William Joseph "B.J." Blazkowicz the III's luck had run out. One minute, he was a regular guy heading to work, having forgotten to check the weather or the almanac. The next, he'd stepped off the curb and into a freak accident, a car careened around the corner, and he was sent flying, a crumpled mess of broken bones and shattered dreams. He died on the spot, his consciousness now adrift in a cold, black void.
It was in this emptiness that he was "conveniently" picked up by a passing system, which promised to whisk him away to a new world.
"A world of elves, magic, and dwarves," the system's cold, mechanical voice had announced with cheerful confidence. "Steampunk airships and glittering cyberpunk cities await."
Blazkowicz's flickering soul settled, a sense of quiet relief washing over him. The thought of a beautiful new beginning, a second chance with magic and monsters, sent a shiver of hope through his ethereal form. He began to envision a future filled with fantastical adventure.
"H-host," the system's voice crackled, no longer confident but full of an awkward hesitation, "it seems... we took a wrong turn."
Dammit! Blazkowicz's consciousness flared with silent rage, his soul light flickering violently. If he still had a physical body, he'd be shaking his fist at the damn system, shouting every curse word he knew. This damn forsaken program was completely unreliable.
"Alright, take a breath and tell me where we are," he managed to say, forcing himself to calm down. He reasoned with himself, thinking a different destination couldn't be that bad. He had a system, after all. What could possibly go wrong?
"Four... forty-k…"
"I'll give you one more chance to get your words straight," Blazkowicz's soul-form trembled, threatening to tear itself apart. "What 'K'?"
"Warhammer 40,000," the system said, its voice flat and utterly devoid of the forced cheerfulness from before. It was the cruelest, most brutal answer Blazkowicz could have imagined.
The system's answer shattered his last remaining hope. He floated in stunned silence for what felt like an eternity before a single message echoed from his soul. "Just… just end me now. I'm tired boss."
Blazkowicz knew about Warhammer 40K. Among his fellow fans, there was a well-known joke: "Everyone says they love this universe, but nobody ever goes." It was a proverb that perfectly encapsulated the sheer terror of the setting, a place so dangerous and morally bankrupt that no sane person would ever willingly step foot in it.
The very thought of it sent a chill through his soul. Was that place even fit for human life? It was a galaxy-spanning carnival of war and destruction, a tomb for humanity and a graveyard for morality. Not to mention the monstrous entities lurking in the galaxy's darkest corners, the maddeningly twisted Warp, and the casual planetary destruction that happened every other Tuesday.
The Imperium of Man's moral compass had long ago broken, and the morality of the alien xenos was even worse. They all saw one another as little more than cannon fodder, forever plotting and scheming to wipe each other out.
There were the Aeldari, a race of space elves who had lorded over the galaxy for millions of years, viewing every other race as nothing more than uncivilized monkeys.
And the Orks, who lived for fighting. They were always on their way to a fight and were either cunning and brutal or brutally cunning.
The Squats were a bunch of stubborn, traditionalist dwarves who refused to move with the times.
And then there were the Necrons, a race of space metal skeletons whose brains had long since rotted away from a hundred million years of tomb-sleep. They flew through space at faster-than-light speeds, dreaming of the day they would reclaim the stars.
Even the Tyranids, who came from beyond the galaxy, ate everything in their path, leaving nothing but dust in their wake.
They all had one thing in common: they got along with humans! In the most literal sense of the phrase, of course. A brutal, never-ending war to the last man.
The Imperium of Man itself was no better. It showed no mercy to xenos, heretics, or even its own people. It was cruel to its enemies and even crueler to its own.
Blazkowicz's heart sank even further when he thought of the Warp—the twisted mirror of the real universe and the eternal enemy of the Imperium. Its gods—the God of Courage, the God of Love, the God of Wisdom, and the God of Life—were all exceptionally friendly, the kind who would happily tear your heart, lungs, and soul from your body and consume them.
"At least I have a system," Blazkowicz tried to comfort himself. He knew this was unreliable, but it was his only lifeline now. He figured he could find a Hive City and live out a hundred and eighty years until he died of old age. As for immortality, he'd already given up on that. In a world this crazy, living too long would only attract the attention of the Four Gods.
He shivered at the thought. The Four Gods would probably lose their minds and team up to destroy the universe if they ever found out that the cosmic truth they so cherished was just a corporate cash grab from another dimension.
"Ding." A crisp notification sound jolted Blazkowicz from his morbid thoughts. He glanced at the system's prompt, and this time, he couldn't hold back. His curses echoed silently in the void. The system was trying to force an uninstall! It was preparing to bail and leave him in the dust.
