Timestamp: 001.M42 – Dante, Regent of Imperium Nihilus

  The noise had vanished. This absolute silence was more harrowing than the screech of the Tyranids.

  For months, the skies of Baal had been choked by endless clouds of xenos, filled with the spit of bio-acid, the thunder of bolters, and the final charging horns of the Ultramarines. That deafening sense of destruction had been the only proof that life still existed in this sector—at least, someone was still fighting to survive.

  But now, as Roboute Guilliman's "Indomitus Crusade" fleet faded into a faint afterglow on the edge of the augur scopes, Baal reverted to its primordial desotion. The Primarch, carrying the st hope of a burning gaxy, had rushed towards the next, more urgent theater of war.

  What he left to Dante was a batch of unproven Primaris recruits, and a title heavy enough to snap a mortal spine: "Regent of Imperium Nihilus."

  Luis Dante stood on the shattered terrace of the fortress-monastery, the wind whistling mournfully through the gaps in his golden armor. Beyond his helm’s red lenses, there was no longer a holy starlight, but a purple scar festering across the universe like a gangrenous wound—the Great Rift. Here, there was no Astronomican to guide navigation, no astropathic choir to transmit distress signals; only endless darkness and madness.

  "Lord Regent." The footsteps of Forge Master Adario echoed in the empty ruins, sounding particurly harsh. "The void shield generators are critically damaged. The success rate for a forced restart is stuck at just over forty percent. We have a severe shortage of high-purity adamantium pting; we cannot even repce the fused psma conduits."

  "What of the supply crates Guilliman left behind?" Dante turned, his heavy crimson cloak swaying in the dust.

  "All allocated to the new recruits and the Absolution's Ire. The Lord Primarch must ensure the Crusade's edge remains sharp, while we... we have been left in the center of the millstone. My Lord, we have no margin left. Baal's warehouses have run dry of even the st canister of sacred unguent."

  Dante looked down at the red ruins beneath his feet. The once-magnificent fortress of the Angel’s Halo now resembled a colossal corpse devoured by beasts, rebar exposed like dry bones. This was the "victory" the Imperium cimed—a survival more tragic than defeat.

  "There are the wrecks of three Strike Cruisers in orbit." The Forge Master hesitated for a moment, his voice low. "Although those are the fgships of our successor chapter brothers, there may still be..."

  "Dismantle them." Dante interrupted coldly. His voice was old and dry, like dead wood ground against sandpaper. "Melt down their armor. Strip out their wiring. If the tombstones of the dead can shield the lives of the living, then dig them all up. Do not spare a single inch."

  There was a self-destructive finality in his words. This was the power of the Regent: to feed the gasping survivors upon the corpses of angels. The wind and sand swept past, carrying the stinging scent of rust and dried blood, gradually burying the data-ste that symbolized his authority.