After Guilliman fell, the battlefield plunged into a strange and haunting silence. A profound sorrow rippled through the hearts of every Imperial soldier, a despair unlike any they had known.
The daemons, however, erupted into jubilant roars, celebrating the fall of a loyal son of the Emperor.
Kane froze, his mouth agape as if still trying to plead with the Primarch moments before his fall, but no words emerged. Beside him, Gray stood paralyzed in disbelief. Seeing the spiritual link to Guilliman—the very essence of their gene-father—fade into a flickering whisper left him grappling with a profound sense of unreality.
The Ultramarines, unwavering in their loyalty, launched a desperate counterattack, determined to reclaim their Primarch. They surged forward, their power armor battered by a relentless storm of bolter fire laced with warp sorcery. Their broken forms fell onto the blood-soaked battlefield, each death a testament to their devotion.
A mighty Dreadnought staggered backward, collapsing with a deafening crash. The sorcerous energies had pierced the sarcophagus, killing the pilot within and extinguishing the machine spirit itself.
The Chaos horde seized the moment, pressing their advantage. Space Marines, Skitarii, Titans, Astra Militarum, and even the indomitable Death Korps of Krieg threw themselves into the fray, determined to shield their fallen Primarch. Destructive explosions rippled through the ranks of the daemon armies, consuming heretical forms in fiery obliteration.
Even the Eldar took to the battlefield. Eveline, a Farseer, rushed to Guilliman's side, cutting down daemons before they could reach him. Harlequins danced through the fray, their deadly elegance leaving trails of gore in their wake. Howling Banshees swept through like spectral predators, their piercing cries silencing the battlefield momentarily as they tore through the enemy ranks.
Yet, no matter how fierce the defense, it was clear that mortal efforts were futile against the might of the Triumvirate of Chaos. The Keeper of Secrets scythed through the Imperial defenders with sadistic ease, its claws tearing apart Space Marines and Guardsmen alike.
Fulgrim, the corrupted Daemon Primarch of the Emperor's Children, advanced toward Guilliman's prone form with calculated malice. He exuded arrogance, his lithe form slicing through the lines of Ultramarines as though they were paper. He had no need for tricks—his demigod strength alone created a path to his foe.
The Fateweaver joined the fray, its spells devouring the souls of countless loyalists. The Imperium's defenders crumbled under the assault. Guilliman seemed beyond salvation.
But the sacrifice was not in vain. Imperial forces had bought time—precious seconds that would decide the Regent's fate.
In the distance, crimson flames scorched the horizon, leaving a trail of annihilation as they approached. Just as Fulgrim's rapier descended for a killing blow, a thunderous roar erupted across the battlefield.
"FULGRIM!!!"
The voice was a storm given form, shaking the air and land alike. Daemons near the sound exploded outright, their warp-born essence unable to withstand the psychic fury. Even Ultramarines surrounding Guilliman were hurled back by the sheer force.
Dukel had arrived.
Fulgrim's rapier shrieked as it neared Guilliman, but it stopped short, caught in an iron grip. Flames of psychic energy surged down the blade, consuming the Slaaneshi daemon housed within it.
"Crack!"
Under Fulgrim's incredulous gaze, the weapon shattered in Dukel's hand, the screams of the trapped daemon echoing across the battlefield. For the first time in centuries, Fulgrim hesitated. Then, abandoning all pride, he turned and fled.
The Fateweaver, sensing the tides had turned, disappeared into the warp. Only the Keeper of Secrets remained, its arrogance its undoing. Dukel grabbed the abomination by its grotesque head and slammed it into the ground with earth-shattering force.
Ignoring the fleeing Fulgrim and the scattering daemons, Dukel knelt by Guilliman. His heart sank as he examined the grievous wound on his brother's neck, dark ichor and warp-born venom festering within. Psychic energy poured from Dukel's hands, but even he knew it might not be enough.
Magnus the Red, watching from a distance, spoke with cold finality. "Give up, Dukel. He's beyond saving."
"Silence," Dukel snapped. His piercing gaze bore into Magnus. "Don't forget our wager."
Magnus sighed, frustration evident. "His wounds are not just physical but spiritual. The Emperor's armor barely kept him alive before. Now that balance is shattered. Fulgrim's venom will finish what Horus began."
Still, Dukel refused to yield. Channeling his psychic might, he drained life energy from Magnus, funneling it into Guilliman's failing form. The Primarch's wounds began to knit together, though the toll on Dukel was immense.
"Damn you, Dukel!" Magnus roared, struggling against his brother's iron will. "This will change nothing!"
Dukel ignored him. He summoned his personal guard, twenty-two elite warriors in ornate armor. "Take Guilliman to the Apothecarion. Ensure he remains under a constant psychic field. Protect him at all costs."
Ultramarines swiftly arrived with a stretcher, carrying their fallen Primarch to safety. The battle still raged, but for the loyalists, hope had returned—for now.
...
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