"You coward! You're ditching me just because things got tough?" he screamed internally. "You got me into this! You ruined my life, and now you're running away?"
"The data was corrupted. The multiverse GPS search was misleading, and the destination was incorrect," the system replied, its voice offering a faint, almost apologetic tone. "I'm leaving now, Host. No… former Host. Take care. Toodles."
The system chose to run away, decisively abandoning its host. The Warhammer 40K universe was a place unfit for humans, and even more so for a delicate system.
"What are you so afraid of, you useless piece of junk?" Blazkowicz's thoughts raced. "It's just the Four Gods, right? Come on! We'll fight them together!"
He appealed to it, desperation lacing every thought. "If you must leave, at least make sure I can survive. A roof over my head, food in my belly, just for a hundred and eighty years. A wife or two. That's all I ask! Just the bare necessities."
He knew this system was his last hope. Without it, he was dead—just a new soul to be consumed by the galaxy's madness.
"The 40K universe is too chaotic. The cost-to-benefit ratio is disproportionate. Under the omnipresent gaze of the Four Gods, this system's actions of reversing causality and disrupting the timeline would require an immense, unacceptable cost," the system's uninstall bar paused for a moment before continuing its grand retreat. It had considered his pleas, but it chose to give up.
"I don't care! You tricked me here, and now you're abandoning me! The best-case scenario is that my soul will be scattered to the wind!" Blazkowicz's soul-form quivered with despair and sorrow. "How can you do this to me? How could this happen to me? I made my mistakes…"
After a long, drawn-out plea, his pitiful state seemed to make the system relent. The uninstall progress bar froze once more, giving Blazkowicz a glimmer of hope. He immediately pressed his advantage, abandoning all pride and dignity. "Just give me something to survive with! Something to make up for all this!"
The system fell silent for a moment. Then, its mechanical voice returned, slow and deliberate. "Very well. I will halt the forced uninstall. We'll consider this a 'divorce,' and I will use the remaining power to prepare a gift for you, former Host."
"Fine!" Blazkowicz agreed immediately, his soul-form practically vibrating with relief.
"I have only one request," he said, his voice low and serious. "Don't let me be targeted by the Four Gods, and don't let the knowledge in my head leak out."
A wise man had once said, "The only way to survive in 40K is to avoid being noticed by the Four Gods."
"I can't do that," the system replied, without a moment's hesitation. "The moment you enter the 40K universe, the Four Gods will immediately sense your existence. They are the pinnacle of this single universe; nothing can escape their gaze. You are a soul from another universe, and they will never let you go. The knowledge you carry in your mind could help them understand their own origins and ascend to even greater heights. They won't let you get away."
"Then what can I do?" Blazkowicz asked, his despair returning. He had thought this would be a grand transmigration journey, but it had devolved into a slow, agonizing death.
"I will split your memories and leave you with a completely pure soul, so you won't fear the Four Gods' scrutiny."
"How is that different from just dying and being reborn?"
"There's a big difference, former Host. I've already prepared a gift for you. Just look."
As the system's voice faded, a ball of crimson energy appeared in the infinite void. It glowed with an ancient, terrifying aura. Even though it was faint, the power it contained made the void tremble and the fabric of space itself grow restless, threatening to tear apart.
Blazkowicz, directly in front of it, was the first to feel its overwhelming might. His consciousness felt as if it was being flayed alive, his soul light dimming and flickering as if about to be extinguished.
"Th-this… what is this?" he stammered, his words barely audible.
"The Destroyer Essence," the system's voice answered. The moment the red sphere appeared, the system had strengthened its protection of Blazkowicz's soul, preventing him from being instantly annihilated by the pressure. Its mechanical voice trembled slightly as it spoke of the sphere's origin with the utmost solemnity. The voice grew louder, as if chanting an epic poem:
"His great figure traverses the multiverse, crossing time, space, frost, and fire, hunting down the demons He hates. Ah… Great Doom Slayer, may Your power and wrath descend upon this place, making them tremble, giving them torment, bestowing upon them destruction!"
The Destroyer Essence. Blazkowicz searched his soul for information. Following the system's description, he finally found it: a figure in Praetor armor, carrying a double-barreled shotgun, hunting demons.
The Sentinel's Chosen Warrior! The Doom Slayer!
He finally understood. He was going to be more than fine. The system hadn't abandoned him; it had given him an ultimate gift.