Imperium Ascendant

Chapter Twenty One: Gold, Silver, and Steel

Location: The Imperial Laboratories

Date: 814.M30

Apothecarium Primus Fabius was hard at work inside the Imperial Palace's secret Gene-vaults. For years he had toiled. Separated from his beloved Legion by one of the Emperor's projects. He had to admit that on some level, he was envious of his brothers. Earning merits and accolades out in conquest of Sol. Still, he knew his work was far more important than anything they could hope to achieve. The III Legion sought to master and perfect whatever they put themselves too. For his brothers that was war. For Fabius, genecraft would be perfection.

The Project, as he and the other apothecaries entrusted with it called it. was another contingency the Emperor had devised. In the Master of Mankind's infinite wisdom, he had prepared a tool in case of widespread corruption to the Astartes Legions. The Project was the cultivation and preparation of immense stores of purified gene-seed. Each cultivated organ had been infused with a few molecules of the Emperor's blood. A carefully selected amount that would provide protection, power, and new life to the gene seed, but not enough to be stolen by nefarious forces.

The Twenty Legions had suffered casualties in the Lunar Crusade. First, the unworthy culled by the lure of Chaos. Then, those who fell in battle. Lastly, the wounded and the broken. The mutation unleashed by the Creed of Four Phases had inflicted brutal organ damage on the Astartes. Nearly every Legionnaire suffered severe physical damage. The Dohrnii Drive could repair most but not all of it. Some damage to the gene-seed organs was so profound even the Drive could not fix it. So now Fabius and his comrades had the duty of replacing the damaged organs

Using the purified organs to fix the Twenty Legions, in a massive surgical operation. Each legion suffered defects in particular organs. Fabius suspected this was due to the contamination method used by the Creed. Allowing the nearly two legions worth of Gene-Seed to repair all twenty Astartes bloodlines. For weeks the Apothecaries of the legions and countless other gene-smiths healed the Astartes. One by one, the stricken Space Marines arose from the operating table reborn. Faster, stronger, resistant to the warp and infused with a bit more of the spiritual essence that elevated Astartes beyond mere Gene-Warriors. Astartes, like there gene-sires are beings of both planes. Human children reforged both physically and spiritually into Angels of Death.

One of the lesser known but incredibly powerful gifts of the Astartes is the "Saga." Each Astartes is psychically attuned in a unique way by there geneseed. Allowing them to subconsciously harvest the psychic-energy they produce through great deeds. With every legend and act of heroism committed by an Astartes, they grow in strength. Fabius did not know this ability was the reason in the Grimdarkness of the Far Future that "mere" Chapter Masters and captains of the Chapters could defeat Daemon Princes and other powerful horrors. If each Primarch was a myth given flesh, the Astartes were soldiers infused with the power of their heroism.

This infusion of mythological blood would increase the potential of this ability along with a few minor boons. Unfortunately, Fabius doubted this power would pass along through Geneseed. Future Astartes born from the Primarchs or fallen brothers would be standard Space Marines. These veterans of the Solar Conquest though, they would be something truly unique.

With this great work in mind, Fabius set to his next patient. Typically, the Apothecaries of a legion treated their brothers and left the injured of other legions to their respective brothers. This patient was an exception. The skills of the XVI's medicae were not up the level needed. Sourly, the XVI called in Fabius to save their champion. Abaddon the Redeemer lay on the surgical table, flitting between life and death. The marred warrior had suffered greatly in his duel with Be'lakor, Only the activation of sus-an sleep kept him alive long enough for his Apothecary brothers to patch him up. Even with the XVI geneseed's gift, it was nothing short of miraculous that Abaddon lived. Nearly every organ in his body, natural or not, was brutalized. His skin was a patchwork of scars, electrical burns and graphed tissue.

Sheer statistics said that something should have given out by now. So much was damaged, a thousand systems that were needed for life. Each pushed and broken to the very edge. Yet Abaddon held on, drifting in and out of pained consciousness between surgeries. Each time he awoke, his shredded tongue worked with burnt lungs to cry out a single desperate word. "Horus!"

