Phoros and Itto, having received their orders at the reception, wailed bitterly. With the help of tech-priests, their armor was repaired and no longer looked battered. Soon after, they boarded a transport ship and moved from the ground to the Bloodcaller, which was docked on the rails.
The flagship of the Archangels was the Red Tear, a Glory Queen-class battleship. Bloodcaller had been used as the flagship by the Blood Angels Chapter ever since the Legion split. After the death of the Archangel at the Battle of Terra, the Red Tear was kept as a relic by the Blood Angels Chapter. The interior layout remained unchanged as a memorial and, as such, the ship had never been used. During the Battle of Baal, this battleship—unused for thousands of years—was packed with relics and towed out of the system by warships. To put it into active use, a complete overhaul and technical upgrade would be necessary. Thus, the Archangels' flagship would temporarily be the Bloodcaller. There was no need to worry over what the current Chapter Master, Dante, would use. Dante found himself in the same situation as Calgar: both were requested by Primarchs to remain and defend their home worlds. Dante was not expected to need a flagship for the foreseeable future.
With the sound of a whistle, the transport ship slowly descended onto the hangar deck. As the hatch opened, Phoros, before stepping outside, took a deep breath of air filtered and recirculated by the ship's systems—a cold air filled with the scent of engine oil and incense. Inside the brightly lit hangar, various aircraft and ground personnel moved about in orderly fashion. At the center of this bustling scene, the High Priest of Blood, Corbulo, stood quietly, robed in ceremonial garb with a calm expression, patiently awaiting their arrival.
Upon spotting Phoros and his party, Corbulo immediately walked over.
"Welcome, kindred from afar."
"It has been over a hundred years since we last met."
"Yes, High Priest," Phoros replied with a respectful nod. "We are grateful for your protection and preservation of our honor in the Battle of Badab."
As a Chapter born of a cursed Legion, the Lamenters had, since their inception, endured suspicion and ostracism from various Imperial factions. There was nothing for them but lonely battles on the outskirts of the Imperium. After being redeployed to the Great Vortex region, Blackheart Huron extended them unexpected courtesy. For the first time, they realized how precious it was to be valued and aided by brothers.
When the Badab War broke out, the Lamenters wrongly sided with the insurrection led by Blackheart Huron, interpreting Imperial High Command's actions as unjust persecution of the Huronite. Only after the truth was revealed did they realize their mistake and lay down their arms. However, after choosing to surrender, their flagship was forcibly seized by the Minotaurs Chapter, who had come to quell the rebellion. In that fateful judgment, the Blood Angels interceded to plead for mercy on their behalf. The Lamenters were sentenced only to penance—the Centennial Penitent. Were it not for their parent Chapter, the best result for the Disconsolate Angels would have been disbandment, the worst—execution. It's important to note: many battle groups condemned at their founding have since defected or vanished. The main reason the Lamenters survive to this day is their geneseed lineage can be traced back to Sanguinius.
"We're merely stating facts. You are victims, not traitors."
Corbulo's voice remained calm, and he gestured for them to follow.
"Come, Lord of Lamentation. The Archangel awaits."
These words filled Phoros and the others with anxiety about the imminent meeting, but they clenched their teeth and followed Corbulo into the internal corridors of the Bloodcaller.
…
The corridors were impossibly wide, yet felt crowded due to the constant flow of people: petitioners from worlds on the Imperium's dark frontiers, ragged delegates seeking aid, and scores of administrators coming and going. As the delegates, clad in battered armor and solemn expressions, passed, the crowd parted in awe, opening a path through the corridor like a receding tide. Phoros could feel the curious and inquisitive gazes turning toward him. He wondered: how would these people judge the Lamenters? And how would the Archangels judge them?
Filled with apprehension, they followed Corbulo toward the command sanctum. Corbulo stopped before massive gates; the doors bore heraldic angels with wings and intricate, sacred prayers carved into their surface—a breathtaking spectacle.
"The Archangel is inside. She awaits you."
Corbulo turned to Phoros and spoke quietly.
