Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor-Chapter 253 - 254: Taking a Little Advantage of Old Guilliman

Boom—

A blood-red shadow erupted from the throne, and several blood-whips lashed down with brutal force.

The whips, imbued with the fury of the Blood God, left deep, bone-exposing wounds on Ka'Bandha's body.

The violent energy contained within them continued to tear at his wounds, subjecting the victim to unbearable torment.

The greater daemons of Khorne in the hall trembled at the sight, filled with dread.

The Blood God's whipping was an extremely terrifying punishment for the greater daemons—none who suffered it failed to wail in agony, some even begging for mercy.

Yet, the towering figure in the center of the hall bore the punishment in silence, standing tall and unyielding.

"In the name of the Blood God, this is a true warrior!"

The greater daemons of Khorne looked at Ka'Bandha enduring the lashes with admiration.

Truthfully, Ka'Bandha had been afraid when the whips descended.

The Blood God's punishment was legendary in its cruelty—those who had suffered it before had all described it as a nightmare beyond endurance.

But—huh?

When the blood-whip struck him, Ka'Bandha realized something surprising.

It wasn't as unbearable as he had imagined.

Even as the strength of the lashes increased, he found that he could still withstand them.

"This pain… it's still nothing compared to the torment of the Cursed One's energy."

Ka'Bandha clenched his teeth, enduring the pain as he reflected silently.

The great Ka'Bandha had already survived the burning radiance of the Holy Sun—how could he fear a mere whipping?

Now, aside from the Cursed One and that despicable Devourer of Daemons, he feared no one—not even the Blood God upon the throne!

Ka'Bandha gritted his teeth, ensuring that he did not utter a single sound of agony. He would not wail like those cowardly greater daemons.

He—Ka'Bandha, the greatest of the Blood God's champions—would never surrender!

Lowering his head slightly to conceal the contorted expression of pain on his face, he took a deep breath and spoke in a loud, resolute voice:

"Great Blood God, I was ambushed by the despicable and cunning Devourer of Daemons, and I failed to achieve a greater victory. I accept my punishment willingly!"

With that, he silently endured the lashes.

Ka'Bandha suffered 88 blows from the blood-whip, each infused with the power of slaughter, leaving his body covered in torn wounds.

"This is it?"

Barely clinging to life, he suddenly felt a strange sense of relief—but no, this wasn't enough. This was not enough to prove his valor!

He could tell that even if he took another 88 lashes, it still wouldn't kill him.

This… was far from the limits of Ka'Bandha, the Blood God's greatest champion!

With a sudden movement, Ka'Bandha lifted his head and locked eyes with the Blood God.

"Great Blood God, I have fully received your punishment! I beseech you—grant me another 88 lashes so that I may never forget this defeat!"

"This is not merely punishment, but a lesson that will drive me forward! I swear, one day, I will cut off the head of the Devourer of Daemons and offer it to the Skull Throne!"

Even as he spoke, Ka'Bandha's heart tightened. He prayed he would never encounter that wretched Devourer again.

Silence.

The entire hall was deathly silent.

The gathered daemons gasped in shock—what?

88 lashes were already an unbearable punishment. Many weaker greater daemons would be whipped to death outright.

A second round? Even for the greatest of the Blood God's champions, that might be too much.

Moreover, this was the first time any daemon had ever requested further punishment from Khorne.

Yet, they had to admit—if Ka'Bandha had one defining trait, it was his sheer stubbornness and resilience.

What the other daemons didn't know was that his suffering under the Cursed One's energy had tempered his endurance beyond measure.

"Ka'Bandha, remember your oath."

After a brief silence, Khorne finally spoke. With a slight raise of His hand, another 88 lashes were granted.

This Bloodthirster had indeed made an impression.

For a moment, Khorne even wondered if another round of whipping might actually kill Ka'Bandha.

Yet, as a mark of respect, He delivered the lashes.

Ka'Bandha held himself firm, his mighty form enduring the punishment.

The energy from the second round of lashes erupted in a storm of blood flames.

The violent surge was so immense that even outside the Brass Fortress, its terrifying presence could be felt.

Within the hall, Angron observed Ka'Bandha's continued suffering, his respect for the Bloodthirster growing.

At first, he had thought Ka'Bandha exaggerated the power of the Devourer of Daemons.

But now, he realized the truth.

Ka'Bandha had not exaggerated—if anything, he had understated it.

The power of the Devourer of Daemons was far more terrifying than any of them had imagined.

Two greater daemons of Khorne had accompanied Ka'Bandha on the battlefield, both of whom were nearly his equal in strength.

Yet, both had been utterly annihilated, reduced to ashes by the Cursed One's burning energy.

That meant every daemon present—even himself—could be destroyed in the same way.

And yet, Ka'Bandha had survived.

