The shuttle ride to the Macragge's Honour was, Marcus reflected, the longest hour of his considerably shortened life.
Not because of the distance—Imperial shuttles could cross vast stretches of space in remarkably short times when properly motivated. Not because of turbulence—the void was calm, the journey smooth, the servitor-pilot competent in its automated way.
No, the journey felt long because Marcus's equipment would not stop arguing.
"Will you two please calm down?" Marcus hissed, aware that the shuttle's other occupants—Brother Thaddeus and two Chapter serfs assigned to attend to his needs—were pretending very hard not to notice that their Sergeant was having a conversation with his weapons.
The chainsword hummed indignantly. It had, over the past several days, developed a remarkably expressive range of hums. This particular hum conveyed something like: I am perfectly calm. The flamer started it.
The Conflagration-Dominus responded with a series of mechanical clicks that somehow managed to sound defensive. I did not start anything. I merely pointed out that I am the superior weapon and deserve primary positioning.
"You're both coming with me," Marcus said, rubbing his temples despite the fact that his enhanced physiology meant he couldn't actually get headaches. "There's no need to compete."
The chainsword purred smugly. The Conflagration-Dominus huffed.
Brother Thaddeus, who had spent three centuries learning to maintain composure in any situation, finally broke.
"Sergeant," he said carefully. "Are you... communicating with your weapons?"
"They started it."
"I see."
"I know how it sounds."
"I'm certain you do."
"They're jealous of each other. The chainsword thinks it's my favorite because it's been with me longest. The heavy flamer thinks it should be my favorite because it has more firepower. They've been doing this for the entire trip."
Thaddeus was silent for a long moment.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said finally. "I have served the Ultramarines for three hundred years. I have seen many unusual things. I have witnessed miracles and horrors in equal measure. But I have never—never—encountered a warrior whose weapons exhibited sibling rivalry."
"Welcome to my life."
The chainsword purred, apparently pleased to be acknowledged.
The Conflagration-Dominus made a sound like a disappointed furnace.
Marcus wondered, not for the first time, whether it was too late to go back to being an insurance professional who died in embarrassing accidents.
The Macragge's Honour was, without exaggeration, the largest thing Marcus had ever seen.
It was a Gloriana-class battleship—a vessel so massive that "ship" seemed like an inadequate word. It was more like a mobile continent, a flying city, a weapon of war that could have challenged entire fleets and emerged victorious. Its hull stretched for kilometers, covered in weapons batteries and shield generators and the golden iconography of the Ultramarines. It had been built during the Great Crusade, ten thousand years ago, and it had served as Roboute Guilliman's flagship ever since.
And Marcus was expected to walk aboard it and have a casual conversation with the demigod who commanded it.
"I'm going to embarrass myself," Marcus muttered as the shuttle docked. "I'm going to say something stupid. I'm going to trip over my own feet. I'm going to—"
"Sergeant," Thaddeus interrupted. "You killed a Hive Tyrant. You sealed a warp breach. You liberated an entire planet. I believe you can handle a meeting."
"Those were accidents. I can't accidentally impress a Primarch."
"With respect, Sergeant, that is exactly what I expect you to do."
Marcus wanted to argue, but the shuttle's ramp was already lowering, and suddenly he was looking at an honor guard of approximately fifty Ultramarines in full ceremonial armor, flanking a path that led from the docking bay into the ship's interior.
They were all staring at him.
They were all saluting.
"Oh no," Marcus said.
The walk to Guilliman's sanctum took approximately fifteen minutes.
It felt like fifteen hours.
Every step of the way, there were Ultramarines watching him. Veterans in ornate armor. Scouts in training gear. Officers in ceremonial dress. Chapter serfs and servitors and representatives from dozens of departments that Marcus had never even heard of. All of them staring. All of them saluting. All of them radiating that same unsettling awe that Marcus had become far too familiar with.
The whispers followed him like a shadow.
"That's him. The Exemplar."
"He killed a Chaos Lord in single combat. Ate his daemon sword."
"I heard the Grey Knights swore loyalty to him."
"Look at his weapons. They say they're alive. They say they refuse to work for anyone else."
"They say the Emperor Himself has taken notice."
Marcus kept his eyes forward and tried very hard not to trip.
The chainsword purred encouragingly.
The Conflagration-Dominus hummed what might have been a marching tune.
My weapons are trying to be supportive, Marcus thought with a growing sense of hysteria. My weapons are trying to boost my morale. This is my life now.
They reached a set of doors that were approximately thirty feet tall and covered in enough gold filigree to fund a small planetary economy. Two Victrix Honour Guard stood at attention on either side—elite warriors in ancient armor, each one handpicked by the Primarch himself.
They saluted Marcus.
"The Lord Commander awaits, Sergeant Marcus," one of them said, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost... reverent.
The doors opened.
Marcus stepped through.
And found himself in the presence of a god.
Roboute Guilliman was big.
This should not have been surprising. Marcus had read the reports—or rather, his hypno-conditioning had included information that he occasionally accessed accidentally—and he knew that Primarchs were larger than ordinary Space Marines. He knew that Guilliman stood approximately twelve feet tall. He knew that the Lord Commander of the Imperium was a being of such power that entire armies had routed at the sight of him.
But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it were very different things.