Phoros again expressed his thanks to the High Priest, and, mustering his courage, reached out and pushed the seemingly impossibly heavy door. Beyond lay a vast hall. A soaring dome painted with a grand star mural, flecked with gleaming gold and sapphire-blue, was every bit as splendid as the Palace of Terra. At the far end of the hall, atop a raised dais accessible by several steps, sat the Primarch's throne. Beneath the throne, neatly arranged seating awaited each faction's representative, but all seats were empty at this time.
The entire hall was silent. Only the faint echo of boot falls striking the smooth floor disturbed the stillness.
"Welcome, my children," the Primarch emerged from the shadows.
He was taller than any ordinary human could imagine. His flawlessly handsome face glowed in a gentle light.
The mourners sank to one knee, armor clattering on the vast floor.
"Lord, we are sinners who must atone," Phoros's voice broke with emotion, his head bowed.
"My Chapter is on the verge of extinction, and I almost died on the battlefields of Pallas.
I lost two-thirds of my fellow Astartes, and millions more—yet failed to evacuate innocent civilians. Were it not for a mysterious warrior wielding that sacred relic, we'd have been devoured long ago."
The Archangel approached Phoros, knelt, and helped him up. In such close proximity to the Lord of Genesis, the Lord of Lamentation felt both inferior and deeply honored.
"No, Phoros. You are a hero," said Sanguinius.
"You held back the xenos fleet until reinforcements arrived. Otherwise, Pallas and many worlds beyond would have been consumed long ago, with billions suffering terrible fates. Your sacrifice and endurance were not failures; rather, they were heroic deeds—lighting up despair and preserving the spark of civilization."
Phoros could sense the sincerity in the Primarch's words. Pride welled within him—nothing could be more rewarding than a Primarch's approval.
"I have brought resources for the Lamenters to rebuild. Soon, you'll fight the enemy again."
Sanguinius looked at Phoros, "Do you wish to fight for me?"
"Absolutely! Never would I refuse!" Phoros shook his head vehemently, teeth gritted in oaths. "At your command, I—and all the Lamenters—are ready to die for you this very moment!"
Sanguinius broke into a broad smile. "A new battle awaits. Shall we go to war together?"
"The Lamenters are always ready, my Lord. At your command, we'll race to any battlefield."
"Excellent," Sanguinius nodded. "Your deeds are remembered and will be rewarded soon."
After Sanguinius praised the Lamenters, they wished to meet the mysterious figure who'd aided them, but none dispatched could find that individual. Sanguinius was left a little helpless, forced to focus on the Imperium's dark matters.
…
Sanguinius, with his reinforcements, entered the system and smashed the remaining Terran fleet. Afterward, Datch received notification of a mission:
["Congratulations on completing the mission! Proceed to Pallas and rescue the Lamenters Chapter.] [Quest Reward: EXP 1200, Points 1200, Reputation +150, MechaGodzilla (24 hours)]"
With a thought, a mechanical Godzilla with a cold metallic sheen appeared in Datch's palm—small, intricately detailed, and realistic. Datch carefully read the prop's instruction manual:
By tossing it into the air and issuing a command, the miniature would transform into a real MechaGodzilla robot.
MechaGodzilla was a giant beast-mecha modeled after the kaiju Godzilla—it possessed all of Godzilla's skills and could switch among different forms, such as Nanomachine Godzilla, Crimson Godzilla, and more. However, unlocking each form required points.
"Does the Sparklence also require points to unlock other forms?" Datch put away Godzilla and took out the Sparklence. Not having read the instructions beforehand, he closed his eyes and used the item instinctively.
With the Sparklence, summoned Ultraman Tiga could freely switch among three normal forms, but activating stronger forms also required points.
"I still have to keep doing tasks to rack up points," Datch muttered, stowing the wand away. "The stronger the war-related items get, the more points they drain."
"We ourselves must become stronger too."
He opened his personal panel, reviewing skills and experience gained during this period: proficiency in the chainsword, one-handed power sword, ground vehicles—a series of passive skills. Only two active abilities: "Stomp" and "Killing Desire."
