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Belisarius Cawl's avatar fell into silence.
After a while, he spoke again.
"You are becoming more and more cunning, like a despicable hunter. You have learned to lay traps for your enemies."
"It is not cunning, it is wisdom," Guilliman smiled. "In this universe, the Warp is not the only one capable of deception—we can play that game as well. Suspicion and paranoia are as deeply rooted in the minds of the denizens of the Warp as they are in mortals. They are our reflections, and when used correctly, they can be powerful tools."
There exists a mighty daemon under Khorne's command—Skalbrand, the Exiled One, the Harvester of Wrath. Once, he was the greatest general of Khorne, the most powerful of all Bloodthirsters. But treachery undid him. Tzeentch, the Architect of Fate, deceived and clouded his mind with insidious whispers, leading him to strike at Khorne himself in a moment of blind rage. For this ultimate betrayal, he was cast down, exiled in disgrace.
This incident proved a critical truth—daemons are not invulnerable. They are flawed, just as mortals are. They can be deceived, manipulated, and led into ruin.
"Regardless, you are becoming more terrifying," Cawl's clone remarked. "But perhaps that is humanity's fortune. They need a leader who is both cunning and powerful."
"Is there any other news?" Guilliman asked, unfazed by the evaluation.
"The Colossus of Retribution, utilizing both Death Star and Mechanicum technology, has been completed. The Fabricator-General asks whether it should be deployed to the battlefield."
"Of course. We require potent weapons to instill fear in the xenos that threaten the Imperium," Guilliman replied. "Relay my command to the Fabricator-General. Have Marneus Calgar oversee its deployment. The Colossus of Retribution must prove its worth in the coming war."
"Understood. The transmission has been encrypted. Beyond this, is there any other message for the Fabricator-General?"
"Not for now," Guilliman said, shaking his head. "I only hope that he applies the knowledge I have given him swiftly, establishing enough Scholastica Mechanica academies to propagate this wisdom."
"My lord, I must warn you—this is a direct violation of the Mechanicum's core tenets. Knowledge is not meant to be disseminated freely; it must be preserved and entrusted solely to the Mechanicum," Cawl's avatar cautioned.
"Is that your opinion, or Fabricator-General Cawl's?" Guilliman asked.
"At present, this is merely my personal observation," the clone replied.
"An abhorrent artificial intelligence, openly defying the decrees of the Imperium—yet now, you expect me to obey the rules? Do you realize what that makes you? A mere echo of Cawl."
"And what, precisely, do I resemble?" the clone asked.
"A succubus of Slaanesh, ready to seduce with knowledge but demanding subservience in return."
Cawl's avatar fell silent for a moment.
"As always, you maintain your sense of humor," the clone finally responded, "though I must admit, I find the comparison unamusing. Furthermore, I do not despise artificial intelligence—I am simply a personality construct, stripped from Cawl himself."
"I have not violated the doctrines of the Mechanicum. The knowledge of the Omnissiah and the Standard Template Constructs remain under the Mechanicum's jurisdiction. The Scholastica Mechanica merely teaches knowledge I gathered millennia ago."
The avatar chose not to argue further. Opposing the Lord Commander of the Imperium was fruitless.
"Shall I transmit the orders?"
"Send them."
At Guilliman's command, the machinery rumbled to life. A pulse of immense psychic energy flared briefly before vanishing. The severed heads of servitors fell into stillness, their lights dimming. The hidden chamber returned to silence.
Guilliman departed, stepping back onto the battlefield.
A new war was about to begin.
Fire, smoke, and ruin blanketed the land.
The Astartes, answering the distress call to suppress cult activity, faced an unspeakable horror—traitors, their bodies grotesquely fused with sacrificial offerings, birthed from the raw madness of the Warp.
A Leman Russ tank was hurled aside like a mere toy by an immense psychic force. The shattered wreckage of a gunship smoldered on the ground, its flames licking skyward.
On the battlefield, the voices of the faithful dwindled, their defiant roars fading into silence.
"You will fail, daemon," a battered Space Marine staggered forward, his chainsword still whirring weakly in his trembling grasp. The golden skull on his breastplate glinted under the eerie light. With every word, he coughed, flecks of blood and torn flesh spilling from his lips.
His right arm hung uselessly, the armor shattered and sparking. Yet his eyes blazed with fury. Even on the precipice of death, the Emperor's Angels would not surrender.
"Foolish mortal," Magnus the Red looked upon him with pity.
"For the Primarch… for the Emperor…"
The warrior's final cry was cut short as an unseen force seized him. His body convulsed in midair, ensnared by an overwhelming surge of psychic energy.
"I despise that title."
In an instant, the energy erupted into searing lightning, reducing the warrior to charred remains.
Magnus lowered his staff, surveying the battlefield from atop the ruins. His Rubric Marines advanced methodically, purging any survivors, replenishing their wargear from the fallen.
"My lord, why are we here?" Ahriman approached, bowing his head in deference.
With the aid of the cultists' ritual sacrifices, they had crossed the great divide to this Imperial stronghold.
"The False Emperor has lost his way," Magnus declared. "I shall be the one to guide humanity, to grant them true enlightenment—to lift them from their pitiful ignorance and grant them mastery over the Warp. They will walk the true path, the path of ascension."
His single eye, brimming with eldritch wisdom, gazed toward the distant hive city.
"I have gleaned something from the minds of the weak-hearted. When Guilliman ventured to the Charadon sector, he dispatched Saint Celestine, the Marshal of the Black Templars, and a Grey Knight Grand Master to Pharos. He did not publicly reveal their purpose, but history holds the key. If we do not intervene, his plans may disrupt my own."
"He has not even secured the Imperium's core, yet he seeks to meddle in the Imperium Nihilus?" Ahriman asked, puzzled.
"During the Horus Heresy, when my brother Horus betrayed the Emperor, he plunged the galaxy into chaos with Warp storms, severing the loyalist forces. Yet, within Ultramar, a light emerged—a beacon piercing the madness of the Warp. It was not the Emperor's doing."
"That light enabled Lion El'Jonson and Sanguinius to breach the storm and reach Ultramar. And its source… was Pharos."
"If that is true, then this artifact must be of grave importance," Ahriman's expression darkened.
Magnus chuckled. "My dear brother is utterly incompetent at deception. He mistakes secrecy for cunning."
His smirk faded, his expression turning cold.
"Our new objective is Pharos. I will ensure that Guilliman learns—no matter how well he schemes, no matter how carefully he plans—his efforts are in vain against the will of Magnus the Red."