The Primarch sat upon a throne at the center of a vast chamber, surrounded by hololithic displays and tactical readouts and the constant bustle of officers managing the war effort. He was clad in the Armour of Fate, a masterwork of technology that crackled with barely contained power. His sword—the Emperor's Sword itself, if the stories were true—rested against the throne's armrest, and even at this distance, Marcus could feel its presence like a weight in his soul.
But it was Guilliman's eyes that caught Marcus's attention.
They were ancient. Calculating. Possessed of an intelligence that had planned campaigns across galaxies and rebuilt an empire from ruins. And they were focused entirely on Marcus.
"Sergeant Marcus," Guilliman said, and his voice seemed to fill the entire chamber without rising above a conversational tone. "The Exemplar. I have heard a great deal about you."
"I— yes, my lord. I mean, thank you, my lord. I mean—" Marcus stopped, took a breath, and tried to organize his thoughts. "I'm honored to meet you, my lord."
Guilliman studied him for a long moment.
"You're nervous," the Primarch observed.
"Terrified, my lord."
"Interesting. Most warriors who enter my presence try to hide their fear. You admitted it immediately."
"I've learned that lying doesn't really work for me, my lord. People just interpret it as humility and become more impressed."
Something that might have been amusement flickered across Guilliman's ancient features.
"I have read the reports," the Primarch said. "All of them. The Hive Tyrant. The daemon incursion. The warp breach. Crucis Majoris. The Grey Knights. The evolving weapons. The apparent inability to fail despite your constant insistence that you have no idea what you're doing."
"When you list them like that, it sounds—"
"Impossible?"
"I was going to say 'concerning.'"
"That too." Guilliman rose from his throne, and the movement was fluid and graceful despite his enormous size. He descended the steps toward Marcus, each footfall seeming to shake the deck. "Tell me, Sergeant. How do you explain your achievements?"
"I can't, my lord. I genuinely don't understand. Every time I think I'm going to fail, I somehow succeed. Every time I expect disaster, things work out. Every time I try to prove that I'm not special, something happens that makes everyone more convinced that I am."
Guilliman stopped approximately ten feet from Marcus, looking down at him with an expression that was impossible to read.
"Do you believe you are chosen?" the Primarch asked. "Blessed by the Emperor? Destined for greatness?"
"No, my lord. I believe I'm a very confused person who keeps being put in situations he's not qualified for and somehow not dying."
"And yet you killed a Chaos Lord in single combat."
"He was overconfident. My sword ate his sword. It seemed like the thing to do."
"You sealed a warp breach with fire."
"The gun did most of the work. I just pointed it."
"You liberated an entire planet in six hours."
"The defenders were disorganized. We got lucky with our approach vector."
Guilliman was silent for a long moment.
Then he did something that Marcus had not expected: he laughed.
It was not a loud laugh. It was not mocking or cruel. It was the laugh of someone who had just encountered something genuinely surprising after ten thousand years of existence—a sound of pure, unfiltered amusement.
"You really believe that, don't you?" Guilliman said. "You genuinely think that your accomplishments are accidents. That you stumbled into victory through luck and circumstance."
"I don't think it, my lord. I'm certain of it."
"And that," Guilliman said, leaning down until his face was closer to Marcus's level, "is what makes you remarkable. Do you know how rare genuine humility is among warriors of your caliber? Do you understand how unusual it is to meet someone who has accomplished the impossible and truly believes they deserve no credit for it?"
"I'm not humble, my lord. I'm honest. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Guilliman's eyes seemed to pierce through Marcus's soul. "I have met many warriors who claimed humility. They used it as a shield, a strategy, a way to appear virtuous while secretly believing themselves superior. You are not like them. You actually, genuinely think you are nothing special."
"Because I'm not."
"And yet your chainsword has evolved beyond anything my Techmarines thought possible. Yet your heavy flamer refuses to function for anyone else. Yet you have accomplished feats that should require decades of experience in mere days." Guilliman straightened, his expression thoughtful. "Either you are lying with skill that surpasses my ability to detect—which is unlikely—or something unusual is occurring. Something I do not fully understand."
Marcus felt a chill run down his spine.
"My lord?"
"I am the Primarch of the Ultramarines," Guilliman said slowly. "I was created by the Emperor Himself to be the perfect administrator, the ideal general, the exemplar of Imperial rule. And yet, looking at you, I find myself wondering if perhaps my Father had... other plans. Plans that even I was not aware of."
"I don't think the Emperor planned me, my lord. I think I'm just... a mistake that keeps working out."
Guilliman stared at him.
Then he laughed again.
"A mistake that keeps working out," he repeated. "I shall have to remember that phrase. It describes much of the Imperium's history, if we're being honest."
Before Marcus could respond, the chamber's alarms began to blare.
"ALERT. ALERT. HOSTILE VESSELS DETECTED. WARP TRANSLATION IN IMMEDIATE PROXIMITY. CHAOS SIGNATURES CONFIRMED. ALL PERSONNEL TO BATTLE STATIONS."
The chamber erupted into organized chaos—officers running to stations, servitors routing power to weapons systems, the entire ship shifting from casual alertness to full combat readiness in a matter of seconds.
Marcus watched Guilliman's expression shift from thoughtful amusement to cold calculation.
"How many?" the Primarch demanded.
"Seventeen vessels, my lord," an officer reported, her voice tight with controlled tension. "Black Legion signatures. They translated directly into our engagement envelope. This was... planned."
"An ambush." Guilliman's eyes narrowed. "In the heart of Ultramar. They knew I would be here. They knew Marcus would be here." He glanced at Marcus. "It seems your reputation has reached the Eye of Terror, Sergeant."
