The destruction of the Purifier Plague Army did not cause much commotion within the tumultuous tides of the Warp.
Instead, the ranks of daemon forces loyal to Nurgle continued to swell, with countless hosts gathering.
Death and rebirth are two fundamental aspects of Nurgle's power. It is precisely this paradoxical duality that fosters discord among his followers, leading to the formation of distinct factions.
Over millennia, wars had often erupted between the Purifiers, who champion the decay and finality of death, and the Corruptors, who extol the virulence and renewal of rebirth. These internecine conflicts had laid waste to countless worlds.
Yet, at this moment, the two factions had united—a rare and uneasy truce—joining forces in the pursuit of the Primarch.
In the hidden depths of the Warp, a cerulean figure observed the unfolding events with amused detachment. He wove the threads of fate deftly at his fingertips, forming an intricate and inescapable web. Quietly, he orchestrated all within its grasp.
Though the trajectories of fate had begun to diverge wildly, it only seemed to deepen his amusement.
"All proceeds as planned," came the murmured echoes from within the crystalline chambers of the Crystal Labyrinth.
The Edge of the Eastern Fringe
Guilliman's flagship, Macragge's Honour, sped through the stars, its engines burning with purpose as it made for the next battlefield.
Within the warship's hallowed halls, a group of tall and graceful Eldar sat cross-legged in meditation. Their armor, elegant and intricate, reflected their sculptural artistry.
The Eldar possess a keener sensitivity to emotion and psychic resonance than humanity could ever comprehend. This profound attunement is both their greatest gift and their most damning curse, for their heightened awareness leaves them vulnerable to the corrupting whispers of the Warp.
To shield themselves, the Eldar must purge their minds and spirits of excess, maintaining clarity to avoid the clutches of She Who Thirsts.
This sensitivity also grants them a unique ability to perceive the skeins of fate, the flow of psychic energy, and the intricate patterns of destiny.
Evelyne, an Eldar farseer and trusted ally to Guilliman, approached the Primarch's quarters with urgency.
"Regent, the prophet of the Eldar has delivered a new augury. The Second Primarch is enmeshed in the scrutiny of Chaos," she declared.
She paused, startled by what she saw. Fatigue and sorrow shadowed the face of Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Regent of the Imperium. Such emotions were rarely, if ever, displayed by the stoic Primarch.
Evelyne had never witnessed such vulnerability. It was a side of Guilliman that he revealed only in solitude. Had she not arrived unannounced, this fragile moment would have remained hidden.
Quickly regaining her composure, she continued, "The strands of fate have spoken, Regent. Your brother is on the precipice of disaster. Should he fall into darkness or lose himself again, the galaxy will face unspeakable suffering. What are your orders?"
Guilliman's weariness dissipated as his countenance hardened into resolve. His brief vulnerability faded as though it had been an illusion.
"I am well aware of Chaos's designs upon my brother," he replied. "But this... this is far swifter than anticipated. We must act with haste. This war must be resolved swiftly, so we can offer him our support."
His tone brimmed with unshakable confidence, his measured words inspiring Evelyne. Her concern melted away, replaced by newfound determination.
After a brief exchange, she left to relay his orders. Alone again, Guilliman sighed, his earlier vulnerability resurfacing in the quiet.
"Hold on, brother. Hold on," he whispered. "I hope I won't be too late. I can't bear to lose another of you."
The Purifier Plague Army's Defeat
The demise of the Forgotten Messenger, Gust, marked the turning point in the battle. Under the unrelenting assault of Imperial forces, the forces of Chaos were encircled, their annihilation a mere formality.
With the battlefield cleared of daemon filth, Primarch Dukel entered the Iron Fortress, the stronghold of the Astra Militarum that had endured the onslaught. Reunited with the remnants of his expeditionary forces, he made his way to the heart of the fortress to meet the beleaguered guardsmen rescued by the elite Heart Net strike team.
To his surprise, the regiment's political commissar was still alive—a rarity given the perilous nature of the role.
"Commissar Kane of the 597th Valhallan Regiment of the Astra Militarum, reporting to you, my lord Primarch!"
Dukel narrowed his eyes. "What did you say your name was?"
"Commissar Kane of the 597th Valhallan Regiment, sir!" Kane repeated, his tone steady despite his battered appearance.
Dukel stared at him, a spark of recognition in his eyes.
It's really you, you lucky bastard.
The name "Kane" was not uncommon across the Imperium, but when paired with "Political Commissar of the 597th Valhallan Regiment," it became legendary. Kane's exploits—blowing up Tyranid hive tyrants, slaying Ork warlords, cheating death repeatedly—were the stuff of legend, rivaling even the deeds of demigods.
"A mortal who rivals a Primarch," Dukel muttered under his breath, almost in disbelief.
"Valhalla is on the fringes of the Eastern Fringe. How did you end up here, Commissar?"
Kane's expression turned sheepish as he explained, "We were pursuing an Ork fleet through the Warp when we lost our way. By the Emperor's grace, we broke through a reality node and found ourselves here."
His recounting was peppered with bitterness, and Dukel listened carefully. From Kane's fragmented report, the Primarch pieced together what had occurred.
Though he would not say it aloud, Dukel suspected the Emperor's hand in Kane's miraculous arrival. The Old Man's cryptic ways often left Dukel feeling both awed and exasperated.
"To send the Emperor's chosen to me in such a state... truly, He works in mysterious ways," Dukel mused.
Kane and his soldiers, however, bore the scars of their ordeal—wounds that festered with infection, their uniforms soaked in blood. The sight stirred a pang of sympathy in the Primarch, though his voice remained steady.
"See to your wounded, Commissar. You are among allies now."
The Rising Threat
Before Dukel could dwell further, Efilar approached him urgently.
"My lord, the Librarius has detected the formation of multiple Warp rifts. The psychic resonance is of the highest magnitude. They cannot be sealed."
Dukel's eyes narrowed. "Superlative level? That means at least several Greater Daemons are working in unison to breach the Materium."
He allowed himself a grim smile. "Let them come. In the Emperor's realm, even the gods must tread carefully."
Turning to his officers, he issued orders with precision. "Efilar, tend to the wounded and purge the toxins from their systems. All units, fortify the perimeter. Prepare to hold the line."
The Iron Fortress stirred with activity as the forces of the Imperium braced for the next on