Two weeks later.
At the edge of the Maelstrom, in the Craco System, the gravitational fields began to shift. Moments later, dimensional rifts opened in the orbit of a daemon world, through which an entire Ultramarine fleet emerged.
Aboard *Macragge's Honour*, Guilliman himself, along with the fleet's senior officers, surveyed the scene. From the viewing port, Guilliman gazed at the daemon world looming disturbingly close—a darkened, crimson sphere scarred with mountain-like ridges resembling unblinking eyes.
The colossal forms of *Macragge's Honour* and *Friendship's Grace* should have destabilized the planet's orbit, yet all seemed unnervingly calm. It was clear: within the Maelstrom, the laws of physics held no dominion over the whims of the Warp.
"The dimensional engines are stable."
"Charging is underway."
"We are three minutes from leaving the Maelstrom."
Reports echoed through the bridge. Despite the dangers of their location, the atmosphere was uncharacteristically buoyant, even among those like Greyfax, who resented traveling aboard ships powered by such devices.
Navigating the chaotic Maelstrom would normally require a skilled guide, yet the dimensional engines had enabled the fleet to traverse directly from one edge to the other, arriving far closer to the boundary than anticipated. In just three minutes, they would be free, with an unimpeded path toward Terra ahead of them.
"T'au technology has proven invaluable," the captain remarked as he approached Guilliman. "We've saved months of travel time."
For once, with no Navigators present, the captain could speak his mind freely.
"Scan this world," Guilliman ordered, his gaze fixed on the grotesque sphere below.
"Augury or scanners?"
"This is the Maelstrom. Use both."
Following his command, the *Macragge's Honour* and *Friendship's Grace* released probing waves toward the daemon world.
The scanners revealed extreme Warp energy saturating the planet, though a handful of Imperial-aligned individuals—untainted by corruption—could be detected among the population. Conversely, the augury read the planet as a silent wasteland, its readings of Warp energy oddly subdued, as if suppressed by its proximity to the Maelstrom's edge rather than its heart.
"The dimensional engines are ready," a crew member announced loudly.
Guilliman, however, refrained from giving the order to leave. Instead, he directed *Friendship's Grace*, the industrial ship, to conduct a deep scan of a specific area on the planet's surface.
The Mechanicum priests aboard the vessel swiftly adjusted their instruments, and a new wave of data began streaming in. A holographic projection materialized at the center of the bridge, displaying a fortress riddled with craters, besieged by an unrelenting horde of mutants and abominations.
Inside the fortress, a ragged band of survivors clung desperately to their defenses. The planet's primitive technology suggested it had once been a feudal world; its defenders wielded crude melee weapons and a handful of flintlock guns instead of lasguns.
Guilliman's eyes flicked between the scanner and augury results. The Maelstrom was expanding outward, he noted grimly. Only a week ago, this world had been normal.
"We should depart, my lord," the captain urged.
Guilliman nodded but hesitated. The scene below weighed heavily on him. Such corrupted worlds were countless, and suffering multitudes lay beyond his reach. The Ultramarine fleet was not on a campaign; they had no business lingering here.
Yet, as he prepared to give the order to depart, his mind was suddenly flooded with visions.
The daemon world, a living nightmare, its survivors enduring fates worse than death: enslavement to mutants, or futile resistance that would last mere hours before obliteration. In his mind's eye, Guilliman saw every cruelty, every atrocity unfolding in unceasing waves.
And then came the voice of his conscience, stark and unyielding:
"You aim to save an empire, yet you cannot save those right before you. Your grand ideals ring hollow when weighed against the reality of those abandoned in despair."
"If you leave, they will perish. They will never know that two sector-sized fleets had come within reach, that a single strike team could have annihilated their oppressors or carved a path to salvation."
In the span of mere seconds, the Primarch's demigod mind had reached depths of reflection most mortals could never fathom. The Empire's plight, his journey to Terra, the survivors at his feet—each interconnected, each demanding answers.
Was his hesitation a product of noble duty, or a figment of Warp-influenced doubt? Was he seeking to uphold his sacred obligations, or merely preserving a veneer of heroism to mask his hypocrisy?
"Am I truly under psychic assault?"
"No, that would be escapism. Am I shirking responsibility? Or is my virtue a mere illusion?"
Three seconds of agonizing self-interrogation passed.
"My lord?" the captain's voice broke the silence.
"Wait," Guilliman said, his tone resolute. "Deploy a strike team. Extract the survivors."
The captain considered protesting but thought better of it. A Primarch's deliberations surpassed even the most seasoned mortal's understanding. He carried out the order immediately.
The strike team, equipped with T'au protective systems and mass-teleportation beacons, materialized directly inside the beleaguered fortress. The battle erupted instantly.
On the holographic display, the defenders' crumbling resistance dissolved as mutants poured into the stronghold. But the arrival of the Ultramarine strike team shifted the tide. Within moments, the enemy advance was crushed, the survivors gathered, and the teleportation beacon activated.
Watching the swift efficiency of his warriors, Guilliman exhaled quietly. The tension gripping his soul eased.
In retrospect, his earlier doubts and self-accusations seemed absurd. The decision had been simple—a trivial act of mercy. Yet, in his mind, it had become a battleground for his very identity. What should have been a mere gesture had transformed into a crucible of self-reckoning.
"Ensure they're all accounted for," Guilliman commanded. "Bring them to me."
Within minutes, the strike team and the survivors were aboard *Macragge's Honour*, safely transported to the bridge.
From the first deployment to the final arrival, the entire operation had taken one minute and forty-three seconds.
Efficient.
Satisfied, Guilliman turned to the captain. "Activate the dimensional engines. Let us leave the Maelstrom."
"Yes, my lord." The captain gave the order.
One by one, the fleet's dimensional engines roared to life, synchronizing their resonance to avoid catastrophic overlap.
And so, the fleet prepared to pierce through the Warp's chaos, returning to their path toward Terra, leaving the corrupted world behind.