Unlucky isekai? (Warhammer 40000)

The resurrection of Roboute Guilliman sent shockwaves throughout the Imperium. A figure of his stature, while undoubtedly lesser than the Emperor Himself in terms of raw presence, was not far behind. The Ecclesiarchy had invested significant effort to ensure that one of the few loyal Primarchs still alive received his due honors. It's likely no one ever expected Guilliman to awaken. The churchmen had always preferred their saints dead and silent, rather than breathing, speaking, and potentially holding opinions that might run counter to the party line. But now, no one asked their opinion. Guilliman rose from his throne and immediately launched into a whirlwind of activity.

First, he seized the Tetrarchs, the rulers of the worlds that comprised Ultramar—his personal little empire of five hundred worlds, which, by the way, had not been paying tithes to the greater Imperium. At the convened council, the returned Primarch made it abundantly clear that the old ways were over and that the Imperium needed to "wake up." Any problems or delays that arose were swept aside as if they had never existed. Those who tried to hinder the "march of progress" quickly found themselves acquainted with either the Inquisition's interrogators—a faction of which had welcomed the Primarch's return with open arms—or Guilliman's own enforcers. The already relentless war machine of Ultramar began to work even harder, thanks in part to the Mechanicus, who were forced to relent somewhat and heed the Primarch's demands. After all, while they controlled the most technologically advanced worlds, the Space Marines and the might of the Imperium ultimately belonged to Roboute.

This process, as described earlier, was far from quick, taking weeks, even months. Around the same time, an incredible rumor spread about the victory of a new Crusade over Commorragh and the Dark Eldar. The news was undoubtedly spectacular, but it was overshadowed by the disappearance of Saint Stanislaus. His vanishing nearly led to a bloodbath as various officers and powerful figures began accusing one another of being responsible. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed. Until the Saint's return, the Crusade decided to halt its advance in the heart of the Webway on Commorragh. There were several reasons for this, beyond the aforementioned issue.

First, given the sheer size of the Webway and the fact that teleportation gates in some districts had been disabled, not all Drukhari had been defeated. It would take considerable effort, time, and patience to root out the last cancerous remnants and purge them completely. Second, the Imperium was deeply interested in mastering and developing the captured transport network. While widespread use was still a distant dream, the Tech-Priests had already dispatched their best Magos to begin researching and studying the xeno-technology. This, however, was not without controversy.

The initial agreement included peaceful relations with the cooperating Eldar and Harlequins. However, the disappearance of the Saint severely soured relations with these allies, and few trusted the accursed xenos to begin with. While the Eldar weren't being shot on sight, the tension between all parties was palpable.

Having more or less dealt with his own domain, Roboute turned his attention to the rest of the Imperium, focusing on the most technologically advanced and populous worlds, such as Armageddon. With the absence of the most significant and irritating enemies, the Imperium managed to catch its breath and began to rebuild its strength in the form of several large and well-armed void fleets. With these, Roboute Guilliman intended to redraw the map of the galaxy forever.

***

Stanislaus blinked, then looked around in confusion. He clearly remembered the rage that had consumed him when one of the Primarchs had ruined what was almost a guaranteed death. Just a little more, and Vect's daemonic blade would have finished him off, and it would all have been over. But no!

At that moment, Ordyntsev began to understand the Emperor's disappointment in His sons. How could you value these "superhumans" if they could botch, pervert, and ruin even the simplest of tasks? The Saint suppressed his returning anger with difficulty and finally took stock of his surroundings. And there was plenty to see.

The walls were pitch black and smooth, with glowing veins of light running through them, stretching high into the air and transforming into rectangular cubes. There was no ceiling; instead, the view opened up to a stunning green star that seemed so close it might crash onto the planet—or wherever Stanislaus was—at any moment. Besides the star, the sky was filled with countless coffin-like metal structures, all permeated with the same green light. Occasionally, massive black pyramids floated by, somewhat reminiscent of Vect's ziggurat but far more refined and complete, as if their creators had a much clearer vision of what they wanted.

But all of this was merely the backdrop to the true purpose of this place. Wherever Stanislaus looked, pedestals rose with exhibits displayed upon them. Some were vaguely familiar objects, resembling weapons, armor, or machinery. Others were creatures whose very appearance evoked confusion. But what truly captured his attention were the living beings, forever trapped in stasis fields, their time frozen.

Surveying the seemingly endless expanse, Stanislaus roughly estimated the place as "holy crap, this is huge." Moreover, given the artificial floor, it was entirely possible that the collection continued below. He mentally chuckled. While he wasn't a Warhammer expert, he knew some of the major characters, and Trazyn the Infinite was among them.

