"So, do you believe me now?" Gerhard asked Guilliman after they were alone in his large room.
"It is hard to deny the truth in such a situation. This shouldn't be possible. My sons are 100% loyal to the Emperor and me."
"Nothing is impossible. And I already told you the reason for this. You needed to see it yourself, which was why I asked you not to intervene. Do you think that the oldest Ultramarine and a man of such renown would ever allow himself to be ragebaited like that?"
"You are correct. That is unthinkable. But if it's already a fact, why did you ask me to hold back my presence? If it helps otherwise?"
"Because you need to realise the predicament we find ourselves in. All of humanity, for that matter. Your presence has notified and alerted all of your traitor brothers and their patrons. The entire Macragge System will be filled with chaos and in ways that we won't necessarily see coming."
"So we need to be ready for all eventualities. I have already begun with the plans. How are you on your end?"
"Well, I believe they bought our little 'act' quite well. I have spent my time playing the role and asked Hans to do the groundwork. I will be able to finish it in a few hours, tomorrow at the latest," Gerhard said.
"Good. Then we shall prepare for the arrival of backup and the 'reveal'."
Meanwhile, Imperial backup began massing around Macragge. Navigating the violent Warp storms ripping through the region and the entire galaxy, dozens of Space Marine ships gathered in orbit above the Ultramarines' home planet.
Representatives from numerous Successor Chapters had fought their way through the chaotic energy of the Warp, risking everything just to verify the most glorious of rumours with their own eyes: their Primarch was actually back.
Warriors from the Novamarines, the Sons of Orar, the Genesis Chapter, and many others joined the growing force, bowing before Guilliman and pledging their absolute loyalty.
All while Gerhard was busy inside a time dilation dungeon with Hans, who had joined him at this point, organising and preparing for what was to come.
The next crusade.
The first steps had been taken upon the road of reconquest. Macragge, the planet, was free of Chaos taint. Or so it seemed. Even Roboute thought so until Gerhard told him the hard truth. As long as people were capable of thought and emotion, they would always be susceptible to Chaos and corruption.
Even the Astartes.
It was a ridiculous notion that someone as trained, experienced, and headstrong as Marneus Calgar could be rage-baited. Their trust and loyalty towards their Primarch was unbreakable, wasn't it?
It was, and yet... it was complicated. Could Roboute be everywhere, all at once, at all times? Who were the Minotaurs? What is psycho-indoctrination?
There were large gaps between what the public, and even the Primarchs, thought they knew and what was actually true. And it was time for Guilliman to rip that band-aid off. Chaos had power, real power, and it was dangerous. More so than it ever was during the Great Crusade, because it no longer had to hide.
Tzeentch was a real problem, and, if Guilliman hadn't been blessed with such good parents, Gerhard believed he would have been a follower of Titsnitch, 100%.
While the armies of the Ultramar Reconquest were gathering, another opportunity presented itself.
It was the Arch-Consul of Magna Civitas, the closest Ultramar had to a conventional Governor, who arrived with a suggestion.
Around the central hololith table, Roboute Guilliman stood like a towering statue of muscle and brain, his brow furrowed as he reviewed troop movements and supply lines. Beside him stood Marneus Calgar, his face still bearing the faint purplish bruising from his recent sparring match with Gerhard, who was leaning casually against a nearby terminal, quietly looking at his spreadsheets and crunching thousands of numbers in his head.
The heavy adamantium doors of the chamber hissed open, and the herald announced the visitor.
"The Arch-Consul of Magna Civitas, Lord Tyranus Agathone."
The Arch-Consul stepped forward, his ornate, gold-trimmed robes sweeping across the polished stone floor. Unlike the Astartes or the cold-eyed logistics officers, Agathone bore the unmistakable look of a high-tier mortal politician, shrewd, charismatic, and deeply attuned to the fragile psychology of the masses. But still different, as he was of Ultramar and therefore skilled and filled with the desire to see the 500 worlds prosper.
He bowed low, pressing his fist to his chest.
"My Lord Primarch," Agathone began, his voice carrying a practised, resonant warmth. "Lord Chapter Master. I thank you for granting me audience in these galaxy-shaking days."
Guilliman didn't immediately look up from the hololith, his massive armoured finger tracing a supply vector. He thought about what Gerhard told him and sighed silently.
"Speak, Arch-Consul. Macragge is safe, but the rest of Ultramar still suffers. Our time is short."
"It is precisely because Ultramar bleeds that I am here, my Lord," Agathone said, stepping closer to the perimeter of the tactical map. "The fighting within the Fortress of Hera has ceased, but across the stars, the populace is paralysed. They have felt the shadow of this... Great Rift. They have seen the sky tear open. Rumours fly like a plague, whispers that Macragge has fallen, that the Emperor's light has died, that the Archenemy has won."
