The strongest astral army in Warhammer 40K

Kato Sicarius removed his rotting gauntlets, revealing long, pale fingers. He leaned against the wreckage of a Plague Tank, his twin swords crossed and embedded in the pile of corpses at his feet, as elegant as if he were seated on an ivory throne in Macragge. A Ultramariner servant knelt and presented a gilded flask; as the amber liquid poured into a crystal glass, the cool aroma of Albion Icewine filled the air.

"Want to try some?" He swirled his glass, looking at Russell, the glass reflecting the burning Nurgle Gardens in the distance. "The vault of Terran."

Astram's silver sword trembled in its sheath: "The Grey Knight does not drink alcohol."

“So you guys are always so boring.” Cato took a sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on Russell’s golden arc of electricity. “But this mortal friend… perhaps knows how to appreciate true art.”

The bronze doors of the Ultramarines Fortress Monastery slowly opened, the lintel inscribed with the Old Gothic words "Courage and Wisdom." The sculptures lining the passageway, however, were not imperial statues, but bronze figures of Macragge poets and philosophers—their eye sockets inlaid with luminous crystals projecting holographic proverbs:

"War is the noblest form of contemplation."

"The poems written in blood will never fade."

Cato's twin swords had been replaced with ceremonial swords, the hilts inlaid with sapphires the same color as his pupils. As he walked down the corridor, mechanical slaves scattered rose petals, only to have them evaporate into fragrant mist by an energy field before touching his armor.

“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” Arya’s psionic tendrils whispered in Russell’s mind. “He’s using Macurag’s aesthetics to package his ambitions.”

The banquet hall's long table was carved from a single piece of obsidian, and the cutlery consisted of bone knives and forks inlaid with nerve spikes. Cato cut the synthetic steak on his plate—the texture of the meat perfectly replicated the biological texture of Tyrannosaurus Rex—the blade striking the porcelain plate with a crisp sound.

“Did you know? Macurag scholars believe that war is the ultimate language of the universe.” He swirled his wine glass, his gaze piercing Russell like a scalpel. “What kind of poem is your golden psionic energy writing?”

Astram's silver sword lay across the plate: "Psionic power should not be a philosophical toy."

“So you Grey Knights will always just be tools.” Cato’s sword suddenly deflected the silver sword, the tip stopping three inches from Russell’s throat. “And he… has already begun to create his own grammar.”

Inside the library, Cato's fingers traced the outline of a gene seed incubation chamber. Within the blue crystals suspended inside, a curled-up, embryo-like creature was faintly visible.

“The Ultramarines’ twenty-first modification surgery can reshape neural synapses,” his breath condensed into white mist on the glass, “and with your golden psionic power… it might give birth to a new Primarch.”

Russell pressed his entrenching tool against the culture chamber: "I am not your experimental subject."

“Of course not,” Cato chuckled. “You will be a collaborator—after all, the Emperor started with twenty experimental subjects.”

“One of your test subjects is your genetic father!” Astram said curtly.

“Indeed, I cannot refute this!” Cato Sicarios smiled.

As the Thunderhawk gunship took off, Arya's psionic tentacles were still trembling: "He planted a seed in your consciousness... about the allure of power."

Russell's golden arc of electricity scorched the blue rose on the entrenching tool—a parting gift from Cato, its petals made of liquid metal, each engraved with the Macurag tactical code.

“I know.” He crushed the rose, metal shavings drifting through his fingers. “But in some games, pieces can also capture players.”

On the observation deck of the fortress monastery, Cato sipped his red wine and watched Thunderhawk disappear. At his feet lay the dismantled Grey Knight tracker, his twin swords sealing a fragment of golden arc electricity into the incubation chamber.

…………

Under the eerie blue light of the Grey Knights' secret base, Astram's silver sword hummed as it was polished by an automated cleaning machine. Russell leaned against the edge of the tactical holographic console, the serrated edge of the Bloodthirsty entrenching tool reflecting the projection of Guilliman's statue—the holographic memory crystal he had smuggled from Cato Fortress.

“How should we evaluate this Cato Sicarius?” Russell tossed a Macragge coin, a trophy “borrowed” from the seams of Cato’s armor at the banquet.

A spark suddenly flew from Astram's prosthetic eye—a rare emotional outburst from the Grey Knight. He grabbed his silver sword and plunged it into the ground, sending spiderweb-like cracks through the black stone floor: "A bastard in cobalt blue armor, a nouveau riche showing off his swordsmanship thanks to the Primarch's legacy."

Russell's golden arcs of electricity coiled around the holographic projection, instantly magnifying Guilliman's statue. Thirteen tactical halos unfolded behind it, each marked with a classic battle from the Great Crusade.

“But this bastard is quite useful, isn’t he?” His fingertips traced the emblem of the Makragora’s Radiance. “At least he’s three times faster at cutting down Nurgle demons than the Grey Knight’s Prayer.”

Astram's silver sword suddenly appeared before the projection, shattering Guilliman's illusory form: "Watch your tongue, brother. You have no idea how much political turmoil the Primarch's awakening has unleashed—"

“You’ve met him,” Russell said, a hint of envy in his voice. “Three years ago in the Stormy Starfield, not long after he emerged from the stasis field.” Astran said.

The holographic view switches to a blurry battle log:

Within the burning wreckage of the spaceship, the Resurrected Primarch's power armor was still frost-covered. When Guilliman's Sword of Domination cleaved through the Chaos Lord, the gust of wind whipped up Astram's cloak.

"He glanced at me." Astran's prosthetic eye replayed that 0.3-second gaze. "Not the look of someone looking at a tool, but the look of someone looking at... a warrior."

Russell's golden arc of light marked Guilliman's tactical movement in the image: "So you tolerated Cato's arrogance? Because of that ridiculous empathy effect?"

“Because Lord Guilliman is willing to give the Grey Knight a second glance,” Russell said with a smile.

A mechanic delivered a repaired communicator, its screen flashing Cato's tactical briefing. Astram's prosthetic eye scanned the Death Guard's casualty data, then he suddenly sneered, "Do you know why Guilliman tolerated him?"

He pulled up the Ultramarines Chapter's files; Cato's promotion record noted nine acts of disobedience, seventeen battlefield executions, and—

“Operation Makurag Shadow.” Russell narrowed his eyes. “A black-hat operation three years ago to purge heretics from the Terra Council; the names of the leaders were erased…”

“Now you know how good this bastard is at handling dirty work.” Astram’s silver sword cleaved through the file projection. “The Primarch needs a sword that doesn’t need to be etched on a monument.”

Arya's psionic tentacles suddenly pierced the conversation: "Kato is tracking this signal." On her unfolded psionic map, a blue rose marker was approaching the secret base.

Russell toyed with the Macragge coin, then suddenly flicked it into the air. A golden arc of electricity pierced the coin, and the molten gold solidified in mid-air into Guilliman's tactical insignia.

“Tell that platoon leader—” his entrenching tool shattered the insignia, “that mortals don’t need gene seeds to cast shadows.”

As the blue rose mark began to flash red, Astram's silver sword crossed with his entrenching tool for the first time: "Prepare to welcome our guests. This time, we'll teach the Macraglian nobles what true art of war is."