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Chapter 312: Drakus: Never Have I Seen Such a Beautiful Opening
🕑 Added 2025-11-20 11:21:40 +0000 UTCChapter 312: Drakus: Never Have I Seen Such a Beautiful Opening
Romulus stood in the center of the holographic halo, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips.
He knew his position all too well. He was both the player and the most prominent piece on the board.
Countless crimson markers flickered on the strategic display, encircling his solitary blue dot like a school of blood-crazed sharks around a lone boat in a storm. Yet he simply adjusted his pauldron with calm indifference, as if those blinking red lights were as illusory as the hologram projecting them.
"Drakus."
Looking at the breathtakingly charismatic Romulus, Arthur turned to the Invictarus Suzerain standing at attention nearby.
"I think you can start getting back into shape. If possible, I'll have Ramesses see if he can get the Emperor to release some personnel."
This legendary bodyguard unit was severely understrength. After all, they were veterans from ten thousand years ago, with no fresh blood to replenish their ranks, and a detachment had to remain on Macragge to guard Guilliman. Even with occasional reinforcements from veterans of other Legions like Garro, their numbers were stretched thin.
"Understood, my lord!"
Drakus snapped to attention, his fist striking his chest plate with a resounding metallic clang.
This overly serious response made Romulus freeze for a second, shattering the carefully cultivated atmosphere of cool command.
The Primarch turned his head to look at Arthur, his expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
"Master Art, you really have a gift for killing the mood."
"Of course." Arthur shrugged.
But he wasn't just joking. Unlike the bodyguard units of other Legions, which were often more symbolic than functional, the Invictarus Suzerains—the Victrix Guard—were genuinely useful.
Look at the Sanguinary Guard of the Blood Angels, the Morlocks of the Iron Hands, or the Gal Vorbak of the Word Bearers. When their Primarchs were in trouble, they either watched helplessly as their father died or actively sold him out to save their own skins.
But the Victrix Guard?
Guilliman might not be weak, but he had a habit of ending up in the medicae bay for various reasons. And every single time he survived to reach the ICU, it was because the Victrix Guard had paid for his passage with their own blood and flesh.
Whether it was taking command immediately after their Primarch was blown into the void during the Battle of Calth and rescuing him as he fought in vacuum without a helmet; or saving and evacuating Guilliman after his failed duel with Angron during the Shadow Crusade on Nuceria; or dragging a throat-slit Guilliman away from Fulgrim's blade at the Battle of Thessala.
The Victrix Guard had always fulfilled their duty perfectly.
Especially that last time. A group of Astartes first used concentrated firepower to force back a Daemon Primarch, then threw their main force into a suicidal holding action against the advancing Fulgrim. Meanwhile, they coordinated an emergency teleport extraction, placed Guilliman in stasis immediately, and ordered the fleet to break the encirclement and retreat.
The entire rescue operation was executed in one smooth motion, without a single error, as if they had practiced it a thousand times. If they had been even a second slower, Guilliman wouldn't have been going to the ICU; he would have been going to the morgue.
As the elite Terminators within this legendary formation, the Victrix Guard were pure, unadulterated Primarch bodyguards. Their reliability was beyond question.
These warriors were perhaps the only experts in the galaxy who treated "How do we clean up after the Primarch does something stupid?" as a serious tactical doctrine, and actually succeeded in retrieving their charge after he successfully got himself killed.
Especially for the travelers who knew the full scope of history, their attitude towards this unit was completely different from how they viewed other, more ceremonial guards.
Romulus paused for a moment, wondering if he should have Drakus write a manual for the other bodyguard units to study.
"Of course, there's no need to be overly anxious," Arthur added, sensing the subconscious tension radiating from Drakus due to his past trauma. He offered reassurance. "Unlike Guilliman, who was often isolated, Romulus will always have us by his side. This is merely a strategic probe against Chaos. Do not feel too much pressure."
"If we allow a situation where Romulus is forced to fight alone with his full strength, that would be a dereliction of our duty."
"I understand, my lord."
After a moment of tension, Drakus, analyzing the situation calmly with his tactical acumen, realized the situation was completely acceptable.
First, Lord Romulus was not being forced into a duel with another Primarch. This operation was a calculated risk to seize the initiative by exposing a weakness, probing the enemy's unpredictable and massive movements.
