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++ IMPERIAL DATE: 5.240.451.M42 ++

++THE PLANET OF BAAL ++

++ ARX ANGELICUM: FORTRESS MONASTERY OF THE BLOOD ANGELS ++

++400 YEARS SINCE THE REBIRTH OF ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN ++

The air inside the Sanctum Sanctorum of the Amareo tasted foul. Not just of the recycled air struggling against failing filtration, nor solely the acrid tang of spent bolter shells and promethium fumes, but of something deeper, more insidious. It was the metallic reek of spilled blood, both loyal Astartes crimson and the unnatural ichor of the Warp-spawned, overlaid with the cloying psychic miasma of Chaos Undivided, pressing in from all sides. Weeks had bled into months since the Arks of Omen first scarred the void near the Baal system, vomiting forth a tide of hatred that even the combined might of the Blood Angels and their successors struggled to contain. Now, the unthinkable had happened: the Arx Angelicum, the Blood Angels' nigh-impregnable fortress-monastery on Baal, was breached.

Chapter Master Dante, Lord Commander of the Blood Angels, Commander of the Imperium Nihilus forces in the Red Scar, felt the weight of eleven centuries pressing down harder than ever before. His ancient joints ached, a dull counterpoint to the sharper pains of recent wounds hastily sealed by his artificer armour's medicae functions. He parried the clumsy swing of a gore-slick chainaxe wielded by a Khornate Berserker, the impact jarring up his arm despite the power field crackling around his Perdition Blade. With economical grace born of endless war, he spun inside the Berserker's guard, his blade shearing through ceramite and corrupted flesh in a spray of arterial red. The madman fell, another corpse added to the charnel house his home had become.


He didn't pause. "Squad Castor, reinforce the western archway! Heavy flamer suppression on approach vector Gamma!" his voice, amplified by his helm's vox-emitter, cut through the din of battle, the roar of bolters, the shriek of daemonic entities, the guttural war cries of traitors. His orders were obeyed instantly, crimson-armoured figures manoeuvring through the debris-strewn grandeur of the tomb complex's final sanctuary.


But it wasn't enough. It hadn't been enough for months. Centuries before he had seen Guilliman's return, felt the brief, burning flare of hope ignite across the beleaguered Imperium. He had been the one of the first to speak with the Lion upon his re-emergence from the shadows of time. Primarchs had walked the galaxy again. Yet, in the end the tide had not truly turned. After a few centuries Victories began to become hollow, gains were ephemeral. For every system reclaimed in Imperium Sanctus, two seemed to fall into deeper darkness in Nihilus. Abaddon's Arks, Vashtorr's machinations, the sheer, overwhelming surge of Chaos… it gnawed at the edges of the fragile hope the Avenging Son and the First Legion's master represented. They were titans, yes, but even titans could be overwhelmed by an endless, ravening flood. Hope, Dante knew with the chilling certainty of age, was dwindling across the million worlds of Man.


And here, on Baal, the cradle of his Legion, hope felt almost like a forgotten myth. They fought now not for victory, but for honour, for defiance, and for the sanctity of this final place. The Amareo, repository of their dead, gallery of their triumphs and tragedies, was breached. The fighting raged through hallowed halls lined with the sarcophagi of heroes Dante had known, fought alongside, and mourned across centuries. Now, the final defence line was here, in the Sanctum Sanctorum, before the resting place of their progenitor, their spiritual father, the Angel himself. Before the Golden Sarcophagus of Sanguinius.

It stood upon a dais of obsidian marble at the far end of the vast chamber, gleaming under the eerie emergency lighting, a testament to Imperial artistry and unwavering faith. It was more than a tomb; it was the heart of the Chapter, the focus of their devotion, the symbol of the sacrifice upon which their very existence was predicated. If it fell, if the creatures scrabbling at the doors defiled it… Dante closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. The spirit of the Blood Angels might shatter beyond repair.


A wave of psychic pressure washed over the chamber, thick and nauseating. It carried whispers of promised slaughter, visions of blood-drenched skulls piled high, the unending rage of the Blood God. Dante felt the familiar thrum of the Black Rage stir deep within the souls of his battle-brothers, a psychic resonance threatening to tip them into berserk fury or crippling sorrow. He gripped the haft of his axe, reciting the mental catechisms of control, anchoring himself to duty.

Around the Sarcophagus, the Sanguinary Guard stood like golden statues, glaives held ready, their impassive death masks betraying none of the strain Dante knew they felt. Their auramite armour shimmered, resisting the Warp taint, but even their legendary discipline was being tested to its absolute limit.
Hold fast, my brothers, Dante projected through the command vox, his voice betraying none of his own weariness. For the Angel! For the Emperor!