"The heretics are driven from Macragge," Calgar rumbled, his deep voice vibrating in the chamber. "The defence has held strong. The citizens will see our victory in the cold facts of our reconquest."
"With respect, Lord Calgar, citizens do not eat facts, nor do they draw courage from a ledger," Agathone countered smoothly, turning his gaze back to the Primarch. "They need a miracle. They need to see it to believe it. I propose a grand victory parade through the avenues of Magna Civitas."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Let the surviving companies march. Let the banners of the Ultramarines fly proud. And, above all, let the pict-casts record every moment, to be broadcast far and wide across every world we can reach within the Imperium."
Guilliman finally raised his head. His eyes, which held an ancient, heavy, bleak and private wisdom and sorrow for the ruined state of his father's empire, narrowed slightly.
"A parade?" Guilliman's voice dropped, laced with disapproval. "You look out at a fortress covered in the blood of my sons, at a sector hanging by a thread, and you ask me to waste valuable hours on pageantry and self-aggrandisement? I am not a stage performer, Arch-Consul."
The room's temperature seemed to drop. Calgar stiffened, and several nearby officers pulled their eyes away, sensing the Primarch's rising displeasure.
But Agathone did not back down. He took a calculated step forward, offering a plea that was entirely devoid of fear, driven instead by something else.
"It is not for your ego, my Lord! I know you care nothing for hollow praise," Agathone said with earnest passion. "But consider the people! The Imperium is suffocating in darkness. In this blackest hour, mankind needs the light of hope. They need a shining example of victory to renew their faith, not just in the distant, silent Emperor, but in Lord Guilliman reborn. If they see you, standing tall, undefeated, a living demigod walking among them... the psychological tides will turn. Factories will work double shifts. Militia recruits will flood the enlistment stations. Fear will turn to fury and conviction."
Guilliman looked at Gerhard, his gaze falling back to the tactical map, though he wasn't reading the data anymore. The thought of a grand spectacle sat incredibly ill with his grim inner mood. He had just woken up to a living nightmare, a fanatical, decaying Imperium that worshipped his father as a god and twisted everything he had ever fought for.
To march through the streets while thousands of Ecchlesiarchs screamed lies felt like a bitter farce. And yet, he knew this would come, so he was ready and had a plan for this.
"The Arch-Consul makes a valid point, my Lord," Calgar spoke up. "The mortal population is fragile. A display of our overwhelming martial pride would solidify morale far faster than any official decree."
From the side of the room, the click of a data-slate tapping against a desk broke the tense silence. Gerhard straightened up, adjusting his getup. All eyes turned to him.
"We already talked about it, Roboute," Gerhard said, entirely bypassing formal titles with a casualness that still made the Arch-Consul's eye twitch. "Look at it from a pure numbers perspective. Right now, efficiency across civilian infrastructure is down by nearly 30% due to panic, hoarding, and existential dread. You can give them all the rations and security protocols you want, but terror is a massive drain on productivity and a window for Chaos."
Gerhard walked over to the hololith table, tapping a few keys to bring up a projection of the city's main avenues.
Guilliman stared at the projection, tracking the logic. He despised the theatrical nature of it, the stomach-turning idolisation that would undoubtedly accompany it. To use something which his father would have killed him for 10,000 years before.
But as a master of statecraft, he could not deny the wisdom of the strategy.
"Very well," Guilliman said. "We will have your parade, Arch-Consul. But it will not be a celebration of hollow vanity. It will be a solemn demonstration of our unbreakable resolve. The martial strength of the Primogenitor Chapters will be on display to show our enemies that we are ready for war, not that we are resting on our laurels."
Agathone bowed deeply, a look of immense relief washing over his face. He was beyond ecstatic that his idea was to be implemented.
"Thank you, my Lord. The pict-casters will capture a legend reborn. It will echo across the stars."
"Ensure that it does. Now leave us. We have an empire to rebuild."
.
Mere days after victory was declared, it was time. A grand triumph swept up from the Titan Gate to the very steps of the Fortress of Hera. Thousands of war engines, Titans and massive tanks, and millions of Space Marines presented their colours and raised cheers and horn blasts to the skies.
A seething sea of the city's residents packed the crater-pocked processionals and plazas to watch the proceedings, and voices beyond count rang out as one to cry Guilliman's praise in a single deafening roar.
Everyone was excited to see a Primarch. A living, real Primarch and not just a story about past glory. He was the closest thing there was that most mortals would ever see that was so closely related to the Emperor of Mankind.
Standing on a marble-columned platform with his closest lieutenants at his side, the Primarch dutifully presented the most magnificent spectacle he could for the assembled masses. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it right, just like he and Gerhard had discussed.