Trazyn was one of the Necrons, an ancient race that had fought and destroyed the Old Ones, the creators of the Eldar, humans, Orks, and other races in their war against the Necrons and their allies, the C'tan. Despite the Old Ones' efforts, the Necrons emerged victorious, later turning on and betraying the C'tan, who had been weakened by civil war. All but one of the C'tan were shattered into shards, which were then enslaved and used as weapons.

Most Necrons went into hibernation for millions of years, but some chose to remain awake for various reasons. Trazyn was one of them. Stripped of his soul and biological body, Trazyn, like many Necrons, went mad. But while some flayed the flesh from the living and draped it over their metal bodies, the Infinite One decided to preserve as many unique things from the galaxy as possible before it was destroyed. To this end, he travels across worlds, "requisitioning" anything he deems worthy of preservation for eternity. This "anything" includes technology, works of art, and both sentient and non-sentient beings.

For his activities, many call him the Thief, a title he vehemently rejects, preferring to be called the Master of Rare Moments, the Lord of the Great Library, or the Preserver of Histories. He stores all his acquisitions in the vast, uncountable depths of his tomb world, Solemnace.

Solemnace lies on the Eastern Fringe and is part of the domain of the Necron dynasty of the Nihilakh. This gray and gloomy tomb world is hidden in the depths of space, where almost total darkness reigns, save for the cold glow of the sun that bathes the planet. Both celestial bodies are artificial. The star is a cluster of mirrors, their angles precisely calibrated to capture excess energy from a powerful source within the planetoid's core. The planetoid itself is a colossal Dyson sphere, its shell made of nanomachines and an artificial atmosphere. Inside, hundreds of levels slowly rotate around the core, where a shard of a C'tan is imprisoned—the jewel of Trazyn's collection and, by his own admission, the source of his power.

Stanislaus looked down at his feet and wasn't surprised to see another pedestal. Clearly, he too had been part of the collection, standing here for who knows how long. "I wonder how much time has passed," Stanislaus thought lazily. A lazy flap of his wings, and he glided downward. "Has it been decades? Centuries? More? Thousands? Does the Imperium still exist, or has humanity long since perished?"

Ordyntsev didn't know the answer, but it didn't dampen his curiosity. Since he was here, why not admire the collection? The floor beneath him trembled slightly, and a muffled explosion echoed from below. Stanislaus shrugged. If it was important, he'd find out soon enough.

At first, Stanislaus walked along an endless wall of Eldar artifacts. He found nothing particularly interesting. Some trinkets made of wraithbone, a frozen Seer mid-dance—Stanislaus had seen it all before. The only thing that caught his eye was a menacingly snarling Avatar of Khaine, its burning sword frozen in mid-swing.

After a couple hundred meters, Stanislaus finally reached the exhibits dedicated to humanity, and here he began to look around with much greater interest. There was everything here. Some exhibits were small, while others, like a genuine Imperial Titan, towered dozens of meters into the air. What added to the "magic" was that these weren't models but real war machines.

At one point, Stanislaus's attention was drawn to a lone Imperial Guardsman. He was dressed in standard Imperial military attire, but what caught Stanislaus's eye was his appearance. Stanislaus had watched the Harry Potter movies a while back, and he'd be damned if the Guardsman's face wasn't a dead ringer for the actor who played Ron Weasley.

Leaving this strange mystery behind, he moved on, but soon Stanislaus came across something that made his jaw drop and his eyes bulge.

"What?!" he shouted, staring at a transparent, sealed coffin containing… "Is that Lenin?!"

Stanislaus rubbed his eyes, but the reality didn't change. The past of Earth in the Warhammer universe had always been incredibly murky, but now one thing was certain: at some point, someone resembling Earth's Lenin had lived, a mausoleum had been built for him, and Trazyn had stolen the body.

Stanislaus couldn't help but shudder at the thought that perhaps the body lying in the mausoleum on his own Earth wasn't the real Lenin either—someone might have stolen it long ago. Leaving these strange thoughts behind, Stanislaus quickly moved on.

The following exhibits didn't evoke the same excitement. The exhibition was clearly arranged chronologically, so soon Stanislaus was no longer looking at wheeled vehicles but at flying ones, and then he spent some time admiring the steel skeleton of an "Iron Man."

"So this is what you were like," Stanislaus whistled, examining the terrifying war machine. "Impressive."

The subsequent exhibits starkly illustrated humanity's decline. Gone were the complex and beautiful mechanisms. Instead, there were grotesque mutants covered in cybernetics, Techno-barbarians, and their monstrous creations. Against this backdrop, a Thunder Warrior looked almost aristocratic, though he wasn't far removed from them.