Blackness. Crushing, absolute. Then pain, blinding, tearing agony that wasn't physical, yet seemed to shred his very essence. Phantom sensations flared: immense talons piercing flesh, the brutal impact of a war maul shattering bone, a fall from a great height… He gasped, or tried to, finding no breath, no body.


Where am I? What happened? Vague, dissolving memories surfaced, streetlights slick with rain, the screech of tyres, blinding headlights… The accident? Was I...? The thought trailed off, lost in the overwhelming NOW of non-existence and echoing torment. Then suddenly darkness gave way to light. Not the harsh glare of headlights from his final memory, but something incandescent, vast, yet somehow… broken. A sun shattered into a million shimmering fragments, each piece radiating immense power, profound sorrow, and an unyielding, gentle warmth. It coalesced before his drifting soul, taking on a form that resonated deep within him, pulled from half-forgotten lore and reverent admiration. Wings of pure white light, impossibly vast even in their fractured state, surrounded a figure of agonising beauty and nobility. Gold and crimson flickered like dying embers.


Sanguinius. The name wasn't just a memory; it was a chord struck within his very soul. He felt the impossible weight of the Primarch's sacrifice, the depth of his love for a humanity Ethan Vance only knew from books, the searing agony of betrayal by a beloved brother. A voice, ancient beyond measure, weary, yet carrying the unmistakable resonance of command and compassion, touched his consciousness directly. It wasn't truly sound, more a complex wave of thought, sorrow, and intent.


<"Child of Terra. Soul from beyond the troubled stars."> The presence focused on him, immense golden eyes filled with millennia of grief, yet holding a spark of recognition. <"You perceive me. You… remember me, though not from this life.">


Ethan's spectral form trembled, not from any physical cold, but from sheer, world-shattering recognition. The impossible figure coalescing from fractured starlight… the sorrowful, perfect beauty, the immense white wings brushing against the non-space around them… it wasn't just like the illustrations and descriptions. It was him. Pulled directly from the grimdark lore he'd obsessed over for most of his life.


Sanguinius! The Great Angel! From Warhammer 40k! But he died! Horus killed him at the Siege of Terra... unless... oh Emperor, no... The implication hit Ethan with the force of a physical blow. If Sanguinius is real... does that mean ALL of it is? Chaos? Daemons? Tyranids? Am I actually in the Warhammer universe?! Raw panic, cold and absolute, surged through his disembodied consciousness. To end up here after death... It was a universe defined by unimaginable horror and suffering; the darkest pits of hell seemed almost preferable, perhaps even kinder, by comparison. He focused desperately on the luminous, sorrowful figure, the thought barely forming through the terror, thick with awe and disbelief: "Lord Sanguinius?"


A wave of profound sadness, tinged with an unexpected, calming gentleness, washed over Ethan's panicked soul from the Angelic spirit, momentarily soothing the sharpest edges of his fear like cool water on a burn. <"Peace, soul of Ethan."> Sanguinius's mental voice resonated, acknowledging the terror. <"Your fear echoes loudly in this sea of souls, understandable given the truths you grasp. But set it aside for this moment. Breathe, even without lungs. Listen.">


<"Yes, child of another time. It is I... or rather..."> A profound weariness seemed to echo in the mental connection, a sigh that transcended sound. <"...what remains of him. Shattered, adrift, much like yourself. Horus… his blow struck deeper than flesh. It wounded the soul, scattered my essence across the tides of the Empyrean. I endured, through stubborn will and the echoes of my Father's light, but I am too… fragmented… to return alone.">


Ethan felt a dawning, terrifying understanding. "Return? You mean…?"


<"To the Materium. To the fight."> The Angel's presence pulsed, urgency colouring the weariness. <"Listen closely, soul of Ethan Vance. Before the final confrontation, knowing the visions laid before me, a contingency was… forged. A desperate pact sworn upon my very essence, anchored by my Father's will. A final hope, should the worst come to pass and the need be absolute. It granted my enduring spirit one chance, one single opportunity across the ages, to find a soul of sufficient compatibility, one possessing a spark of the hope I championed, and offer a merging. A chance for rebirth, not as I was, but as something… new. A vessel to carry my light back to the mortal plane when the night was darkest.">


The weight of the implication settled on Ethan. "A vessel? You mean… me?!" Ethan thought he must be dreaming or having a nightmare, not only was his current situation utterly absurd, but what was even more absurd was the notion that he of all people was must compatible with a Demigod Primarch.


