"The Imperial heresy… was myself."
Guilliman could already imagine the expressions of the Grey Knights or the Inquisition if they discovered that the Regent of the Imperium—the very son of the Emperor—was considering cultivating demonic agents. The mere thought would have had them readying stakes and flamers.
But Guilliman had no choice.
He understood the threat of the Ruinous Powers far too well to cling to idealism. The path to survival demanded pragmatism—no matter how heretical it might seem. Against abominations birthed by the Immaterium, conventional warfare was insufficient.
This was a universe with no bottom—only the abyss staring back.
Morality, rules, and honor were luxuries. In the face of extinction, survival was paramount.
Humanity's understanding of daemons was pitifully limited, yet the daemons knew mortals intimately. The Imperium's greatest technologies—astropathic communication, faster-than-light travel via the warp—all relied upon the very realm they feared: the Immaterium.
The information asymmetry was staggering. How could the Imperium ever hope to win when the enemy held all the cards?
That had to change.
Guilliman wanted parity. If daemons could tear through the veil of reality and spill into the material world, why couldn't the Imperium bring war directly into the Warp? Why shouldn't the Imperium raise champions capable of challenging Chaos in its own domain?
It was unthinkable by the standards of the Ecclesiarchy. Heretical beyond measure.
And yet, it was necessary.
Bearing these thoughts—thoughts that would see any other man burned at the stake—Guilliman exited the secret chamber. He keyed in his personal codes to access the encrypted elevator and began his ascent. As the lift ascended, the dim light overhead flickered, casting dancing shadows on the polished walls.
At the top, the Honour Guard remained exactly where he had left them, vigilant as ever.
"My lord," said Phikris, saluting crisply. "Captain Sicarius just sent word. He requests your presence. Says he brings urgent new intelligence."
"Have him meet me in my reception chamber," Guilliman replied. "We'll handle it there."
"Understood." Phikris turned and marched off, the sound of his boots echoing through the corridor.
"Let's move," Guilliman commanded, heading toward the adjoining hallway.
The Honour Guard closed ranks around him in practiced formation. A few Terminators remained behind to guard the secret chamber's entrance, bolt guns at the ready. No soul would set foot inside unless Guilliman willed it.
Once the Primarch departed, the chamber once again sank into darkness and silence. The Terminators stationed there—veterans of the Ultramarines—stood like statues. They had no need for conversation, no need for distraction. Their discipline was absolute.
Guilliman's reception room reflected his nature: simple, efficient, and focused. It lacked the excessive ornamentation favored by most Imperial commanders. There were no gilded arches or grotesque sculptures—only a large data table, several chairs, and banks of projectors.
Truth be told, he disliked the Imperium's skull-obsessed aesthetic. The nobility and Mechanicus had turned everything into effigies of death, plastering skull motifs onto machinery, walls, even servitors, all in the name of "purity."
Ten thousand years of dogma had not elevated the Imperium—it had only buried it deeper in ignorance.
The Ecclesiarchy's influence had twisted the Imperium into a theocracy. Mutants were now treated as little more than cannon fodder. No world governed by abhumans was tolerated. If a mutant so much as touched the throne of governance, the Inquisition would brand the entire planet heretical.
When Guilliman entered the chamber, Sicarius and Phikris were already waiting.
"My lord," Sicarius greeted, bowing with respect.
"What have you found?" Guilliman asked, seating himself and motioning for the Captain to do the same.
Sicarius placed a collection of data crystals on the table before speaking.
"A message arrived from the mission world of Espandor. The Ecclesiarchy has requested your presence. They believe your arrival will bless the planet and strengthen the people's devotion. Alternatively, they ask that you designate a location for a pilgrimage, where the faithful may glimpse your glory."
"Espandor?" Guilliman repeated, fingers drumming against the table. "That world... suffered during the Heresy, didn't it?"
"Yes, my lord. Roughly sixteen hundred years ago, it experienced upheaval. The Ecclesiarchy moved in afterward, purged the heretics, and converted it into a full-fledged Shrine World. It's now part of Ultramar's domain."
Guilliman's thoughts turned to that other Shrine World—the one he'd personally consigned to flame. The so-called "Perfect City," consumed in righteous fire. A monument to false worship, utterly destroyed.
Most records of that time had been lost, and the Ecclesiarchy had likely chosen not to remember that the Primarch himself once burned such places. If they knew, they were remaining silent.
If Espandor remembered that act… they wouldn't dare invite him.
Or perhaps they believed he had changed?
Either way, this invitation was bold.
Guilliman thought for a long moment before giving his answer.
"Tell them I will visit Espandor myself," he said.
"As you command. Any further instructions, my lord?" Sicarius asked.
"No. Deliver my message. That will suffice."
Sicarius saluted and exited the room, the sound of his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Phikris turned toward Guilliman, a hint of confusion in his tone. "My lord, why go yourself? You could easily appoint another world and summon them to you."
Guilliman stood and approached the sealed porthole. The ship was still traveling through the Warp, its outer visors locked shut to protect the crew from the dangers of the Immaterium.
Even so, pale light bled through the seams, casting a sickly glow on the bulkhead.
His enhanced mind remembered what few mortals could endure: glimpses of the Warp's twisted landscape. Images full of impossible geometry and maddening truths. Images that seared the minds of the unprepared.
Only a Primarch could survive such knowledge intact.
Warp travel offered countless ways to die, but few as foolish as simply looking.
"I need to assess Espandor personally," Guilliman said. "The Ecclesiarchy's grip on the people is far too deep to simply erase. And in this bleak galaxy, even false hope can keep a man alive."
"Do you… plan something for the state religion, my lord?" Phikris asked cautiously.
"I have the beginnings of a plan," Guilliman replied, folding his arms. "But I need firsthand insight. I intend to control the Ecclesiarchy. Reshape it. The influence they wield has become a threat to the Imperium."
Phikris nodded slowly. Guilliman continued.
"They can excommunicate entire Chapters. Declare worlds heretical. Incite wars in the Emperor's name. It's too much power for an organization that thrives on blind faith and suppresses reason."
History had proven that point time and again.
In M32, during the War of the Beast, the Ecclesiarchy urged the faithful to launch suicidal crusades against Ork War Moons, resulting in catastrophic losses.
In M33, internal schisms split the church, and the Temple faction rose to dominate all religious rites, pushing the Imperium deeper into superstition.
In M34, the Ecclesiarchy initiated purges against the rival Empire of New Terra, turning the Imperium into a full-blown religious dictatorship.
In M36, Goge Vandire took power as the Ecclesiarch and High Lord, initiating the Reign of Blood. Entire worlds were burned for trivial slights—insufficient statues of the Emperor, lackluster parades, inadequate tithes.
They even waged war against the Space Wolves for refusing to abandon their tribal customs and convert.
The Dark Millennium followed—an age of ignorance and regression.
In M37, more than thirty Astartes Chapters—over 20,000 battle-brothers—were condemned as traitors during the Abyssal Crusade. Only one returned.
This was the legacy of the Ecclesiarchy.
Yes, Saint Celestine had saved worlds. But for every miracle, the Ecclesiarchy had committed a dozen atrocities.
"The Emperor was right," Guilliman said grimly. "All religion is a cancer. But cutting it out would kill the host."
So he would guide it instead.
Reform it.
Manipulate its dogma toward unity and survival.
Because in the grim darkness of the far future… there is only war.
And Guilliman intended for humanity to win it.
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