Chapter 69: The Collapse of Faith
Seeing this from space, Roboute Guilliman scoffed coldly. "They went to such lengths to build this city. Why not invest that energy into the Great Crusade?"
He paused, issuing a command devoid of mercy or hesitation.
"Continue."
Another massive beam of light, like an orbital bombardment, descended from the sky, followed by seven additional beams falling simultaneously. The energy shield began to shake, and cracks appeared within it like ripples on water, the first visible wounds in what the Word Bearers had believed to be divine protection.
Boom!
Another orbital bombardment landed, only to be blocked again. The dense barrage of strikes hammered the energy shield.
At this moment, the believers who held firm within the city watched the shaking shield and felt their hearts sink into despair, the crushing weight of betrayal beginning to settle upon them like ash.
With a deafening roar, the energy shield shattered. The incredibly powerful bombardment struck the Perfect City directly.
Boom!
The massive religious city was entirely engulfed by the bombing. Countless buildings were smashed to pieces like fragile structures, and the sacred and beautiful city was transformed into a sea of fire and ruin.
The believers who refused to leave turned to ash at that moment. Countless city residents who had fled earlier watched this scene in shock, their faith dying in real time.
Monarchia, the holy city of faith and the Perfect City, was destroyed on this day, not by enemies of the Imperium, but by the Imperium itself.
On the ground, countless Space Marines in blue power armor watched silently, their expressions unreadable.
In space, Roboute Guilliman coldly gazed at the destroyed Perfect City, knowing that he and the Word Bearers were now sworn enemies. The cost of obedience, he understood, would be measured in blood.
The Perfect City, struck by the bombardment, was engulfed in flames with collapsed buildings everywhere. There was no need for the Ultramarines to enter and clear it out.
The starry sky was vast and boundless, and the distance between galaxies was so great that by the time the Word Bearers traveling through the warp jumped into realspace, seven days had already passed.
It was too late, too late to save anything, too late to change anything.
The Word Bearers' fleet learned of the destruction of Monarchia as soon as it reached normal space.
From the Primarch to every Word Bearer Astartes, they burned with rage at this moment.
Their gazes fixed on the distant Ultramarines, filled with hatred so intense it seemed to distort the very air. The Word Bearers charged directly at Roboute Guilliman.
Guilliman had anticipated Lorgar's reaction. His ruthless troop deployment, coupled with his powerful fleet, forced the Word Bearers Legion to refrain from making rash moves. They could openly declare war, but such a conflict should take place on the planet's surface, where battle could be contained, though Guilliman was prepared for either outcome.
Although Lorgar didn't push matters too far, being forced to back down only intensified his resentment toward Roboute Guilliman.
He had nowhere to vent his rage except into the void of his own despair.
Lorgar led 100,000 Word Bearers to the surface, where countless Ultramarines stood watching silently from afar, led by Roboute Guilliman.
Under the bright sunshine, Lorgar stood on the dry, scorching ground, his eyes fixed on the Perfect City reduced to ruins.
Tiny flames were still burning, and black smoke occasionally rose upward. It felt as if Lorgar was suppressing a raging torrent of magma and flames within his heart, forces that would soon find darker outlets.
Unbeknownst to anyone, a warship adorned with precious gold and bearing a double-headed eagle emblem had appeared in space.
It was none other than the 'Imperator Somnium' bearing the Emperor Himself, the ultimate judge, descending to deliver the final sentence.
On the open ground between the two legions, as Lorgar silently turned around, the two Primarchs stared at each other. The combined 300,000 Astartes warriors on both sides gripped their weapons and glared at each other.
A great battle was about to erupt...or so it seemed.
The Word Bearers, from the Primarch to every warrior, were filled with hatred. They would not spare the Ultramarines, not if given the chance.
Faced with such hostility, Roboute Guilliman remained calm and rational, though his heart was filled with bitterness at the necessity of his actions.
This was not the outcome he wanted. He had anticipated this consequence and chosen to accept it; if this was what the Emperor desired, then this was the price of loyalty.
The Word Bearers and the Ultramarines, two Space Marine legions, stood on the verge of war. The atmosphere was eerily quiet, the silence before catastrophe.
Whoosh!
Suddenly, before Lorgar, an old man in gray robes, holding a scepter, appeared, his grim aura evident.
Malcador the Sigillite had been transferred from orbital space to the ground, the Emperor's will made manifest through his regent.
Malcador stepped forward, his expression stern as he looked at the glaring Lorgar and rebuked him, his voice carrying the weight of millennia.
"Stop! Lorgar! The Emperor forbids civil war within the Astartes Legions. I will not allow you to act recklessly. Do you intend to disobey the Emperor's orders?"
Boom!
A figure flashed. Malcador, who had been standing with an imposing presence, was sent flying by a single punch, the fury of a betrayed Primarch made manifest.
His chest caved in. Blood gushed from his mouth as he flew backward through the air, dropping his scepter to the ground. Malcador's aged body crashed onto the sandy earth, but he did not break.
His extraordinary resilience and the telekinetic power of the second-most powerful psyker in humanity allowed him to survive what should have been a killing blow.
Malcador coughed up blood several times, propped himself up on the ground, and stood. Roboute Guilliman, behind him, was shocked, as were the company commanders and Astartes.