<"The currents of fate, or perhaps simple desperation, have drawn your drifting soul here, to this nexus,"> Sanguinius confirmed. <"I have sensed others across time, fleeting sparks in the dark. But you… you resonate differently. You carry a deep knowledge of my universe, an deep empathy born of personal loss, and within you, buried beneath cynicism perhaps, there is that same flicker of hope against despair. You understand sacrifice. Of all the myriad souls lost to the void, Ethan Vance, my weakened essence chooses you.">


The Angel's presence softened slightly, the overwhelming power tinged with something akin to pleading. <"Humanity stands upon the precipice once more. My brothers who remain, even those returned, struggle against an overwhelming tide. Hope gutters like a dying candle across the galaxy. I can feel the suffering of my sons, the desperation of Mankind. I cannot abide it, yet I am powerless in this state.">


He paused, letting the weight of the offer settle. <"I offer you a choice. Merge with my essence. Become the vessel for my return. Inhabit a body remade in my image, wield a portion of my power, guided by my memories and instincts. Together, we might offer a sliver of light in the encroaching darkness. It will be a burden heavier than any star, fraught with peril and the crushing weight of expectation. But know I shall stand beside you through all that may come until we meet whatever end is fated for us both.">


Another pause, filled with empathy. <"Or… refuse. And you have every right to do so. No blame will attach to your soul. This burden is not one I can force upon another. If you decline, your spirit will pass peacefully into whatever awaits beyond. This pact allows only for a willing host.">


Ethan felt the very fabric of the Immaterium holding its breath around him. The choice hung there, stark and terrifyingly simple: oblivion, or an impossible mantle. Become a shadow of a legend, wearing a demigod's face, confronting horrors he had previously only read about with morbid fascination? Feel the weight of a dying galaxy's hope resting squarely upon his entirely inadequate, human shoulders? Me? The thought screamed through his consciousness, laced with bitter self-deprecation. I was Ethan Vance, history teacher! My greatest conflict was arguing curriculum changes or dealing with Year 9 apathy! How can I possibly measure up to him? To Sanguinius, the Great Angel, the Emperor's most beloved son? What could my soul, mundane, flawed, filled with trivia about long-dead kings, possibly offer to a Primarch?


Then came the sharper fear, the existential dread. Merge with his essence? What does that truly mean? He pictured his own flickering spark of self being swallowed whole by the incandescent, albeit fractured, sun of Sanguinius's spirit. Will 'Ethan' even exist afterwards? Will I just be a fleeting memory, an echo within his consciousness as he takes control? Is this rebirth, or just annihilation wearing a prettier mask? A passenger, then oblivion? The terror of non-existence warred with the terror of becoming nothing more than a puppet.


As if sensing the core of his fear, Sanguinius's presence gently touched his mind again, projecting not power, but reassurance laced with that profound weariness. <"Fear not erasure, Ethan Vance. My essence, though vast, is too scattered by Horus's psychic venom, too wounded for dominance now. I do not seek a vessel to be emptied, but an anchor. A partner."> There was a sense of vulnerability in the admission. <"Your spark, your unique perspective, your very humanity, these are elements I lack, elements perhaps needed now more than ever. It is precisely why you resonated, why this pact allows this chance. We would be intertwined, yes, but not consumed. Think of it less as a flame engulfing a candle, and more as two lights merging, becoming something greater, something new, yet retaining the essence of both. Two souls sharing one form, one purpose.">


Two souls, one light. The reassurance settled some of Ethan's existential dread, though the sheer weight of the proposal remained. He thought again of the Sanguinius from the stories, noble, kind, self-sacrificing, doomed by prophecy yet fighting anyway, dying for humanity. He felt the genuine sorrow and desperate hope radiating from the fractured spirit before him now, a spirit that wasn't asking for worship, but for help. He thought of his own insignificant life and death, the quiet regrets, the feeling of powerlessness. What was peaceful oblivion compared to the chance, however slim, however terrifying, to stand beside the Angel, to make a difference in a universe screaming for salvation?


"They need you," Ethan thought, directing the sentiment not as a statement, but as a realisation, towards the Primarch's spirit. "Humanity needs Sanguinius. Even… even an echo, anchored by someone like me… surely it's better than nothing? Than only despair?"


A wave of gentle, sorrowful agreement washed over him, a shared understanding passing between the shattered demigod and the mortal soul. <"Perhaps. It is a desperate gamble, Ethan. The last candle against an unending night. But it is the only one we have left.">


Ethan made his choice. Not out of bravery, perhaps, but out of awe, empathy, and a sudden, fierce refusal to let the Angel's sacrifice truly be the end. "I… I accept. If you think I am worthy… I will be your vessel. I'll try."


