The strongest astral army in Warhammer 40K

When Guilliman's fleet leaped out of the warp, the sight of the desolate star system took even the most resolute warriors' breath away—thousands of Eldar warships hovered among the shattered remnants of a star, their hulls inlaid with Tzeentch runes, and where the fragments of the Stargod should have been, a warp black hole woven from lies was suspended.

"It was a trap after all." Guilliman's prosthetic eye analyzed the battlefield data. "The energy readings are completely inconsistent with the characteristics of the Celestial Fragment."

Dante's Blood Mask emitted a warning red light: "But that black hole is devouring the fabric of reality. If left unchecked, the entire sector will slide into warp."

Russell's "Blood Drinker" suddenly trembled violently, and a sinister grin appeared on the blade: "Welcome to my theater, Primarch. Your role is—a desperate martyr."

As soon as Guilliman's fleet entered firing range, the Eldar warships unleashed eerie psionic pulses. The Imperial ships hit did not explode, but vanished like an erased painting—they were wiped out directly between reality and illusion.

"This is no conventional weapon!" Mephisto's psionic vessel cracked with spiderweb-like patterns. "They're rewriting the laws of physics using the warp paradox!"

Russell suddenly grabbed Guilliman's arm armor, golden psionic energy surging into the Primarch's mind through the point of contact: "See through the appearances! Those warships are illusions; the real killing move is..."

In his psionic vision, tens of thousands of Tzeentch runes appeared around the fleet. Each rune imprisoned a twisted Russell clone—a counterfeit created by the Almighty through countless time reversals, now tearing apart the structure of reality with a psionic resonance identical to the original.

“Using my clone as an anchor point…” Russell’s pupils turned completely gold, “Saint Ives wants us to be annihilated by the paradox of our own existence!”

The Primarch's thought matrix completed its deduction in a fraction of a second. He suddenly changed the fleet's course, charging towards what appeared to be the densest enemy formation: "All ships, fire a volley at coordinate G-227!"

Amidst the dazzling light of the macro cannon, a hidden Tzeentch altar appeared. Floating atop the altar was not a fragment of a star god, but a drop of golden blood left by Russell at the Tomb of San Gilles—the true source of power for all clones.

"You knew all along?" Dante's Blood Mask revealed a look of astonishment for the first time.

“I was suspicious from the moment I saw the data from the incubation chamber,” Killieman’s prosthetic eye locked onto the target. “St. Ives needs real Russellian energy to activate the trap, which is why he let us arrive.” His power gauntlets, “Emperor’s Wrath,” began charging. “And now, it’s time for the fraudsters to taste their own poison.”

The instant Russell's golden blood was shattered by the Emperor's Wrath, all the clones simultaneously let out shrieks. Their psionic energy surged back into the warp black hole, forming a reverse-vortex of energy. Saint Ives's maniacal laughter suddenly turned into screams of agony—the black hole began to devour the Eldar fleet that had laid the trap.

"No! This doesn't make sense!" The Demon Lord's robes burned in the void. "My plan is flawless..."

“But you’ve forgotten humanity’s most dangerous trait,” Guilliman’s ship churned through the exploding Eldar wreckage, “we will fight madness with madness.”

Russell had already leaped into the vacuum, his "Blood Drinker" piercing the core of the black hole. In the singularity where golden psionic energy collided with the warp paradox, the phantoms of Saint Gilles and the Emperor emerged. As the shovel completely disappeared into the darkness, a clear, shattering sound, like glass breaking, echoed throughout the desolate galaxy—the black hole disintegrated into a shower of light dust, revealing the true universe behind it.

On the return journey, Guilliman's eyes were fixed on Russell's sleeping medical pod. The young man's black hair had turned completely golden, a sign of psionic essence.

“He is transcending the boundaries of mortals,” Dante’s voice was tinged with worry, “and when he awakens next, perhaps we will face…”

“A new god?” Guilliman interrupted. “No, he will find his own way. After all,” the Primarch looked out the porthole at the gradually clearing star of Baal, “this galaxy has no shortage of madmen who can drag gods off their thrones.”

Deep within the warp, Kayanth was offering the tattered robes of Saint Ivis to Tzeentch. The oracle of the Lord of Change flickered in his shattered psychic eye: "Defeat is also a prelude; the true feast will only begin when the Golden Eagle has fully transformed..."

…………

Just as Guilliman's fleet was about to reach Baal, the warp was suddenly torn apart. Angron leaped from the rift, his left hand gripping a black greatsword, his right wielding a blazing battle axe, his body wreathed in hellfire. His roar shattered the void shields of several escort ships: "Brother, I will kill you!"

The Imperial Guard, Super Angels, and Honor Guard rushed forward to stop them, but under Angron's ferocious onslaught, they were repelled like paper. Kallion's white wings were cleaved by the battle axe, and Arya's psionic staff shattered under the greatsword. Dante and Mephisto attempted to fight together, but were forced back by Angron's hellfire and collapsed, severely wounded.

Guilliman drew the Emperor's Sword, its golden flames contrasting sharply with Angron's infernal fire: "Angron, your madness must end!"

Angron's greatsword clashed with Guilliman's Imperial Sword, unleashing a dazzling light. Each exchange distorted the surrounding void, and the wreckage of the warships turned to dust in the energy shockwaves. Guilliman's prosthetic eye rapidly analyzed Angron's attacks, but his body was already riddled with wounds, his power armor stained crimson with blood.

“You’ve weakened, brother!” Angron’s battle axe cleaved through Guilliman’s defenses, leaving a deep, bone-revealing gash in his shoulder armor. “Without the wings of Saint Gilles, you are nothing!”

Guilliman gritted his teeth, thrusting the Emperor's Sword forward with a fierce strike. The golden flames on the blade repelled Angron's hellfire: "I don't need wings, Angron! What I need is to end your suffering!"

His gaze was fixed on the Butcher's Spike on Angron's head—the source of Angron's madness and his only weakness.

Guilliman risked being struck by the battle axe as he lunged close to Angron. His power gauntlets, "Emperor's Wrath," gripped the Butcher's Spike, golden flames burning along its length. Angron roared deafeningly, hacking and slashing with his greatsword and battle axe, but Guilliman held on tightly.

“It’s over, brother!” Guilliman’s eyes flashed with a resolute light. He exerted his strength suddenly, tearing the Butcher’s Nail off, sending up a shower of flesh and mechanical fragments.