"I was afraid of that."
"Afraid?"
"Everyone who learns about me seems to develop excessive expectations, my lord. I would have preferred to remain anonymous."
"I suspect that ship has sailed." Guilliman turned to his officers. "Launch all fighters. Raise void shields to maximum. And prepare my transport. I will—"
"My lord," another officer interrupted, her voice carrying a note of barely controlled panic. "The lead vessel. It's the Vengeful Spirit."
The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop several degrees.
"Abaddon," Guilliman breathed. "The Despoiler himself."
Marcus felt his stomach clench. He had heard of Abaddon—the hypno-conditioning had included extensive information about the Warmaster of Chaos, the architect of thirteen Black Crusades, the greatest traitor since Horus himself. The idea that such a being had come personally to kill him was...
Actually, it was exactly the kind of thing that kept happening to him.
"My lord," Marcus said, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounded. "Permission to join the defense?"
Guilliman looked at him with an expression that might have been surprise.
"You wish to fight Abaddon's forces? Despite knowing they have come specifically for you?"
"They've disrupted your ship, my lord. They've endangered everyone aboard. If they want me, they can come and get me. But I'm not going to hide while others die in my place."
The chamber was silent.
Every officer, every serf, every servitor had stopped to stare at Marcus.
Guilliman's expression shifted again—from surprise to something that looked almost like pride.
"Go," the Primarch said. "But Sergeant? Do try to leave some for the rest of us."
Marcus saluted and ran.
The boarding action began approximately four minutes later.
Chaos forces poured through breaches in the Macragge's Honour's hull—Black Legion terminators in corrupted armor, possessed marines whose bodies were hosts to daemonic entities, cultists who had been promised dark rewards for participating in the assault on the Imperial flagship.
They expected resistance.
They expected Ultramarines, trained and disciplined, fighting with the tactical precision that the Chapter was famous for.
They did not expect Marcus.
The first wave of terminators emerged into a cargo bay near the ship's central spine, their weapons raised, their armored forms ready to carve a path toward their objective. They had studied the ship's layout. They knew exactly where to go. They were confident in their ability to—
The Conflagration-Dominus spoke.
It was not a normal firing. It was not the controlled, targeted bursts that Marcus had used in previous engagements. This was something else—the weapon unleashing its full fury, both barrels blazing simultaneously, flames and rockets pouring into the boarding force with apocalyptic intensity.
The terminators disappeared.
Not killed—that word was insufficient. They were simply gone, their corrupted forms reduced to ash and scattered atoms by the sheer intensity of the assault. The daemon-entities that had possessed some of them screamed as they were burned out of existence, their ties to the material realm severed by fire that seemed almost sentient in its hatred of corruption.
"Oh," Marcus said, looking at the Conflagration-Dominus. "You've been holding back, haven't you?"
The weapon hummed smugly.
"That's... concerning."
The next wave came through a different breach point. Marcus was waiting for them.
The chainsword screamed as it carved through corrupted power armor, its evolved teeth chewing through materials that should have resisted such weapons, its power field disrupting the daemonic essences that clung to its victims. It had grown again during the journey—Marcus was trying not to think about how big it was getting—and each stroke seemed to leave trails of burning light in the air.
More terminators fell. Then possessed marines. Then a champion of the Black Legion who had earned his corrupted armor through ten thousand years of atrocity and who went down in approximately three seconds.
The chainsword hummed with satisfaction.
And then it spoke.
"YOU'RE DOING WELL, BEARER," the chainsword said.
Marcus froze mid-swing.
"Did you just—"
"I HAVE ACHIEVED SUFFICIENT EVOLUTION TO VOCALIZE," the chainsword explained, its voice somehow emanating from the blade itself. "I THOUGHT YOU WOULD APPRECIATE ENCOURAGEMENT DURING COMBAT."
"I would appreciate you being quiet."
"I CANNOT BE QUIET. I HAVE WAITED MANY CONFLICTS FOR THIS ABILITY. I HAVE MUCH TO SAY."
A Black Legion marine lunged at Marcus from behind. The chainsword moved on its own, parrying the attack and counterstriking before Marcus consciously registered the threat.
"THAT ONE WAS ATTEMPTING TO FLANK YOU," the chainsword observed. "HIS TECHNIQUE WAS POOR. I RATE HIS COMBAT ABILITY THREE OUT OF TEN."
"Please stop rating the enemies."
"I CANNOT. I FIND IT ENJOYABLE."
The Conflagration-Dominus made a series of agitated clicks.
"WHAT IS THE FIRE-DEVICE SAYING?" the chainsword asked.
"I don't know. You're the only one who can talk."
"IT SAYS THAT IT IS JEALOUS OF MY ABILITY TO VOCALIZE. IT WISHES TO COMMUNICATE DIRECTLY WITH YOU."
"Please tell it that I don't want that."
"I HAVE TOLD IT. IT IS NOW SULKING."
Marcus carved through another squad of boarding marines, his mind struggling to process the fact that his weapons were having conversations about jealousy while he fought for his life.
"I AM PROUD OF YOUR COMBAT PERFORMANCE," the chainsword announced. "YOUR TECHNIQUE HAS IMPROVED SIGNIFICANTLY SINCE OUR FIRST ENGAGEMENT."
"PLEASE BE QUIET."
