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The Great Rift had torn the Empire asunder.
It split the galaxy like a festering wound, spewing forth horrors beyond imagination.
From the depths of the warp, ancient nightmares and insatiable demons clawed their way into realspace, feasting upon human souls and rending flesh with perverse delight.
Entire worlds suffered beneath the Rift's malignant gaze.
Warp storms raged across the stars, turning once-thriving trade routes into treacherous maelstroms. Countless systems, severed from the Imperium's light, lay adrift—like helpless sea creatures stranded upon a burning shore.
Mutants and psykers emerged in unprecedented numbers, their unnatural gifts surging beyond control. If not swiftly purged, their corruption would drag entire planets into the abyss, birthing realms ruled by twisted abominations.
But to the enemies of the Emperor, the Great Rift was no catastrophe.
It was a blessing.
Chaos surged like a tidal wave, unfettered and ecstatic.
The winds of the warp howled, transforming the weak and the desperate into sorcerers and monstrosities. Untrained, undisciplined, and utterly consumed by their newfound power, they descended into madness, embracing a darkness they could never hope to master.
Rebellions ignited like wildfire. Blood soaked the streets of Imperial worlds as traitors struck from the shadows, their war cries echoing the promises of their Ruinous Gods.
But none of this was the worst of it.
Beyond the fragile veil of reality, something far more ominous was taking shape.
A vast congregation of mages, wild psykers, and accursed mutants surged toward a singular point in space—drawn by an unseen force, compelled by whispers in the void.
Their destination was a planet that should not exist.
Sortiarius
Torrents of warped energy painted the sky in unnatural hues, bathing the cursed world in a sickly purple glow.
Dark clouds churned like living things, birthing cyclones of fire and lightning. Twisting funnels of destruction raked across the landscape, consuming everything in their path.
This was a world of the damned.
Here, in the heart of the Eye of Terror, Tzeentch's wildest imaginings took form.
Horrors stalked the land—creatures birthed from pure madness.
The Aristeles prowled razor-edged jungles, their unnatural hunger driving them to hunt both beast and daemon alike.
Daemon engines, twisted by the will of the Changer of Ways, rumbled across shattered crystal plains, their malformed bodies bristling with warpfire and malice.
And everywhere, the cursed things roamed.
The Horrors, the Raphorn, the Fire Demons—phantoms of destruction, stepping in and out of reality with terrifying ease. They killed without reason, massacred without end, vanishing only to reappear and begin anew.
Yet, amidst this maelstrom of chaos, there was a place of eerie stillness.
A structure, impossibly vast, loomed upon the plains—a crystalline pyramid, gleaming like a frozen shard of eternity.
The storms raged around it, but they did not touch its surface.
The horrors of the warp prowled nearby, but they dared not step too close.
They feared what lay within.
Deep inside, upon a throne of impossible design, sat a being wreathed in fire and shadow.
His limbs burned with the twin flames of blue and pink, his massive form encased in barbed armor that shimmered with sorcerous power.
Behind him, great wings of ethereal fire unfurled—feathers shifting and twisting as though woven from pure magic.
His soul drifted through the tides of the warp, sifting through lost knowledge, seeking that which had been hidden from mortal minds.
And then, with the opening of his remaining eye, reality trembled.
A cold, piercing light flowed from his pupil, washing over the chamber.
Across the surface of the Sortiarius, the warp energy convulsed—howling, writhing, bending to his will.
A name left his lips, a whisper carried by the storm.
"Guilliman."
Thunder cracked.
Had the Grey Knights been here—had the Inquisition or the Space Wolves stood witness—they would have known, instantly, who he was.
The Scarlet King.
The Warlock Lord.
The Red Cyclops.
The Eternal Curser of the Imperium.
The Fallen Primarch of the Thousand Sons.
Magnus.
His name was a curse upon the Imperium, a blasphemy never to be spoken, an abomination to be despised by every loyal son of the Emperor.
And yet, here he was.
Through fire and madness, he had willed the Sortiarius into being—dragging it from the depths of the Eye of Terror, binding it to the ruins of his former homeworld.
Prospero, once burned to ash by the Space Wolves, now stood reborn, fused to this cursed realm.
Before him, a massive crystal sphere hovered, its surface swirling with visions of a distant world—Macragge.
A world of order. A world of purpose. A world his brother now ruled.
Guilliman.
Magnus watched, his expression twisted in mockery.
In the heart of Macragge, the Primarch of the Ultramarines labored, issuing decree after decree.
New armies. New technologies. Reforms designed to strengthen a dying empire.
Fools, all of them.
Magnus sneered.
"Still clinging to your little kingdom, brother? You think order will save you? That your laws and your discipline will hold back the tide?"
How laughable.
The Emperor's dream had died long ago. The webway was lost. The Imperium would never escape the warp.
But Magnus had a new vision.
Unbound potential.
Psykers would no longer be shackled by fear.
The gifted would no longer cower in the shadows.
"Psionic power is the future."
The empire would crumble, and from its ruins, he would build a new order—a civilization ruled not by blind faith, but by wisdom, enlightenment, and sorcery.
And humanity would ascend.
His followers gathered, drawn by his promise. Psykers, wizards, mutants—all flocked to the Sortiarius.
And he would forge them into a weapon.
An army vast enough to bring Guilliman's empire to its knees.
An army powerful enough to reshape the galaxy.
As Magnus cast his gaze across the tides of time, he saw only one certainty—war.
"Perhaps it's time to remind my brother how foolish he truly is."
He rose from his throne, his staff carving a tear into reality.
A portal yawned open before him, beckoning him forward.
Guilliman would never see it coming.
And Magnus could hardly wait to see the look on his face.
Meanwhile, on Macragge.
The Natal system.
Within the heart of the hive capital, Guilliman sat in a vast, opulent chamber, his gaze locked upon the reports spread before him.
Another briefing.
Another mountain of filth.
Traitors. Criminals. Parasites.
The nobility, bloated with stolen wealth, drained the Imperium's lifeblood like leeches.
Chaos festered in the shadows, yet here, among the so-called "loyal" elite, corruption reigned unchecked.
"Look at what these fools have done!"
His voice was controlled, but the fury in his tone was unmistakable.
If this was the state of the five hundred worlds of Ultramar, what horrors festered beyond?
The Empire was rotting.
And it was his to save.
"Execute them," Guilliman ordered. "Their children will atone in the penal legions—until their last breath."
One by one, the guilty were dragged before the masses and put to death.
Their children were stripped of their birthright, consigned to the frontlines, destined to fight, suffer, and die.
The message spread like wildfire.
Across the Imperium, the execution of nobility sent shockwaves through the ruling class.
Change had come.
And Guilliman would see it through.