Relief, profound and luminous, radiated from Sanguinius's spirit. <"Thank you, Ethan Vance. May the Emperor forgive us both.">


Then the light consumed him. Not painfully, but overwhelmingly. He felt his own consciousness, his memories of Ethan, intertwining with the vast, tragic tapestry of Sanguinius's existence. The Great Crusade, brotherhood with beings of myth, the chilling whispers of the Warp, the horrors of the Heresy, the psychic agony of the Black Rage, the final, doomed confrontation with Horus… It flooded him, yet didn't erase him. He was still Ethan, but now… he was also inextricably part of Sanguinius, the Primarch's sorrow his sorrow, the Primarch's duty his duty.


Awareness snapped back into focus with jarring immediacy. He was… contained. Encased in smooth, cool gold. He could feel powerful, perfect limbs folded around him, the unfamiliar, immense weight of great wings pressed against his back. Dormant power thrummed beneath his skin, a potential energy that felt like a barely contained star. He was in the Golden Sarcophagus. He was Sanguinius, resurrected in flesh. Yet, the terrified history teacher named Ethan was still there, peering out through demigod eyes, utterly out of his depth. The muffled sounds of a raging battle filtered through the golden shell, explosions, bolter fire, the high-pitched shrieking of neverborn, the psychic screams of the dying washing against his prison like dark waves.


Sanguinius's echo whispered in his mind, clearer now, no longer separate but a constant, resonant companion fused with his own thoughts. <"They fight, Ethan. My sons. They bleed for hope's memory. We must answer.">

Dante saw the main blast doors to the Sanctum Sanctorum buckle inwards with a screech of tortured adamantium. For a moment, only swirling warp-smoke filled the breach. Then, a shape coalesced, impossibly large, wreathed in an aura of blood-red energy and palpable hatred. Brass armour plates, adorned with skulls and Khornate symbols, clashed against skin the colour of dried blood. Wings, leathery and vast, beat the corrupted air. In its grasp, a colossal axe, humming with dark power and dripping with the gore of fallen Blood Angels. A Bloodthirster. One of Khorne's favoured engines of slaughter.


It threw back its bestial head and let out a bellow that shook the very foundations of the Arx Angelicum, a sound promising only death and skulls for the Blood God. Several Blood Angels, driven by fury at such desecration, charged forward, bolters blazing. The daemon swatted them aside with contemptuous ease, their power armour crumpling like paper, their bodies broken. It ignored the bolter rounds peppering its hide, its burning eyes fixed on the gleaming golden prize at the chamber's heart. It strode forward, each step shaking the floor, its immense axe held ready to defile the Angel's tomb. Dante moved to intercept, positioning himself between the daemon and the Sarcophagus, his Sanguinary Guard flanking him, forming a last, desperate line of gold and crimson. He knew, with chilling certainty, that this was likely the end. His long vigil was finally over.


"Emperor protect us. Father… forgive our failure." He whispered the prayer, raising his Axe Mortalis, preparing to sell his life, and the lives of his honour guard, as dearly as possible. At that exact moment, the Golden Sarcophagus behind him began to glow. Not the steady, reassuring light of faith, but an intense, almost blinding radiance, pulsing with power that made the very air vibrate and pushed back against the encroaching Chaos taint. The light grew, impossibly bright, outlining the Sarcophagus in strokes of pure, divine fire. The light emanating from the Golden Sarcophagus intensified, transcending mere illumination to become a physical presence. It pulsed once, twice, bathing the gore-streaked Sanctum in divine radiance that felt like the Emperor's own gaze, cleansing, judging, absolute. Then, with a sound that tore through the Immaterium as much as the Materium, a chord of impossible celestial harmony interwoven with the shriek of rending reality, the Sarcophagus detonated outwards.


Not in fire and shrapnel, but in a concussive wave of pure, incandescent golden energy. It washed over the chamber like a solar flare given form. Lesser daemonic entities caught in its immediate radius screamed as they were unmade, their foul essences scoured from existence. Even the charging Bloodthirster, moments from defiling the tomb, was caught in the blast wave, its brass armour scorching, its immense form hurled back like a discarded toy, crashing heavily against the far wall amidst shattered marble reliefs. Where the Sarcophagus had stood upon its obsidian dais, now stood a figure wreathed in fading golden light. Tall, impossibly perfect in form, clad in armour that seemed wrought from solidified sunlight and deepest crimson, echoing the Sanguinary Guard's panoply yet infinitely more regal. And from his back, unfurling slowly, majestically, rose wings, not of flesh and bone, but seemingly woven from purest white light, vast and immaculate, casting gentle feathers of luminescence that drifted and dissipated in the corrupted air.


