Inside the Council Chamber of the Imperial Palace on Terra, bright sunlight flooded the vast hall. Thirteen figures were seated around a grand, ornate solid-wood table at its center.
These figures comprised nine permanent High Lords, along with the Ecclesiarch, the Fabricator-General of Mars, the Inquisitorial Representative, the Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum, the Representative of the Navis Nobilite, the Representative of the Astronomican, the Representative of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, the Master of the Administratum, and the Lord Commander of the Adeptus Arbites.
The remaining three were rotated seats: the Lord Commander Militant of the Astra Militarum, the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, and the Representative of the Imperial Merchant Fleets.
For ten thousand years, these individuals had represented the absolute pinnacle of Imperial authority. Today, however, the returned Primarch seated at the head of the table possessed power far eclipsing theirs.
Upon returning from the Emperor's Golden Throne, Guilliman had immediately summoned the High Lords to declare his father's decree: he was now the Lord Commander of the Imperium, the living proxy of the Emperor's divine will.
Gazing upon the shocked, pale faces of the High Lords, Guilliman offered no further pleasantries. Time was of the essence; he had no leisure to negotiate with these men, needing instead to address the structural decay of the Imperium without delay.
His first step was to reform Imperial administration at its root. Yet when he introduced his initial proposal—to revise the Codex Astartes, an outdated relic unfit for the current era—it met with immediate opposition from every High Lord present, save for Captain-General Trajann Valoris.
They voiced vocal protests against the Primarch's decree, oblivious to the darkening expression on Guilliman's face, until he barked a single, thunderous order: "Enough!"
Quiet returned to the table as the High Lords lowered their heads to stare silently at the tabletop, as though the bitter opposition moments prior had never occurred.
Looking over the assembled High Lords, Guilliman felt a deep surge of frustration. So long as these obstinate parasites remained in power, Imperial governance would degrade further by the day. It was clear the High Lords of Terra required a thorough purging.
Before the Primarch could speak further, a heavy knock echoed through the chamber doors. A Custodian entered with hurried, measured strides.
The Emperor's guard delivered news that shook everyone to their core: the Great Rift's psychic scar now hung directly over Terra, and the forces of Chaos had descended upon the Throneworld.
As the Custodian spoke, the bright sunlight outside dimmed rapidly, replaced by a suffocating blanket of crimson clouds.
Guilliman stood up, his gaze darkening. Beside him, Captain-General Trajann Valoris rose as well. The Primarch turned toward the imposing golden warrior. "For ten thousand years, your order stood watch beneath my father's throne, remaining immobile and indifferent to the horrors unfolding beyond this palace."
A hint of quiet reproach edged Guilliman's tone. "Now that I have returned, I command you as the Lord Regent of the Imperium: march out from these halls and strike down the enemies of Chaos."
"As you command, my Lord," Trajann offered a crisp, formal bow before turning to stride out of the chamber.
Watching the Captain-General depart, Guilliman turned his gaze back to the uneasy High Lords. "This meeting is suspended. Once the Chaos threat is extinguished, we will resume."
Confronted by the Primarch's cold, suppressed fury, the High Lords dared not offer further resistance. They bowed their heads in submission and quietly vacated the room.
Silence fell over the council hall once more. Guilliman walked over to the grand balcony, looking up at the crimson scar marring the skies of Terra in heavy silence.
---
Across Terra, the hives had descended into absolute madness. Deprived of food and clean water, the sprawling megastructures had devolved into deadly hellscapes.
Countless mortals struggled for survival, their only remaining resource being the flesh and blood of those around them. Slaughter and death saturated every spire level.
Within a massive hive city near the Imperial Palace, nearly all civilized life was extinct. The spire nobility had long since fled to the sanctuary of the Palace, leaving behind only the hedonistic frenzy of bloodthirsty mobs.
Before the grand Ecclesiarchy cathedral in the upper hive, statues of the Emperor had been pulled down, sacred texts burned, and priests rounded up by armed lunatics, driven like cattle into the central plaza.
The plaza—once a shrine of divine glory—was now slick with blood. The cultists had used civilian blood to trace a colossal eight-pointed Star of Chaos across the floor. At each of its eight tips stood a towering mound of severed heads.
The priests were shoved into the center of the blasphemous star, weeping and praying desperately for the Emperor's salvation. Nearby, the cult leader only shouted the Blood God's name with increasing fanaticism.
"Slay them! Let their blood initiate an endless massacre, and tear that false Emperor from his throne!"
With a wave of his blade, the crazed cultists decapitated the priests. Blood erupted into the air, drawn by invisible forces as it pooled toward the center of the eight-pointed star.
Then, horrifying anomalies manifested. The pooling blood began to boil and bubble violently, while the surrounding piles of severed heads shrieked in unholy terror. The cultists cheered, howling war cries as the thick scent of rust and copper filled the air.
As the blood boiled harder and the shrieks grew deafening, the cultists' eyes turned blood-red. War cries were no longer enough; a manic craving for slaughter took hold of their minds.
When the first blade swung into the man standing beside it, a bloody frenzy erupted. The cultists turned on one another, indifferent to who stood before them, driven only by the desire to sever heads.
At last, the cult leader stood alone among the piles of butchered flesh, raising a severed head to the sky with a bloodcurdling howl. He was the sole survivor, pleading for his master's favor as a thick red fog enveloped the upper hive.
In response to his final scream, a massive, jagged battleaxe cleaved through the blood mist, reducing the mortal's body to a crimson spray.
It was a true Greater Daemon of Khorne—the physical embodiment of rage and wrath. It was Ka'Bandha!
Self-proclaimed chief among Khorne's Greater Daemons, Ka'Bandha should not have been able to manifest here easily, but he had received direct orders from his master, using the blasphemous ritual as an anchor to break into realspace.
With the Greater Daemon's roaring challenge, an endless horde of Khorne's daemonkin surged out from the red mist. Screaming Bloodletters and ravenous Flesh Hounds charged toward the Imperial defense lines drawn up outside the hive.
The situation turned dire in an instant. Eight blood legions, led by eight Greater Daemons, crossed the dimensional veil via profane rituals, converging directly on the Golden Palace.
Standing between them and their objective were the mortal soldiers of the Astra Militarum. Until reinforcements from other Imperial factions arrived, these ordinary men and women had only their lives to trade for time.
Yet, had the Governor of Aiur been present on this front line, he would have realized that those eight Greater Daemons were not ordinary Bloodthirsters. Every single one had been replaced by the most potent warlords in the Blood God's service. And beneath the deafening roars, an even more terrifying figure stalked through the fog, butchering everything in its path.
Khorne's blood-red gaze was fixed firmly on Terra. The Lord of Skulls demanded the flesh and souls of those two entities.