In the grand scale of the void, millions of kilometers is a whisper of distance—a hair's breadth in the terms of space warfare. And in this tight range, battle had erupted in its most brutal form.
Light lances and macro-shells streaked through the blackness like incandescent thunderbolts. The abyss between the fleets blazed into a deadly thicket of crisscrossing fire. Each second saw more light and destruction than entire planetary wars.
The void shields of the Macragge's Glory lit up repeatedly, shimmering like liquid gold as they drank in the fury of enemy fire. With every blast absorbed, waves of light rippled across the ship's defensive barriers, groaning under the strain. Feedback surged through the generator arrays, crackling and hissing, and here and there sparks flew as secondary relays shorted under the overwhelming stress.
But the Plague Marines were not firing blindly.
Despite their usual lack of coordination, the heretic fleet had locked onto one target: Macragge's Glory, the flagship of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman himself. They knew that if they could bring it down, the morale of the Imperial forces might break—and with it, the hope of the Imperium.
But the Macragge's Glory did not retreat. It stood resolute, anchored like a pillar of defiance amidst the maelstrom. And it answered the enemy's hatred with a vengeance.
Titanic batteries roared.
Dozens of macro-cannons unleashed salvos that could level a hive city. Plasma annihilators burned paths through the void. Lance batteries speared through enemy void shields with pinpoint precision.
One of the plague ships—an ancient and corrupted cruiser belching clouds of warp-fumes—took the brunt of the onslaught. Its void shields flared, then shattered under the assault. A torpedo slammed into its bow, spinning the vessel wildly as its command decks ruptured.
Before it could recover, a follow-up barrage from the Macragge's Glory and her escort ships hammered home. The ship's corrupted hull was torn apart by the impacts. A final plasma blast struck its core reactor, triggering a catastrophic meltdown.
Flames burst outward in silent glory, washing over its neighbors. A section of its upper hull—twisted and baroque like a decaying cathedral—broke free and careened into a nearby Chaos warband ship. The collision overloaded the second vessel's shield, and seconds later, a nearby Imperial cruiser seized the opportunity. Its macro-cannons fired in a tight pattern, reducing the stricken heretic ship into frozen wreckage.
In the wake of the destruction, the Imperial fleet surged forward like a thrusting spear. Macragge's Glory, at its tip, carved through the enemy with the relentless might of the Emperor's wrath.
The tide was turning. Victory—once uncertain—now bent toward mankind.
Inside the command chamber of the flagship, strategic hololiths flickered with real-time battlefield data. Ships blinked in and out of view, marked by friend and foe sigils, shifting dynamically with every exchange.
Commander Phikris, a senior naval tactician, stood to one side, his brow furrowed. He gestured toward the enemy fleet display.
"This… isn't right," he muttered. "Their behavior is erratic. Traditionally, once the traitors realize they're outgunned, they scatter. They cut their losses and retreat to fight another day."
"I agree," added Brehe, a grim-faced Imperial Navy officer, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "But maybe these heretics are too far gone. Maybe the stench of their god has rotted their minds to soup. Either way, it's a good day when I get to turn their heretic hulks into floating tombs."
He bared his teeth in a cold smile.
"A dead traitor," he said, "is a traitor worth remembering."
But Guilliman wasn't smiling.
The Primarch, clad in his polished blue-and-gold warplate, stood silent, watching the tactical feed with narrowed eyes. He had seen wars across ten thousand years—he knew when something was off.
"No," he said, his voice low but firm. "This isn't normal. These are Nurgle's followers—pawns of the Plague God. They're not Khorne's berserkers. They don't throw themselves into unwinnable fights without cause. Nurgle rewards decay, stagnation, slow and insidious corruption… not suicidal charges."
He turned from the projection.
"Something else is driving this madness."
Guilliman's artificial eye flicked toward the planetary marker tagged Sara II—a corrupted world below, its atmosphere already scarred by plague storms and orbital bombardments.
"Get me detailed scans of the surface," he ordered. "I want to know exactly what's happening down there. Send recon probes, vox-intercepts, anything. If the behavior of the enemy doesn't make sense in space—then the answer may lie on the ground."
The bridge crew moved at once, relaying orders.
As he waited, Guilliman turned inward.
Though his body was that of the Primarch born on Macragge, his soul was not entirely the same. The memories of his original self—tactics, thoughts, wisdom—were all intact. But they shared space with something else. Another mind. Another set of experiences.
A soul from another era, bonded through time and fate.
And that duality gave him clarity others lacked. Patterns, motives, anomalies—they leapt out at him like whispers from the Warp. And something about this enemy assault screamed of purpose beyond the battlefield.
Meanwhile, the battle outside continued.
Traitor vessels twisted and burned. One after another, the corrupted hulls cracked under sustained Imperial firepower. Even the plague-ridden vessels could not withstand concentrated barrages from battleships forged in the forges of Mars and blessed by the Omnissiah.
The smell of victory was in the void.
But Guilliman remained uneasy.
What were the Plague Marines hiding?
Why sacrifice so much?
And what dark truth was festering below, on the plague-world of Sara II?
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