Drop Deck, Glory of Macragge
A hundred Space Marines stood ready on the drop deck, their armor gleaming under the artificial lights, surrounded by the rhythmic hum of machinery. The void battle raged outside—beams of light lanced through space, and plague-infested ships erupted in spectacular silence as the Imperial fleet pressed its advantage.
The destruction of the enemy flagship had thrown the plague fleet into disarray. Now, scattered vessels were being ruthlessly hunted down. Glory and kill tallies piled up, but the Glory of Macragge had forgone the chase.
Roboute Guilliman had more pressing concerns.
The Primarch's attention was fixed on the planet below. He knew all too well that the forces of Nurgle never acted without sinister purpose. Somewhere on that world, a foul ritual was underway—and it had to be stopped before it could poison reality itself.
To that end, Guilliman had assembled a vanguard force: one hundred Astartes from two Chapters, fighting side by side. It was a test of a new doctrine—integrated operations between Chapters, shattering the old habit of isolation. This new system would allow for small, self-sufficient strike forces during guerrilla operations while enabling vast, coordinated armies in full-scale engagements—much like during the Great Crusade.
Fifty of the warriors wore the dark blue of the Ultramarines, their veterans clad in mighty Terminator armor. The other fifty hailed from the Aurora Chapter, a proud successor of Ultramar, their gray-blue armor bearing signs of wear. Though fewer Terminator suits graced their ranks, their resolve burned no less brightly.
All around them, tech-adepts, servitors, and chapter serfs worked in tireless harmony, preparing the warriors for planetary insertion. Munitions were brought up from the lower decks. Sacred unguents were applied. Systems were tested and blessed by the robed Mechanicus priests.
Those in Terminator plate underwent final diagnostics, assisted by Mechanicum personnel. The rest—clad in standard power armor—were outfitted with heavy assault shields, designed to enhance their survivability in close quarters and dense terrain.
Chapter serfs and machine-thralls distributed bolter shells, melta charges, and krak grenades. Chaplains moved through the ranks, solemnly affixing purity seals and oaths of moment to armor plates with glowing hot wax and iron. Warriors whispered litanies of hatred and victory, their voices low and fervent.
"The Glory of Macragge has entered low orbit. Planetfall in ten minutes."
The announcement came over the vox, barely audible above the mechanical din—but every enhanced ear caught it. In response, a massive horn blared across the deck, and all movement ceased.
All present turned toward the arched entrance to the launch bay. From the shadows emerged a giant in resplendent armor—the blue-and-gold figure of Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, Lord Commander of the Imperium.
The warriors snapped to attention. Awe and devotion radiated from them. Guilliman wore the Gauntlet of the Dominator on his left hand, and the Sword of the Emperor hung at his waist. Every step he took seemed to echo with the weight of history.
"Are you ready?" Guilliman asked, his voice calm but commanding.
"My lord, everything is in readiness," declared the First Company Captain of the Aurora Chapter.
"We await your word," said Cato Sicarius, Second Company Captain of the Ultramarines.
Guilliman's gaze swept over the assembled warriors. "Then let the traitors see what becomes of those who defy the Emperor and His realm. The Imperium must prevail."
"Must prevail!" came the thunderous response from the Space Marines, their unified roar silencing even the rumble of engines.
Moments later, the first wave boarded drop pods—compact, brutal cylinders of metal fired like bullets from the ship's belly. Sicarius was among them, bolter in hand, power sword at his side.
These pods would deliver shock and death from above—blazing trails of fire across the sky, smashing into enemy positions with concussive force before disgorging the Angels of Death.
Guilliman himself and the rest of the elite Terminators boarded Thunderhawk gunships. The Primarch's size made drop pods impractical, and heavy air support was essential for coordinated assault.
As the Thunderhawks descended, Star Sara came into full view—a planet shrouded in pestilent green fog, corrupted by the taint of Nurgle. Below, the enemy waited, unaware of the storm that was about to fall.
Within one of the plummeting drop pods, Sicarius braced himself. The cabin shook violently. Outside, screaming winds and atmospheric friction scorched the hull. The pod groaned under the strain.
"Forty seconds," Sicarius barked over the vox. "Prepare for impact."
No one replied. The Astartes around him were silent, immersed in battle meditation, ready to unleash death.
Rockets ignited at the base of the pod, accelerating the descent. Within moments, the thick plaguesmoke of Sara enveloped them, cloaking the ground in a noxious green fog. The friction turned the pod red-hot, shaking it violently.
Only Astartes could survive such an entry. For any lesser being, it would have been suicide.
Sicarius clenched his fists, thinking briefly of the Stormbirds he preferred—more tactical, more precise. But this wasn't about elegance. This was about terror. About overwhelming the enemy with sheer fury.
Drop pods smashed into the ground like thunderbolts.
The impact shattered the terrain. The hatch blew outward with explosive force. Restraints snapped open, and the Ultramarines stormed out into chaos.
Their pod had landed directly on a heretic artillery battery. Traitor guardsmen and plague cultists barely had time to scream before the blast wave obliterated them. Those nearby were thrown like ragdolls. Others simply burst apart under the pressure.
"For Guilliman!" Sicarius roared, raising his power sword high. The blade hummed with energy as he charged into the stunned enemy, bolter barking death.
All across the battlefield, other drop pods erupted in similar fury. Columns of fire descended from the sky as the Angels of Death arrived in force.
From above, the Thunderhawks released their deadly cargo. Guilliman himself descended into war, his presence like a beacon of wrath. With every swing of his sword, traitors died by the dozen. Even daemons recoiled from his holy fury.
The plague-infested defenders, caught between awe and panic, broke ranks.
The spearhead of Guilliman's reformation had landed—and the battle for Sara had begun.
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