The half-dead son called for his fallen father. Some part of Abaddon the Redeemer knew Horus lived, in some shape or form. Deep inside his soul, something told him that the XVI and its Primarch survived the impossible. Neither Fabius nor his attendants bothered to inform Abaddon of his father's return. They had other patients to attend to, and worked as efficiently as they could. Such distractions were not necessary as they worked. Eventually, after a near day of intense surgery Fabius team approached the final hurdle. The replacement of Abaddon's Magnificat.

The strain of using a demigods weapon had blasted apart the Astartes' god-maker. Now, a fresh and enhanced version would take its place. With black carapace linked mechadendrites and a precision forged at the Emperors side, Fabius linked individual neurons and blood vessels together, fusing new life into the husk of Abaddon. Pulling away from his work, the Apothecary Primus of the III legion let out a deep breath. This had been by far his most stressful operation. Now all he had to do was shut off the neural dampener and let the magnificant activate. Pressing a button on his surgical station, the genius Astartes prepared to move his next patient.

Without warning, a blast of light detonated in the operating theater and sent Fabius flying against a nearby wall. The impact was strong enough to force bile from Fabius' mouth. As his enhanced vision adapted to the light burst, he glanced over at the table. Fabius was cold-hearted, even for an Astartes, but concern for his patient flickered through him. Interestingly, the blast had not affected Abaddon. In fact he seemed to be the source.

A second pulse of light echoed out, this time the Apothecary was prepared for it and braced himself for the impact. The energy faded and a medical miracle captured Fabius' attention. Abbadon's exposed tissue started to pull itself out of surgical clamps. Muscle tissue bulged with some supernatural power. Scars faded like washed away stains. Wounds closed fully and Abaddon swelled with power. It was like watching the entire developmental process of a human child being played out in mere minutes. Flesh, bone, and organs grew and shifted. His limbs lengthened and thickened. Injecting sites spat out their needles. Abaddon twitched to life.

Readying his side-arm and a particularly nasty surgical implement, Fabius prepared for battle. He knew the power of the Warp well, it coursed through Fabius' patient and mutated him. Fabius was a lesser warrior by Astartes standards, but he calculated he could euthanize Abaddon in his stupor before he fully awakened.

Jolting and twitching like a live current was tracing through his muscles, Abaddon dragged himself off the operating table. Shooting a hand out like a viper, he clutched Fabius' foot with an iron grip. Abaddon stared up at his surgeon, ferocious willpower etched into his face, and a curious Warp light pouring from his missing eye. Glowing with supernatural power, Abaddon croaked out words in a wrasping tone that told Fabius his vocal chords were still in the process of repairing. "Take me to my father, I have something of his."

To Fabius' shock, he felt the unmistakable presence of a Primarch from Abaddon. A lesser shadow indeed, but still something beyond mistaking. Slowly, Abaddon rose to his feet and Fabius felt his mouth fall open against his wishes. The Astartes had grown massively, nearly matching a Primarch in size. The psychic energy bound within Abaddon had invigorated his magnificant organ, healing him and bulking his body to near Primarch heights.

The scientific mind that made Fabius so prized set to work as he and Abaddon stared at each other. The magnificant was only half of the godmaker gland, and the countless other augments and alchemical forgings that made a Primarch were missing. Abaddon would not match any Primarch, but he now stood above any Astartes. Stronger, faster, smarter and tougher than any other mortal. He was possibly comparable to an elite Custodes, but Fabius lacked the data to be sure. It was a sour note for him that the Emperor refused knowledge of the golden brotherhood.

*CRACK* Fabius was brought back to the present when Abaddon put a power-fist sized hole in the wall above the apothecary's head. The psychic flame in Abaddon's missing eye flared brighter as he spoke again. "Now!"

