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The Orks' WAAAGH! has two profound meanings: one refers to the potent WAAAGH! force field, a psychic energy that fuels their impossible technology and warlike resilience; the other is the Interstellar Crusade, an endless tide of bloodshed driven by their insatiable lust for battle.
Due to the violent nature of Orks, they are often locked in brutal infighting or launching pirate raids on neighboring worlds. These conflicts, while constant, usually remain fragmented, never fully coalescing into something greater. But when their numbers swell beyond a critical mass, a singular force emerges from the chaos—the strongest, the greenest, and the most brutal Ork warlord.
Under such a warlord's brutal command, the Orks evolve at a terrifying rate. Their intelligence sharpens, their crude technology refines, and their bloodlust turns outward. They construct gargantuan warships and embark on star-spanning rampages, leaving ruin in their wake. Every world they touch is devoured in their inexorable march.
The WAAAGH! is more than just war—it is a great expedition, a holy crusade for the savage gods of the Orks, Gork and Mork. To fight is to worship, and their faith is destruction.
"I believe that under your leadership, we will put an end to these abominable aliens. You are invincible," Sicarius declared, his voice filled with certainty.
He did not doubt Guilliman for a second.
New technology, new strength—since the Primarch's return, humanity's power had grown exponentially, but so had its threats.
"I am not a god. Do not deify me." Guilliman's voice was firm, yet weary.
He had seen this before. He had lived through the days of the Great Crusade, and he knew how dangerous this path could be. If he allowed this adoration to grow unchecked, he would become the second deified figure after the Emperor. And that was something he could not allow.
Sicarius merely smiled, offering no argument. But Guilliman could see it in his eyes—his words had fallen on deaf ears.
"The Great Rift has weakened the Imperium, yet it has emboldened these xenos," Guilliman muttered, his gaze fixed on the glowing projection before him. Cold data flickered in the dim light, but the truth it conveyed was enough to send a chill through even the most battle-hardened warriors.
If the Orks were allowed to continue unchecked, they would inevitably spawn an Ork Emperor—a being of unfathomable power.
The Ork warlords already possessed the might of a Primarch. But an Ork Emperor? That was a nightmare beyond reckoning.
"Isn't that why you are here, my Lord? We will deal with them," Sicarius said, confident as ever.
"Do not be overconfident," Guilliman warned. "The situation in this sector is worse than we thought. We must act swiftly. Prepare the fleets. We will strike hard and fast. Sicarius, go—issue the commands. Follow the strategic plan. Crush their offensive and cut the head from their warlords before they can rise further."
Sicarius saluted crisply before departing.
Before embarking on the campaign, Guilliman had meticulously planned the war's strategy. Each fleet and battle group had its designated objectives, each a calculated move on the grand chessboard of war.
The Glory of Macragge, his flagship, would serve as a scalpel, a precise instrument of death aimed at the heart of the Ork menace.
This was not a mere battle. It was a war on a galactic scale, where every misstep could mean the fall of entire sectors.
Among the Primarchs, Lion El'Jonson and Horus had been the most fearsome tacticians. Guilliman knew this all too well.
"A shame," he murmured. "If I were the original, unaltered Guilliman, I would have dragged Lion from his slumber. I would command the wars, and he would break their lines. Together, we would crush the alien filth and purge Chaos from the stars."
But that was not the reality he lived in. He was no longer the man he once was.
Lost in thought, he almost didn't notice the flickering light on his communication panel.
Guidos was calling.
He was in charge of guarding Belisarius Cawl's mechanical avatar. If he was sending a message, it had to be important.
Guilliman rose from his seat, his movements deliberate and measured.
"My Lord."
Phikris, one of his honor guards, saluted sharply as Guilliman stepped out.
"Let's go to Guidos," Guilliman ordered, striding toward the concealed elevator. Phikris and the others fell into formation behind him.
The Primarch entered the lift alone, descending into the hidden depths of the ship. The others did not follow—they knew better than to question what lay beneath.
This was the Imperium, after all. And in the Imperium, knowledge was often more dangerous than ignorance.
Guilliman felt it before he even reached the bottom.
The weight of psychic pressure hung thick in the air, pressing against his mind. It was always like this down here.
Guidos was waiting when the doors slid open.
"My Lord," he greeted, his voice strained from prolonged exposure to the oppressive energy.
Staying in this place for too long would kill him.
But such was the fate of those who served mankind.
Guilliman met his gaze and, for a moment, felt the burden of the sacrifices made in his name.
"Take me to the chamber. And thank you, Guidos."
The man stiffened. "There is no need for thanks, my Lord. To serve the Imperium—and you—is my duty."
They moved quickly through the layers of security, reaching the vault where Cawl's avatar resided.
Guidos keyed in the access codes and then, without a word, left Guilliman to face the machine alone.
With a low hum, the chamber came to life.
Decapitated heads floated in agony within their containment units, their tortured expressions illuminated by the flickering circuits around them. Strange machines buzzed with activity, their mechanisms pulsating with unknown energy. For a moment, the very fabric of reality seemed to warp under the weight of the psychic disturbance.
Then, a mechanical voice echoed through the chamber.
"My Lord," Cawl's avatar intoned, its artificial voice laced with an eerie familiarity. "It is a pleasure to see you."
Guilliman narrowed his eyes. "I question whether you are truly a construct of Cawl. There is something...off about you. You seem less like an extension of him and more like an entity with its own agenda."
"A mere fragment, stripped from the Great Sage himself," the machine replied smoothly. "Belisarius Cawl is bound by the tenets of the Omnissiah. He would never break protocol."
Guilliman let out a dry chuckle. "That sounds as believable as a claim that the Chaos Gods are merciful."
The avatar let out a synthetic laugh. "My Lord, have you lost your sense of humor? Ten thousand years of sleep have made you dull."
"Enough games," Guilliman snapped. "What news does Cawl bring?"
"The research teams have returned with conclusive data. The repairs on the anomalous lighthouse are scheduled, and progress will soon be made. However, the Great Sage questions your decision. Why not build an entirely new lighthouse?"
Guilliman smirked. "That would not serve my purpose. My brothers are watching, waiting for me to make a mistake. If I construct something new, they will not care. But if I repair the old, they will see it as an opportunity to strike at me."
"They may not take the bait," the avatar warned.
"But they might," Guilliman countered. "And arrogance is their sin. This is merely a gambit. If it works, we gain an advantage. If not, we lose nothing."
And in this galaxy, that was as close to certainty as one could get.