There were also Space Marines. Some were simply frozen in stasis, while others were encased in spinning pyramids and cubes. However, Stanislaus quickly found someone he never expected to see. Speeding up, Ordyntsev stopped right in front of a massive, seemingly sleeping figure. The man frozen in stasis was almost completely naked, save for a loincloth, allowing Stanislaus to fully appreciate his terrifying physique.

Long white hair partially covered his face, but it didn't obscure the fine, aristocratic features and equally white eyebrows.

"Slaanesh take my…" Stanislaus began but caught himself. In Warhammer, you had to watch your words. "This is, by the Emperor, Fulgrim!"

Stanislaus vaguely remembered this moment, but the sleeping Fulgrim before him was supposedly just a clone—a clone without the soul of the original. Given the inextricable energy connection between all Primarchs, this didn't amount to much. The soul of the real Fulgrim was trapped in a painting, while the true body of the Phoenician and his legion were controlled by a Greater Daemon of Slaanesh.

"But what if…" Stanislaus suddenly had an interesting idea. "If I remember correctly, this body was created by some insane Chaos surgeon as a gift to Trazyn to buy him off. And what comes out of the hands of a Chaos follower? Right, nothing but vile crap."

Stanislaus raised the Emperor's flaming sword and willed it to ignite. With a swing, the blade cracked into the metal pedestal and began to cut through it with difficulty. Smoke rose, hissing filled the air, but the necrodermis gave way and split.

"Come on, come on," Stanislaus muttered eagerly, imagining himself as a lumberjack. "A clone of a Chaos-corrupted Primarch is definitely worth it!"

***

The Realm of Slaanesh. The Palace of Pleasure.

At this moment, all the Greater Daemons were doing their best to stay away from their mistress/master, as she/he had ordered not to be disturbed. The fall of Commorragh had brought such an abundance of delicious Dark Eldar souls that Slaanesh was practically bursting with pleasure, savoring each and every one of these "juice-filled pouches."

However, all of this paled in comparison to the latest gift. The soul of Asdrubael Vect, arriving slightly later, was the true dessert for which Slaanesh had canceled all her plans. She intended to dedicate all her skills to playing with such a significant Eldar.

Meanwhile, a demonic messenger was rushing through the palace at full speed. In its six pink hands, it clutched an incredibly valuable and expensive extract of pure souls. This drink was reserved only for the Greater Daemons, as it was both rare and precious. Finding, let alone capturing, such pure souls was difficult enough, and properly torturing them to create the drink was a task only for true masters.

Involuntarily, the demonic servant's attention was drawn to a portrait hanging in a place of honor on the palace wall. Anyone who had dealings with the Prince of Pleasure knew what this portrait was and what it concealed. But the demon was very wrong to get distracted. As in any Chaos realm, intrigue flourished here.

A treacherous magical thread, placed under the demon's feet, caused it to trip and freeze, paralyzed. However, the one who had planned this intrigue hadn't thought everything through. Yes, the part of the plan where the drink would be pointlessly spilled and dissipated was successfully executed, but the place where the drink would land was clearly not the intended target.

The shattered container released its contents, which easily passed through all the magical shields and splashed directly onto the portrait. The image of the Primarch of the Emperor's Children began to smoke and dissolve, as if under the effect of a powerful acid. With the destruction of the physical prison, the soul trapped within the painting immediately escaped.

Under normal circumstances, this would have changed nothing. The soul was lost and inexperienced in navigating the Warp. Moreover, the only place that could accept it—Fulgrim's true body—was already occupied by a daemon. And Slaanesh would have quickly noticed the loss and returned it to its place. But this day was clearly not normal, for at that very moment, Trazyn's stasis field finally collapsed, and the soul felt its path.

The Warp, after all, is a place where the usual laws of distance and space do not apply. The other end of the galaxy can be as close as the palm of your hand if you're in the Warp.

The servant and the demon who had set him up didn't even have time to twitch before the Primarch's soul vanished, and the gaze of She-Who-Thirsts fell upon the guilty parties.

***

The collapse of the stasis field did not go unnoticed by Stanislaus. Fulgrim, standing in the capsule, took a deep breath and slowly opened his eyes, looking at the golden, winged figure with a flaming sword standing before him.

"Father?" the Primarch asked cautiously, but Stanislaus sensed humility and a hint of fear in his voice. Fulgrim's gaze locked onto the recognizable flaming sword of Ordyntsev, as if it might at any moment plunge into his guts.