Truthfully, the other daemons believed the Blood God had already been severe enough in His punishment.

Ka'Bandha was not to blame for this defeat.

After all, he had faced not just the Devourer of Daemons—but the Cursed One Himself.

Every daemon in the Warp knew how terrifying the energy of the Cursed One could be.

Even Khorne understood this well, having witnessed the grim fate of that treacherous, shape-shifting god.

Thus, He had not imposed an even harsher punishment.

Despite enduring the lashes, Ka'Bandha's presence only grew more imposing.

He had lost, and he had been punished, but these were marks of honor!

After all, Ka'Bandha was one of only two beings in the galaxy who had survived the searing wrath of the Cursed One's energy.

The other was Khorne's most hated enemy—the Changer of Ways!

And not just once—Ka'Bandha had survived it twice.

Defeat, yes—but a glorious one.

Victory!

Moreover, according to the latest reports, a greater daemon of Tzeentch had attempted to launch a surprise attack on Macragge.

Yet, upon being struck by the Cursed One's energy sphere, it had fled, blind and broken.

In comparison, Ka'Bandha had endured the Cursed One's power and fought to the death.

A victory within a defeat!

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Once the second set of 88 lashes was complete, Khorne allowed the battered Bloodthirster to leave and recover.

Though heavily wounded, Ka'Bandha refused to let his presence wane. He turned and glared at the assembled daemons.

He had never felt more triumphant!

In that moment, he saw every daemon before him as prey awaiting slaughter.

Despite his injuries, he walked out of the hall with pride, the other daemons parting in deference.

Under their awed gazes, he departed, his towering form forever imprinted in their minds as the image of an indomitable warrior.

...

Meanwhile, on Macragge…

Within the Chapter Master's Sanctum.

Roboute Guilliman sank heavily into his throne.

A moment ago, he had dismissed all his attendants and advisors—even the Ultramarines had been ordered to wait outside.

Finally, after a long sigh of relief…

The Primarch Removed His Mask of Resolve, Revealing a Trace of Sorrow and Pain.

Not long ago, he had spoken with the Living Saint, the Grand Scholar, Yvraine, and the commanders of the Ultramarines one by one.

During these conversations, Guilliman had utilized every ounce of his political charisma and cunning, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie to extract as much information as possible from them.

At the same time, he had masterfully concealed the emotional turmoil their words had stirred within him.

Despite his composed exterior, every answer they gave struck his chest like an artillery shell.

The state of the Imperium shook the Primarch to his core.

Confusion and dread suffocated him; sorrow and anguish threatened to consume him.

Seated upon his throne, Guilliman buried his face in his hands, his sighs of distress causing the Armor of Fate to emit an unbearable hum.

Ten thousand years had passed.

But to him, it felt as though he had merely gone to sleep and awoken the next day—only to find that the Imperium had decayed.

"Look at them. Look at what they have become. Look at what we have become—blind, ignorant, corrupt.

And all of this, carried out in the name of a god…"

Guilliman exhaled deeply. "And the greatest irony? That so-called 'god' despises the very title forced upon Him!"

Rising from his throne, Guilliman paced within his sanctum.

His gaze swept across the relics displayed within.

Banners hung from the walls, each as tall as an Imperial Knight.

Woven with meticulous craftsmanship, they depicted the great deeds of the Ultramarines—slaying xenos, executing heretics, saving worlds, annihilating planets.

These banners showcased the glory of the Chapter's past, emblazoned with the Imperial Aquila and proud heraldry.

His eyes then shifted to the other wall—where he saw something deeply familiar.

There, enshrined, was the Codex Astartes—the very doctrine he had personally written, which had been adhered to for millennia.

A profound silence engulfed him.

The Primarch felt as if he had done something utterly foolish—and he was ashamed.

Perhaps he should burn it.

He hesitated for a moment, but ultimately refrained.

Guilliman continued forward, reaching the far end of the sanctum.

There, a grand image hung high—a depiction of a radiant figure, enthroned, wreathed in divine light.

The Emperor.

"We have failed, Father."

Guilliman's voice was heavy with exhaustion and grief. "You abandoned your sons, and we, in turn, abandoned you.

Our arrogance and vanity have forged the Imperium into what it is today. We have failed humanity…

Was it not Horus who claimed that you sought godhood, using it as an excuse to launch his rebellion?

And now, the fall of the Imperium—would that not prove his point? Would it not invite his mockery?"

Rage flared within the Primarch.

For a fleeting moment, he wanted to destroy it all—to shatter these absurd remnants of misguided faith.

But he couldn't.

He dared not.

If he did, those unfamiliar faces within his Chapter would see through his facade.

With bitter realization, Guilliman understood that he had become the Imperium's final banner—

And that humanity had truly entered an age of darkness and despair.

