150 - The Primarch Who Knew the End (Patreon)

150 - Anyone Can Boast

Fresh ranks of Flamers and Horrors charged at the front. Red Corsairs followed close behind, each warrior fully armed in Terminator plate. Guilliman brandished the Emperor's Sword, roared, and charged straight at the daemons. Sicarius, Adeline, and the other Battle Sisters followed him. Several Grey Knights led another force into the enemy's flank. The two sides collided.

The fighting was horrific, brutal and bloody. Guilliman's towering form swept through the traitor and daemon lines like a storm, bringing death to both without distinction. The Emperor's Sword rose and fell, unstoppable, while the Hand of Dominion filled the air with gunfire.

Every punch destroyed an enemy. Daemons burst into fragments of blue flame beneath the Primarch's overwhelming strength. Traitors who dared bar his way broke apart like rotten dolls. With a thunderous crack, the Hand of Dominion unleashed its power and blew a powerful Chaos sorcerer apart.

Red Corsairs hurled themselves at him, howling with abandon. In a few appallingly brief moments, they were reduced to chunks of meat inside armor. Guilliman accelerated into the storm of bolt fire, leading his fearless warriors like an undying god of war. Rounds detonated against his armor with tremendous force. None penetrated it.

With a roar of pure fury, he drove into the center of the enemy position. One Red Corsair fell in two beneath his sword, leaving a long trail of blood where he had stood. A punch struck a Flamer and shattered its body before it could react.

A Pink Horror tried to ambush him, psychic flame dancing around its fingers. Guilliman caught its head in one hand and crushed it. The creature's soft body slumped to the ground.

Chaos Space Marines blessed by the Warp, daemons that embodied deceit and destruction: any one of them could wreak terrible havoc in the material universe. But this time they faced humanity's defenders, not helpless civilians. Guilliman and his warriors crushed their resistance, showing them how fearsome mankind could be.

Every strike came with lightning speed. No daemon or traitor Astartes could stand against him. Those fortunate enough to strike back before dying achieved only bullets ricocheting from the Primarch's armor, broken blades, or psychic flames dispersing harmlessly.

Adeline watched his magnificent figure. As a devout servant of the Emperor, she could scarcely contain her joy. Here was the God-Emperor's own son, an invincible god of war leading Imperial warriors against the darkness that gnawed at humanity day and night.

This was the greatest moment of her life. Nothing could compare to walking beside a great savior on the road to mankind's deliverance.

“Thank you,” she prayed, lifting her face. A tear of joy slipped down her cheek.

“Thank you, my Emperor. How have we deserved such love, that you should send him once more into this suffering world?”

A Red Corsair rushed toward her, chainsword screaming. Perhaps he thought a Sister at prayer would be distracted and vulnerable. He could not have been more wrong. Before he reached Adeline, the Sister Superior cut him in two. No faithful Sister would let an enemy strike one of her own while she received the Emperor's call.

The Superior turned to Adeline, who had always given her so much trouble. A familiar, powerful force was welling up within the younger woman's heart. The Emperor had indeed called to her.

Adeline felt fire surge inside her. Faith flowed through her veins, and golden light shone from her eyes. Golden flames rolled and leaped around her body. Her short silver hair gleamed more brightly, as though wrought from pure, flowing silver.

A daemon tried to circle around the Superior and attack Adeline. The new saint killed it with one light sweep of her sword. The Superior bowed her respect. The greedy, playful novice she had known had now received the Emperor's call.

“Just as I hoped. You have succeeded, Adeline.”

Adeline cut down the enemies before her as she answered. “It is all the Emperor's will. I am only his servant. I will fulfill my purpose and fight at his son's side.”

“Then I am glad. It heartens me to see a saint who faithfully serves our lord among us.”

“All is the Emperor's will.”

The Superior charged into the enemy ranks with her sword raised. The new saint fought at her side.

Sicarius and his battle-brothers remained close to the Primarch. Aion watched for anyone attempting to ambush him and cut down threats before they could develop. Through fierce fighting, they tore straight through the Chaos lines.