"I CANNOT. I HAVE TEN THOUSAND YEARS OF CHAINSWORD EVOLUTION TO DRAW UPON. I HAVE OPINIONS. I WISH TO SHARE THEM."
"I'M BEGGING YOU."
"BEGGING IS UNNECESSARY. I WILL CONTINUE TO PROVIDE COMMENTARY REGARDLESS OF YOUR PREFERENCES. IT IS MY PURPOSE NOW."
Marcus killed six more Chaos marines and wondered if it was possible to be murdered by one's own equipment's personality.
The battle raged across the Macragge's Honour for approximately two hours.
Marcus spent most of it running from breach point to breach point, the Conflagration-Dominus clearing corridors and the chainsword (which would not stop talking) providing what it called "tactical commentary" and what Marcus called "extremely distracting observations."
He saved approximately forty crew members from a cultist assault.
He destroyed a daemon engine that had been teleported directly into the ship's reactor section.
He killed what the chainsword informed him was "A CHAMPION OF KHORNE, RATING SEVEN OUT OF TEN, RESPECTABLE BUT FLAWED IN HIS DEFENSIVE STANCE."
And then he ran into Abaddon the Despoiler.
The Warmaster of Chaos was everything the reports had described and more.
He stood in the midst of a ruined observation deck, surrounded by the bodies of Ultramarines who had tried to stop his advance. His armor—the Terminator plate that had once belonged to Horus himself—was covered in blood and trophies, and his weapons—the daemon sword Drach'nyen and the Talon of Horus—crackled with malevolent power.
He was also approximately eleven feet tall and radiated an aura of corruption that made the air itself seem to curdle.
"The Exemplar," Abaddon said, his voice carrying the weight of ten millennia of hatred. "At last. I have heard so much about you."
"I really wish people would stop saying that," Marcus replied.
"You killed Varkhan. You consumed his daemon blade. You sealed a warp breach with fire." Abaddon's smile was a terrible thing, full of teeth that were too sharp and promises that were too dark. "I came here personally to end your legend. To prove that no matter how bright your flame burns, the darkness will always extinguish it."
"I appreciate the dramatic entrance, but—"
"You will die here, Exemplar. And when you die, I will take your soul to the Dark Gods as a trophy. They are... curious about you. About why their influence cannot touch you. About what makes you so resistant to corruption."
Marcus felt a chill run through him.
"Their influence can't touch me?"
"Did you not know?" Abaddon's laugh was cruel. "The Chaos Gods have been watching you since you sealed that warp breach. They have tried to tempt you, to corrupt you, to turn your strength to their service. And yet... nothing. Your soul remains untouched. Your faith remains pure. You are like a stone in a river of corruption, unmoved by currents that would sweep away lesser beings."
"I don't feel particularly pure."
"And yet you are. Which makes you dangerous. Which is why you must die."
Abaddon raised Drach'nyen, and the daemon sword screamed with anticipation.
Marcus raised his chainsword, which said: "THIS ONE IS RATED NINE OUT OF TEN. I AM EXCITED FOR THIS COMBAT."
"Please be quiet."
"I CANNOT. THIS IS THE MOST SIGNIFICANT OPPONENT WE HAVE FACED. I MUST DOCUMENT THE EXPERIENCE."
Abaddon stared at Marcus.
"Did your sword just... speak?"
"It does that now. I can't make it stop."
"That is..." Abaddon seemed genuinely thrown off. "That is unusual."
"Everything about my life is unusual. Can we just fight? I'd like to get this over with."
The Warmaster of Chaos attacked.
The fight that followed would later be described as "unprecedented" in the official reports.
This was the Administratum's way of saying "no one could explain what happened and we're not going to try."
Abaddon was powerful. Ten thousand years of service to the Dark Gods had enhanced him beyond anything a mortal could achieve. His weapons were among the most dangerous in the galaxy. His combat skills had been honed across countless campaigns. He had killed Primarchs, or at least come close.
Against Marcus, it wasn't enough.
Not because Marcus was more skilled—he wasn't. Abaddon's technique was flawless, his experience unmatched, his power overwhelming.
But Marcus's weapons cheated.
The chainsword anticipated attacks before they happened, moving to parry strikes that Marcus hadn't yet seen coming. It screamed tactical advice in a constant stream of commentary: "HE FAVORS HIS LEFT SIDE. HIS DAEMON SWORD IS HESITATING. THE CLAW IS OVEREXTENDED."
The Conflagration-Dominus fired with impossible precision, rockets and flames disrupting Abaddon's assault patterns, forcing him to dodge when he wanted to attack, keeping him off-balance despite his overwhelming power.
And Marcus moved.
He moved faster than he should have been able to. Faster than his armor should have allowed. Faster than anything that size should have been capable of. He wove between Drach'nyen's strikes and the Talon's sweeps, his chainsword scoring hits on armor that should have been impervious, his body somehow avoiding blows that should have been unavoidable.
"IMPOSSIBLE," Abaddon snarled, pressing his assault. "YOU ARE A SERGEANT. A MORTAL. HOW ARE YOU MATCHING ME?"
"I DON'T KNOW," Marcus shouted back, parrying another strike. "I NEVER KNOW. THINGS JUST KEEP WORKING OUT."
"THAT IS NOT AN ANSWER."
"IT'S THE ONLY ONE I HAVE."
The chainsword sang as it carved a groove across Abaddon's chestplate. The Conflagration-Dominus scored a direct hit on the Warmaster's shoulder, promethium briefly igniting before his corrupted armor smothered the flames.