After a moment's contemplation, Datch decided to learn "Blink," another short-range teleport ability. Combined with Sadako's videotape, it would become a formidable stealth tactic: use the tape to access a video device, then flash behind the target to stab their kidney. Repeating this several times would kill them all, leaving no trace of his intrusion. Thinking of this filled Datch with glee. He eagerly learned "Blink," spent his remaining XP to upgrade other skills, and used up all he had accumulated.
Having finished all this, Datch checked the minimap: there were no quests left on the Archangel side, but there were on Guilliman's side.
"Let's go back and find the Regent first."
Datch took out his teleport gun, opened a portal, and headed to the Strategium aboard the Macragge's Honour.
…
Macragge's Honour.
Guilliman was analyzing the star charts with his generals, discussing the next stage. Seeing a green light materialize, he smiled instinctively. At Datch's entrance, he quickly concealed his feelings, resuming his calm, rational attitude.
'Isn't this our Nameless One? Don't you need to stay on Baal, by Sanguinius's side? You even know which direction the Macragge's Honour's doors open…'
Guilliman cursed inwardly. Datch looked about the hall, then skipped away. Guilliman was taken aback. In the end, the new always replaces the old. They don't even look at me anymore. Emotions don't vanish; they only change.
Exiting the Strategium, Datch—familiar with the place—headed directly to the medical deck. There, after whacking things several times with golden hammer and treating the critically wounded, he earned a load of XP and points. A device called "Homecoming Devotional Robot" was set up in the corner; it randomly returned the unfortunate to their families.
Once that was done, Datch returned to the Strategium to find Guilliman and accept a new mission.
…
Datch returned to the Strategium, where Guilliman regarded him. Though his gaze appeared cold and severe, it was laced with hidden expectation. As Datch approached, Guilliman felt a secret surge of joy.
"Lord Regent, is there anything I can do for you?" Datch asked.
Guilliman wanted to burst out laughing. "You still came back to me for instructions. Nameless One, face reality—only I, Roboute Guilliman, am your best partner to save humanity. Sanguinius is unfit for you. He looks good perched on a beautiful throne; I, however, am a man of true work—perfect for you."
"Of course, there are tasks to be completed," Guilliman didn't reveal his true thoughts. He opened a star map projection, pressed a blinking light.
"At the center of the Nachmund Corridor is the knight-world Dharrovar, ruled by the royal Mandrakor family, who have betrayed us. They've sided with Chaos turncoats and are attempting to sever this vital corridor connecting the Empire's dark edge and sacred border. On Dharrovar, resistance fighters loyal to the Imperium are still active. If possible, go to Dharrovar, support the local resistance, and ensure the world returns to Imperial control."
The task interface appeared.
[Mission: Travel to the world of Dharrovar and support the local resistance in victory.]
Dharrovar is a knight-world in the Nachmund sub-sector, ruled by the Mandrakor dynasty. Ever since the formation of the Great Rift, King Kaligius has grown increasingly paranoid—attacking passing Imperial fleets and conspiring with Chaos turncoats. It's time to punish them.
[Quest Rewards: EXP 1500, Points 1500, Reputation +150, World Editor ×1]
World Editor!
Datch, delighted, opened the item's description:
With the World Editor, you can enable Creative Mode—edit terrain and rules at planetary and galactic levels. For example, you could convert a world into a fire world or a water world.
"Who says I'm not the creator?" Datch laughed, hands on hips.
Guilliman was generous—giving such a powerful item. After the Archangel mission, Datch's points had been depleted. Guilliman's quests would yield vast rewards. In fact, it was tempting—Guilliman was rewarded for betraying the Archangel. Nevermind. Best not to overthink it.
"Don't worry. I'll go to Dharrovar, help ensure loyalists win."
Accepting the mission, Datch readied his teleport gun, opened a portal, and headed straight for Dharrovar.
Guilliman watched Datch leave, eyebrows furrowed. He realized he must work even harder to direct politics, grasp the Imperium's wider situation, and understand every event shaping humanity's future. Only then could he anchor the Nameless Ones firmly to his side.