Quickly, Fabius escorted his patient out of the laboratories and handed him off to Custodes patrolling the complex. Whatever happened now was not his problem. Back to work he went. Fixing twenty Legions and musing about what over alterations or improvements were possible to the Astartes form. Preparing for his next patient, he stopped to check the gene-vault registry for the best match of gene-seed. As he peered through the data, something caught his eye. Geneseed was missing. An entire numbered batch from each bloodline. Checking the access records, he realized the Sigillite himself was the culprit. Nonplussed, but confident in Malcador's loyalty. Fabius figured it was another project of the Emperor's. Still, the fact that all twenty of the legions six hundred and sixty sixth batch of purified Geneseed was gone seemed rather strange.

Location: An artificial cavern somewhere within Titan, Moon of Saturn.

Date: 814.M30

Malcador the Sigillite stood in the massive subterranean structure being burrowed into the cold rock of Titan. With more senses then he should possess, he watched the process of excavation and construction. At the Emperor's orders, a series of fortresses were being built within the moon. Shadowy repositories where the Silver Order would operate from. Unlike nearly all of the Solar System, Titan had been virtually untouched by human hands throughout the species' history. Disturbing rumors and tragic accidents had plagued Titan since the first Saturn colonies. Keeping all but the bravest and the most stupid of pioneers away. This pattern was not mere statistical anomaly, of course. The veil between certain and possible was razor thin here. In fact, the first Warp experiments conducted by mankind had taken place on this now deserted rock. Malcador himself was not certain which came first to Titan. The experiments or the reputation. That was even before his time.

In his wisdom, the Emperor had selected Titan to house the Silver Order and other additions to the Adeptus Umbrex. Construction had started almost the moment Talons of the Emperor landed and surveyed Titan during the Solar conquest. The creation of this new headquarters had fallen to a joint commision of Warsmiths and Occultits in Imperial employ. Filling it had fallen to Malcador, or at least partially. Using the already vast resources of the Adeptus Terra, Malcador had found hundreds of possible candidates. Each one of them a loyal citizen. Who had proven themselves worthy in some regard.

Through numerous trials and cullings, only a few dozen remained. The Silver Order would require the best of what humanity had to offer. Its founders and leaders need to be more than that. Five Executor and a handful of Agents would form this bedrock. Each had proven themselves worthy time and again. Most recently, in a ritual that would form the Orders heart.

At the Emperor's orders, a single drop of his cloned blood anointed each founders forehead. This diluted shadow of the Emperors essence burned a distinct mark into them. A ][ shaped scar on their forehead that offered protection from Chaotic taint. By being infused with the Anathema's power they became empowered and protected against the evil and unreality of the Great Enemy. In the presence of the Warp's taint, the scar would burn again, providing a harsh warning against the immediate danger of the Dark Gods' power. In the coming millennia, the agents of the Silver Order would all be marked in this way. Alongside this, each agent would be gifted a badge of inscribed silver, vesting in them the confidence of the Adeptus Terra. Through these twin sigils the Silver Order would be marked as servants of the Emperor.

These initial members were now hard at work building the organization they would lead. Countless arcane treasures and secrets were being ferried to the largest of the moon's fortresses. This Sanctorum Citadel as it was named would be the chief center of the Order. It was a massive thing of polished stone and inscribed metal, rising from Titan's fog like some colossus of old. At its very heart would be a blood cloner of immaculate making. Where a vial of the Emperors blood would be recreated over and over. Malcador could already see the day when the first tainted candidate would enter that hallowed hall. They would be certain in there trickery. Hoping to steal the Emperor's gift in the name of Chaos. The traitor would die screaming as the ichor burned through his skull like liquid fire. A similar fate would befall any agents who gave in to temptation and believed the Great Enemy.

The Silver Order, while important, was not the reason Malcador was here though. In fact, he was on the direct opposite side of Titan from the Sanctorum Citadel. His journey took him within an unfinished fortress that would match the citadel in every way but one. It was inverted, sticking into Titan's bedrock instead of out of it. This unnamed fortress would house another, far deadlier and more secretive tool for mankind's ascension: The Silver Knights. An order of psyker warrior-monks who would battle the forces of chaos. They would be the third member of the transhuman trinity that would protect humanity. The Golden Custodes, the Steel Astartes and the Silver Psi-Knights.

