Chapter 704

Guilliman stared at Mortarion with a slight daze, unable to fathom how Mortarion had arrived at this conclusion.

In Guilliman’s view, the numbers displayed by these six dice could be interpreted in hundreds, even thousands of different ways.

Mortarion had interpreted nine, seven, six, nine, six, ∞ as Magnus being cast by Tzeentch into the Well of Eternity and forged into a weapon to strike Guilliman.

But Guilliman could just as easily interpret nine as Tzeentch, seven as Nurgle, and nine, seven, six, nine as Tzeentch and Nurgle’s six-nine.

Six represents Slaanesh, and with ∞, it means Slaanesh drew infinite power from Tzeentch and Nurgle’s six-nine.

That interpretation makes perfect sense too!

Though he privately thought Mortarion was forcing the interpretation, Guilliman did not dare delay his actions.

Numerology might be nonsense, but Guilliman had personally verified its effects.

Guilliman swiftly transmitted orders via comm to the fleet, instructing them to prepare for war.

But Mortarion opposite him shook his head slightly.

“Too late,” said the Lord of Shadows. Guilliman detected a flicker of horror on Mortarion’s face.

As if this master of numerology had glimpsed something utterly terrifying.

Screaming.

The Glory of Macragge began to scream.

The servitors connected to the ship convulsed uncontrollably, shrieked, communications grew chaotic, and disordered wails, screams, and other shrieks capable of shattering mortal minds poured forth.

Guilliman heard twisted voices, voices that seemed to come from a far more distant world.

“This is a warning. The rebellion of Ultramar has already occurred. Guilliman has betrayed the Emperor of Mankind.” Guilliman recognized the voice—it was his son Sire’s.

“Blood! Blood! Blood! Fresh blood! The Blood Angels are here!! The Ghouls swarm is here!!” Screams, piercing shrieks, with manic laughter in the background—the laughter sounded eerily like Sanguinius.

“Lord of Secrets and Lies! Leman! My son! You once led us to slay beasts, but why have you become a beast yourself?” That was Luthor’s voice; after it came the beast’s roar, identical to Leman’s.

“I must immediately warn my father, Leman Russ. The Emperor’s first son has been corrupted by the malice of Chaos! Rune Priests, assist me in sending a message to Terra!” That was Russ’s voice, filled with urgency; then Guilliman seemed to hear something shatter, followed by the Emperor’s roar and Russ’s frantic apology.

“Though our empire has collapsed, though unspeakable horrors have descended upon us, though reason and order have fled the universe, leaving only cruelty and madness, we are still here”—it sounded like Lorgar’s voice, but his tone was…

“You ask why the Emperor is a woman? Why the Primarchs are women? It all begins with humanity’s first gangbang. In this dimension, Slaanesh is strong—Slaanesh transcends time and influences the past, ensuring the Emperor’s uncle did not kill the Emperor’s father, but instead impregnated him in a wheat field. The Emperor witnessed this, awakening the feminine within him.” The voice resembled Sanguinius’s, yet it was feminine; from the opposite side came Zhou Yun’s bewildered exclamation.

What the hell is all this?!

A powerful psychic surge swept through Guilliman’s mind; he saw a series of fragmented images—some linked to the voices just heard, others seemingly from even more distant worlds. Voices, scenes—despair and joy mingled together, painting Guilliman’s vision in dazzling chaos.

He staggered back several steps and collapsed to the floor; fragments of memory now clung to him.

He saw himself tearing open Sanguinius’s throat, saw Corax drenched in blood launching a strike against him, saw his own mind linked to millions of Space Marines.

These memories did not belong to him, yet they felt as if he had lived them—like thick, viscous liquid, steadily consuming Guilliman’s will.

“Guilliman!” A guttural roar echoed as if from another world; a foul wind surged forth—

SLAP!

The pain on his face jolted Guilliman awake; his vision gradually cleared.

Mortarion slowly withdrew the slap he had just delivered to Guilliman’s face.

“Awake now?” Mortarion asked.

Guilliman felt the air around him draining away; in horror, he realized one side of the Glory of Macragge had been torn open during the surge—his office now exposed to vacuum.

“No! My helmet! I—”

SLAP!

Mortarion slapped Guilliman again, on the other side of his face.

“You’re a Primarch—you don’t need to breathe to survive. Your skin can withstand vacuum. Your organs can sustain life in the void. Why are you looking for a helmet? Clearly you’re still not awake.”

Guilliman was still dazed, but he noticed he could indeed breathe without a helmet.

Was this some effect of numerology?

Guilliman noticed several branches hovering beside Mortarion, each bearing orange-yellow cysts slowly converging together.

Guilliman turned to the undamaged command panel; tens of thousands of energy runes flashed incessantly, tens of thousands of signals flickering out like stars in the night sky—until finally, the stars vanished, leaving only a blazing sun circling alone.

On the command panel, only one massive energy signature remained, sharp and blinding.

“What happened?” Guilliman roared at Mortarion, believing the thinning air must be impairing sound transmission.

“Why are you yelling so loud?” Mortarion barked back.

“Thin air reduces sound transmission! This place will become vacuum soon—put on your helmet, use the comm—”

“We’re Primarchs! Primarchs can speak in vacuum!”

Guilliman froze.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because we’re Primarchs, Guilliman! What the hell are you thinking with that overgrown brain of yours? Alien secretaries?” Mortarion watched the cysts on the branches before him.

“Even Primarchs can’t ignore the laws of physics!” Guilliman pressed.

“Shut up. Who understands materialism better—you or me?” Mortarion snapped.

Guilliman fell silent, shook his head, and pulled his helmet on himself.

“What exactly happened?” he demanded again.

Mortarion turned his head, saw Guilliman had put on the helmet anyway, and his already grim expression twisted further.

“Shouldn’t you have more experience than me?”

Mortarion sneered at Guilliman:

“You’ve experienced something similar—surely you haven’t forgotten?”

Something similar…

Guilliman felt pain in his throat; memories he himself refused to recall surged into his mind.

Nine hours. Three thousand two hundred of our warships. And six thousand… six thousand Vengeful Spirits.

Every time he recalled that scene, Guilliman doubted it was real—even when Dorn questioned him for failing to reach Terra within the promised nine hours, he dared not speak of what he had seen. It was too unbelievable.