Ten days later, on the world that housed the Perfect City, Lorgar awaited the Emperor's praise with swelling anticipation.
He imagined—perhaps too vividly—what commendation his father would bestow upon him.
Just then, an astropathic message arrived:
A massive fleet was approaching.
According to the signal signatures, most vessels belonged to the Ultramarines.
The remainder bore the unmistakable markings of the Legio Custodes.
At first, hearing "Ultramarines," Lorgar thought nothing of it.
He simply assumed they were friendly forces passing through.
But when he heard that even the Emperor's own Custodians were present, his heart leapt.
Surely—surely—they were here to honor him.
He shot up from his seat, hurriedly donned his prayer-covered power armor, and rushed out to prepare a ceremonial welcome.
He even ordered an honor guard assembled ahead of time.
His excitement was overflowing.
---
Before long, to the eager eyes of Lorgar and the Word Bearers waiting beside him, a colossal warship descended into orbit.
It was a Gloriana-class battleship, the Macragge's Honour—Roboute Guilliman's flagship.
Over 26 kilometers in length, layered with void shields capable of shrugging off almost any assault, armed with weapons powerful enough to crack suns—it embodied the might of an entire Legion.
Every Primarch possessed such a vessel; Lorgar's own was the Litany of Devotion, decorated like a flying cathedral.
Seeing Guilliman's flagship arrive in person left Lorgar momentarily confused.
Why such a grand approach?
But before he could piece it together, the Macragge's Honour drifted lower, and a towering figure in blue power armor stepped out onto the hull.
Roboute Guilliman.
Primarch of the Ultramarines.
Unlike his more… eccentric brothers—whose childhood torments had twisted their personalities—Guilliman had been raised by a noble statesman and received the finest education. His natural charisma and brilliance made him the embodiment of an ideal ruler.
He had even contended against Horus for the title of Warmaster.
His administrative genius earned him the epithet Master of the Five Hundred Worlds.
Now, as Lorgar looked up at his approaching brother, he felt a faint joy—yet even more confusion.
Guilliman was not someone who took time away from his endless responsibilities lightly. His five hundred worlds demanded his attention every moment.
So why was he here?
---
On the battleship's deck, Guilliman gazed down at Lorgar with a troubled expression.
If he had a choice, he would rather be on the frontlines—anywhere but here, tasked with an order that would wound his brother to the core.
Like Horus, he could not understand why the Emperor chose such a severe punishment.
Yes, the Word Bearers' Crusade progress was slow.
But their loyalty?
Even Guilliman could not claim to rival it.
He hesitated, glancing at the Captain-General of the Custodes and remembering that the Emperor and Malcador were arriving shortly.
With a sigh, he raised his voice:
"Lorgar Aurelian, my brother—
By command of the Emperor, for repeatedly promoting blind superstition in violation of the Imperial Truth, for forcing others into ignorant worship, and for causing unacceptable delays in your Legion's compliance rate—
the Emperor has ordered the Perfect City burned. You and the entire Word Bearers Legion are to kneel and repent."
"...?"
The words struck Lorgar and every Word Bearer like divine thunder.
They were utterly stunned.
Worshiping the Emperor—spreading His truth—how could this be a crime?
Instinctively, Lorgar opened his mouth to protest, to question the authenticity of the decree.
But the Custodian beside Guilliman stepped forward, as if already foreseeing him:
"Roboute Guilliman speaks only the Emperor's truth. The order was given directly by His own lips."
Lorgar's face went pale.
"You…"
He still tried to muster some response—anything—but then another voice, cold and familiar as judgment itself, echoed through the air:
"Lorgar Aurelian… You have disappointed me."
At that moment, Guilliman, the Custodians, and every soldier present immediately bowed.
From the sky descended a radiant golden figure crowned in laurels, accompanied by the robed silhouette of Malcador the Sigillite.
The Emperor Himself.
And then—
A crushing psychic pressure slammed down upon Lorgar and all the Word Bearers.
They were forced to their knees like insects beneath a mountain.
"Execute the order,"
the Emperor commanded.
"Yes, my lord!"
Guilliman immediately complied, arranging for the Ultramarines to enter the Perfect City and evacuate its civilians.
The verdict was final.
The city built as a temple of worship—
the greatest offering of Lorgar's life—
would burn.
..
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