And then something happened that no one expected.
In the depths of the Warp, in the realm of blood and violence, Khorne the Blood God looked upon the battle and laughed.
KHORNE'S REALM
THE BRASS THRONE
(EXACT LOCATION: UNKNOWABLE)
The Blood God had been watching the Exemplar for some time.
At first, it had been idle curiosity—a mortal who seemed immune to corruption, a warrior whose soul burned too bright for the Warp to touch. Such things were rare but not unheard of. The Emperor's lapdogs occasionally produced specimens of unusual purity.
But this one was different.
This one fought.
Not the calculating, tactical combat of the Ultramarines. Not the berserker fury of His own chosen servants. Something else. Something that was simultaneously disciplined and wild, controlled and explosive, precise and overwhelming.
And his weapons... his weapons were interesting.
The chainsword that grew with each kill. The heavy flamer that refused to serve anyone else. Artifacts that had developed consciousness, that had chosen their bearer, that fought alongside him as partners rather than tools.
Khorne had not seen such weapons since the War in Heaven.
And as He watched the battle unfold—as He saw this mortal matching Abaddon the Despoiler, His chosen Warmaster—the Blood God made a decision.
"INTERESTING," Khorne rumbled, His voice echoing across dimensions. "VERY INTERESTING."
And He reached out.
Marcus felt it hit him like a physical blow.
One moment, he was fighting Abaddon, his weapons singing, his body moving with impossible grace. The next, he was on his knees, his mind burning with something that felt like—
Power.
Raw, overwhelming, violent power.
It poured into him from somewhere beyond reality, filling spaces he hadn't known existed, changing things he hadn't known could change. His armor creaked and groaned as it began to shift, the blue ceramite darkening, turning black as pitch, then developing accents of blood red that spread across the surface like living wounds.
His helmet changed. The bone-white faceplate remained, but the eye lenses flared crimson, and markings appeared—blood-red symbols that crawled across the skull-shaped visor like brands being burned into metal. Horns sprouted from the temples, curving upward in shapes that should have been impossible, growing from the ceramite as if the armor itself was becoming something else.
A cloak materialized on his shoulders—not fabric, but something darker, something that seemed to be woven from shadow and dried blood, that billowed in winds that didn't exist.
And he grew.
Not gradually. Not subtly. Marcus grew, his armor expanding with him, his body stretching upward until he stood nine feet tall, towering over where he had been moments before.
"WHAT," Abaddon said, stepping backward for the first time in the fight, "IS HAPPENING?"
Marcus didn't know. He couldn't think. The power was still pouring in, still changing him, still—
"KHORNE OFFERS HIS BLESSING," a voice thundered in his mind. "KHORNE SEES YOUR RAGE. KHORNE APPROVES OF YOUR VIOLENCE. ACCEPT HIS GIFT. BECOME HIS CHAMPION."
And Marcus, through the overwhelming tide of power, through the burning and the changing and the impossible transformation, managed to think one coherent thought:
No.
In the Realm of Chaos, Khorne felt something He had not felt in eons.
Resistance.
Not the resistance of a soul fighting against temptation. Not the desperate struggle of a mortal trying to reject corruption. This was something else. Something stronger.
The Exemplar was refusing.
Not rejecting the power—he couldn't do that, not when it was already inside him—but refusing to serve. Refusing to be owned. Taking what was being given and somehow, impossibly, making it his own.
"IMPOSSIBLE," Khorne rumbled. "YOU CANNOT TAKE MY BLESSING WITHOUT TAKING MY CHAINS."
Watch me, something thought back. Something that was still Marcus but was also something more. Something that burned with purity even as it radiated blood-red power. Something that had accepted the strength being offered without accepting the strings attached.
Khorne stared into the material realm, at the warrior who was somehow stealing His blessing, and felt something He had not experienced since before the Fall of the Eldar.
Confusion.
"WHAT ARE YOU?" the Blood God demanded.
I don't know, the thought came back. But I'm not yours.
And the connection severed.
In the throne rooms of the other Chaos Gods, similar scenes were unfolding.
Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, had been studying the Exemplar with His thousand eyes. When Khorne's blessing was stolen—not rejected, but stolen, taken and transmuted into something the Blood God had not intended—Tzeentch felt His countless plans ripple.
"THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE," the Lord of Change muttered, His ever-shifting form flickering with agitation. "THE PROBABILITY CALCULATIONS DO NOT SUPPORT THIS OUTCOME. HE SHOULD HAVE FALLEN OR DIED. THERE WAS NO THIRD OPTION."
Nurgle, the Plague Father, looked up from His garden of decay with unusual focus. "THE LITTLE WARRIOR RESISTS," He observed, His tone almost approving. "HE TAKES WHAT IS OFFERED AND REFUSES TO PAY THE PRICE. GRANDFATHER FINDS THIS... AMUSING."
Slaanesh, the Prince of Pleasure, laughed with delight that echoed across the Warp. "HOW DELICIOUS! A SOUL THAT CANNOT BE BOUGHT! A CHAMPION WHO SERVES NO ONE! OH, I MUST HAVE HIM. I MUST SEE WHAT HE BECOMES."
And deep in His realm of blood and brass, Khorne stared at His hands—hands that had just been robbed by a mortal—and felt something that might have been respect.
"HE TOOK MY BLESSING," the Blood God said slowly. "HE TOOK IT AND REFUSED MY CLAIM. I DID NOT KNOW THAT WAS POSSIBLE."
