Only when victory is secured can one contemplate the consequences. But what consequences are there to consider in the face of defeat?
What must be done, must be done.
Either fall to Chaos, or be destroyed by Chaos.
There will always be those who are crushed beneath the weight of fate.
Guilliman refused to be among them.
"Thank you for your trust." Kaul's avatar spoke, for once laced with a rare hint of emotion.
"Is there any news for me?" Guilliman asked.
"The Great Sage has gathered a team of suitable individuals, and they have commenced research into supernatural forces. However, a detachment of Grey Knights, having emerged from the Warp's tumult, has objected. They believe any form of supernatural research on Macragge is a grave risk, fearing it may lead to corruption."
"The Grey Knights?" Guilliman mused for a moment before looking up. "Their concerns are not unfounded. However, understanding supernatural forces is crucial. The Warp has continuously encroached upon our reality, and we have too few means to counter it. For too long, humanity has been on the defensive. Many turn to the worship of Chaos out of sheer helplessness against the entities of the Warp."
Warp-spawned demons wield abilities beyond mortal comprehension, and their very existence is an affront to the natural order. Their ability to corrupt and destroy is no secret.
Yet still, countless individuals devote themselves to Chaos, willingly surrendering their souls. It is a phenomenon that demands scrutiny.
Mankind harbors an unusual trait—a morbid reverence for that which it cannot defeat. Fear and awe intermingle, often leading to misplaced devotion. Some call it Stockholm Syndrome.
This affliction manifests in those weak-willed and incapable of distinguishing right from wrong.
Children subjected to relentless abuse by their parents, occasionally tossed a scrap of affection, may grow into devoted offspring.
Employees who suffer under the heel of an exploitative employer may convince themselves that the occasional token of appreciation is proof of kindness.
The pattern repeats endlessly.
Only those with unbreakable minds—those who recognize and defend their own interests—can escape such traps.
The same principle applies to demons. Many fear them, yet when tempted, begin to see them as benevolent.
Guilliman sought to change this. He sought to reshape humanity's fundamental understanding, to rid them of their instinctive fear of the Warp.
The Imperium must recognize that demons can bleed, can feel fear, and can die.
Thus, research into supernatural forces was not merely necessary—it was inevitable.
Only by dissecting the nature of demons could mankind devise the means to truly combat their corruption.
"Move the supernatural research project to a sparsely populated planet, and invite the Grey Knights to oversee it," Guilliman ordered. "We cannot afford ignorance. If they resist, remind them that this is a direct order from the Regent of the Imperium. Compliance is not optional."
He would not yield on this matter. The survival of the Imperium depended on understanding the nature of its enemies.
"Understood. I will relay your command," Kaul's avatar acknowledged. "Additionally, from your shared technology, the Mechanicus has identified an alternative method for interstellar communication: dark matter transmission. This technology allows for superluminal communication without reliance on the Warp. However, the knowledge you provided on dark matter is incomplete. The Great Sage asks if you possess further insights."
"I do not. The data I shared is all I have," Guilliman replied. He could hardly explain that his advantage—his knowledge—was still 'locked' within an unknown mechanism beyond his control.
One did not simply broadcast the existence of a hidden ace.
"Understood. I will transmit your response. The message will confirm your approval of continued research into Space Marines, authorize the relocation of the supernatural studies project, and acknowledge your lack of additional dark matter data. Please confirm."
"Confirmed."
The machinery hummed, codes were compiled, and data streamed toward Macragge.
As the transmission concluded, the buzzing of the servitors diminished, and the luminescent panels dimmed. The head suspended in its glass chamber twitched once, its facial muscles slackened, and its eyes closed, succumbing once more to stillness within the golden nutrient fluid.
The chamber's armored plates slid into place, concealing the grotesque relic from sight.
Guilliman did not depart immediately. He remained, contemplating the road ahead.
Ultramar still bore the scars of past conflicts.
The Tyranid invasion, the Ork warbands—remnants of these battles continued to linger, festering wounds yet to be purged.
The Necrons, too, had stirred. Portions of an ancient dynasty had begun their reawakening near Ultramar.
These threats must be eradicated.
Only then could Ultramar serve as the stable foundation he required—a stronghold that would fuel his war machine, supplying troops and arms without falter.
Yet his vision extended beyond Ultramar. The Imperium itself teetered on the precipice.
The galaxy was divided by the Great Rift, sundering the Halo Stars, Obscura, Ghoul Stars, and the Far Eastern Fringe from the light of the Astronomican, plunging them into darkness.
Ultramar straddled this divide. By fortune, Macragge lay just within the Astronomican's reach, but even here, Warp travel was fraught with peril.
Guilliman felt the weight of this precarious existence. Humanity could not remain shackled to the Emperor's Astronomican alone. It needed alternatives—new methods of navigating the immaterium, new strategies to restore the Imperium's reach.
He compiled a mental ledger of his priorities:
Secure Ultramar. Restore order, implement his new governance, and establish it as a logistical powerhouse.
Revolutionize Warp Travel. Develop a means to traverse the void without reliance on the Astronomican.
Advance Mechanicus Research. Support Kaul in refining the Primaris mass-production process and dark matter communication.
Assemble the Indomitus Crusade. Forge an unstoppable force to reclaim the Imperium's lost worlds.
Balance Power. Ensure the nobility's influence does not undermine his reforms.
Preempt the Traitor Primarchs. Strike before they can rally against him.
He could not tackle these one by one. This was no game where objectives could be neatly completed in sequence. The enemies of the Imperium would not afford him such luxury.
They would strike at random, forcing him to adapt, to press forward on multiple fronts.
Mortarion's challenge had been issued. Whether his brother had already set his plans in motion remained uncertain.
If Guilliman's knowledge of past events held true, then Mortarion would not be idle.
The problem was, in reality, uncertainty ruled. The Warp's tides were unpredictable.
The Imperium lacked spies within the Immaterium. There was no way to glean insight into the machinations of the Dark Gods.
This had to change.
Demons had their human collaborators. Why could the Imperium not cultivate its own informants within the Warp?
It was whispered that certain Inquisitors had made pacts with lesser Warp entities, employing them as tools rather than foes.
As Regent, Guilliman could never afford to tread that path. To be discovered would mean disgrace, exile—or worse.
"I need a proxy," he murmured, fingers tracing his chin. "A hand to wield the shadows where I cannot."
The Inquisition would serve well. It was divided into factions: the Ordo Xenos for aliens, the Ordo Hereticus for heretics, and the Ordo Malleus for demons.
Each was split between radicals and puritans.
The puritans sought absolute extermination. To them, all xenos and Warp entities deserved death.
The radicals believed in pragmatism—alliances of convenience, controlled manipulation.
Guilliman knew which side he would cultivate.
The Imperium needed tools. And tools did not require clean hands.