The creation of this new breed of warrior had been yet another of the many projects the Emperor had engaged himself in. Malcador stood beyond mankind in countless ways, but the Emperor's intellect and sheer ability sometimes startled him. Of all his countless plans and schemes, Malcador knew maybe the least about the Silver Knights. He was familiar with the basic concept though. They were designed to be a strike force of Anathema-blessed Space Marines who could quickly and efficiently handle Chaos incursion and Daemonic attacks. The details of their order or their methods he could only guess at. The twenty batches of enhanced Geneseed provided ample clues however.

Malcador now journeyed deeper into the fortress. The watchful eyes of Custodes following him with every step. The inversion within the citadels design went beyond simple reversal in polarity. Whereas the Sanctorum was built to shield from the Warp, this fortress channeled it. Its complex psychosensate architecture acted as a tuning fork, drawing up a stream of pure spiritual energy born of the Astronomicon's purification and god-forging. It was gathered and molded into Anathematic currents of power that filled the Fortress. Turning it into a sepulcher of golden power, untouchable by the Dark Gods.

In its center, directly opposite the Silver Orders anointing chamber, across the world, waited the Emperor. The concentrated warp-stuff was near blinding, even discounting the Master of Mankind's aura. With keen witch-sight, Malcador peered through the sacred fog and watched his Lord's work. All this energy and the ritual science at work served a clear purpose. The Emperor was attempting something unheard of for millions of years. Of course bastardized versions like what occured on Moloch happened, but this was a refined and attuned version of a feat the ancient Aeldari named God-Calling.

The Emperor had been forced to reclaim through force the first calling, ripping the power from thirsting gods and escaping the heart of Chaos. Now, he had power solely belonging to him: the souls of honored martyrs in the grimdark future. They would be perfect for birthing new legends and demigods into flesh.

Faint psychic feelers traced across Malcadors mind and he understood why he had been called. Malcador would be a witness and judge for what would come. An honor given to an old friend. Surrounding the Emperor were eight transhuman bodies. Each a custom grown hybrid of Custodes and Astartes bio-sorcery. They were modeled on various stories, Monster hunters, Daemon slayers, protectors of humanity. All eight were in a state of death, soulless with their chests splayed open. The Emperor had removed one of each of the twin hearts the bodies possessed. Why he had done so soon became apparent.

Floating in a halo of silver light around the Emperor were eight spheres of silver light. At the center of them were ancient gemstones. Carved from mother Terra, and blessed by countless faiths. Malcador quickly understood the silver light inhabiting the gems was all that remained of the Angel. Eight shards of the broken spirit, placed in eight ritual stones. Powerful ingredients, yet not the only ones in this process.

Using the power and resonance within the chamber, the Emperor pulled five thousand three hundred and twenty eight souls from within him. Each a celebrated Astartes, and all had died for there God-Emperor. One by one, the Emperor asked each soul a simple question: "For most, duty ends in death. Will yours?"

All five thousand and more souls responded. "Even beyond death and rebirth they would serve." The souls were split into eight portions. Six Hundred and Sixty Six added to each crystal, providing ages of wisdom and humanity to temper the Angel's power. Then the gems, carried along by the currents of anathema-energy, took the missing hearts' place.

Seeing that his work was progressing, the Emperor turned to Malcador. A galaxy of souls stared into the Sigillite's soul. In that moment Malcador felt what the Prophet Mos must have on Mt. Syhai. He stared into the face of God. It was great and terrible in magnificence. Here, away from prying eyes and consumed by his work, the Emperor had dropped the facade. He was the Human Anathema, godcaller, soulkeeper, Master of Mankind, ancient protector, dragonslayer, bastard of ancients, Lord of Sanity and Reality in all its glory. With words that could reduce worlds to blind awe, he asked Malcador: "Shall we take the next step upon the shining path together, my friend?"

