A hundred Space Marines stood poised on the Glory of Macragge drop deck, waiting for the airborne order. The hum of the ship's mechanical systems filled the air, a constant reminder of the battle that raged beyond.
The battle to clear the plague fleet continued, with flashes of brilliant light occasionally cutting through the cold, silent void of space. The intensity of the fight was palpable as plague ships disintegrated in the fiery embrace of their demise, collapsing in silent explosions. The flagship was destroyed, and with it, the plague fleet's combat effectiveness had been shattered. The Imperial fleet now swept through the remnants, ruthlessly hunting down the remaining ships that dared to resist or flee.
Yet the Glory of Macragge refrained from joining in the glorious slaughter. For Guilliman, the victory was already secured. The priority was not the fleeting glory of space combat, but the sinister ritual that the plague warriors were surely preparing.
They had to be stopped—swiftly, decisively.
The hundred Space Marines, drawn from two different chapters, formed a singular, elite spearhead force. Guilliman's vision of unity had brought together different warbands, breaking them free from the isolation that had previously defined them. They would no longer be independent packs of warriors but rather a unified force capable of responding swiftly to threats and executing large-scale, organized campaigns reminiscent of the Great Crusade.
Among the hundred warriors, fifty hailed from the Ultramarines Chapter. Dressed in the iconic dark blue armor of their line, the veterans at the forefront bore the heavy Terminator armor that signified their rank and experience. The remaining fifty came from the Aurora Star Chapter, a sub-chapter of the Ultramarines, distinguished by their gray armor adorned with blue accents. The Aurora Star Chapter, while noble, lacked the wealth of their larger kin, with only a few veterans wearing the heavy Terminator armor, the rest clad in standard power armor.
The deck was alive with activity. Technical experts and servitors hurriedly prepared the landing equipment. Warriors clad in Terminator armor underwent self-inspections, aided by mechanical priests who ensured every piece of their formidable gear was in prime condition. Those in standard power armor were equipped with towering assault shields, a necessity for surviving the brutal, close-quarters combat that awaited them. Though not as impenetrable as Terminator armor, these shields would enhance their protection during the upcoming assault.
As the elevator rumbled into motion, munitions from the lower decks were lifted to the surface. Servants in smart uniforms, assisted by mechanical thralls, distributed the ammunition among the Space Marines. The warriors conducted a final, thorough inspection of their gear, ensuring both their own weapons and those of their comrades were in perfect working order.
The Chaplains moved through the ranks, their presence a solemn reminder of the sacred duty the warriors had undertaken. They listened to the oaths of the soldiers, pressing wax seals onto their armor to mark their commitment. With a hiss, the hot iron seals burned into the wax, leaving a permanent mark of their devotion.
The preparations were nearing their end when the loudspeakers blared the command: "The Glory of Macragge has entered the orbit of the planet. The airborne operation will begin in ten minutes."
Though the message was swallowed by the cacophony of preparation, the Space Marines heard it clearly, their enhanced hearing ensuring no detail was missed. The next moments were filled with the deafening sound of horns as the warriors stood at attention, eyes fixed on the archway ahead.
Through the tumultuous noise, a towering figure emerged, clad in azure armor, striding forward with unshakable confidence. Guilliman, Regent of the Empire, Lord of Ultramar, and the thirteenth son of the Emperor, walked among his warriors. His presence was a force in itself, and the warriors could not help but feel a surge of respect and admiration. His every gesture exuded strength and will, enough to make even the most hardened of warriors pause.
"Are you ready?" Guilliman's voice cut through the noise, deep and commanding.
"My lord, everything is ready," said the first company commander of the Dawn Star Chapter, his voice strong and unwavering.
"We await your command, my lord," added Sicarius, the second company commander of the Ultramarines, his tone filled with loyalty.
The rest of the Space Marines stood in rapt attention, their eyes burning with the same awe and admiration that had touched their commanders. They were ready to give their lives for the vision Guilliman embodied.
"Good," Guilliman said, his gaze sweeping over his warriors. "Now it is time for the traitors to witness the consequences of their rebellion. The Empire must win."
The warriors roared in unison, their voices reverberating through the deck.
Sicarius and a portion of the force were loaded into airborne capsules, shot toward the planet Sara like comets, their fiery descent a harbinger of destruction. This method of airborne assault was common for the Space Marines—rapid, violent, and devastating. The impact of the capsules would cause significant damage upon landing, devastating enemy positions with the sheer force of the impact.
Guilliman, accompanied by the rest of the Terminator-clad warriors, took the Thunderhawk transport for their own landing. The Primarch and his Terminators were too large for the airborne capsules, their size requiring the use of the larger, more robust transport craft.
As the pods and transports descended through the atmosphere, the greenish plague gas that surrounded the planet Sara billowed ominously. The airdrop pods streaked through the clouds, crashing into the chaotic mass of plague gas like missiles, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.
"Forty seconds. Prepare for battle," Sicarius shouted, his voice a commanding presence in the chaos of the pod's descent.
The sound of the pod's descent filled the air—an unrelenting, shrill noise as the capsule cut through the atmosphere, rockets firing to stabilize the fall. The other warriors remained silent, maintaining perfect composure as they readied themselves for the coming battle.
Sicarius, ever the warrior, did his best to control his excitement. There was no turning back now. The only thing left to do was wait for the inevitable clash.
Finally, with a resounding bang, the hatch of the airborne capsule was blown open. The restraints that held the warriors in place snapped free. The force of the landing sent shockwaves through the air, and as the warriors charged out, they landed directly on a traitor artillery position, the impact obliterating everything in its vicinity.
Cultists, their bodies covered in blasphemous tattoos, were caught off guard, their confusion quickly turning to agony as the shockwave from the landing obliterated them. Flesh and blood flew through the air in a gruesome display of violence.
"For Guilliman!" Sicarius roared, activating his power sword and raising his boltgun as he led the charge.