[Observe]
A few paces to the side, Gerhard stood leaning against a marble pillar, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was moving over the massive crowd, but his gaze kept drifting back to the Arch-Consul, Tyranus Agathone, who was stepping forward with a velvet cushion held in his trembling hands.
Excitement, most would say. Honour, others. They were all wrong.
Resting upon the velvet was a stunningly wrought laurel wreath, beautifully crafted with shimmering gold.
"My Lord Primarch," Agathone said, his voice amplified by the balcony's vox-emitters, carrying a reverent cadence. "The people of Ultramar offer you this token of our eternal devotion. A crown of victory for the saviour of our realm. I urge you, sire, don the gilded crown at once, and let the galaxy see you for who you are."
Guilliman looked down at the wreath. With a slow, measured movement, the Primarch reached out, picked up the golden laurels, and placed them upon his head.
The moment the metal touched his temples, the crowd's roar faded into a distant hum.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of warmth flooded Guilliman's consciousness. The heavy, suffocating blanket of despair, duty and horror that had plagued him since his awakening was instantly obliterated. In its place, his mind was filled with dazzling, blinding thoughts of future glories.
'Why did I hesitate?' his voice whispered in the deepest, most receptive corridors of his mind. 'This paltry triumph... this single city... it is nothing. A microscopic drop in the ocean of what is rightfully mine.'
Images, vibrant and intoxicating, filled with honour, glory and prosperity, flashed behind his eyes. He saw the Great Rift torn asunder not by Chaos, but by the sheer brilliance of his new crusade. He saw his armies, not just thousands of Space Marines, but billions, trillions of soldiers, an endless sea of steel and banners stretching across the stars. He saw their faces, twisted in absolute loyalty for their heroic lord. They would die for him gladly, throwing themselves into the meatgrinder just to whisper his name with their dying breaths. And they would be right to do so.
Planets, solar systems, whole segmentums shifted across his mental map, their ancient names wiped away and replaced by a singular, glorious designation: Guilliman's Reach. Roboute's Pride. The Imperium of the Avenging Son.
He saw the whipped dogs of Chaos, Abaddon, Mortarion, Magnus and the others, fleeing before his wrath like the pathetic, broken mutts they were, howling as they were driven into oblivion.
Towering statues of solid gold and marble, miles high, were being raised across a million worlds, all bearing his flawless likeness.
And then, the ultimate vision manifested. The golden light of the Sol System.
He saw himself marching into the Imperial Palace. He saw the ancient, decaying carcass of his father sitting upon the Golden Throne.
He has failed. The Emperor is a corpse, a silent idol of a dying age. The throne is mine to mount. The Emperor's most loyal son deserves no less an inheritance. I am the only one who can rule. I will have my due.
I will take the throne--
The thought struck a special chord deep in Guilliman's soul. And something manifested itself. A cool sensation washed over him and through his mind and soul.
No.
The absolute, unbreakable loyalty that defined the Avenging Son reasserted itself like a lightning strike. The sheer, blasphemous arrogance of the thought tore through the intoxicating fog. It was an infection. A psychic poison.
And as soon as it appeared, the preplanned protection activated and washed it all out, eliminating it before it could take root.
With a violent gasping breath, Guilliman snapped back to reality. He opened his eyes again to the real world. And they widened with a sudden, burning fury.
"Arrgh!" Guilliman roared, with a pure, unadulterated disgust.
He reached up with his massive, armoured hand and took the gilded crown from his head, throwing it to Gerhard, who caught it with one hand and looked at it with interest.
"You were right," Guilliman said.
[Observe]
[The Crown of Glories (Laurel Wreath of Slaanesh) - Rank: Legendary]
Durability: Bound by Warp Animus
| A stunningly wrought laurel wreath crafted from shimmering, pristine gold, intricately woven with micro-etched Slaaneshi runes invisible to the naked eye. While disguised to look like a sacred token of Imperial devotion, it carries a shard of the Daemon Primarch Fulgrim's living animus.
| It targets the wearer's deepest subconscious desires, inflating their ego, pride, and ambitions to catastrophic, corruptive extremes and twisting lies into truth.
| Has never failed to corrupt anyone before.
--
"I hope this will at least help you," Guilliman said.
"I'm certain it will. The defences worked, I take it?" Gerhard asked.
"Yes. It was like seeing myself from another perspective and not as if it were happening to me. I was able to see the truth for what it was and never truly believed what was happening. And your wave of psychic power even fully purified it. No residual energy."
Gerhard nodded, all of this according to his plan. Naturally, he knew about the Arch-Consul, and he had told Guilliman, but he also told him that it would be beneficial to reveal Chaos in front of thousands of people. To prepare them for what they were up against, other than the clear Chaos Space Marines.