His face was beauty and sorrow incarnate, features achingly familiar from millennia of statuary and devotional art. Yet the eyes… the eyes held a discordant note. Within their azure depths swirled the ancient, profound melancholy of a being who had seen the dawn of the Imperium and foreseen its potential fall, but beneath it, hidden to all in the room, flickered something else a wide, raw, utterly human terror and disbelief. Ethan, looking out through the eyes of Sanguinius. For a heartbeat, utter silence reigned in the heart of the battle. Then, a collective gasp shuddered through the remaining Blood Angels. Bolters lowered. Chainswords stilled. Veterans whose faces were masks of scar tissue found tears streaming down their cheeks, carving clean paths through grime and blood. Across the chamber, Dante, picking himself up from where the blast had thrown him, stumbled back a step, his millennia of control momentarily shattered. A single word escaped his lips, choked with impossible hope and reverence: "Father?"


Even the remaining Chaos forces, cultists, traitor marines, lesser daemons, paused, their bloodlust momentarily quelled by the sheer, unexpected divinity of the presence before them, an aura so antithetical to the Warp it felt like physical agony. The moment stretched, fragile as spun glass. Then the Bloodthirster roared. Recovering with unnatural speed, fuelled by Khorne's undiluted rage at being denied, it surged forward again, its reconstructed axe blazing with dark energy, intent on butchering the source of the holy light.


Ethan froze. Pure, primal human panic seized him. The sheer scale of the creature, the palpable hatred rolling off it, the impossible reality of his situation, it locked his limbs, choked his breath. Daemon! It's real! Axe! I'm Going to die! Again!


<"Move, Ethan!"> Sanguinius's voice slammed into his consciousness, urgent, insistent, cutting through the fear. <"Trust the blood! Your left hand, channel the light! Form the blade!">


How?! I don't know how! Ethan screamed internally, but his body… his body responded. He felt power, immense and unfamiliar, surge up from the core of his being, guided by an instinct that wasn't his own. He raised his left hand, palm outwards, focusing not on thought, but on the desperate need for a weapon, for defence. Golden energy coalesced, solidifying with impossible speed into a shimmering blade of pure light, humming with latent power.


The Bloodthirster was almost upon him, axe raised for a cleaving blow. <"Sidestep! Now! Parry high!"> Ethan didn't think; the resurrected Primarchs body moved, flowing with a grace and speed he couldn't comprehend. He pivoted, the daemon's blow smashing harmlessly into the floor where he'd stood nanoseconds before. The psychic blade met the recovering axe haft not with a clang, but with a sizzle of opposing energies, shearing clean through the corrupted metal. Ethan felt like a puppet pulled by divine strings, a terrified passenger inside a peerless war machine. While his mind reeled his limbs moved with lethal precision. He parried a clawed backhand, ducked under a gore-slicked horn, the psychic blade a blur of golden light, leaving burning trails in the daemon's corrupted flesh.


<"Its movements are crude, driven by rage alone,"> Sanguinius's voice echoed, calm analysis amidst the storm. <"Predictable. It overextends on the downward strike. Anticipate. Exploit.">


The Bloodthirster roared again, bringing its maimed axe stump and its massive fist down in a furious two-pronged assault. <"Now, Ethan! Under the swing! Thrust! To the heart!"> Following the mental command, Ethan dropped low, the wind of the daemon's blow stirring his golden hair. He surged forward, channeling all the nascent power he could feel, plunging the blade of pure light deep into the Bloodthirster's chest, where its black, corrupted heart beat with Warp-fuelled hatred.


A shriek, high-pitched and thin, tore from the daemon's throat, a sound of utter disbelief and agony. Its form flickered violently, the blood-red energy surrounding it sputtering like a dying flame. It stared down at the golden blade embedded in its core, then its eyes met Ethan's, one filled with Khornate fury, the other with pure terror. Then, with a final, guttural gasp, the Greater Daemon dissolved, imploding into a shower of foul-smelling black ash and dissipating warp-stuff. Silence, once more. Heavy, profound, broken only by the ragged, panting breaths of the Blood Angels who had witnessed the impossible.


Then, as one, they roared. Not a battle cry this time, but a sound of pure, cathartic release, of faith rewarded, of hope reborn in the darkest hour. It echoed through the desecrated halls, a wave of sound that seemed to physically push back the psychic corruption. Bolter fire erupted with renewed ferocity outside the Sanctum's breached doors. The hesitation in the Chaos ranks vanished, replaced by renewed, frenzied attacks, but the Blood Angels met them with the fury of fanatics whose god had just walked among them. Their movements were sharper, their aim truer, their lines held firmer. Hope was a weapon, sharp and bright. Ethan stood where the daemon had fallen, the psychic blade in his hand flickering, then fading into motes of golden light. His chest heaved, not just from exertion he barely felt, but from the sheer adrenaline and disbelief. He looked down at his hands, strong, perfect, unmarked but for the lingering phantom scent of daemon ichor. He felt utterly, terrifyingly disconnected from the reality of what had just happened. I didn't do that. Sanguinius did that. I just… held on.