Emperor's Sword in hand, Guilliman confronted Zan'aike, the Mocker of Fate. The daemon was enormous, with a long, muscular tail and a pair of uneven horns rising from his swollen skull. Guilliman's display of strength had forced him to commit everything. Anything less might see him cut down without mercy.

“Time to settle our account, you worthless Warp-spawn. You'll learn your fate soon enough.” Guilliman sneered. If he did not cut this creature into eight pieces today, what kind of transmigrator was he? The thing had dared swagger before him. It had no idea how close it was to death.

“You are too arrogant. This will not end well for you,” the Mocker of Fate said.

Guilliman wasted no more words. He pressed the activation rune, bringing the sword's power field to life. Energy ran through its circuits and enveloped the blade. Golden fire blazed along the Emperor's Sword, radiating immense power.

The daemon seethed at his arrogance. Before humans had even emerged from savage Terra, the Changer of Ways had favored him. He had become a greater daemon, walking in darkness and weaving plots and schemes. Now this human mocked him. That Guilliman possessed the body and strength of a demigod did nothing to lessen his fury.

Fury could not close the gulf between them. Even newly awakened, Guilliman had possessed the strength to banish greater daemons. His power had only grown. At Odras, he had easily defeated the daemons and Daemon Primarchs who tried to surround him. He had slain Khorne's greater daemon Skarbrand and Slaaneshi Keepers of Secrets. He had even captured two ascended Primarchs, who remained imprisoned in Ultramar.

The Mocker of Fate was powerful only in comparison with ordinary Space Marines or mortal humans. Beside Guilliman, he was as feeble as a sick chicken.

A beam of blue flame shot from the daemon's staff. Guilliman knocked it aside with ease and closed the distance, bringing his Emperor's Sword down toward the creature's head.

The Mocker could only raise his great sword to parry. The clash of blades rang across the battlefield like a death knell. Guilliman seized control of the fight without effort. No amount of roaring or rage could restore the daemon's advantage.

He kicked the Mocker of Fate to the ground and severed the arm raised to block his next blow. Thick blue blood poured from the wound.

“Is that all you filthy creatures can manage? How disappointing.” Guilliman stood over him with the Emperor's Sword, his expression mocking.

“Our battle is meaningless,” the Mocker said. “You may defeat me, but you cannot defeat Chaos. My master Tzeentch possesses divine power beyond your imagination. You will never rival his wisdom or his schemes. The Emperor you fight for is a corpse on the brink of decay. You have no hope of victory.”

Clutching his staff in his remaining hand, he fired blue psychic flame to keep Guilliman away. It achieved nothing. The Primarch easily deflected it. When the daemon tried to block his advance, Guilliman cut through the staff and severed the hand that held it.

“Sometimes I wonder whether I should even bother mocking you. An ignorant savage sees a man with a gun and calls him a god. You are the savage, and your gods are the men with guns. They show you a little of their paltry knowledge and power, and you rejoice as though you've found the ultimate truth. You are fools. Pitiful ones.”

There was boundless arrogance in Guilliman's words, and not a trace of reverence for the four gods. Even the daemon, an embodiment of blasphemy and terror, trembled to hear them.

“Your arrogance is intolerable!” the Mocker of Fate roared.

Guilliman paid his anger no heed.

“This is not arrogance. It is fact. Destroying a world would be difficult for primitive humans, perhaps impossible. For me, it is as easy as eating or drinking. Your so-called gods are beneath my notice. I can scarcely be bothered to regard them as enemies. They are simply obstacles to my ultimate goal, things to clear away as I go. They are not even worthy of being my foes.”

The daemon's mouth trembled. A source of fear and master of every nightmare, he had just been told that he did not even qualify as an enemy. This human treated his campaign against the Warp as a chore, sweeping away trash so it would not block his path.

“No. You're talking nonsense.” Fear and fury filled the Mocker's eyes as he protested. But as he looked into Guilliman's gaze, his voice lost its certainty.

Guilliman said nothing more. With one stroke, he cut off the daemon's head.