Thick smoke and fire-fog billowed into the sky as the flames of war engulfed the hive city of Vigilus Star.
Massive industrial pipes cracked and split under the intense heat, while corrosive waste gases from shattered manufactorums hissed through the air, searing flesh and steel alike. Explosions shook the ground as the once-proud hive—home to hundreds of millions of Imperial citizens—was reduced to ash and ruin. Smoke and dust choked the skies, swallowing all that had not yet fled or perished.
Burning debris was hurled into the air, and the toxic atmosphere—hot enough to scald lungs—clung to every alley and corridor.
The Drukhari, few in number and notoriously opportunistic, had already begun to retreat in disarray. The chaos of the battlefield offered no purchase for them; even their cruelty was dwarfed by the raw madness erupting across Vigilus Star.
To the Drukhari, the followers of Chaos were lunatics. So were the Genestealers. So were the defenders of the Imperium. It was a battlefield overrun with madness, and in this carnival of the deranged, the Drukhari found themselves surprisingly mundane. They could not establish a foothold. They could only flee.
But flight offered no salvation.
No matter where they ran, new threats awaited them—more foes, more slaughter. Daemons of the Warp tore into their flesh with claw and fang, feasting on their agony. Then came the missile strikes—Imperial vengeance, unrelenting and merciless. Shockwaves tore through the ruins, crushing xenos and daemon alike into blackened remnants scattered across scorched ground.
Even the city's missile arrays, now automated and desperate, screamed with klaxon bursts—beep beep—pointless warnings in a place where reason had long since died.
On a towering steel war-chariot, a priest of the Ecclesiarchy—bloodied and silent—stood above the carnage. Smoke and blood coiled around him like incense in a sanctuary. His once-gleaming scepter was bound with adamantine chains and spiked iron, its grooves now filled with splintered bone and drying gore.
After endless hours of slaughter, the priest had lost the fire of zealotry that marked the start of battle. His heart, once ignited with the passion of faith, was now as still and deep as a lake.
"The Warp is hell," he murmured. "And this universe... another hell. Only the Lord's domain in the Void is the true sanctuary."
"Perhaps," he whispered, wiping the blood from his brow, "this universe should never have existed at all."
Amid the noise, the wails, the thunder of gunfire and the roar of beasts, the priest stood in solemn contemplation—lost in cold, mad philosophy.
His mind drifted back—unbidden—to a recent quarrel in the Emperor's virtual domain: the Void Realm.
Two years ago, as more Imperial entities entered the digital sanctum of the Void Realm—a sacred simulation forged to resemble the Emperor's vision of paradise—problems began to surface.
Despite the realm's grandeur, it was not infinite. Its energies—while vast—were not conjured from nothing.
The Empire's usage of Void energy stemmed from absorption of raw Warp essence, filtered through sacred machinery. After detailed investigations, the Adeptus Mechanicus—led by the Fabricator General and his Magos—discovered a truth no longer deniable:
The source of this power pointed to a colossal anomaly in the upper heavens of the Void: a titanic black hole encircled by a burning corona—a Ring of Fire.
This singularity was no mere celestial artifact. It was a power well, constantly growing as more Void energy was drawn to sustain the demands of Imperial presence within the realm.
The implication was stark: to feed the digital paradise, the singularity had to expand—devouring deeper into the Immaterium, threatening to consume not only the Warp but the souls within.
Within the Ecclesiarchy, debates raged. Council after council was held in the Void, attempting to reconcile two growing factions within the state religion.
The division was clear:
The Church of the Ascension
The ruling sect—known as the Church of the Ascension of the Void Realm—preached the supremacy of Mankind. They taught that humanity, blessed by the God-Emperor and forged in holy fire, was destined to dominate the stars. Other species? Irrelevant.
To the Ascensionists, the Ring of Fire was simply a tool—its expansion a necessity. They saw the growing singularity not as a threat, but as a righteous tide. Let the void burn, let lesser beings perish. The survival and spiritual uplift of humanity justified all.
The Emperor's Will was clear: humanity would rule, and to secure that dominion, all other considerations must be cast aside.
The Gospel Evangelicals
In opposition, a new sect emerged—the Virtual Realm Gospel Church, known simply as the Evangelicals.
These priests did not deny the Emperor's supremacy, but saw their role not merely as rulers—but as messengers.
To them, the gospel was the flame, the darkness, the destruction—the truth of the God-Emperor. The Ring of Fire was not a power source; it was a symbol—a sacred icon, a manifestation of the divine.
The Evangelicals embraced the growing black hole as the instrument of the Emperor's will. They encouraged constant, even unnecessary use of Void energy to speed its growth, believing that by hastening entropy, they ushered in salvation.
Their mantra: Preach with flame. Burn with faith.
They condemned the Ascensionists' moderation as heresy by omission. Why conserve? Why hesitate? Is faith measured by need? No—faith is proven by sacrifice, by devotion, even unto self-destruction.
And so the divide deepened.