The only thing he could do was project an image of unwavering strength—

To give humanity hope.

Through the stained-glass window, the Primarch gazed upon Fortress Hera, scarred by war.

Reconstruction efforts were in full swing as engineering teams worked to repair the devastation.

The Ultramarines stood proudly atop the fortress walls.

They were the children of this grim, dark age—born into nothing but hardship, suffering, and unending war.

Yet, despite it all, they endured.

Watching these warriors, Guilliman murmured:

"There is still hope…"

He had witnessed humanity's boundless potential.

And now, he had learned of even greater warriors being developed within the Grand Scholar's laboratories.

This reinforced his belief—there was still hope for the Imperium to rise from the ashes.

"This suffering should not be humanity's fate. Humanity has done nothing to deserve this."

His voice burned with fury.

"The true culprits are the wretched spawn of Chaos and the traitors who abandoned humanity! They shall bear the wrath of mankind!"

He buried his grief and despair deep within his heart.

A new emotion surged forth—

A righteous fury!

A weapon of immense power.

The Primarch steeled his resolve.

He would wage a crusade of vengeance—until every enemy that had poisoned his Imperium paid the price for their sins.

It would not be an easy task. He would need allies.

Without delay, Guilliman summoned the Grand Scholar, Saint Celestine, and others into his campaign for retribution.

His thoughts then turned to the Devourer of Daemons—that enigmatic being who wielded a mysterious power.

The Living Saint had claimed it was a divine force belonging to the Emperor Himself.

But Guilliman remained skeptical.

He could not accept that his father was truly a god.

The very idea was laughable.

For a moment, he even wondered—

Could the Devourer of Daemons be one of the lost Primarchs?

Yet, after careful thought, he dismissed the notion.

The entity lacked the unmistakable aura of a Primarch.

Still, he needed to find him.

Guilliman summoned Calgar, issuing new orders—

The Ultramarines were to track down the Devourer of Daemons.

In the process, he learned from Calgar that the being's forces had looted a substantial amount of weaponry amidst the chaos—

Including some of the prized relics from the Hall of Blades.

To this, Guilliman felt no particular anger.

The Devourer's actions were somewhat heretical, yes—but such behavior could be corrected.

Like a rebellious child—one good thrashing, and they'd fall back in line.

The Primarch had already decided.

Once the Devourer was found, he would personally see to bringing him back…

...

Meanwhile, Within the Warp.

"Achoo!"

Eden sneezed several times in a row. "Who the hell is thinking about me? It better not be an enemy…"

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

The great savior was feeling a little uneasy.

Realistically speaking, a lot of people were probably thinking about him right now.

Not long ago, he had unleashed a point-blank "nuclear strike" against the Chaos Space Marines and Khorne's daemons on Macragge.

Sure, it was satisfying—but in doing so, he had pissed off two of the biggest players in the galaxy—

Khorne, the Chaos God of War and Bloodshed.

And Abaddon, the Despoiler.

At the moment, he had run out of his big-ticket holy weapons and was in a weakened state.

If either of them came knocking… he was done.

Khorne, at least, was manageable. That guy couldn't just waltz into realspace. His daemons needed rituals to manifest.

As long as he kept purging Chaos corruption, it was a controlled risk.

But Abaddon?

That bastard was out there in realspace, commanding an army of hundreds of thousands of Chaos Space Marines.

If he wanted to, he could steamroll the entire Goliath Sector without breaking a sweat. (Yes, decided to set the name of the sector to that.)

Fortunately, Eden had been operating under a different identity and lurking in the shadows of the Imperium.

Tracking him down wouldn't be easy.

But that didn't mean he was safe.

He could feel it—

With Guilliman's return, the Warp had become a turbulent mess.

The Great Rift was expanding, further tearing reality apart.

That meant more wars, fiercer alien and heretic invasions.

Countless worlds would fall into darkness before any light could reach them.

This little escapade had shown Eden the stark disparity between star systems.

The advanced war machines—the Titans, Dreadnoughts, Terminator armor, melta weapons—

He had drooled over them.

The Goliath Sector was far too under-equipped.

If it ever faced a crisis like Macragge had, it would be obliterated instantly.

Even with his holy weapons, he couldn't be everywhere at once.

Once the worlds fell, their people corrupted or slain, their faith extinguished—

That would be the end of his role as the so-called Savior.

Which meant…

He needed to fortify his domain—train stronger warriors, forge more war machines.

Only then could he survive.

Thankfully, the Macragge battle hadn't been a total loss.

Eden had his Heavy Looters and Orks "collect" a few things.

"After all, I gave so much for Guilliman's sake—taking a little for myself is only fair, right?"

Turning to his looters and greenskins, Eden clapped his hands.

"Alright, line up! Show me the loot—let's see if we got anything good!"

(End of Chapter)

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