Second, Lord Romulus was not fighting alone. He didn't have to command the fleet, micromanage the administration of Ultramar, direct the ground war, and duel a traitor brother all at the same time.
He now had three incredibly reliable partners. Four bright stars linked in a tight constellation.
At this thought, Drakus's face unconsciously showed a look of profound emotion. It was the tearful gratitude of a man who, after eating shit for so long, finally tasted a proper meal.
Back in the day, Guilliman's teammates were… well.
The Lion during the Imperium Secundus era went without saying; just being in the same room as Lord Guilliman created enough drama to fill a holovid. Their mutual distrust allowed Curze to infiltrate Macragge and kill countless people, nearly murdering Guilliman's adoptive mother, Tarasha Euten.
During the establishment of Imperium Secundus, the Lion ignored orders, unilaterally deploying Exterminatus weapons on populated worlds, driving Lord Guilliman into fits of rage. There was zero trust between them.
After the Heresy, Sanguinius was dead, the Lion was sleeping, Corax and Vulkan had disappeared. The only loyalist Primarchs left besides Guilliman were Dorn, Russ, and the Khan.
Dorn was cold on the outside and hot on the inside; his mouth said "go to hell," but his actions said "I'll help you figure it out."
Russ was hot on the outside and cold on the inside; he acted like a boisterous barbarian, laughing loudly, but inside he was probably thinking "go to hell."
The Khan was cold on the outside and cold on the inside; not only did his mouth say "go to hell," but his heart was also saying "go to hell."
Because of the Codex Astartes and personal friction, their relationships with Guilliman at the time were strained at best.
Otherwise, why would Guilliman have chosen to pursue Fulgrim alone?
It wasn't by choice. Russ wouldn't listen, the Khan was nowhere to be found, and Dorn was busy arguing with the anti-Guilliman faction within the newly broken Legions while keeping an eye on Perturabo.
Despite having so many brothers who should have been reliable, when it came time to face Fulgrim, not one of them could be counted on.
Not like now.
"I agree," Arthur said, making the final decision. "Protecting you is my duty, after all." When something was necessary, his patience was infinite.
"I agree as well." Ramesses poked his head out of a warp rift, dragging an Eldar Farseer by the collar. He had received Romulus's file and was currently dealing with a security breach. While Ulthwé had offered cooperation, it was well known that a Craftworld wasn't a monolith like the Dawnbreakers; its various factions had their own agendas. Not to mention the Eldar were a notoriously fickle race.
"I listen to Old Ro," the Angel raised his hand. He had rented out his brain, so following orders was part of the deal.
"Alright, leave the details to me." Romulus sat back down in his command throne.
With the "Bait Plan" approved, the three partners dispersed instantly to handle their own tasks, leaving the execution entirely in his hands.
Angel's wings swept across the bridge's dome; the mage dragged the Eldar prophet back into the warp rift; the knight took a step back and vanished.
Everything was left to the Lord Regent. They would simply execute.
Witnessing the terrifying efficiency of the travelers—a plan approved and set in motion at light speed with zero bickering—Garro, who was deeply shaken, turned his head slightly and stole a glance at Drakus's profile.
The Ultramarine had, at some point, engaged his helmet.
"…"
Garro had a distinct feeling that beneath that serious faceplate, Drakus was grinning so hard his face was about to split.
Meanwhile
Eye of Terror, Daemon Forge World Midgard, The Blood Wastes
A struggle that had begun ten thousand years ago was still ongoing.
"Perturabo!"
The voice was filled with unending rage, shaking the sulfurous air.
"Angron."
The response was cold, arrogant, looking down from above.
Fulgrim leaned against a blood-stained bronze pillar, his slender fingers toying with the soul of a struggling daemon. His purple and gold armour rippled with light as he chuckled softly, every inch of his scaled plate expanding and contracting with the arrival of pleasure.
Above the wasteland, three distinct warp storms wrestled for dominance: the crimson fire of Khorne, the shifting, kaleidoscopic winds of Tzeentch, and the psychedelic aurora of Slaanesh woven into a blasphemous totem.
Lava welling up from cracks in the ground illuminated two massive figures locked in combat.
"How many times have you two fought now?"
The voice was frivolous, like a serpent's hiss. It carried the mocking tone of someone watching a farce.
