his game device and glanced outside the window.

He was greeted by a colossal structure that pierced the atmosphere itself, linked to countless dockyards and orbital elevators.

Undoubtedly, this was the largest spaceport in the galaxy—Lion's Gate Spaceport.

It served as both a transportation hub and a formidable line of defense.

Heavy turrets dotted the region, manned by large Imperial garrisons.

Lowering his gaze, Eden saw innumerable vessels shuttling around the Lion's Gate, a massive flow of traffic that blotted out the skies.

The spaceport's capacity was astounding, able to accommodate ships arriving from all across the galaxy.

Some of the bigger docks could even house a Glorious Queen–class warship over twenty-six kilometers long.

He couldn't help wondering if, should an enemy breach the spaceport, it might well deploy a formation of Titans as a countermeasure.

Before long, the escort craft joined the flow of ships, queuing for a berth.

Boom!

In a nearby lane, a battle broke out.

But it ended as swiftly as it began.

Dozens of beams tore through a vessel declared heretical, shredding it to wreckage that plummeted downward—then was obliterated entirely by further batteries.

Seeing those remains vanish, Eden tensed slightly.

"Wow. They're not even leaving scraps behind!"

Holy Terra was the heart of the Imperium, as well as the Inquisition's main bastion.

Those zealots didn't care about false accusations or second chances—once a ship was labeled heretical, that was the end of it.

Eden noticed an unfortunate pilgrim vessel caught in the crossfire, its hull rent by a gaping hole.

Hundreds of luckless souls were swept out by raging air currents.

These were pilgrims who had traveled for centuries, clad in rags, yet not even given a chance for one glimpse of hallowed Terra before plummeting below in shrieks.

"Emperor, save us…"

As they fell to their deaths, some tried calling out in prayer, but their fates were sealed.

In the blink of an eye, they vanished into the clouds below.

Eden frowned at the sight.

Such was Holy Terra, the exalted world countless Imperial citizens yearned to see.

Sigh…

Inside the cabin, the crew likewise fell silent.

They were only thankful they hailed from the Holy Land of Urth, blessed by the Savior himself.

Yet now, even the Savior seemed anxious.

It was their turn for inspection.

If anything were off in their paperwork, they too could become cosmic debris.

Eden waited quietly.

Fortunately, the escort ship bore the Govindy family's credentials. After some basic checks, they were cleared for arrival.

Before long, the vessel docked in one of the spaceport's berths.

"Phew…we made it,"

Eden breathed a sigh of relief only after stepping onto the solid deck of the port.

They ought to be able to move about Terra freely now without trouble—at least in theory.

Eden surveyed the dock, picking up on a strong, acrid stench of decay.

It was dirty, chaotic, and disordered—those were his first impressions.

He soon realized that the milling throng here consisted mostly of ragged pilgrims.

Clearly, the Administratum wasn't about to devote resources to making these masses more comfortable.

Suddenly, something caused a stir in the crowd. People began murmuring all around.

Following their gazes, Eden saw a familiar vessel approaching the spaceport…

(End of Chapter)

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