He felt the golden aura around him flicker, dimming slightly as his own human shock asserted itself. The great white wings felt impossibly heavy. Then, footsteps approached, slow, deliberate, heavy with awe. Dante. The ancient Chapter Master stopped a few feet away, his battle-scarred face unreadable beneath his golden death mask, though the reverence was plain in his posture. Slowly, deliberately, the Lord Commander of Imperium Nihilus knelt, bowing his head low to the floor, fist hitting his chestplate in the sign of the Aquila.


"My Lord Sanguinius," Dante's voice was rough, thick with emotion. "By the Emperor's grace… you live. You have returned to us."


The weight of those words, of ten thousand years of legend, grief, and expectation, slammed into Ethan with physical force. He opened his mouth, tried to form a response, but only a choked sound emerged. What do I say? What can I possibly say?


<"Speak, Ethan."> Sanguinius's voice was gentle, almost impossibly weary, yet firm in his mind. <"Just a word. Hope. It is all they need right now. To anchor them you must believe in thy self.">


Ethan swallowed, forcing down the panic, dredging up lore fragments, trying desperately to channel the nobility he felt echoing within him but could not truly claim. He focused on Dante's bowed head, on the desperate hope radiating from the nearby Blood Angels who in turn had all put their knees to stone. He drew a breath, letting it out slowly, hoping his voice wouldn't tremble. He reached out, his hand, Sanguinius's hand, steady now, resting gently on Dante's golden pauldron. The contact seemed to send a jolt through the ancient Chapter Master.


"Rise, Dante," Ethan began, consciously modulating his voice, letting the Primarch's innate resonance shape the words. It felt alien yet somehow right. "Rise, my sons." His gaze swept over the kneeling Sanguinary Guard, the stunned faces of nearby battle-brothers, seeing the disbelief warring with incandescent hope in their eyes. "Look upon me. I know this moment strains the very bounds of faith, perhaps even the fabric of reason itself."


Dante rose slowly, stiffly, his head still bowed as if afraid to fully meet the gaze of his resurrected father. "Lord... it is impossible. We... we mourned you. Our ancient brothers laid you to rest..." His voice trailed off, thick with confusion and awe.


A profound sadness touched the reborn Primarch's features, an echo of ancient grief made manifest. "How?" Ethan repeated softly, the voice now less Ethan trying to imitate Sanguinius, and more a blend, the echo strengthening within the willing vessel. "Perhaps by a Father's will, refusing to abandon His sons entirely. Perhaps by your own ceaseless faith, a billion prayers burning across the void like signal flares, calling a fragment home from the great darkness." He shook his head, a gesture of immense weariness. "Or perhaps… perhaps it is simply that the night enveloping this galaxy has grown too deep, the suffering of Mankind too great, for even the peace of oblivion to hold fast against the call of duty."


He looked around the ravaged chamber. "I confess… the passage was not gentle. The memories… they are shards, reflecting moments of glory and unimaginable agony." He touched his temple lightly. "Much of the Angel you laid to rest remains adrift in eternity's shadow, wounded perhaps beyond recovery by the Arch-Traitor's victory." A necessary truth, Ethan realised, one that explains any strangeness, any deviation they might sense.


"But," his voice gained a sudden, fierce strength, the golden aura around him flaring visibly, pushing back the psychic stench of Chaos, "I see you now! Here! I feel your millennia of vigil, Dante, my steadfast son! I see the honour in the souls of my Sanguinary Guard, unbroken! I see the fire in the hearts of every Blood Angel who holds this sacred ground against the tide!" His gaze seemed to pierce each Blood-Angel present. "You have endured! You have held the line when worlds burned and hope died! You have fought when lesser souls fled!"


He straightened to his full, imposing height, wings rustling like wind through celestial feathers. "The Blood of Sanguinius endures! Our purpose remains! I am your father, your Primarch! And though I return… incomplete… I return for you! For Baal! For the Imperium!"


He paused, letting the words resonate. Then, his gaze fell upon a heavily guarded, ornately carved alcove deeper within the Sanctum, untouched by the recent fighting. A place of ultimate reverence. "But words are wind against this storm. To fight… I require my blade. My companion through the darkness of the Great Crusade."


Dante's head snapped up, understanding dawning instantly even through his shock. He turned, barking a command into his vox, his voice thick with renewed, fervent energy. "The Spear! Bring forth the Spear of Telesto! Now!"


