As the resonance of the dimensional engine solidified, the rescue team returned to the bridge, bringing the survivors with them.
These survivors, however, showed no signs of relief or gratitude. Instead, an undeniable air of anxiety and sorrow clung to them, heavy and oppressive.
One woman, who had once served as a scribe under an Ecclesiarchal priest, suddenly cried out upon seeing Guilliman.
"It is the Son of God!"
"He is the Son of God who commands the Emperor's angels!"
The survivors lifted their heads to gaze at Guilliman in awe. To them, this towering figure of strength and majesty surpassed even the most hallowed Astartes. But the realization of his identity as the Emperor's son, as recorded in their sacred texts, left them in hushed reverence.
"I am no Son of God," Guilliman replied, shaking his head. Though his face bore a gentle smile, his voice held a firm denial. "I am merely the Emperor's son."
Yet deep within, a sharp distaste coursed through him.
*Son of God. Emperor's angels.*
The absurdity of it grated against his reason. The Ecclesiarchy, bloated with privilege, indulged in crafting such falsehoods for their scriptures while the Imperium sank further into shadows. How could such an empire avoid decay?
The survivors' momentary elation soon faded, giving way to their original despair.
"You are safe now," Guilliman reassured them gently. "We will soon leave this accursed place and bring you to a secure world."
But his words, meant to soothe, only deepened their unease. Some women fell to their knees, praying fervently to the Emperor. The men huddled together, whispering anxiously.
"What is it you fear?" Guilliman asked, his gaze sharp.
"We…" The scribe-like woman began, her voice trembling, but suddenly, as if sensing her own doom, she shook her head violently and began to weep.
Guilliman turned to glance out the viewport. The dimensional rift had already opened. He dismissed the odd behavior as the lingering trauma of surviving the daemon world.
"Forgive us, Son of God," the woman sobbed. "Please do not condemn us…"
"They told us… They said we would survive if we obeyed…"
"If we had known it was your ship we were boarding… we would have chosen death over compliance…"
"Please, absolve us of our sins… Son of God, Emperor of Mankind!"
Before Guilliman could respond, a young boy among the survivors began to convulse violently. His eyes flared with an unnatural violet light.
Guilliman's gaze widened. In a single heartbeat, his mind raced through countless possibilities. He turned sharply toward the captain, preparing to issue an order.
But the captain, already anticipating his command, barked out, "Activate the Gellar Field!"
The Ultramarines' fleet began slipping into the dimensional rift, one ship after another. Around *Macragge's Honour*, purple fissures bloomed, spreading like malignant veins.
The flagship entered the Warp. A fleeting second passed—no more than a heartbeat—before it was flung back out, emerging into an unknown star system.
In that brief instant within the Warp, Guilliman felt an unsettling ease, as though he had stepped into a realm unnervingly aligned with his essence.
"This is the center of the Maelstrom!" shouted the navigator, his voice taut with alarm.
"Enemy vessels incoming!"
"It's… the Blackstone Fortress!"
Through the viewport, Guilliman saw the fleet advancing—a tide of black and crimson. He recognized the sigils. The Red Corsairs, their emblem unmistakable, heralded a threat far beyond ordinary renegades. Behind them loomed the ominous shadow of the Blackstone Fortress itself.
"Detected intrusion from corrupted code!"
An officer's alarmed report coincided with the flickering of nearby screens. A grotesque image resolved upon one—a two-headed bird-like figure, leering and sardonic.
*Carlos.*
Guilliman clenched his fists. It was almost absurd how persistently Carlos sought to hinder him, across millennia, as though the very fabric of fate wove their enmity.
"Foolish, oh so foolish! Even now, you stumble into my trap?" Carlos sneered, one head cackling while the other hissed disdain.
"Two million souls meticulously woven into this snare! Even I had to barter with mortals. But look—our effort was not in vain. You, the vaunted primarch, have fallen."
Guilliman's thoughts raced. He pieced together the puzzle. The ritual, the survivors—it all made sense.
Carlos had orchestrated everything, luring him step by step. The survivors were bait, the ritual already complete the moment Guilliman sent his rescue team to the surface.
The survivors collapsed to the floor, prostrating themselves in abject desperation, their foreheads striking the ground with such force that blood began to pool beneath them. They begged for Guilliman's mercy, pleading for their lives, for the salvation of their souls.
Guilliman stood silent, his expression cold and unreadable. Then, in a low, commanding voice, he addressed Carlos.
"Spare them."
"Ah, how could I deny the request of a primarch?" Carlos mocked, his tone dripping with malice.
"But no, I think not."
With a tap of his staff, a survivor crumpled lifelessly to the floor. Another tap, another soul extinguished.
Yet their torment did not end in death. On the screen behind Carlos, the spectral forms of the slain emerged, writhing in torment, their incorporeal bodies consumed by azure flames. Their screams tore through the air, cries of anguish directed at Guilliman as they begged for deliverance.
The bridge fell into a deathly hush. No one dared move or speak. The weight of Guilliman's fury bore down on them all, suffocating and absolute.
Carlos cackled, his laughter echoing through the silence. "Perfection incarnate, aren't you? A flawless primarch, yet so easily deceived!"
"Your flaw, Guilliman, is your mind. Your incessant need to think. That fatal hesitation to embrace your nature blinds you, even now. You cannot tell if the whispers in your soul come from within or from the Changer of Ways himself!"
Guilliman's knuckles whitened as his armored hand tightened into a trembling fist.
"Be ready," he growled, his voice a razor's edge. "When you come, I will greet you. And before this ends, I will rip your heads from your shoulders."
Carlos grinned, his parting words a mockery steeped in contradiction. "Oh, I look forward to it. Just don't die before I arrive, dear primarch."