Several months later.
Inside the war command chamber, the Emperor studied a marked position on the strategic map. His brows furrowed slightly as he asked Malcador at his side:
"Is there something about this faction that warrants particular attention?"
Malcador now wore many hats. Beyond overseeing logistics and maintaining order on the home front, he also directed intelligence gathering.
The Emperor, in contrast, focused primarily on warfare, spreading his ideology, and creating the Thunder Warriors. Each oversaw their own domain, complementing the other.
"This time," Malcador replied, "our opponent is a city-state known as Albayun. Their territory covers what was once the British Isles. The ruler there is a psyker called Julius."
"He's said to be capable of leveling entire mountain ranges with his psychic power. Cruel by nature, he thrives on plunder."
The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "That's all?"
A psyker who could flatten mountains was indeed formidable—impressive, even. In the Golden Age such ability would have been notable. But compared to the enemies they had already faced, it hardly seemed extraordinary.
After all, some rival warlords still commanded Golden Age combat automatons. Driven by antimatter engines, these machines could move at tens of thousands of times the speed of sound, their motion alone birthing nation-shattering storms. Armed with near-lightspeed autocannons, they were nightmares incarnate.
Even the Emperor had required sacrifice to overcome them.
Shaking his head, Malcador continued:
"If it were only that, then yes, he'd be no cause for special concern. But according to our latest intelligence, something unusual has happened to Julius."
"It began with a ritual. Since performing it, his bloodlust has grown uncontrollable. He's even developed a perverse craving: he drinks blood. Any kind—though he favors human blood."
He paused, his tone darkening.
"I suspect he has been corrupted by a power from the Warp."
Corruption was a common affliction in this age of chaos—especially among psykers.
All things in realspace cast shadows into the Warp. For ordinary mortals without psychic gifts, that shadow was a dim spark, fleeting and weak. But psykers, by the magnitude of their power, blazed like lanterns and torches, illuminating swathes of the Immaterium.
And light in the endless dark inevitably drew attention.
When a psyker's projection in the Warp grew tainted, they risked possession, mutation, or worse—becoming a host for Warp entities. In the direst cases, they themselves could serve as summoners, tearing open the veil and unleashing daemons into realspace.
Unchecked, such corruption could annihilate entire worlds—or even star systems.
"Corruption…"
The Emperor's eyes hardened. This was not a threat that could be allowed to fester.
"Then we'll resolve this swiftly. A decapitation strike. We eliminate Julius at once before he can summon daemons into realspace."
Malcador nodded in agreement. Though daemons were weaker once they crossed into the material universe, their persistence made them endlessly troublesome.
Under their orders, more than one hundred thousand Thunder Warriors, supported by several million auxiliaries, began their march—an unstoppable tide rolling toward Albayun.
---
Meanwhile, in Albayun itself…
Their target, Julius, was reveling in a grand feast.
Since gaining the Heart of Slaughter, that power of limitless escalation, Julius had butchered every prisoner in his dungeons. Then he hurled his armies into battle against neighboring factions, seeking constant conflict.
On the battlefield, he himself slaughtered without restraint. Friend, foe, strong, weak—it mattered not.
The carnage left mountains of corpses in his wake, but his strength soared. In only a few months, his power had multiplied several times over.
Now, Julius was certain: he could kill the man he once was in mere seconds.
Staring into the black night sky, drinking blood from a chalice, he smirked with satisfaction.
"With my power as it is now… surely I can handle this so-called Emperor."
Once, he had been counted among Terra's strongest. Now, with his strength multiplied manyfold, he considered himself unstoppable.
...
Two more months passed.
The battlefield was a graveyard of corpses.
Countless soldiers fought with rifles, chain-swords, chain-axes, and other brutal weapons. Above, storms of psychic lightning and flame raged across the sky, turning the sky into a rain of molten fire and murderous bolts that incinerated all below.
Among the chaos strode the Thunder Warriors, towering giants clad in their uniform power armor.
Next to them, mortal soldiers looked like children—barely chest-high.
Their speed, strength, stamina, reflexes, and regeneration far surpassed human limits. Weapons that normal men required two hands to lift, they wielded in one, while their free hand swung chain-blades to cleave through all who approached.
Encased in armor of unparalleled resilience, they moved like living war machines—more flexible, more lethal, more terrifying than any tank.
...
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