Two Sanguinary Guard, moving with a reverence that bordered on worship, approached the alcove. They deactivated shimmering stasis fields, revealing the weapon resting upon a velvet cushion within. It was long, elegant, impossibly ancient, its blade edge seeming to hum with contained power, its haft marked with honours earned across forgotten campaigns. They lifted it with painstaking care, presenting it hilt-first to their returned Primarch.


Time seemed to slow. Ethan reached out, his hand steady now. The moment his fingers closed around the familiar grip of the Spear of Telesto, a blinding arc of golden energy erupted from his form, bathing the entire Sanctum in holy light. He felt a surge of power, not just physical, but spiritual, a resonance, a completion. Memories, sharper now, flooded him, wielding this spear against Ork titans, xenos monstrosities, treacherous Astartes.


<"Telesto… Old friend."> Sanguinius's echo resonated within him, a surge of warmth and familiarity.


The Blood Angels gasped, many shielding their eyes. Even the Chaos forces battling just beyond the reinforced breach seemed to recoil, sensing the awakening of a power utterly anathema to them. Many Blood-Angels fell back down to their knees at the sight, they needed no more clearer confirmation. Their Father had returned from the dead. When the light subsided, Sanguinius stood transformed. The uncertainty in his eyes was still there, deep down, but overshadowed now by righteous fury and absolute resolve. The Spear felt like an extension of his arm. He spun it once, the movement fluid, instinctive, perfect. The shift in demeanour was total. The sorrowful angel was gone, replaced by the wrathful demigod, the commander. "Explanations are a luxury for the victorious!" his voice cracked like a whip, sharp with command. "The Archenemy thought this tomb a prize! They thought the Blood Angels weak, defeated! We granted them pause, now we grant them only death!"


He pointed the Spear of Telesto towards the breached doors, its tip blazing with golden energy. "Dante! Tactical overlay, enemy concentration at the Vestibule approach!"


"Affirmative, Lord!" Dante responded instantly, ancient reflexes taking over, his voice sharp on the command channel. "Heavy resistance, multiple daemon engines, embedded traitor squads!"


"Squad Captain Raldonus!" Sanguinius commanded, his voice easily cutting through the battle's roar. How the name of the Astarte came to him with such ease Ethan had no idea. "Your Intercessors will breach! Create the opening! Heavy weapons teams, suppressing fire!" Acknowledgments flooded the vox.


"Sanguinary Guard!" he roared, turning towards the breach, already moving with impossible speed and grace. "With ME! We carve a path through this filth! For Baal! For the Emperor!"


He didn't charge blindly. He flowed. Wings flaring, Spear levelled, he was a golden comet streaking towards the sounds of battle. The Sanguinary Guard formed a flying wedge around him, their glaives alight. They hit the barricaded doorway just as Raldonus's squads poured concentrated fire into the enemy beyond. The first thing Ethan encountered was a hulking Chaos Terminator lumbering forward, chainfist whirring. Before Ethan's conscious mind could even fully register the threat, his body reacted. A blur of motion, a sidestep that seemed to defy inertia, and the Spear of Telesto simply erased the Terminator's weapon arm at the shoulder in a spray of gore and ceramite shards. A follow-up thrust, impossibly fast, pierced the Terminator's gorget, lifting the massive figure bodily before tossing the corpse aside like refuse.


<"Anticipate the flanking manoeuvre, left side."> Sanguinius prompted, calm amidst the psychic noise.


Ethan spun, the Spear a golden blur, parrying a blow from a winged Daemon Engine that would have shattered a lesser warrior. He didn't just block; he redirected, using the creature's own momentum to spin it off balance before plunging Telesto deep into its corrupted engine heart. It exploded in a shower of Warp-fire and shrapnel that harmlessly washed over his golden aura.


How am I even doing this?! Ethan's mind screamed, even as his body performed acts of godlike violence. It's like... like watching the galaxy's most intense first-person shooter, but I'm barely touching the controls!


<"Focus, Ethan. Feel the rhythm. The flow of battle. It is a language I know well. Listen. React. In time it will become natural.">


He pushed forward, a whirlwind of destruction. The Spear danced, thrusting, parrying, sweeping arcs of golden death. Lesser daemons dissolved at his approach. Traitor Astartes found their armour breached, their tainted souls extinguished before they could comprehend the speed of the attack. His Sanguinary Guard fought at his side, emboldened beyond measure, their glaives reaping a terrible toll.