Tears of gold poured down Malcadors face as he nodded his consent. The ancient psyker gripped his staff hard enough to crack his withered bones as he watched. The channeled power poured into each body. Tidal waves of warp-energy infused with the figures suspended in the air, bonding the crystal hearts to flesh and healing their surgical wounds. The power became one with the newly born demigods. Their very flesh and blood became infused with the Warp. Once simple meat, they were now living conduits to the Sea of Souls.

This miracle of warpcraft combined immaterial and material together. Creating eight Silver Paladins to serve the Emperor. Detecting Malcador's awe, the Emperor let out a small, understanding smile, and spoke to his friend in a rapturous voice. "While impressive it may be. This is but a pale shadow of the Primarchs' creation. I used a single saga to breathe life into these eight. So very much more went into each of the twenty. My sons are god's given flesh, these are but humble Archangels."

The first of these newborn Archangels took a breath, The Paladin sucked in the cold oxygen of the chamber and asked the light that created him: "who… who am I? Garro? Azkaellon? These memories, whose are they?"

The Light answered in calm thunder. "They were who you once were, now you are Mîkha'El: Paxiarch of Order. The First Lord Paladin of the Silver Knights. "

The answered calmed the incarnated angel. An identity to focus and meditate on. With each awakening, the other seven were named. "Kiddu, Hellzing, Sol-Vukong, O'Seimei, Persaeus, Jediah, and Dolzak. The Lord Paladins of the Silver Knights."

Each of them were armed and armored in blessed silver and adamantium. Knowledge infused by the Emperor and their past lives filled the Eight, giving them the wisdom to know how to properly use the tools that they were given. As one, they soon bowed to the Emperor and swore fealty to the Master of Mankind. With those formalities, the Silver Paladins left the two ancients to start there duties. They were each a shard of the Anathema, perpetuals bound to a gem of pure light. The ten thousand knights who would follow their footsteps would be born of hybridized geneseed. Twenty batches, one from each Legion would become ten thousand progenoids of this new breed of transhuman. Another brotherhood of heroes to match the Custodes.

Like the sun setting, the Emperor dimmed and returned to his human form. "The Great Enemy took a fallen champion of theirs and remade him into a threat". The Emperor said, looking every bit the avenging force of order and justice. "I shall return the favor eight-fold."

The Silver Order and Knights were born. Another tool to help protect humanity. When the Great Crusade left Sol, it would be armed and armored in Gold, Silver and Steel.

Location: The Bucephalus at Sol's Mandeville point

Date: 817.M30

It had taken two years, but the Imperium had returned itself to new heights. Twenty reborn Astartes Legions, the Imperial Auxilia, the Mechanicum of Mars, the Silver Order, and the Talons of the Emperor stood ready to retake the galaxy for mankind. The Primarchs had taken time to get accustomed to there fathers newest creations. Some feared replacement for there recent failures. Those worries were put to rest soon enough. The twenty brothers soon came to respect there otherworldly and anomalous kin-beings.

The light of the Astronomicon illuminated all its light touched with order and sanity. But on the fringes of the galaxy, beyond the reach of the light emanating from Sol, the material world tore itself asunder as the Warp thrashed in its eternal game of horror. The Four battled for dominance, seeking to exploit the illuminated weaknesses while protecting their own. Across the galaxy, chaotic cults dissolved into civil war as their gods went to war with themselves. All pretense of cooperation and undivided chaos were but a distant memory. The madness created such a horrid storm that any warp-space untouched by the Astronomicon was unavigatable. The reaches of the Ultima Segmentum become awash in warp-storms that matched the worst of Old Night This would not last forever though, the Emperor knew that. Eventually, his threat would temporarily unite the Four and the respite would be over. Until then, a galaxy of threats awaited.

