Guilliman's voice wasn't loud, yet it carried a profound, almost magical resonance that cut through the crowd's cheers, amplifying their excitement to a fever pitch.
The tattered, fervent fanatics of the Imperial Cult fell to their knees, their voices trembling with emotion as they chanted hymns in praise of the Emperor.
"He hasn't abandoned humanity," they proclaimed, their words brimming with reverence. "He has revived his children to lead us from this dark, terrifying world into a future filled with hope."
Some believers, overwhelmed with devotion, wept openly. They took out electric whips, striking their own flesh to intensify their suffering as a tribute to the Emperor.
"Look at him, child. He is the glory of mankind, the salvation of humanity," a woman said as she lifted her infant, urging the baby to remember the figure clad in azure power armor.
"Long live the Emperor! Long live Guilliman!" The chant started as a single voice, lost in the sea of noise.
"Long live the Emperor! Long live Guilliman!" The cry echoed, gaining momentum.
"Long live the Emperor! Long live Guilliman!" Soon, the entire crowd joined in unison, their voices a tidal wave of loyalty and hope, uniting soldiers and civilians alike.
Guilliman, the Emperor's son and humanity's sworn savior, stood amidst their reverence. Their faith, raw and unyielding, surged through the air, empowering him in ways he hadn't fully comprehended before.
He felt it—a vast, invisible energy flowing into his being, bolstering his strength. It was intoxicating, as though he could take on ten of the monstrous entities he had just vanquished.
"This is merely the blessing of the Macragge Starfield," he mused. "What would it feel like to channel the faith of the entire Imperium?"
A spark of resolve ignited within him. "Fighting the dark gods might be more interesting than I thought," he muttered. "I must work harder—to strike down Khorne's brute, crush Slaanesh's abominations, and dominate not just this world, but the Warhammer universe itself. Perhaps, one day, I'll even find a way home."
The battle had ended, and Guilliman made his way into Macragge's inner city, surrounded by the Ultramarines' protective phalanx. The streets were packed with people from all corners of the star system.
Black smoke billowed from the shattered star port, while aircraft continuously descended, delivering yet more pilgrims seeking his presence.
As they caught sight of him, their eyes filled with tears of joy. Even a fleeting glance from Guilliman sent them into frenzied worship, crying out, "Long live Guilliman!"
Among the crowd, the Great Mechanic Sage Calgar and Chapter Master Calgar walked with Guilliman, their expressions alight with pride and exhilaration.
Guilliman's return signified more than victory—it was hope reborn in the heart of a fractured galaxy.
For Calgar and his Ultramarines, the return of their genetic father was an indescribable triumph. Even the nerve cables on Calgar's head seemed to pulse with joy.
Celestine, Amariqi, and others in the procession were equally euphoric. Victory over the forces of Chaos was monumental, but the true miracle was Guilliman's resurrection.
Yet, as Guilliman scanned the ruined city of Macragge, the weight of the war's toll bore down on him. Behind the jubilant cheers lay devastation.
Civilians had perished in droves, their bodies strewn among the ruins, awaiting burial. The valiant defenders of the Imperium had fallen in the trenches, their corpses left alongside smoldering artillery and shattered tanks.
Ancient buildings, once repositories of human art and history, had been reduced to ash.
Macragge had won the battle, but at a cost so immense it threatened to overshadow the triumph.
Suppressing his grief, Guilliman continued his march, knowing that the sorrow of war would eventually resurface.
The struggle against Chaos was far from over. More lives would be sacrificed, countless heroes would fall, and the gears of fate would turn, grinding human resolve into ash—all for survival and dignity.
"I only hope this ends well," Guilliman thought, steeling himself. "The last thing I want is to be captured and turned into a plaything for the dark gods."
Upon reaching the sanctuary, Guilliman paused to survey the scene. The corpses, rubble, and remnants of war machines had been cleared, leaving only traces of the battle's ferocity.
Inside, high-ranking members of the Ultramarines, the Great Mechanic Sage Kaul, and Saint Celestine greeted him with reverence. One by one, they shared the state of the Imperium, their grim accounts painting a bleak picture.
The fall of the Cadian Fortress, the galaxy torn apart by a massive warp rift, and countless worlds overrun by Chaos left Guilliman with a heavy heart.
The Imperium he had helped build alongside the Emperor and his brothers had descended into a nightmare of fear, ignorance, and bureaucracy.
Standing before a shattered window, Guilliman watched as survivors toiled to clear the dead. He sighed deeply.
"Horus, you truly deserve no forgiveness," he muttered.
Even after ten millennia, the echoes of Horus' treachery persisted. Abaddon, the once-loyal First Captain of the Sons of Horus, had become the dark gods' new warlord, waging endless war against the Imperium.
The Empire had devolved into a grotesque mockery of its original vision—a bloated, fearful husk of its former glory.
Guilliman's ideals, once a beacon of hope among his brothers, now felt like relics of a bygone age.
"Humanity has endured too much," he thought, his soul weighed down by sorrow. "It's time for a new plan."
The Imperium now stands as a hollow shell, stripped of reason and hope, kept alive only by fear, hatred, and ignorance.
Guilliman, the Primarch, remains an unwavering idealist. Among his brothers, none matched his capacity to envision a brighter future. His hope once burned bright, but now even his memories weigh heavily on his soul, burdening him with sorrow.
For humanity, the past 10,000 years have been relentless. The galaxy is overrun with enemies—traitors and Chaos Demons pillage without mercy, while alien races relentlessly press their attacks.
Compared to the Great Crusade, humanity's situation is infinitely graver, and the Empire has sunk into a state far more desperate than its former golden age of triumph and discovery.
"There must be a new strategy," Guilliman resolved. Defeating Chaos wasn't just about ensuring the survival of humanity—it was also about saving himself.
The Chaos Gods had set their sights on him, watching his every move. Failure would mean his soul falling into their hands, condemning him to endless torment through lifetimes of suffering.
Victory was not an option—it was an absolute necessity. To lose would mean facing an eternity of unimaginable misery.
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