The Ascensionists governed. The Evangelicals preached. Both served the Emperor, but their paths could no longer converge.
"Perhaps I should convert," whispered the priest of Vigilus Star. He had once belonged to the Ascensionists. He had mocked the Evangelicals for their excessive, ceaseless rituals—spending Void energy like zealots in a frenzy.
But now, amid the fire and ash, his faith had shifted.
"The Materium and the Immaterium... both are hells. Only the gospel brings peace."
He lifted his sacred tome—bound in ceramite and skin—and recited its litanies. At that moment, a brilliant, visible flame ignited from his soul.
He was filled with energy—Void energy—coursing through his body with divine violence. His thoughts burned away, his eyes turned ghost-white, and mist began to spill from his sockets—psycho-reactive vapor made manifest.
He had become as the Evangelicals were always: overflowing with power, even without war.
In the past, he had thought such excess a curse—hardship, madness.
Now he knew:
"This... is sacred practice."
He stepped forward, each footfall branding the ground in flame. The battlefield bowed to his presence. The scriptures in his hands glowed.
Then he stopped. His head snapped upward.
"Enemy attack!" he roared.
Imperial Guardsmen turned toward him, startled. Their scanners showed nothing. Their HUDs flashed no warnings.
Some whispered, concerned that the priest was suffering from trauma. He burned with Void fire and cried warnings of unseen foes—hallucinations, perhaps. Signs of battlefield madness.
But the priest said nothing more. He stood, still burning, eyes alight, soul focused.
He felt them. The excess energy had made him a beacon—and a sensor. The Void overflow had formed a radiant field, one that peeled back the illusions of the Warp.
There were enemies. Perfectly hidden. Watching.
And now... he could see them.
Though the priest had recently pledged himself to the Imperial Creed, his mastery over the energies of the Immaterium remained nascent. Every moment demanded full concentration just to maintain his awareness of the battlefield.
The political commissar rushed to his side, words forming to ask about the enemy's position—but he never got the chance.
Gunfire erupted.
From the shadows surged several Steel Dragon drones, daemonically-augmented constructs of corrupted machine-spirit and forged iron. Their hulls belched molten rounds, saturating the area where the priest stood.
Despite expanding his energy field to its utmost limit, the priest could not shield everyone. Many Guardsmen fell, riddled with burning projectiles.
Screams echoed through the dusk-lit ruins.
The well-drilled soldiers scrambled for cover, but their flesh was no match for the hardened steel of corrupted war machines. The bullets tore through them, exploding crimson flowers of gore across shattered masonry.
Within mere heartbeats, the squad lay in ruin.
"Stand firm! For the Emperor! Take up arms and make them bleed!" the priest bellowed, his voice bolstered by righteous fury as he struck out against the encroaching drones.
The air was filled with the thunder of gunfire. The Steel Dragons howled from within the smoke, their engines growling like beasts unleashed. These corrupted war machines hungered for souls, their daemon-code craving bloodshed.
Yet humanity did not yield.
Lascannons and plasma bursts answered the mechanical roar, and soon the darkness was illuminated by burning wreckage. One by one, the drones fell, their destruction marked by shrieking wails as warp-spirits were ripped from the Materium.
But there was no relief on the priest's face. His senses warned of something worse.
From the abyssal dark emerged a formation of towering figures—giants clad in corrupted, baroque plate. Their footfalls cracked the ground beneath them.
Iron Warriors.
Sons of Perturabo. Hereteks. Traitor Astartes.
Once builders of bastions and breakers of sieges, now perversions of everything they once stood for. These were post-human monsters, now weapons of Chaos.
They fell upon the Imperial line like a hammer. Guardsmen were cleaved in twain or obliterated in bursts of bolter fire. The defensive line broke within moments.
The priest responded at once.
Flames erupted from the head of his scepter—red and searing, drawn from the raw destructive might of the warp. The artifact had been granted to him by Dukel himself, forged within the secretive vaults of the Second Legion's manufactoria—an ancient relic from a lost era.
"Heretics! Your time has ended!" he roared, leaping into battle.
When he landed, the force of his impact sent fissures spidering across the stone. The overloaded energy coursing through his mortal frame shook the ground like a localized tremor.
Six Iron Warriors stood before him.
The priest knew what he faced: transhuman killers, enhanced by forbidden technologies and empowered by the dark gods. For over ten millennia, their name had been synonymous with terror and slaughter across both realspace and the warp.
But the priest did not falter.
He reached deep within himself, drawing on every enhancement, every forbidden rite he had mastered in the virtual simulacra of training. The power was too great for his body—cracks formed along his skin, leaking not blood, but golden, radiant energy.
His scepter blazed, incandescent.
Nearby Guardsmen could only watch in stunned awe. This was no longer the man they had marched with. No longer the brother-in-faith who shared rations and laughter. What they saw now was an avatar of vengeance—an inferno given form.
Then came the detonation.