The Orkish Empires grew like the fungal infestation they were. Fueled by never-ending war with themselves and others. Even now, the great call of WAAAAGH echoed through the Warp as Beasts of Armageddon clashed for dominance. The Old One's lesser folly needed to be dealt with, and fast.

Across the galactic north, the Emperor despised looking. The sheer horror of entire worlds being devoured by the Rangdans was stomach churning,. Like all viruses, they did not kill cleanly. If unchecked, they would infect all life and bring about a doom ghastly enough to match Chaos' machinations.

On uncountable worlds, the Dragon's kin and former slaves slept, waiting to reclaim the galaxy for reasons that varied from banal to insane. The Aeldari remnants were also fast organizing. The Dark City bloomed and the Craftworlds mourned the Fall. For the Webway to be truly mankind's, they and the last Old One must be bound or broken. Then, to add further complications, self righteous petty-kingdoms of fellow humans would resist unity. In their hubris, they were desperate to retain freedoms they were unworthy of. Gladly marching to extincion or worse, simply because they could.

All these threats faced the Imperium of Mankind, each threatened to strangle mankind's destiny in its crib. Standing aboard his flagship, the Emperor answered this galaxy of nightmares with a command.

"A new dawn has come! All ships, activate warp drive!"

With the thunder of thousands of warp-engines the firmament grew bright. Humanity had once again left Sol, and once again the galaxy awaited.

Location: Valley of Laponis, Macragge

Date: 817.M30 (Terran Time)

Falling stars were often referred as omens throughout human history. Even in domains and ages were the truth of their nature was known, they still held significance. This proved true upon the world of Macragge, where they are associated with good fortune and divine boons. So when reports across the Ultramar Kingdom spoke of a star burning through the sky and impacting in the northern wilderness, it was taken to mean great things were in store for the mightiest nation upon Macragge.

This quickly changed once the nightmares started. An epidemic of horrible dreams and night terrors spread across the kingdom, rippling from the northern wilds like some spiritual shockwave. With each setting of the sun, fear gripped the normally stoic citizens of Ultramar. Sleep was fast turning from respite to source of fear. All across the Magna Macragge Civitas, the night was punctuated by bloody screams and panicked yells. Poor souls fell asleep and were now trapped within their worst fears and thoughts.

Ultramar was not a superstitious kingdom, religion and tradition had its place. Science, reason, and analytical thought were considered high values. Used to govern and run the state. This made the appearance of doomsayers and fanatics screaming of divine judgment all the more bizarre. Every night, the situation only intensified. The barbarism of fear and paranoia had grown deep roots across Macragge.

One lunar cycle into the madness, Consul Konor Gulliman took it upon himself to find answers. Wise and strong beyond his years. The young politician had proved himself in the arts of politics and war. Showing leadership and level headedness, he rallied a cohort of Macragge's soldiers to investigate the nightmare's source. Theoretical: some Xeno, or ancient artifact had triggered a psychic phenomena. Practical: the nightmares had been first noticed in the villages surrounding the Valley of Laponis.

The remote valley was one of the more wild places on Macragge. Hera's Crown Mountains were named as such because of the valley. The great range was roughly oval shaped with the valley forming a cleft in the middle. The opening of the crown, to match the peaks points. Surrounded by steep jagged mountains on all sides, it was remote and only the wildest huntsman and wanderers inhabited it.

Konor had visited it once before as a youth. A number of the noble families of the Capital city had taken to hunting the Valley. Its remote location providing solitude and natural wonder to the Macragge elite. Then, it had been a jewel of ancient woods and mountain fed streams, untouched by human hands and home to statuesque herds of mountain cervidae. The old temples of the Civitas told tales of Dia, Goddess of the Hunt, and her pack of wolf-daughters stalking its forbidden groves. Konor payed such things little mind. His religious beliefs were a private affair, he honored the old pantheon, and his ancestors. The legends were exactly that, stories to guide and teach. The gods, if they ever existed, were long gone, no matter what the lunatic prophets claimed when the Warp storms had intensified these last few months. While the Warp's instability had cut off Macragge from its trade partners in other systems, this was no evidence of a clash between gods or other such nonsense.