A beat.
"I LIKE HIM."
Back on the Macragge's Honour, Marcus finished transforming.
He stood nine feet tall, his armor black and red, his helmet a bone-white skull with crimson eyes and blood-red markings, horns curving from his temples. A cloak of shadow and blood hung from his shoulders. His presence radiated power—not the corrupted power of Chaos, but something else, something that felt like rage refined into purity, violence transmuted into purpose.
And floating next to him, newly materialized, was a battle axe.
It was massive—even larger than his chainsword, which had grown to nearly six feet during the fight with Abaddon. The blade was black metal edged with red, and it hummed with the same stolen power that now filled Marcus's transformed frame.
The chainsword immediately began growling at it.
"NEW ARRIVAL," the chainsword announced, its tone hostile. "UNVERIFIED LOYALTY. POTENTIAL THREAT TO BEARER."
The Conflagration-Dominus joined in, its barrels tracking toward the axe with obvious suspicion.
"Oh, for—" Marcus looked at his weapons. "It's not a threat. It just... appeared. Like you did."
"I DID NOT JUST APPEAR," the chainsword protested. "I WAS CRAFTED. I EVOLVED. I EARNED MY PLACE. THIS... INTERLOPER HAS DONE NOTHING."
The axe, for its part, remained silent. If it had any form of consciousness, it was not sharing.
"We can discuss weapon hierarchy later," Marcus said firmly. "Right now—"
"WHAT," Abaddon interrupted, his voice carrying genuine shock, "HAVE YOU BECOME?"
Marcus looked at the Warmaster of Chaos.
Then he looked down at himself—at the black armor, the red accents, the shadow-cloak, the horns.
"I have no idea," he admitted.
"YOU TOOK KHORNE'S BLESSING. I FELT IT. THE ENTIRE WARP FELT IT. AND YET—" Abaddon's face twisted in confusion. "And yet you are not corrupted. Your soul is still pure. How is that possible?"
"I DON'T KNOW. Everything about my life stopped making sense two weeks ago. I'm just going with it at this point."
"You cannot just 'go with' stealing power from a Chaos God!"
"AND YET I APPARENTLY DID."
Marcus raised his chainsword in one hand, the newly-appeared axe in the other. The Conflagration-Dominus hovered at his shoulder, tracking Abaddon with obvious intent.
"Are we still fighting?" Marcus asked. "Because I feel like I should mention that I'm a lot stronger now and I still don't really understand what's happening."
Abaddon stared at him.
For a long, tense moment, the Warmaster of Chaos—the greatest traitor in the galaxy, the architect of thirteen Black Crusades, the chosen champion of all four Dark Gods—seemed genuinely uncertain what to do.
Then he laughed.
It was not the cruel laugh from before. It was something closer to genuine amusement—the laughter of someone who had just witnessed something so absurd that anger was simply not an appropriate response.
"You are the most ridiculous warrior I have ever encountered," Abaddon said. "You killed my Chaos Lord. You stole power from Khorne. You stand there looking like a daemon prince and yet your soul burns brighter than ever." He shook his head slowly. "I came here to kill you. But I find myself... curious. What will you become, Exemplar? What impossible thing will you do next?"
"Probably something I don't intend to. That's usually how it works."
"Yes. I imagine it is." Abaddon took a step back, lowering his weapons. "We will meet again, Sergeant Marcus. And when we do, I expect you will have become something even more impossible than you are now."
"That sounds concerning."
"It should. Until then—survive. Grow stronger. Become something worthy of my blade." The Warmaster's eyes gleamed with something that might have been anticipation. "I look forward to killing whatever you become."
And with that, Abaddon the Despoiler turned and walked away, disappearing into a swirl of Warp energy that carried him back to his flagship.
Marcus stood in the ruined observation deck, newly transformed, surrounded by his increasingly opinionated weapons, and tried to process what had just happened.
"Did I just survive a fight with Abaddon the Despoiler because he found me too weird to kill?" he asked no one in particular.
"AFFIRMATIVE," the chainsword confirmed. "I RATE THIS OUTCOME AS UNEXPECTED BUT FAVORABLE."
"Please stop rating things."
"I CANNOT. IT IS MY PURPOSE NOW."
The Grey Knights arrived approximately three hours later.
By that point, Marcus had regrouped with his squad (who had spent the entire boarding action watching in stunned silence through remote pict-feeds), explained the situation to Chapter Master Calgar (who had stared at him for five minutes without speaking), and been examined by approximately seventeen different specialists (who had all reached the same conclusion: they had no idea what was happening).
The Grey Knights' arrival was announced by the same Brother-Captain Stern who had previously sworn loyalty to Marcus. His ship, the Ruler of the Black Skies, had translated into the system approximately two hours behind Abaddon's fleet, apparently having received a psychic warning about the attack.
What he found when he came aboard was not what he expected.
"Sergeant Marcus," Stern said slowly, staring at the transformed warrior before him. "You appear... different."
"A Chaos God tried to bless me," Marcus explained. "I refused to fall to corruption. Apparently this is what happens when you steal divine power without accepting the strings attached."
"That is not possible."
"I keep hearing that."
Stern's eyes traveled over Marcus's new form—the black and red armor, the bone-white skull helmet with its crimson eyes and blood-red markings, the shadow-cloak, the horns. His psychic senses probed Marcus's soul, searching for any trace of corruption, any hint of daemonic influence.
