One by one, the Red Corsairs fell in ghastly defeat, their deaths marked by grotesque finality.
Guilliman, towering and colossal, moved with a grace that defied his formidable frame.
The weapon affixed to the Hand of Dominion struck unerringly, obliterating the skull of each foe with precision.
Every swing of the Hand landed at cunning angles, reducing enemies, their armor, and their weapons into unrecognizable wreckage.
Nothing could halt the wrath of the Primarch.
And why should it? Beside him stood not only the Honor Guard—Ultramar's most elite warriors—but also the twin harbingers of death, Iphrenia and Thousand Faces.
Guilliman's relentless march toward Carlos was dictated by nothing but his own pace. No spawn of Chaos nor corrupted mortal could hinder him for even a moment.
Even amid this ferocious battle, Guilliman managed to orchestrate reinforcements, dispatching Celestine and Greyfax to the most embattled theaters of war.
Carlos, sensing the danger, began to pull more of his forces between himself and Guilliman, increasing the distance between them.
The mortals corrupted by Carlos fought with desperation, chanting incantations as they battled. A small-scale ritual was gradually taking shape within the *Macragge's Honor*.
"Carlos!" Guilliman roared, pulverizing the skulls of three Terminators of the Red Corsairs with a single swing. His furious bellow reverberated like a thunderclap.
The sheer force of his rage shattered the resolve of the weak-willed; a handful of Chaos Space Marines and countless mortals turned and fled, desperate to escape the wrathful presence of the Primarch.
The boarding battle seemed reduced to one final task: subduing Guilliman. Yet the mounting losses became intolerable.
Within the *New Badab*, Huron Blackheart could no longer contain his frustration. Watching the slaughter unfold through the augurs of his Blackstone Fortress, he erupted.
"How many more sacrifices must we endure before Guilliman is taken down?" he bellowed at his sorcerer.
The sorcerer's telepathic reply reached Carlos seamlessly, maintaining their link.
"We require no sacrifices at all," Carlos replied with eerie calm, as if his own words contradicted themselves. "These losses were foreseen—and acceptable. Do you understand what we're dealing with? That is a Primarch."
Huron didn't need the reminder; he knew well enough. Yet he hadn't anticipated the sheer devastation Guilliman could wreak.
The central corridor wasn't a battlefield—it was an execution ground for the Red Corsairs.
"If you knew you couldn't handle him, why provoke him in the first place? If you'd told me earlier, I wouldn't have sent my forces to die alongside yours!" Huron's anger was palpable.
"A Primarch's combat prowess is beyond formidable," Carlos mused, his staff of Tomorrow beginning to channel the currents of warp energy. Spiraling vortices formed around the staff, radiating outward with growing intensity.
"But every Primarch has a weakness," Carlos added, his voice laced with malice.
"When it comes to skill or brute strength, only another Primarch can match Guilliman," he continued, his ritual growing in complexity.
"But against the might of psychic power, Guilliman is as fragile as an eggshell."
The warp energy began to manifest its effects. A few Ultramarines faltered mid-combat, clutching their heads and crying out in agony. Their souls were being torn from their bodies—mere collateral damage of Carlos's burgeoning spell.
As Guilliman took his ninety-ninth step, leaving ninety-nine enemies slain in his wake, he stood face-to-face with Carlos.
With all the prerequisites met, the warp incantation reached its culmination.
The environment of the central corridor twisted grotesquely—crystals surged like turbulent waves, once-rectilinear structures warped into chaotic forms.
From the depths of the immaterium, eight Greater Daemons of Tzeentch were summoned aboard the *Macragge's Honor*.
Including Carlos, nine daemons encircled Guilliman in a precise, ritualistic formation, each standing at one of nine calculated points.
As Guilliman's Hand of Dominion misfired, leaving precisely nine rounds remaining, an ominous dread settled over him.
Suddenly, warp-forged chains materialized, lashing out from the daemons. These chains coiled around Guilliman's limbs and neck, tightening with relentless force.
His Armor of Fate groaned under the strain, the Primarch now struggling even to draw breath.
"Why do you resist your nature? It need not have come to this," Carlos said, advancing with his staff in hand.
The Daemon Prince passed effortlessly through the desperate blows of Iphrenia and Thousand Faces, and the furious strikes of the Honor Guard.
Guilliman, straining against his bindings, tried to bring his weapon to bear, but every movement caused the chains to constrict further.
Though physical torment meant little to a Primarch, the chains scorched not only his flesh but also his soul, inflicting an agony beyond measure.
"Surrender your weapons, or he dies," Carlos commanded. His words echoed in the minds of all present, simultaneously impersonal yet piercingly direct.
The Honor Guard hesitated, frantically calculating ways to free their gene-father from his plight.
Carlos tapped the ground with his staff, and the chains tightened further. A pained groan escaped Guilliman's armored helm, cutting through the din of battle.
Hearing their gene-sire's suffering, the Ultramarines' resolve shattered. Without hesitation, they cast down their weapons.
Thousand Faces readied himself for one final strike, unconcerned by Guilliman's fate, but Iphrenia restrained him.
Left with no alternative, they too surrendered their arms.
Across the ship, the Ultramarines and their allies followed suit. Even those distant from the central corridor, witnessing the Primarch's plight via the ship's systems, relinquished their weapons.
Celestine furled her wings, driving her sword into the ground.
Greyfax laid down her crossbow and blade.
Their hearts ached more deeply than the Ultramarines', for they could not bear the thought of Guilliman's death.
"Why don't you kill him outright?" Huron's voice once again reached Carlos.
"Because I can't—not yet," Carlos lied before revealing the truth. "Killing him outright wouldn't please my master. My task is to break him, to subject him to soul-searing torment, until he succumbs and falls. That is what my master desires."
Huron didn't press the matter further. He knew well that servants of the Dark Gods were prone to such inscrutable machinations.
At least Carlos had accomplished his goal—Guilliman was captured.
"Bring them to *New Badab*," Huron commanded. "Use your sorcery to craft a prison for them. Then leave the *Macragge's Honor*. This flagship belongs to me now."