—The Great Crusade— 836.M30
—Warp—
—Aboard the Bucephalus—
The chamber was dim, lit by the dull crimson glow of cogitator screens and the whisper of chanting servitors.
"The Omnissiah, we have detected minor warp disturbances in the surrounding region," a Tech-Priest intoned, vox-distorted as sacred incense curled around his form.
"Monitor it constantly," the Emperor of Mankind replied, his gaze fixed upon the viewing window where the tides of the Immaterium rippled and writhed. "Ensure we reach our destination swiftly."
"Understood, Omnissiah. We will inform you of any change. May the Machine God shield us."
---
—Ten Hours Later—
Red.
That was all a nearby servitor could perceive as alarms shrieked and the Bucephalus lurched violently. A sudden warp storm, vast and merciless, had erupted from nothingness. Metal screamed as hull plating ruptured. The servitor's final thought before being torn into the abyss was a single word, stark and instinctive: Warp.
---
"The Omnissiah! A breach has been detected in Storage Sector Cretia!" another Tech-Priest reported, panic poorly concealed beneath mechanical cant. Servitors floated beside him, systems straining to stabilize the wounded vessel.
"Isolate the section. Contain the damage. Maintain control of the ship—and prepare for forced warp exit," the Emperor commanded, his voice calm but edged with grim authority.
He turned toward his two most trusted companions: Malcador the Sigillite, and Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Custodes.
"Prepare yourselves. Something seeks to expel us from the warp."
Malcador's eyes narrowed, his tone thoughtful. "The question is not what, but who."
Valdor inclined his head. "I shall alert the Astartes. They must be ready for conflict."
Without hesitation, the Captain-General departed, his golden armor gleaming even in the sickly warp-light. He strode toward Captain Aquilaeus of the Legiones Astartes.
"Captain Aquilaeus. Ready your men. Prepare for possible hostiles."
"Yes, my lord," Aquilaeus replied firmly, immediately leaving to gather his warriors.
Valdor returned to his post at the Emperor's side—just as the ship trembled violently. A thunderous detonation split the air.
—BOOM—
---
"What was that?" a Tech-Priest shouted, rushing to his station. His mechadendrites scrambled across controls, seeking the source of the explosion.
"Valdor. Malcador. Be prepared," the Emperor said, his tone sharpened with finality. "The expulsion is happening."
Valdor's grip tightened on his guardian spear, every muscle taut. Malcador steadied himself, robes shifting as the floor trembled beneath their feet. Together, they turned their gaze toward the void outside the viewing bay.
The warp itself split open, riven by a force beyond their control. A massive pressure slammed against the ship, pulling the Bucephalus with irresistible strength.
The Machine Spirit howled in protest, klaxons wailing as the vast battle barge strained against the current. Warp engines flared, fighting to resist, but the unseen grip was stronger. The Bucephalus was wrenched through a gaping portal, dragged into an unfamiliar star system.
"Assess ship damage. Locate our position," the Emperor ordered. His words were steel, giving the scrambling crew focus. Tech-Priests immediately began their rituals, linking with the Machine Spirit to determine the extent of the wounds inflicted.
—BOOM—
Another explosion thundered through the decks. Power faltered. Darkness consumed the command bridge until emergency lumen-strips ignited, bathing everything in dull red glow.
Amid the chaos, Malcador's sharp eyes noticed something more dire: the ship was listing, its vast frame drawn inevitably toward a nearby planet.
"My friend," Malcador spoke with grave weight, "the planet's gravity is seizing us."
The Emperor nodded. "It has begun. Be ready."
The lights surged back, the Machine Spirit roaring defiance through sirens and klaxons. Yet the pull of the world below was relentless.
"Engage orbital stabilizers!" crew cried. Thrusters roared, but the barge still fell.
Realizing there was no preventing descent, the Emperor's voice rang across the bridge:
"All hands—brace for impact! Activate secondary hover-pads! Adjust our angle—lessen the fall as much as possible."
He gripped the arms of his throne, his golden visage unshaken as the ship screamed in descent.
Closer. Faster.
Hover-pads flared, stuttering against strain. For a fleeting moment it seemed they might hold.
And then—darkness claimed them all.
---
The Emperor opened his eyes slowly. His head throbbed faintly with the echo of catastrophe. Around him, the once-proud Bucephalus lay broken, its titanic hull embedded into the earth. Fires burned in the distance. Bodies—Astartes, Custodians, mortals—lay strewn across the shattered corridors.
He rose. Slowly, steadily. His steps carried him to a hull breach where Custodians stood vigil. Their spears lowered instantly in recognition.
"My Emperor! You live! Praise be!" one cried, relief flooding his tone. "I shall alert the search parties of your survival."
The Emperor inclined his head wordlessly and stepped out into the cold air. A makeshift camp had already been erected. At its center stood Malcador, issuing orders to patrolling Astartes.
The Sigillite looked up as his friend entered. His lined face softened.
"I knew a mere crash would not kill you," Malcador said. "Sit. You must hear what has transpired."
"Your faith honors me, old friend," the Emperor replied, seating himself. "Tell me what occurred during my slumber."
Malcador wasted no time. "Scouts have discovered tracks—armored tread marks and boot prints. There is military presence in the forests."
"Then we must hope they are not hostile," the Emperor murmured.
Before Malcador could answer, Valdor entered the tent, his armor dusted with soot. His voice carried both relief and urgency.
"My Emperor—you are unharmed. Thank the Throne." He turned to Malcador. "Sigillite, our recovery efforts are grim. Thus far: 130,560 confirmed dead, 129,440 missing."
"The losses…" Malcador's voice faltered, weighed with sorrow. "…they are staggering."
Valdor's gaze returned to the Emperor. "Scouts report something strange, my lord. In the northeast rivers, a red, gelatinous substance has been found. Perhaps—"
Before he could finish, a soldier stumbled in, breath ragged, face pale.
"My Emperor!" he gasped. "Mechs! Large machines advancing from the eastern forest! Someone leads them!"
The Emperor rose at once, his form commanding, golden light spilling from him like dawn. Malcador and Valdor followed swiftly as they strode to the edge of camp.
There, in the shadows of the trees, stood a solitary figure. Watching. Waiting.
Astartes raised their bolters, weapons trained. The figure stepped forward slowly, hands raised in peace. The tension grew thick enough to choke.
And then the stranger spoke.
"Outsider. Are you their leader… golden giant?"
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