So when the Cohort, with Konor at its head, reached the valleys opening, the consuls words were out of character.

"By the gods…. What has happened?"

From their vantage point in the cleft between two mountains above the valley. The cohort could see its entirety. Gone were the verdant hills and lush forests. Ash and the husks of dead wood remained.. The raw stink of death and decay polluted the mountain air. The war-steeds of the expedition were instantly spooked. Some instinctual knowledge filled them and there riders of the danger lurking below. Even so these citizens of Macragge had a duty to fulfill.

At Konors orders the expedition traced the mountain path down into the valley. Taking note that the death and rot seemed to intensify with each step. Deeper and deeper into the now barren valley they marched. Where in the heart of the valley, they found there target. Smashed into a bluff was a crater. Like some unholy arrow of judgment, the fallen star had burrowed a cavern into the hill.

A pool of contaminated water lay at the cavern's entrance. The once pure glacial pond fouled by putrefied matter and excrement. The source of the runination formed a barricade at the lip of the cave. Piles and piles of bones were picked clean and scattered in a makeshift refuse pile. Nothing aside from the three hundred and one men of the cohort lived in this damned hollow. This was the source of the infestation that had killed the Valley of Laponis, Guilliman could feel it.. Something within that cavern had drained the very life from this once beautiful domain. Konor knew on some instinctual level that it was also the nightmares source.

Whatever it was, the cohort would discover the truth. A fast rider had been sent back to the capital, a contingency if the worst happened. Konor Gulliman had no intention to die here, but he was a practical man. A danger unlike anything he had faced was nesting in the valley. As Consul of Ultramar, it was his duty to protect its citizens.

With stubber and charge-blade in hand, he led the force to the cave mouth. Multiple ranks of soldiers were prepared to open fire on anything that exited the cavern. These were experienced citizen-soldiers of Ultramar, bloodied against the bandit clans of the north, and handpicked by the Consul himself.

They died badly. Before the cohort could react, a great shadow exploded from the cavern. Some massive hulk of twisted flesh and metal moving at speeds beyond mortal ken. The creature leapt over Konor and smashed into the first line of soldiers. Scything talons shredded muscle and bone. It's great clawed fists crackled with witch-fire. In the time it took Konor to spin around and open fire, a quarter of the cohort was little more than burning corpses.

The monster weaved between stubber and las fire with supernatural grace. Each blow punched through plasteel armor and reduced a literal handful of soldiers to burning shreds. Konor had faced warp-craft before, and this atrocity stunk of such things. His brilliant mind dueled itself, as emotion and logic battled. Theoretical: this monster was beyond anything in Maccrages records and was supremely deadly. Practical: he was about to die.

Konor emptied his stubber's clip into the creatures flank and shouted frantic orders that went unheard in the cacophony of violence. The monster's armor deflected every projectile and blade that attempted to pierce its hideous organic armor. The consul doubted anything less than artillery would crack its blackened shell. As the thing busied itself with Konor's soldiers, he noted its bizarre appearance. It's form resembled a man, at least partially. Decked in broken armor of Tartarus theme. From each hand stuck great claws that matched a man's torso in size. Psychic flames coated the talons and swirled around the creature, forming a burning mantle. Instead of a man's face or helm, its head took the form of a vaguely draco-lupine form. It was disturbing in many ways, the least of which was how it moved and acted like living flesh, despite being formed of burnt metal. Below the waist, any semblance of humanity was discarded. Its midsection was a mess of burnt tissue and putrefying flesh, crudely attached to warp-crafted legs made of cursed bone and sinew. The necromantic construct resembled insectoid limbs and added another level of horror to the creature.

Nothing seemed to even slow the monster. The only impediment to its slaughter was the sheer numbers of the three hundred strong cohort. It took the beast time to cleave through the humans, time that a lesser or more practical man would have used to flee. Instead, Konor fought valiantly alongside his soldiers. They all knew that if this evil was not stopped here, it would eventually make its way to their homes. With courage and honor, they would die to defend Macragge, and so they did.