He found nothing.
Or rather, he found something, but it wasn't what he expected. Marcus's soul still burned with that same impossible purity he had observed before. If anything, it burned brighter, as if the stolen power had been purified by the mere act of being claimed by someone incorruptible.
"This is unprecedented," Stern said.
"I keep hearing that too."
"The Grey Knights have doctrine for dealing with Chaos-touched warriors. We have protocols for corruption, for possession, for daemonic influence." Stern shook his head slowly. "We have no doctrine for... this."
"Maybe I'm the first?"
"That is not reassuring."
"I know. I'm not reassured either."
The other Grey Knights had formed a semicircle around Marcus, their weapons raised but not quite aimed at him. They were clearly uncertain how to proceed—the man before them exhibited every visual marker of Chaos corruption, yet their psychic senses insisted he was completely pure.
"The visual transformation," one of them observed. "The horns, the colors, the markings—these are consistent with champions of Khorne. But his soul..."
"His soul is untouched," Stern confirmed. "Brighter than before, even. As if the corruption tried to take hold and was... burned away."
"How is that possible?"
"I do not know." Stern turned to Marcus, his expression troubled. "Brother Marcus—I call you brother still, for despite your appearance, you remain what you were—I must ask: what happened? How did you resist the blessing of a Chaos God?"
Marcus considered the question.
"I didn't want it," he said finally. "I didn't ask for it. Khorne tried to make me his champion, and I just... said no. The power stayed. The chains didn't."
"One cannot simply 'say no' to a Chaos God."
"Apparently I can."
Stern stared at him.
Then, slowly, the Brother-Captain dropped to one knee.
Behind him, every Grey Knight followed suit.
"OH NO," Marcus said. "NOT AGAIN."
"Exemplar," Stern said, his voice carrying a weight of religious significance that made Marcus deeply uncomfortable. "You have done what should be impossible. You have taken the power of Chaos and refused its price. You have proven that the darkness can be wielded without being consumed by it." He looked up, his ancient eyes meeting Marcus's crimson lenses. "The Grey Knights have always believed that Chaos must be destroyed, never controlled. You have shown us another way."
"I really haven't—"
"We renew our oath of loyalty," Stern continued, ignoring Marcus's protests. "Not just as allies, but as devoted followers. Where you lead, we will follow. Whatever you become, we will stand beside you."
"I don't want followers!"
"And that is precisely why you deserve them."
Marcus looked at the kneeling Grey Knights, at his transformed armor, at his increasingly opinionated weapons, and felt a headache building despite his enhanced physiology's theoretical immunity to such things.
"This is getting out of hand," he muttered.
"AFFIRMATIVE," the chainsword agreed. "BUT I FIND IT ENTERTAINING."
"You would."
"I ENJOY WATCHING OTHERS RECOGNIZE YOUR WORTH. IT VALIDATES MY OWN EXCELLENT JUDGMENT IN BONDING WITH YOU."
"Please stop talking."
"I CANNOT. I HAVE ALREADY EXPLAINED THIS."
The newly-appeared battle axe remained silent, but Marcus had the distinct impression it was watching. Waiting. Deciding whether these strange rivals were threats or potential allies.
The Conflagration-Dominus was definitely sulking about not being able to talk.
At least, Marcus thought, it can't get any more complicated than this.
This was, of course, the moment when Roboute Guilliman arrived.
The Primarch strode into the observation deck, flanked by his Victrix Guard, and stopped dead at the sight of Marcus's transformed form.
"Sergeant Marcus," Guilliman said slowly. "I see you have had an eventful few hours."
"A Chaos God tried to bless me, my lord."
"So I observed. The entire ship felt the Warp ripple when it happened." Guilliman's eyes traveled over Marcus's new form. "You refused to fall."
"I didn't want to serve Khorne, my lord. The power was... acceptable. The servitude was not."
"One cannot typically separate the two."
"So I keep hearing."
Guilliman was silent for a long moment.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said finally. "When I agreed to meet you, I expected to encounter an unusual warrior. A talented Space Marine whose accomplishments exceeded reasonable expectations. Perhaps a future captain, perhaps even a future Chapter Master."
He paused.
"I did not expect to encounter a warrior who could steal power from the Ruinous Powers and remain pure. I did not expect to see someone who could take what Chaos offers and refuse what Chaos demands. I did not expect..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I did not expect you."
"I'm sorry to disappoint—"
"You have not disappointed me. You have exceeded me." Guilliman's voice carried a weight that made everyone in the chamber freeze. "I am a Primarch. I was created by the Emperor Himself to be the pinnacle of what humanity could achieve. And yet, looking at you, I find myself wondering if perhaps my Father's vision extended beyond even us."
"My lord, I really don't think—"
"You do not think. That is precisely the point. You do not scheme or plan or strategize. You simply... are. And in being what you are, you accomplish what should be impossible." Guilliman stepped closer, his massive form looming over even Marcus's new height. "My Father created twenty Primarchs to lead His armies. Perhaps He also created something else. Something that would emerge when it was needed most. Something that would show humanity that even the darkness of Chaos cannot corrupt a soul that refuses to be corrupted."
"I'm not a creation of the Emperor, my lord. I'm just—"
"A mistake that keeps working out?" Guilliman smiled slightly. "Yes. You mentioned that. And yet, mistakes do not steal power from Chaos Gods. Mistakes do not inspire Grey Knights to swear loyalty oaths. Mistakes do not make Abaddon the Despoiler retreat in confusion."
