Chapter 16: The Primarch Moves

The sanctioned psykers were selected with great care and dispatched toward the Imperial Palace on Terra. There, they would undergo the ritual of Soul Binding, a sacred and dangerous rite meant to shield them from the corrupting influence of the Warp.

Through the Emperor's unmatched psychic will, their souls would be cleansed—burned pure of the daemonic whispers that lurked in the shadows of the Immaterium. This ritual allowed them to retain their sanity, to resist the temptations of Chaos. But the process came at a terrible cost.

No one ever emerged from Soul Binding untouched.

Many went blind—burned by even the faintest glimpse of the Emperor's radiance. His essence was too strong, too vast for mortal minds to perceive. Others lost their senses of hearing or smell. A few lost far more.

Luo Shan was among the luckier ones.

He lost only his sight. His hearing, smell, and cognitive faculties remained untouched. In a galaxy where losing one's soul was a more common outcome, blindness was a mercy.

On this day, he stood within the command spire of the Macragge's Glory, listening as the voice of a serf relayed an urgent message.

"A new report, my lord," the serf announced. "A distress signal from the Sara system. Chaos forces are on the rampage, and local defenders report heavy engagement with Plague forces."

Guilliman, standing at the hololithic map display, turned sharply. His piercing blue eyes narrowed.

"Plague forces?"

"Yes, my lord," the serf said. "They identified the attackers as Plague Warriors. Nurgle's corruption has spread across the sector."

Guilliman's expression tightened, then quickly relaxed. He gave a sharp nod and spoke with clarity.

"Divert no course from our current heading. The fleet will continue toward the industrial world of Konor. I will personally lead a strike force to the Sara system to investigate and respond."

Luo Shan's jaw tensed.

"My lord," he said, voice cautious. "Forgive me, but is that wise? You shouldn't take this risk personally. There are capable commanders among the Astartes. We can dispatch a company or two—let them handle the matter."

Guilliman turned to face him, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

"No place in this galaxy is truly safe, Luo Shan. That is the reality we live with. And it is the burden a Primarch must bear. The people of the Imperium are scared—terrified, even. They see Chaos as unstoppable. They believe the galaxy is falling apart. And every time I act—every time I win—it reminds them that we are not beaten."

He stepped closer to the blind psyker, lowering his voice, calm but firm.

"Even a small victory, a minor campaign—if I lead it—will be seen as a turning point. The people will say Chaos is being driven back. That the Imperium is fighting. That the Primarchs have returned to bring salvation. That hope still burns."

Luo Shan hesitated, then bowed his head.

"I understand the optics, my lord. But… if something happens to you, who will lead us then? Who will carry the vision you've rekindled?"

Guilliman chuckled softly, but there was steel beneath the sound.

"I'm no relic to be encased in glass and worshipped. I was not born to sit idle on a throne. I was created to wage war. To lead armies and shape history. I am a Primarch, forged for victory. And I will not dishonor that purpose by hiding behind walls."

Luo Shan fell silent. He knew better than to argue once a Primarch had spoken with finality. Even so, he made one last attempt.

"But, Lord Guilliman—"

"Our discussion ends here."

The smile had faded from Guilliman's face. His expression was now the mask of command.

"You have your orders. Continue your studies. I need more intelligence on Warp fluctuations and psychic disturbances. The more we understand, the better we can predict Chaos incursions."

Luo Shan bowed deeply.

"As you command, my lord."

"Good. And before you go—send Sicarius in. I have instructions for him."

Luo Shan turned and left, footsteps echoing across the marble floor. He knew there would be no changing the Primarch's mind. Guilliman's decisions were not merely tactical—they were symbolic, spiritual. And in these dark times, symbols mattered.

Outside the chamber, Sicarius waited in full armor, the golden aquila gleaming on his chestplate. Luo Shan stopped before him.

"The Primarch awaits you. He has need of your strength."

Sicarius gave a firm nod, then stepped past the blind astropath.

Inside, Guilliman studied the hololithic map once more. The Sara system was aflame—both literally and spiritually. Reports indicated entire cities reduced to plague-ridden husks. The presence of Nurgle's Plague Marines meant more than mere warfare—it meant rot, despair, disease, and the complete spiritual corruption of the population.

Left unchecked, the infection could spread to nearby systems.

Sicarius entered the chamber and knelt on one knee.

"My lord."

"Sicarius. I need a rapid strike team prepared for deployment within the hour. We leave for the Sara system immediately."

"You intend to lead the force yourself?"

"I do."

Sicarius paused. "And if the fleet encounters resistance at Konor?"

"Then Calgar and the rest will deal with it. I trust them. You will accompany me to Sara. I want this operation swift, decisive—and public."

"Understood, my lord."

"Spread the word. Let the systems near Sara know that a Primarch comes to deliver judgment. Let them see that Chaos does not go unanswered."

Sicarius nodded and rose, pride clear on his face.

"The Emperor protects."

Guilliman's gaze remained on the projection of Sara's burning worlds.

"No," he said softly. "We protect. The Emperor gave us that duty."

Elsewhere in the vessel, preparations were already underway. Techmarines armed drop pods. Chaplains offered blessings of purity. The Sisters of Battle sang hymns to drown out the whispers of the Warp. Even the Mechanicus aboard the fleet stirred with anticipation, uploading combat programs and optimizing machines for war.

Hope surged through the decks of the Macragge's Glory. For the first time in generations, a living Primarch would lead a charge into a Chaos-blighted sector.

And across the stars, whispers passed through vox-networks and astropathic signals:

"The Primarch is moving. Guilliman is on the warpath."

On plague-ridden Sara, bloated Plague Marines continued their grotesque rituals, unaware that soon, a godlike figure would descend upon them—not for mercy, but for vengeance.

The Emperor's sword had left its scabbard.

___________________________________

Extra chapters available in patreon

patreon.com/Dragonscribe31