Warhammer : Machinist and The Exile

The crimson haze hung low over Luna's plains, a pall of warpfire and blood mist. The warp rift loomed above the battlefield like an open wound in reality, its edges gnashing with impossible colors. Daemons shrieked across the broken ground, but one space remained unnaturally clear — a swathe of deathly quiet between two figures.

Roboute Guilliman moved with purpose, each step cracking ancient moonrock. Ceramite scarred, his sword gleamed like the judgement of ages.

Opposite him stood Magnus the Red, cyclopean eye ablaze, warpfire wreathing his form. The staff of the Crimson King shimmered, its head a blazing star of coruscating malice.

Neither spoke at first. The battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath.

The brothers clashed again — sword against staff, ceramite against warpfire. The ground cracked beneath them, the air a hurricane of raw power.

Magnus grinned, his single eye blazing.

"Still chasing shadows, Roboute?" he taunted, parrying a vicious overhead blow. "

You think this battle matters? That you can hold this line, preserve your Imperium one corpse at a time?"

Guilliman snarled, his blade forcing Magnus back a step. "I will hold Terra's walls with my bones if I must."

"You walked into this, brother. I let you come. That portal you so zealously sought to contain… it was never meant to breach Terra. It was meant to bleed you dry, to draw your armies, your strength — here. As it will make the more sacrifice to open a new warp rift. And now?" Magnus laughed — a terrible, broken sound. His hand swept toward the seething growing warp rift in the distance.

"Now it grows as my design. It will grow large enough to swallow Luna and eventually Terra. Every moment you struggle only hasten death of your Imperium."

Guilliman's breath caught — a cold knot of dread blooming in his chest.

He'd seen the growing instability in the rift, the fluctuating readings, the way no sealing operation held. He realized, too late, the truth Magnus now wielded like a dagger.

His voice was a low, raw snarl.

"You bastard."

Magnus leaned in, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

"What better irony than for the Avenging Son to be the architect of his father's undoing?" he whispered.

Guilliman's fury exploded — a roar that shook the ground, his sword a blur of cerulean light.

"I will not let it fall! Even if my life buys its salvation!"

He drove Magnus back in a storm of relentless strikes, each blow cracking the very air.

The warp trembled around them as two demigods warred. The fury of the Avenging Son surged — not born of hatred, but defiance. He would not let the Imperium fall with his name stained by this unknowing betrayal.

"For Terra! For the Emperor's light!" Guilliman bellowed.

Then Magnus tilted his head. "So it has come to this, brother."

Guilliman's voice was steel. "It always would."

A heartbeat. A breath. The duel began.

Guilliman struck first, a downward arc meant to cleave a tank in two.

Magnus's staff snapped up, catching the blade with a burst of psychic force. The shockwave cracked the lunar plain, throwing debris skyward. Warp-touched dust swirled around them as the brothers broke apart.

Magnus retaliated with a wave of warpfire. Guilliman's pauldron blackened, paint blistering, but he charged through it, his fist hammering into Magnus's chest.

Warplate buckled; the Primarch staggered, and Guilliman's sword carved a shallow gash across crimson flesh.

"You've grown slower, sorcerer."

"And you," Magnus spat, "still think brute force will win you eternity."

His staff whirled, conjuring a twisting spear of crystalline light. Guilliman pivoted aside, the spear bursting against his flank, sending a searing pulse of agony through his ribs. He bit it down, countered, and their weapons met again in a burst of white-blue light.

Between every clash, words passed.

"We could have remade the galaxy, Roboute. Together." Magnus said, this time laments could be heard from him.

"You remade nothing but graves." Gulliman counters as he side step to evade a warp attack.

"We were meant to be shepherds, not tyrants' enforcers." Magnus argued his brother.

. "And you shattered that trust when you sold your soul for false power." Guilliman's said a sad tone yet his eyes hardened.

Their blades locked, warpfire against forged ceramite. Magnus's wings flared, and a gout of warp lightning arced around them. Guilliman grunted, shoving Magnus back, his sword hissing through burning air.

The ground heaved, a psychic storm threatening to drown the duel — but neither yielded.

 "Can you not see it, brother? The Emperor's great plan… it was flawed from the start. A prison built from lies!" Magnus said trying to convince his brother.

"And yet even a broken Imperium is worth fighting for."

They broke apart, circling. Their duel will continue.

Elsewhere, the battle roared. The strongest Imperial defensive lines reeled as a titanic form descended — Fateweaver.

The twin-headed Lord of Change landed amidst crumbling fortifications. His staff raised, conjuring a thousand possible futures, unraveling the threads of mortal fate. Guardsmen's las-rounds turned to harmless light. Leman Russ shells aged to dust mid-flight.

"Sector fourteen breached! Reality flux— Reality flux detected!" the vox screamed.

Custodes charged, their guardian spears crackling. Fateweaver laughed, snuffing their lives with a casual twist of probability. Grey Knight Voldrus tried to counter-scry, a contest of fate and will, his hammer raised.

Amid the madness, the Harlequin Masque leader voxed calmly:

"We dance to the last, for this jest must end."

The Masque hurled themselves at Fateweaver. Prism blades danced, hallucinogenic grenades detonating. Half were slain before striking — erased by impossible odds. But a few blades struck home, their sacrifice buying precious moments.

Seiji's Shinobi cell leaders held what ground they could. Breaches sealed with burning wards, blades flashing, monomolecular edges severing horrors. Naon, bloodied and grim, watched her remaining Sealing Corps dwindle.

"It's not enough," she hissed into the channel.

Seiji's reply was pure resolve. "We bleed. We do not break."

Above them, the stars shifted.

Auspex alarms howled. Dozens of new signals bloomed on void-scopes.

[This is Lord Admiral Carthen aboard the Revenant of Dawn — unidentified fleet materializing outer orbit]

Battlefleet Solar's vox-net crackled.

[Threat assessment active.]

[Gun batteries tracking. Orders?]

An encrypted code arrived seconds later, direct from Guilliman himself.

[Observe only. Engage only if hostile. Provisional ally clearance granted.]

The Phalanx's massive hull repositioned, its turrets turning aside.

In orbit, the the 3rd iron cohort battlegroup shimmered into material form — blocky, angular vessels marked with unfamiliar sigils that strangely look like the mechanicus to the imperial forces.

However, to the eyes of the Imperial Navy, the newly arrived forces drew immediate attention. Their ships were unmistakably of the same classifications and hull patterns as Imperial warships — destroyers, cruisers, even battleships.

The difference lay in their appearance: stripped of gothic cathedrals, reliquary spires, and baroque ornamentation.

Cold, angular, and efficient — vessels of pure, unadorned war.

On the Trium Mechanicus, Archmagos Belarian's optics whirred as the data-stream arrived.

"Reassess designation," he ordered. Subordinate Tech-Priests froze, gazing at the sigils.

"It… matches an ancient schema, Archmagos," one murmured through vox-binary. "From pre-Omnissian archives. Symbol of the… Archivists."

 "The old order. The Machinist." Archmagos Belarian whispered.

Litany-cants rippled through the Mechanicus bridge in static prayer.

Most lesser tech-priests fell to cautious rites, invoking the Motive Force to ward against unknown machine-spirits.

Belarian's voice was soft in vox-code.

"Records say it was the symbol of the first order. Some archives call its founder the machine lord himself. The so-called 'Machinist.' But that is… apocryphal. Declared forgery centuries ago."

He gazed into the void.

"And yet… there it stands."

He sent a secure transmission to Mars command, flagged: Machina Anomaly. Observe and withhold judgement.