Behind Lorgar, Erebus, and Kor Phaeron were even more shocked that the Primarch dared to strike the Sigillite, though Erebus inexplicably enjoyed watching Malcador's bloodied, miserable state, a dark pleasure at seeing the machinery of Imperial authority damaged.
No one saw exactly what Lorgar, whose head was covered in scriptures, did in that single moment.
The two combatants moved too quickly. Lorgar stared at Malcador, who was slowly standing up, and clenched his fist in rage, a rage that was beginning to transform into something darker, something the Warp had been waiting generations to nurture.
"Only WAR can quell my ANGER!"
"THIS is my war with GUILLIMAN. You old bastard, don't interfere. If you don't want to die, stand aside. I'm going to fight him to the death!"
Malcador, leaning on his cane, looked at Lorgar, who was still filled with rage.
He hadn't expected that a single punch would resolve the Primarch's hatred, but the precedent of civil war among the Astartes Legions absolutely could not be set. Otherwise, the consequences would be endless, and the Sigillite understood the fragility of the Imperium better than anyone alive.
Roboute Guilliman, across from them, remained silent, unsure of what to say, forcing himself to stay absolutely rational even as the situation spiraled toward ruin.
Whoosh!
As the situation escalated beyond the point of no return, a golden figure over three meters tall appeared before everyone. Clad in golden armor and exuding a godlike divine majesty, the Master of Mankind stood coldly before Lorgar, sword in hand.
This was the Emperor of Mankind, the Lord of Humanity, and in this moment, the instrument of Lorgar's damnation. The Emperor addressed Lorgar and the Legion of Word Bearers with a solemn command that would echo through the Warp itself.
"Fall!"
Buzz!
A powerful and vast psychic energy, as boundless as an ocean, enveloped the entire area like a golden energetic wave, covering both the Word Bearers Legion and the Ultramarines within this formidable psychic field.
The Emperor's psychic might forced the entire Legion to kneel against their will, an assertion of absolute dominion that left no room for choice or resistance.
The Emperor's power was so great, like that of a god itself. His words were law, and His speech forcefully suppressed Primarch Lorgar and the 100,000 Word Bearer Astartes through His psychic might.
A single, mentally binding command caused the entire Word Bearers Legion to submit and gradually kneel unconsciously.
At this moment, Lorgar's heart was filled with extreme anger, hatred, and bitterness. As an incomparably powerful Primarch, his body and mind could not help but submit to the golden, majestic, godlike figure before him.
Lorgar knelt, both knees on the ground.
At this moment, Lorgar felt bitter, more bitter than he had ever felt in his life. The Emperor, who possessed such great power, was like a god incarnate.
Why was the Emperor unwilling to acknowledge that he was a god? The contradiction was maddening.
The pure and unwavering faith that once held him like a fanatic was gradually crumbling and collapsing. Lorgar felt lost and bewildered, his mind devoid of light.
His world...the Perfect City, his people, his faith, his purpose, all lay in ruins.
His blank gaze suddenly swept over Roboute Guilliman, clad in blue power armor, and the more than 200,000 Ultramarines still standing behind the Emperor.
He could kneel before the Emperor, but why were Guilliman and the Ultramarines qualified to stand? Why didn't they kneel?
Originally in a state of mental collapse, Lorgar found a way to regain his senses by venting his inner hatred onto those around him. In that moment of bitter clarity, he began to glimpse other possibilities, other powers that might offer what the Emperor had so cruelly denied.
He harbored endless hatred for Guilliman, but he cleverly concealed it before the Emperor's gaze. The mask of submission settled over his true thoughts like armor.
The Emperor gazed at Lorgar and the Legion of Word Bearers kneeling silently before him, then vanished in a flash and returned to his warship, leaving behind only judgment and ruin.
Malcador, staff in hand and dressed in gray robes, stood in the gentle breeze, watching the scene before him with a sense of helplessness.
In years to come, he would claim to a dying friend that he and the Emperor had conspired to turn the Primarchs against one another, though he admitted this was a lie to comfort humanity. He disappeared back into space, carrying the weight of a catastrophe that could have been prevented.
Roboute Guilliman silently watched the Word Bearers, whose Primarch was kneeling before him, without any intention of offering mercy. His ruthless rationality led the Ultramarines to swift retreat, withdrawing before the full weight of Lorgar's resentment could find military expression.
The silent sandstorm grew stronger under the sunlight, blowing across the bodies of 100,000 Word Bearers, causing all the warriors and Primarch present to feel desolate and broken, abandoned by god and emperor alike.
If the Perfect City had been destroyed, the Word Bearers Legion was filled with hatred and rage.
But now they had been directly abandoned by the god and emperor they worshipped. Things had not turned out as the Emperor may have desired, that the believers would wake up and stop practicing their faith.
Instead, everyone present experienced a complete collapse of their faith. The more steadfast and fervent one's faith was, the more catastrophic anything becomes when that faith collapses.
And in the ruins of Monarchia, in the ashes of broken devotion, something darker began to whisper, hungry, and utterly patient for the harvest to come.
The Ultramarines and the Emperor swiftly departed the planet, leaving the world's inhabitants reeling from the devastation of the Perfect City of Monarchia, which sparked a crisis of faith and deepened chaos.
In the shadows, Erebus smiled. He had always known that purity, when shattered, made the finest vessel for corruption.
[End of Chapter]
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