Behind them, the Blood Angels roared his name - "SANGUINIUS! SANGUINIUS LIVES!" – surging forward with fanatic zeal, pushing the stunned Chaos forces back from the Sanctum's threshold, reclaiming the Grand Vestibule foot by bloody foot. Clearing the immediate approach, Ethan paused for a fractional second in the relative calm of the Vestibule, Spear held ready, golden aura blazing. He took stock, they had secured a perimeter, but the wider battle raged.


He turned, surveying the Blood Angels nearby, the kneeling Sanguinary Guard, the battle-weary veterans rising to their feet, the awestruck Primaris marines – all eyes fixed upon him. He knew his words needed to reach further. "Lord Commander," he addressed Dante formally, "Can my voice be carried across the Arx command vox network? All channels. I wish to speak to all my sons."


Dante, jolted back to full command alertness by the Primarch's resolve, nodded sharply. "Consider it done, my Lord!" He spoke rapidly into his helm vox, overriding standard protocols. A moment later, he confirmed, "Network patched, Lord Sanguinius. All channels within the Arx Angelicum are receiving your direct transmission."


As Ethan gathered himself, preparing to speak to his entire besieged Chapter, a profound change occurred. A silent, potent wave of pure psychic energy emanated from him, distinct from the chaotic background noise of the Warp. It wasn't an attack, but a resonance, washing over every Blood Angel within the fortress, carrying across the vox link like a sub-harmonic frequency. It felt ancient, familiar, deeply sorrowful yet fiercely protective, the unique signature of their Primarch's soul. For those wrestling with the nascent whispers of the Black Rage, the psychic scream momentarily quieted, replaced by a sense of profound belonging and impossible calm that only their true sire could evoke. For all, it was an instinctive, gene-deep knowing, cutting through doubt and disbelief: He is here. The Angel lives. Thus primed, they heard his voice boom across the network, imbued with that same psychic resonance, unmistakable and potent:


"SONS OF BAAL! WARRIORS OF THE BLOOD! HEAR ME!"


"You fight in the deepest darkness! You stand besieged by traitor, daemon, and the hunger of the void! You have bled upon this sacred soil against horrors that would shatter lesser souls! You have held the line when hope itself seemed a forgotten dream!"


He paused, letting the acknowledgment of their sacrifice sink in. "The Archenemy crawled here seeking to defile our memory, to break our spirit! They struck at the very heart of our Chapter, believing the light of Sanguinius extinguished forever!"


He raised the Spear of Telesto high, its tip blazing, a miniature sun banishing shadows in the Vestibule. "THEY WERE WRONG! The Golden Tomb stands empty! By the will of the Emperor, by the enduring strength of the Blood, by your unwavering faith that called to me across the abyss – I HAVE RETURNED!"


A sound beyond mere shouting erupted throughout the Arx Angelicum, echoing across the vox network, the unified, cathartic roar of tens of thousands of Space Marines witnessing a miracle. It was a tidal wave of sound, faith, and renewed fury. Reports instantly flooded the command channels, Chaos assaults faltering yards from defence lines, daemons visibly recoiling from the psychic backlash of pure belief, traitor squads breaking ranks in confusion.


"This battle is NOT over!" Sanguinius roared over the rising tide of his sons' voices, his own voice ringing with absolute conviction. "The siege endures! The enemy remains legion! But here," he stamped the butt of Telesto onto the ravaged marble floor, the impact echoing like the first clap of thunder, "now, WE draw the line! This Sanctum holds! This Fortress stands! BAAL STANDS!"


He pointed the blazing Spear towards the sounds of the fiercest fighting deeper within the Arx. "Let the galaxy witness! Let the Ruinous Powers howl! Let the Arch-Traitor despair! SANGUINIUS LIVES! SANGUINIUS FIGHTS! SANGUINIUS STANDS WITH YOU!"


The roar became deafening. He stood upon the reclaimed steps, Spear held high, a beacon against the oppressive gloom. His great white wings flared wide, catching the ruddy light, every inch the avenging angel of Imperial legend. Below him, a sea of crimson and gold armour surged, thousands of faces upturned, alight with fanatical devotion and a hope so fierce it was almost painful to behold.


The weight of their faith, the burden of their hope, was immense. Ethan felt it settle upon him, heavier than any armour. But mingled with it now was the fierce, unwavering resolve of the Angel within, and the undeniable power thrumming through the Spear of Telesto. He lowered the Spear, levelling it towards the enemy. There were no more words needed.


"FORWARD!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the roar. "FOR THE EMPEROR AND MANKIND! PURGE THEM ALL!"


With a final, earth-shattering cry echoing his name, the Blood Angels surged forward, Sanguinius at their head, a golden comet leading the charge back into the heart of the battle. The tide, for now, had turned. The journey to save Baal, and perhaps more, had truly begun.

Thanks for Reading!

This is a Crosspost from Questionable Questing.