Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

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"Do you even know what you're talking about, mortal? Stupid creature." Cherubael glared at the Primarch before him, his refusal immediate and absolute. "You may be the son of the cursed one, but you are unworthy of commanding me. You are merely the leader of mortals, while I am a noble demon prince."

"I will grant you a rare mercy," Cherubael continued. "A chance to make a deal with me. Provide the right sacrifices, and I will share what I know."

"Do not mistake me for those foolish sorcerers who squander lives for mere scraps of knowledge and then grovel in gratitude." Guilliman's expression remained cold. "The only sacrifice I offer is your chance to live, Cherubael." Power surged through the Primarch's body, a force drawn from the faith of an empire.

As word of his return spread, the people rejoiced, chanting his name and hailing him as their savior. Their belief filled him, made him stronger.

Human will had always shaped the warp—there was no question about that.

Without humanity, Chaos would wither. The Eldar had long foreseen this. If mankind vanished, the ruinous powers would soon follow.

Such was humanity's place in the great struggle of the immaterium.

And now, Guilliman wielded the strength of that collective faith.

"Your arrogance surpasses even that of your father, Son of the Cursed." Cherubael's voice dripped with contempt. "You cannot harm me. I am a prince of the warp, an immortal being. Time devours all things, but not us. I am eternal."

Cherubael's laughter echoed through the chamber. "I can see all that is to come. It is the gift of my kind. Do you wish to know your fate, Son of the Cursed? Do you desire everything your heart seeks? Make a deal with me, and I will grant it—all for a price."

Eisenhorn stood to the side, watching in silence.

He could not tell whether this was right or wrong.

Guilliman walked a dangerous path. Had the great Primarch been tainted during his long sleep?

He could only hope the answer was no.

For if a corrupted Primarch rose to power, it would be the final death knell of the Imperium.

Eisenhorn readied his spells, prepared to strike the moment Cherubael slipped from Guilliman's grasp.

"You will regret your stubbornness, demon." Guilliman smirked. "You see, I have a brother. They call him the Midnight Ghost. His Legion is infamous for its cruelty. He hunts for weakness, pries it open, and magnifies it until his enemies are broken. Once, I disapproved of his methods. But now... I am reconsidering."

"When one faces an enemy deserving of absolute hatred, any means of vengeance is justified."

Guilliman's expression darkened. "I have studied demons, Cherubael. I have pondered what it is that you fear. And in the last battle, I finally understood."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"You fear oblivion."

"You fear that your essence might be shattered beyond repair, preventing your return to the warp."

"You will learn nothing from me, Son of the Cursed!" Cherubael shrieked. "I do not fear threats! You hold my true name, but you cannot make me submit. At most, you can banish me or imprison me!"

Guilliman's hand rested on the hilt of the Emperor's Sword. "You're right. I cannot erase you completely." His grip tightened. "But someone can."

Power surged within him.

The Emperor's light burned through the darkness, washing over the chamber like a golden tide.

The dungeon, once a place of shadows and secrets, now glowed with divine radiance.

Cherubael writhed in agony. Fear twisted his inhuman features.

The demons of the warp had always cursed the Emperor's name.

For they knew that He alone had the power to end them.

Not even the Dark Gods had destroyed the Emperor; they had merely found a way to imprison Him.

Yet here, in this moment, Guilliman wielded that same power.

The Emperor's shrine blazed with light, and the exiled priests raised their voices in fervent hymns.

The dungeon's other captives—demons, heretics, things that should not exist—shrank into silence.

The ceaseless whispers halted.

The screams fell away.

Every being tainted by the warp trembled.

Even Eisenhorn felt it—a vast and terrible will descending upon them.

Guilliman was harnessing his father's strength to break the daemon prince.

"Surrender to me," the Primarch commanded, "or I will shatter your essence and cast you into eternal silence."

Cherubael struggled, snarling, but before he could respond, Guilliman struck.

The air cracked as his fist met the demon's flesh.

The chains snapped taut under the force of impact, and Cherubael's host body slammed into the wall with a sickening crunch.

Guilliman drew the Emperor's Sword.

Golden flames licked up the blade, casting flickering light across the dungeon walls. The tip of the sword hovered inches from Cherubael's face.

"You have one last chance," Guilliman said. "Refuse again, and I will return you to nothingness, demon. There are others in this prison—I am sure one of them will be more cooperative."

Cherubael's eyes flickered to the golden blade, and for the first time, he hesitated.

"I have foreseen your fate, Son of the Cursed," he spat. "You will fall, just as we did."

Guilliman smirked. "You trust in your so-called foresight?"

"You are nothing but a pack of wretched apes!" Cherubael snarled. "You will never comprehend the intricacies of fate! I have already seen what is to come!"

"Then let's test that theory." Guilliman's smirk widened. "Tell me, demon—can you predict which part of you I will cut first?"

Cherubael's sneer faltered.

"This is a foolish game," he said. "You never intended for me to win."

"Of course not," Guilliman replied.

The golden blade slashed through the air.

Cherubael screamed.

His ear fell to the ground, sizzling as golden fire consumed it.

"It seems harming the essence does cause pain," Guilliman observed.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised the sword again.

The second ear fell. The demon's shriek grew sharper, filled with agony. The golden flames did not spread. They lingered, cauterizing, searing the wound without granting relief.

Cherubael writhed, chains rattling.

Guilliman was patient.

Bit by bit, he carved into the demon prince.

The host body had long since died—only Cherubael's essence remained. And only the demon suffered.

Finally, the resistance broke.

"You win, Son of the Cursed!" Cherubael gasped. "What do you wish to know?"

Guilliman lowered the Emperor's Sword. "Tell me of my traitorous brothers. What are they doing?"

"I do not know," Cherubael hissed. "I have been bound in the material realm for centuries."

Guilliman's eyes narrowed. "Then tell me how to summon a demon that does know."

Cherubael recoiled. "You would have one of us betray another?