"Traitor," Guilliman sneered, his voice cutting through the air. "Your arrogance mirrors the madness of your mind. What foolish confidence drives you to stand before me?" He continued, eyes narrowing. "You could have retreated to your disgusting subspace before my arrival, but you chose not to. For that, I must commend your bravery, though I suspect it's your sanity that has been broken after centuries of existence. After all, not a single good piece remains of you."
Gurlo's face, already sickly, darkened with fury at Guilliman's words. It was the first time he had encountered a Primarch who spoke with such blatant disdain.
"You are too bold, Primarch," Gurlo growled, unable to contain his anger. He had never known a warrior to speak so dismissively, especially not one so revered as Guilliman.
"If you face nothing but trash, can you blame me for growing arrogant?" Guilliman's mocking tone rang out, his voice reverberating through the battlefield. The imperial soldiers cheered in unison, emboldened by their leader's defiance. "When your enemies are destined to fall, what need is there for humility?"
The sneer in Guilliman's voice was unmistakable, as he relished every word of his provocation. "You will pay for this, Primarch," Gurlo spat, his skin now a shade of dark green, veins pulsing with rage.
"Let us hope you have the power to make me," Guilliman replied coolly, his expression unreadable. "But I doubt it."
Gurlo's silence was deafening. Guilliman, the resurrected son of the Emperor, felt no fear. His body, once merely a vessel for the Emperor's will, now carried the knowledge and power of a second, ancient soul. The fusion of both minds made him something far more than he had ever been, and with it, a wry sense of humor was born.
"Let's see if your weapons are as sharp as your words," Gurlo snapped, his face twisted in a grimace. He turned to his underling, a bloated creature in a helmet, who nodded in readiness.
"You will kneel before the power of the Warp!" Gurlo shouted, his voice deep with malice.
The earth trembled beneath them, and an ominous crack echoed through the air, with the sound of breaking glass. A vile light bled through the cracks, tainted with such intense hatred that it seemed to burn the very air. It was the Will of Chaos, pushing against the fragile barrier between worlds, eager to manifest.
The fabric of reality cracked open, and the storm of the Warp spilled forth, cascading like a flood into the real world. The psykers of the Empire, their powers surged unnaturally, felt the veil between this world and the Warp dissolve.
But that power came with a price. Minds were at risk, their sanity fragile against the insidious touch of the Warp. Madness spread, and those unable to hold their ground would be twisted into nightmarish creatures—twisted horrors borne of the Warp's malevolent energies.
And then, they emerged.
A bloated demon, towering at nearly ten meters tall, its grotesque body dripping with festering boils, oozing pus and slime. Its body was swollen, its every step sending waves of decay into the air. Plague flies buzzed around it, and tiny, wriggling tentacles emerged from its bloated form, as it brandished a rusted weapon, its eyes gleaming with insatiable hunger.
The demon's roar rattled the heavens as Guilliman gazed upon it, his eyes narrowed in disgust. It was the work of Nurgle, one of the Chaos Gods, born of corruption and death, a creature from the depths of the Warp. It was an enemy that could not be slain easily, for it would only return to the Warp after death, awaiting resurrection.
"Disgusting," Guilliman muttered, eyes narrowing. This was an eternal enemy—an unkillable monstrosity. The demon's existence in the real world was but a projection of the Warp's power. After being killed, they return to the warp awaiting their resurrection. And yet, with the Emperor's Sword in his hand, Guilliman knew that he held the power to challenge it.
The blade was forged to cleave through such entities, and Guilliman had already used it to destroy a traitor who had been corrupted by Khorne, one of the other Chaos Gods.
But the Warp was complex. The demons formed by the Chaos Gods or through the twisted emotions of mortals—fear, despair, hatred—could not be understood as mere creatures. They were born of the dark energies of the Warp, ever hungry, ever changing.
The End of the Empire. A curse born from the Warp's chaos. It was a demon that had nearly crushed the Emperor during the Webway War, leaving the Emperor battered and broken. It was this demon that had played a part in weakening the Emperor, leaving him vulnerable to Horus's treacherous assault. Guilliman's thoughts briefly flickered to those ancient battles, a grim reminder of the devastating power of the Warp.
"Another demon," Guilliman muttered, his gaze never leaving the grotesque creature. "This one bears the mark of Nurgle."
The Plague Demon, recognizing Guilliman's stance, grinned wickedly. "A Primarch?" it crooned, its voice thick with malice. "A disgusting demon, perhaps. But Mortarion will enjoy seeing you return to his side."
Guilliman's gaze was cold as ice. "Your traitor of a brother is in need of a burning rack, as are you. Do not think you will walk away from this." His hand tightened around the Emperor's Sword, its power humming with deadly intent.
Without further hesitation, Guilliman struck, cutting down the last of the Plague Warriors before advancing toward the demon. The battle was not over, but Guilliman would see it through