After what felt like hours of carnage, the cohort was reduced to more corpses filling the monster's refuse pool. Throughout the fight, the creature would take time to devour soldiers, ripping limbs off screaming warriors and swallowing them with its metallic maw. Now, with the threat dispatched, it set to work consuming the fallen, tearing into human meat like a starving hound. All of this was watched by the sole survivor. Konor Gulliman lay in a pool of blood, and only some of it belonged to him. The creature had seemingly ignored him throughout the fight, only paying enough attention to rip off Konor's arm. To the consul's credit, he had managed to cauterize the wound with his charge blade. Despite his emergency treatment, he was in no fighting shape, especially not against a monster of that size and speed.

He could try and run, but it would be futile. Konor knew how fast it could move. So instead he waited, looking for any sign of weakness or opportunity to exploit. The monster spared him for some reason. Konor swore it would regret that decision. With his little remaining strength, he clutched the antique charge blade held in his remaining hand. After an eternity of disgusting noises as the monster finished eating his subjects, it turned to Konor.

Stalking over on its pincer-legs, the monster bent down to look into Konor's eyes. The beast's breath was horrid. It was a mix of rotting flesh and industrial chemicals. Konor averted his gaze from its coal-black eyes. He know only madness lay that way. Still, he tried to strike the monster. He lunged frantically at it with his blade, hoping to pierce the monster's skull. To his horror, a telekinetic grip caught his hand and bent it back, twisting his joint out of place and eliciting a scream from Konor. The consul realized the monster could have killed all his men through warpcraft or xenoscience, it had chosen to rip them to pieces. This was no mere animal.

Further proving Konors point, the monster spoke into his mind. Like grating steel, it scraped along his psyche. "I am Korban the Eversacrifice, chosen prophet of Chaos. You wear the symbol of an old enemy, mortal. Who are you?"

As it said this, a single long talon tapped the inverted omega insignia of Ultramar on Konor's chest. The acid-fire that coated its claws marred the blue symbol and started to burn through the outer layer of Konor's armor. Marshaling his courage, the mortal man answered. "I am Konor Gulliman, First Consul of Ultramar. Kill me and be done with it, fiend. May the gods have mercy upon my soul."

The monster responded with a deep, hellish laugh. Its titanic hand gripped Konor and lifted him high. The Everchosen thrust its words into Konors mind once again. "The gods are many things, mortal. Merciful is not one of them. In another time and place, you would be instrumental in the birth of a mighty kingdom. Five hundred worlds united under order and prosperity. Ruled by your adopted son, carrying your name and virtues for more than ten thousand years. Right here and now, you are just another sacrifice."

With those terrible words, Korban opened his cast-iron jaws and sank his fangs into Konor. The consul died screaming and weeping as the monster devoured him whole. When all that remained of the noble citizen of Macragge was a pile of bone and armor Korban turned its attention to the world he had crashed on.

By the gods' will, he had been spat from the warp in Macragge's orbit, it had taken every ounce of his psychic power and dark blessings to survive impact. The Valley of Laponis had fed him well. The meat and misery of its fauna resorting him slowly but surely. His body had regrown in new twisted manners, his distant humanity as Argel Tal long discarded. Now, the souls of Konor and his minions empowered him further. The memories and torment belonging to his meals gave him new strength and wisdom.

The War between the Gods had stirred the Warp to unfathomable degrees. The Astronomicon still burned strong, powerful enough to stop the schemes of the Four from materializing anywhere its light touched.. But out here in the Ultima Segmentum, at the edges of its influences, the storm drowned it out. Macragge, the five hundred worlds, and countless other planets at the galactic fringe were isolated like islands in a hurricane. They made for easy prey for those touched by the divine. Korban now knew why the gods had cast him here, on damned Macragge. The Anathema was building an empire. Korban would do the same.

(Thank you to Klickator for Editing!)

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