Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

The Heretic of the Empire Was Myself.

Guilliman could already picture the reaction of the Grey Knights—the ever-watchful enforcers of the Inquisition—if they discovered the truth. That the Primarch, the Regent of the Imperium himself, was cultivating traitors born of the Warp.

But he had no choice.

The threat of the Ruinous Powers was too great. He understood, with cold clarity, that if the Imperium was to endure, then no weapon could be left unused. Against such horrors, there was no victory in fighting fairly.

This was a universe governed by cruelty.

Survival took precedence over ethics and laws.

The Imperium knew so little about the daemons, while the daemons understood humanity all too well.

Faster-than-light travel, psychic communication, the very foundations upon which the Imperium rested—all were dependent on the Warp.

The knowledge gap between humanity and the Chaos Gods was staggering. If the Imperium was winning, it was only because the enemy willed it so.

That had to change.

Guilliman would ensure that the wars between the Imperium and the entities of the Warp were waged on equal footing.

Daemons could invade reality at will.

So why could the Imperium not do the same?

Why could humanity not strike into the heart of the Warp and wage war there?

Cultivating a few daemon leaders… was that really so unthinkable?

Carrying thoughts that would see him burned at the stake by the Ecclesiarchy and the Inquisition alike, Guilliman left the chamber, sealing it behind him with his private access codes.

As the elevator doors opened, his Honor Guard stood exactly as he had left them, their vigilance unbroken.

"My lord," Phikris greeted him with a salute. "Sicarius has sent word. He wishes to meet with you—he claims to have urgent information."

"Send him to my reception hall," Guilliman instructed. "We will speak there."

"As you command." Phikris bowed before departing to summon Sicarius.

Guilliman watched him disappear into the corridors of the warship before turning to his own path. His Honor Guard followed in formation, their heavy footfalls echoing through the steel halls. Behind them, several Terminators remained stationed at the sealed door, bolters at the ready. None would be permitted entry.

As Guilliman left, silence and darkness reclaimed the hidden chamber.

The warriors left behind did not stir. They were not fresh recruits who sought comfort in idle chatter. They were veterans of the Ultramarines—silent, resolute, unwavering. Statues of flesh and ceramite, standing guard over a secret that could unmake the Imperium itself.

Guilliman's reception hall was larger than those of most commanders, yet spartan in design. A hololithic projector and crystalline data pillars stood at the center, their glow providing the only illumination. There were no ornaments, no displays of grandeur.

He had little patience for the Imperium's obsession with skull iconography.

Over the millennia, the Imperium's aristocracy and Mechanicus had transformed every facet of their architecture into grotesque monuments of bone and death. To them, skulls were the ultimate symbol of humanity's purity.

To Guilliman, it was nothing more than a grim reflection of how far the Imperium had fallen.

Once, mutants had held higher status. Now, they were relegated to the fringes of society—permitted only to serve in the military, never to rule. Any world that allowed a mutant to govern was swiftly declared heretical, marked for extermination.

The Imperium had ossified into a machine of blind dogma.

It had to change.

By the time Guilliman arrived, Sicarius and Phikris were already waiting.

"My lord," Sicarius greeted respectfully.

Guilliman took his seat. "What have you learned?"

Sicarius retrieved a data-crystal, placing it on the table. "The missionary world, Espandor, has sent a request. They wish for the Primarch to visit, so that their people may witness your mercy and the Emperor's glory firsthand. Alternatively, they ask you to designate a site where they may pilgrimage to meet you."

Guilliman tapped his fingers against the table in thought.

"Espandor?" he mused.

"Yes, my lord," Sicarius nodded. "Sixteen centuries ago, it suffered great turmoil. The Ecclesiarchy cleansed it of heretics and reshaped it into a Missionary World of Ultramar."

Espandor. A world of cathedrals and preachers.

Much like the 'perfect city' Guilliman had once burned to the ground.

The Ecclesiarchy, in their ignorance, had likely forgotten that part of history. Or perhaps they knew but chose to remain silent.

If they ever dared to look too closely at the past, they would find an inescapable truth:

The Emperor had despised religion.

So what, then, was the purpose of the Ecclesiarchy?

Did they truly believe they could invite Guilliman—the son of an Emperor who sought to eradicate faith—to walk among their fanatics?

Were they blind? Or merely arrogant?

For a long moment, Guilliman remained silent. Then he nodded.

"Inform them that I will arrive in Espandor within a few days."

"As you command, my lord. Do you have any further orders?"

"Just send my response." Guilliman dismissed him with a wave.

Sicarius bowed and left, his footsteps fading into the corridors.

Phikris, however, hesitated.

"My lord," he ventured, "why go yourself? You could summon them elsewhere."

Guilliman rose from his seat, moving toward the viewport.

They were still in the Warp, and so the shutters remained sealed—lest any crew member gaze into the madness beyond and lose themselves. But slivers of eerie light bled through the reinforced barriers, flickering with an unnatural glow.

The Primarch had glimpsed the true nature of the Warp more than once. He remembered the raw, incomprehensible vastness of it. The unfiltered knowledge that could sear a mortal's mind to ash.

Only his inhuman physiology had spared him.

For lesser beings, to look upon the Warp was to invite oblivion.

"I need to assess Espandor's worth, Phikris," Guilliman finally said. "Faith in the Ecclesiarchy runs too deep to be uprooted entirely. And in these times of darkness, the people of the Imperium need something to cling to."

Phikris frowned. "My lord… do you have plans for the Ecclesiarchy?"

Guilliman turned to face him, his gaze unreadable.

"I have… an idea," he admitted. "But I need to confirm certain details first. The Ecclesiarchy holds too much power. They have the authority to condemn entire warbands, to brand entire worlds as heretics. That is dangerous."

A shadow passed over his expression.

"Religion blinds men," Guilliman said. "It makes them irrational. It must be controlled."

He had seen the damage firsthand.

The Ecclesiarchy had led its followers to senseless slaughter. It had declared holy wars that drained the Imperium's strength, sent armies to their doom, and plunged mankind into ignorance.

It had been responsible for some of the darkest moments in history:

— The fanatical Crusades that had sacrificed billions of Imperial citizens against the Ork War Moons.

— The Schism of the Thirty-Third Millennium, where the Ecclesiarchy purged all rival sects, accelerating humanity's descent into ignorance.

— The Age of Apostasy, where the mad High Lord Goge Vandire had ruled through terror, exterminating a hundred worlds for minor infractions.

The Emperor had been right. Religion was a cancer.

And yet… Guilliman knew it could not simply be excised.

The Imperium was too dependent on faith to survive without it.

No, destruction was not the answer.

Control was.

And Guilliman intended to bend the Ecclesiarchy to his will.