Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

Guilliman's victories were inevitable, his presence alone enough to bring fear to any enemy. His body, a fortress of invulnerability, was unstoppable, crushing his foes beneath him as though the very earth trembled at his step.

His armor, a manifestation of destiny, glowed with the Iron Cross halo, an impenetrable shield that deflected all attempts at harm. Explosive blasts, searing rays, and malevolent energies alike were repelled by his force field, which diverted or eradicated their power.

One such force fell before him: a plague warrior, whose bloated form burst with foul, maggot-riddled flesh. As his body hit the ground, a resounding explosion of golden flame erupted from him. The tainted blood, burning with the Emperor's light, purified even the most corrupted of souls, a testament to Guilliman's unyielding might.

Witnessing the arrival of the Primarch, the remaining plague warriors howled in rage. Desperation drove them to rally, attempting to overwhelm Guilliman with sheer numbers.

Yet the Glory Guard, steadfast in their loyalty, encircled the Primarch, ensuring he would never face the enemy alone. Clad in their formidable Terminator armor, they formed a barrier of unbreakable strength, each of them a seasoned veteran of the Ultramarines. The plague warriors' plans were doomed from the start.

To break through the Glory Guard's ranks was a fool's errand, for each soldier was a master of battle, their armor as indestructible as their resolve. Even if the plague warriors managed to breach the formation, they would be slaughtered by Guilliman, as helpless as lambs before a wolf.

As the Glory Guard held their ground, Guilliman cut through the enemy with ruthless precision, the battlefield becoming a slaughterhouse. With each blow, the enemy's line crumbled, their resistance no more than paper before the storm.

The Plague Warriors, now shattered, were swiftly driven back, their defenses collapsing like a house of cards. Just as the final blow seemed near, Sicarius, ever the stalwart warrior, emerged from the ruins, a harbinger of the Empire's wrath.

Leading his forces with deadly efficiency, he dismantled the enemy's air defenses, clearing the way for the Astral Army, Titans, and Knights to descend upon the battlefield. The tide of battle shifted in an instant, turning into a one-sided massacre.

Victory was near, and Sicarius was ready to ensure it. He found a plague warrior attempting to resist, boltgun in hand, and charged with unrelenting fury. His power sword hissed through the air, cutting down all who stood in his path.

"Repent for your crimes," Sicarius declared coldly, the last words of the doomed plague warrior before his head was shattered by a well-aimed shot.

The battlefield became a stage for Sicarius's unparalleled swordsmanship, his every strike a judgment of death. His eyes, cold and unyielding, sealed the fate of every heretic he met.

Elsewhere, Guilliman's fury was equally unstoppable. A plague warrior, cleaved by the Primarch's sword, was consumed by golden flame, their final cries drowned out by the roaring light that purified all in its wake.

"Sicarius, how is your side?" Guilliman's voice came over the communication channel, calm yet commanding.

"Everything is going well, my lord," Sicarius responded, his voice steady. "The traitors are all retreating. Victory is within our grasp."

"Good. But be wary. There are dark rituals at work here. I can feel the warp boiling with malice. They are summoning something," Guilliman warned, his tone heavy with the weight of experience.

"Understood, my lord," Sicarius replied. "I see a tower of corpses. The traitors are retreating towards there, trying to make their final stand."

"Do not hesitate. Kill them all," Guilliman ordered. "The air force will provide support. Crush their defenses and eradicate these abominations."

The Empire's forces surged forward from all directions, unstoppable in their momentum.

From the heights, Gurlo, the rebel leader, watched with growing dread. The Empire was advancing faster than he had anticipated, his hopes of victory slipping away with every passing second.

"How long until the ritual is complete?" Gurlo rasped, his voice hoarse.

"Not long, my lord," his deputy responded, eyes glued to the unfolding battle. "The subspace is responding. We just need a bit more time."

Gurlo's gaze hardened, and he shouted to his forces, "Release the plague bomb. Let them feel the power of Nurgle."

The flesh-and-blood demon engine lurched forward, powered by twisted plague beasts. These bloated, tentacled horrors, creations of Nurgle's own will, were flung toward the loyalist lines. The air was thick with their stench as they exploded upon impact, showering the battlefield with corrupt filth.

The Glory Guard, protected by their Terminator armor, were barely affected, the filth merely sizzling on their impenetrable shields. But the loyalist soldiers in standard power armor fared less well, their armor corroded by the toxic plague. Some staggered, the pain evident on their faces as sparks of electricity crackled from their compromised suits.

Yet Guilliman stood unscathed. His force field vaporized the filth before it could touch him, the power of the Emperor's will radiating from him like a beacon.

Sicarius, ever the leader, barked orders. "Those who are wounded, fall back and receive healing from the Chaplain. The rest, find cover! We need the Titans to crush these abominations."

But even as the plague warriors celebrated their brief respite, the ground shook beneath their feet. The Emperor-class Titans, behemoths of destruction, lumbered forward, their plasma cannons capable of turning the battlefield into a wasteland.

The plague warriors were helpless in the face of such power. A single beam of plasma from the Titans consumed them, their corrupted forms disintegrating under the unrelenting heat.

Sicarius and his warriors, bolstered by the Titans, charged forward, their advance unstoppable. Guilliman, ever swift, was already at the heart of the enemy's final defense: the tower of flesh and blood.

The cultists around it, fanatical and lost in their madness, hailed their false god with wild abandon. But Guilliman's gaze was filled with burning fury as he locked eyes with the leader atop the tower.

The enemy commander, clad in the ominous Destroyer Centurion armor, sneered down at the Primarch.

"You are too late, son of the dead emperor. This world belongs to Nurgle. The Loving Father shall reign supreme."