A roar of fire and force surged outward, crumbling the ruins of the city and shaking the earth itself. Even soldiers a hundred meters away were forced flat by the blast.
Two Iron Warriors were consumed instantly, their armor melting around them, leaving behind only charred husks.
The remaining four were hurled back, stunned and dazed.
Silence fell.
One of the Iron Warriors, dragging himself upright, stared in disbelief.
He had undergone nineteen surgeries, survived countless wars, and been anointed in the essence of Chaos itself. He had forsaken the Emperor and pledged himself to the dominion of Perturabo.
And yet… this priest—this mortal—had laid waste to them.
Why?
How?
He was not Astartes. He bore no geneseed. He had no daemonic boon.
It defied logic. It defied the natural order of the galaxy.
They stared at him now not as a man, but as something else—something monstrous. Something divine.
But still, battle called.
The Iron Warriors rose, no longer viewing the priest with contempt. Now they were the ones on the back foot—the hunters turned hunted.
They would not underestimate him again.
Nearby, Imperial soldiers began to converge, but the priest raised a hand, signaling them to stay back.
This was his fight.
Wreathed in flame, he charged.
The Iron Warriors fired, but the rounds glanced off him uselessly, their fell blessings unable to pierce his blazing aura. Chains bound in barbed steel lashed out, striking one warrior's breastplate.
Ordinarily, such a blow from a mortal weapon would be meaningless.
But the priest's staff struck like a god's hammer. The armor crumpled under the kinetic force. The red fire engulfed the traitor, and he fell screaming.
Another Astartes slain.
The remaining three opened fire in unison. But their bolters, once symbols of dominance, now seemed pathetic. Their shots sparked harmlessly against the priest's burning form.
He continued his march. Unstoppable.
And at last, even these corrupted giants knew fear.
They turned and fled.
The priest watched them go, not pursuing. Not out of mercy, but because he knew they would carry his message back.
A mortal had stood.
And Chaos had blinked.
"Sir," one of the sergeants called, breathless, "shall we give chase to the heretics?"
The political commissar, still in shock from the battle, didn't fully regain his senses until the conflict had passed. He rushed to the priest, desperate for guidance.
But the priest would not answer him.
"Plop!"
A heavy sound echoed as the last of the Iron Warrior's form vanished into the dark. The priest, wounded from the battle, sank to one knee in the desolate battlefield.
With a grave expression, the political commissar watched the priest, who, despite his own injuries, began to carve a sacred rune into the ground with the flame that burned from his hand.
The commissar recognized the symbol instantly. It was the Imperial Beacon—a beacon he had constructed countless times in his service to the Imperium.
Yet, he could not fathom why the priest would draw this rune now, at this moment of despair.
His heart sank as he watched the priest's fingers, once steady, now trembling and cracking as if they were porcelain. The flame flickered and danced, and the priest's hand dissolved into sparks, the broken remnants of his body fading like fireflies in the wind.
"Your Excellency, the Bishop, you..." The political commissar's voice cracked, full of grief and disbelief.
Before he could finish his mournful words, the priest's voice interrupted, calm and unwavering.
"Do not mourn for me, soldier," the priest said, his smile gentle but filled with resolve. "I will be with you, always."
As he spoke, the rune was completed, and with it, the priest's form shattered into nothingness—vanishing as if he had never been there at all.
The soldiers, silently watching, stood in mourning. Tears welled in their eyes. How could the use of such forbidden power come without a cost? The priest had sacrificed himself to protect them, to ensure they had a chance at victory.
The political commissar wiped away a tear, voice trembling as he spoke in reverence.
"His name was Jason. A noble bishop of the Terra Void Order. He was the respected leader of our Gusga 582nd Regiment, our guide on the path to the throne. A battle-brother who had our backs... and now, we must carry on his legacy."
As the commissar spoke, the soldiers reflected on the priest's unwavering leadership, the teachings and guidance he had imparted. Their emotions surged once more, and their vision blurred with grief, their bond of unity shining even in the face of loss.
It was at that moment, in the deepest sorrow, that something extraordinary occurred.
The rune—the Imperial Beacon—began to burn with a brilliant, fiery light. The flames soared into the air, coalescing into a portal that crackled with raw power. The soldiers, watching in astonishment, could hardly believe their eyes.
And then, through the portal, emerged the figure they had just lost—Bishop Jason—his form resplendent with holy fire.
"Bishop Jason, you're back!" cried one soldier, his voice filled with joy.
"By the Emperor's grace, thank you for returning to us!" another shouted, hope rekindled in his heart.
Jason smiled, his eyes glowing with a purity that transcended the mortal realm. He raised his arms as if to embrace them all.
"My lost lambs," he said softly, his voice calm yet filled with undeniable power, "what are you doing here, standing idle? Have you forgotten the Emperor's path for us? Come now, let us press on, until the flames of vengeance have burned their last."
"YES! Your Excellency, the Bishop!" the soldiers shouted in unison, their spirits lifted once again.
The fire of purpose burned brighter in their hearts.
...
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