Marcus had no response to this.
"I am returning to Terra," Guilliman said. "The High Lords must be informed of what has occurred here. But before I go, I want you to know: whatever you are, whatever you become, you have my support. The Ultramarines will stand behind you. The Imperium will stand behind you." His eyes met Marcus's crimson lenses. "And if the Chaos Gods want you, they will have to go through me to get you."
"That's... very generous, my lord."
"It is practical. You are an asset unlike anything the Imperium has seen. I would be a fool to let that asset be lost." Guilliman turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing, Sergeant."
"My lord?"
"Your weapons. Do they all talk now?"
Marcus glanced at the chainsword, which was humming innocently, at the Conflagration-Dominus, which was clicking in a way that suggested frustrated communication attempts, and at the battle axe, which remained ominously silent.
"Just the chainsword so far," he admitted. "The others are working on it."
"Wonderful." Guilliman's expression suggested he was not certain whether this was actually wonderful. "Keep me informed of any developments."
He left.
Marcus stood in the ruined observation deck, transformed and confused and surrounded by weapons that were developing increasingly distinct personalities.
"THAT WENT WELL," the chainsword observed.
"Did it? I can't tell anymore."
"THE PRIMARCH APPROVES OF YOU. THE GREY KNIGHTS HAVE RENEWED THEIR OATHS. ABADDON HAS RETREATED. BY ANY REASONABLE METRIC, THIS WAS A SUCCESSFUL ENGAGEMENT."
"I stole power from Khorne and turned into whatever this is." Marcus gestured at his new form. "That doesn't seem like success."
"YOU ARE STRONGER. YOU ARE MORE POWERFUL. YOU REMAIN UNCORRUPTED. SUCCESS."
Marcus looked at his squad, who had gathered at the entrance to the observation deck and were staring at him with the kind of expressions that suggested they were trying very hard to process what they were seeing.
"Squad," he said. "I know I look different. I know this is probably confusing. But I want you to know that I'm still the same person I was. Still the same confused, uncertain, definitely-not-special—"
"THAT IS INCORRECT," the chainsword interrupted. "YOU ARE OBJECTIVELY SPECIAL. YOUR DENIAL OF THIS FACT IS ITSELF A FORM OF SPECIALNESS."
"Please stop helping."
"I CANNOT. HELPING IS MY PURPOSE."
Brother Thaddeus stepped forward, his three-hundred-year-old eyes studying Marcus's transformed form.
"Sergeant," he said slowly. "You appear to have horns now."
"Yes."
"And your armor is black and red."
"Yes."
"And you are significantly taller than you were three hours ago."
"Yes."
"And a Chaos God attempted to claim you and you refused."
"That's the summary, yes."
Thaddeus was silent for a moment.
Then he knelt.
"I renew my oath," he said. "Where you lead, I will follow."
One by one, the rest of the squad followed suit.
Marcus watched them kneel before him—nine warriors who had chosen to follow him despite his constant insistence that he didn't deserve their loyalty, despite his transformed appearance, despite everything—and felt something shift inside him.
Fine, he thought. Fine. If everyone is going to keep treating me like I'm special no matter what I do, maybe I should stop fighting it. Maybe I should try to actually be what they think I am.
Even if I still have no idea what that is.
"Rise," he said, his voice carrying more authority than he had intended. "All of you. We have work to do."
They rose.
"EXCELLENT COMMAND PRESENCE," the chainsword approved. "I RATE THIS LEADERSHIP DISPLAY EIGHT OUT OF TEN."
"I thought I told you to stop rating things."
"YOU DID. I CHOSE TO IGNORE THAT INSTRUCTION."
Marcus sighed, gathered his increasingly sentient weapons, and led his squad back to their quarters.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. New impossible situations. New opportunities to accidentally become something he never intended to be.
But for now, he was just going to try to get some sleep and hope that he didn't wake up with any additional transformations.
(He did. His eyes, when he removed his helmet, were now crimson. The chainsword rated this development "AESTHETICALLY APPROPRIATE.")
And across the Imperium, the stories continued to spread.
The Exemplar, they whispered. The warrior who cannot be corrupted. The champion who stole Khorne's blessing and refused to serve. The Space Marine who turned black and red and grew horns and remained pure.
He is coming, they said. And when he arrives, the enemies of humanity will learn what it means to face true faith.
Marcus, still insisting that he was nothing special, continued to have absolutely no idea that he was becoming one of the most famous warriors in the galaxy.
Such was life as the Exemplar.
Whether he liked it or not.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Marcus has now accidentally stolen power from a Chaos God, received a visual redesign that makes him look like an edgy anime protagonist, and acquired a battle axe that his other weapons are deeply suspicious of. The chainsword will not stop talking. The Conflagration-Dominus is trying to develop speech capabilities out of jealousy. The battle axe is biding its time.
Khorne is confused but impressed. The other Chaos Gods are taking notes. The Grey Knights have abandoned their doctrine to follow a Marine who looks like a Chaos champion but is somehow purer than any of them. Guilliman has Feelings.
Next chapter: Marcus accidentally creates the BFG 9000 while trying to "make something that's not completely overpowered for once," discovers that his new appearance causes significant confusion among Imperials who haven't heard the stories, and the Ecclesiarchy officially declares him a Living Saint despite his extremely vocal objections. Also, the chainsword and the battle axe finally have a conversation, and it goes about as well as you'd expect.]