Old Ninth, it's not villainy—competition for the Nameless Ones has always been like this...
…
On the far side of the Milky Way, what was once a vibrant agricultural world had fallen into a corrupt paradise of filth and transgression. From orbit, sea and continent were indistinguishable—only seething, flowing, festering green swamps and proliferating cancerous forests. The atmosphere was thick with yellow-green miasma, streaked with visible spore clouds and polluted vapors. Countless trenches oozed dark pus across the ground, and titanic fungal pillars relentlessly spewed toxic clouds. This was a living, ever-rotting hell: the Garden of Nurgle.
Orbiting this decaying planet was the flagship of the Death Guard Legion—the Resilient. The original designers, were they still alive, would never recognize the Resilient as the once-glorious Glory Queen-class warship they created. Its hull was forcefully bound by expanding organic masses and decayed metal, looking like a colossal putrefying corpse. Its armor plates, dotted with pustules weeping pus and pockmarked by meaty openings that opened and shut, twisted with vascular tubes like writhing veins. Once-beautiful Gothic spires had warped into undulating, slimy tentacles. No plasma fire belched from its aft thrusters—only thick, noxious green clouds tinged with flesh.
Inside the Resilient was even more horrific. Corridors were lined with damp, pulsing flesh membranes. The air was stifling with rot and sweet miasma; an unprotected human's lungs would ulcerate in seconds. Thick, viscous pus dripped from the ceiling, pooling on the floor. Mutated microorganisms thrived like moss everywhere, myriad flies buzzing in living, dancing swarms in the half-light. The crew, transformed by foul powers, no longer resembled human beings—some limbs swollen like balls, some ulcerated to the bone, others fused into the flesh structure of the ship itself. They shuffled zombie-like through the passageways, carrying on their abominable tasks.
On the bridge of the Resilient
Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard, gazed from the observation window at his masterpiece. Not merely the world below, but the entire region had been reshaped into an eternal, decaying garden through Father's blessing. Uncounted demons and chosen ones sang within the rotten soil, glorifying Father's bounty.
Just then, a fat fly buzzed in and landed on Mortarion's shoulder, whispering cryptic words—bearing important news for the daemon Primarch.
On the far side of the galaxy, Sanguinius, progenitor of the Blood Angels—dead for ten thousand years—had returned to walk reality again. Upon receiving the news, Mortarion, previously in high spirits, erupted in rage. With a furious roar, he smashed his immense fist onto the control panel, fused with living flesh. Rotten metal and ruptured meat burst with a sickening squelch, spraying viscous fluid everywhere. The whole bridge trembled from his wrath.
Around him, his crew—minds fractured—huddled together in terror, their clouded eyes reflecting deep dread.
"Guilliman's resurrection was bad enough, but now Sanguinius rises from the grave too!?" Mortarion's voice rasped with anger, toxic fumes swirling around him. "At this rate, even Ferrus will return?"
A sense of crisis welled up in Mortarion's heart. Would his Father return if this continued? If the Emperor finally won this millennia-long war, would he—the betrayer who had chosen eternal life and Father's mercy—end as a laughingstock? He could not let this happen.
He needed to prove, through his actions, that trusting the loving Father and Chaos would ultimately triumph.
"Ultamar," Mortarion muttered.
Ultramar had special meaning for Guilliman. If it were struck hard enough, his brothers would surely rush to help. That Nameless One might go with them too. All he needed to do was set a trap at Ultramar, drag Guilliman to his knees—and into the Garden. Let all the daemon kin take turns anointing this good brother with Father's blessed soup. Is there still fear of his disobedience? Guilliman could be made to serve, and with him, defeat the Nameless One. If both of them were eliminated, Sanguinius alone would be powerless.
With patience and opportunity, he was sure to succeed eventually. Mortarion quickly devised a perfect plan, lips twisting into a vile smile.
This time, he would utterly annihilate all hope, bringing the Emperor—his former Father—to total despair.