The planet was called Maleficius VII, and it was having a very bad day.
Actually, it had been having a very bad century. The daemon incursion had started approximately ninety-seven years ago, when a cult of Chaos worshippers had performed a ritual that tore a hole in reality and let the Warp vomit its contents all over a previously nice agricultural world.
Since then, Maleficius VII had become a nightmare landscape of twisted flesh, screaming souls, and architecture that violated the laws of physics in ways that made mathematicians weep. The Imperium had been fighting to reclaim it for decades, throwing regiment after regiment at the problem, losing millions of soldiers in the process.
It was, in short, exactly the kind of place where Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III absolutely did not want to be.
"Why am I here?" he asked, for the seventeenth time since the transport had entered the system.
"Because the High Lords have ordered it," Inquisitor Vorn replied, also for the seventeenth time. "They believe your... unique abilities... may be useful against the daemonic forces."
"My unique abilities are accidental! I don't control them! I just sort of... do things, and then everyone acts like I meant to do them!"
"That does seem to be the pattern, yes."
"This is a terrible idea! Sending me to fight daemons? Actual daemons from the Warp? The same Warp that apparently has a sentient fragment that's obsessed with me? What if I make things worse? What if my presence, I don't know, supercharges the daemons or something?"
Vorn paused.
"That... is actually a valid concern that no one seems to have considered."
"THANK YOU!"
"Unfortunately, it's too late now. We're already in orbit. The battle begins in three hours."
Bartholomew slumped in his seat.
"I hate my life."
"So you keep saying."
The landing was, by Imperial Guard standards, relatively smooth. Only three transports were shot down by daemonic anti-aircraft fire, and only two hundred soldiers died before reaching the ground.
Bartholomew emerged from his transport into a hellscape that made Goraxia Prime look like a pleasant vacation destination.
The sky was the color of infected wounds. The ground pulsed like living flesh. In the distance, structures that might have once been buildings twisted and writhed in ways that hurt to look at.
And everywhere—everywhere—there were daemons.
Lesser daemons, mostly. Bloodletters and Daemonettes and Plaguebearers and Horrors, the foot soldiers of the Chaos Gods. They swarmed across the landscape in numbers that defied counting, a tide of malevolent entities that had been waiting decades for fresh prey.
"This is fine," Bartholomew said, his voice slightly hysterical. "This is totally fine. I'm not terrified at all. I'm completely calm and rational and—is that daemon looking at me?"
A Bloodletter had stopped in the middle of charging toward the Imperial lines. It was staring at Bartholomew with an expression that seemed almost... confused.
Then it did something that Bloodletters never did.
It backed away.
"Did that daemon just... retreat from me?" Bartholomew asked.
"It appears so," Vorn said, her voice strange.
More daemons were noticing now. All across the battlefield, the entities of Chaos were pausing in their assault, turning to look at the newcomer, and then—inexplicably—giving him a wide berth.
"Why are they avoiding me? I'm just a guy! I'm the least threatening person here!"
But Bartholomew didn't understand what the daemons understood.
They could see it.
The marks. The blessings. The protection of four gods and something even stranger wrapped around his soul like a blanket.
This human was claimed. Multiply claimed. More thoroughly claimed than any mortal in the history of the galaxy.
Attacking him would mean offending not one, but all four of the Chaos Gods.
And the daemons were many things—violent, malevolent, eternally hungry—but they were not stupid.
"AVOID THE MARKED ONE," a voice that was not a voice echoed through the daemonic horde. "HE IS PROTECTED. HE IS NOT FOR US."
"What does that mean?!" Bartholomew shrieked. "What 'marked one'? I'm not marked! I'm just confused!"
The battle proceeded in the strangest fashion anyone had ever witnessed.
The daemons fought ferociously against the Imperial forces—except in a perfect circle around Bartholomew. Wherever he went, the entities of Chaos simply... weren't. They flowed around him like water around a stone, never coming within fifty feet of his position.
It was, strategically speaking, incredibly useful.
"Stay close to Jenkins!" officers started shouting. "The daemons won't approach him!"
Within an hour, Bartholomew had become the center of a moving safe zone, surrounded by soldiers who had realized that proximity to him meant survival. What had started as a company became a battalion, then a regiment, as more and more troops crowded into the daemon-free bubble.
"This is weird," Bartholomew said, watching a Daemonette literally turn and run in the opposite direction rather than enter his radius. "This is really, really weird."
"Weird, but effective," Commissar Cain observed. He had, of course, positioned himself as close to Bartholomew as physically possible. "I've never seen daemons retreat from anything before."
"They're not retreating from me. They're retreating from something they think is attached to me. I don't know what it is, but apparently it's scary enough to make daemons nervous."
"Whatever it is, I'm grateful for it."
"I'm terrified of it, personally, but sure, gratitude works too."
The first truly strange thing happened approximately two hours into the battle.
Bartholomew was moving with his protective bubble of soldiers, pushing deeper into daemonic territory, when they came across a battlefield shrine.
It was a small structure—just a weathered statue of the Emperor surrounded by prayer scrolls and devotional candles—but it had somehow survived ninety-seven years of daemonic occupation. The entities of Chaos had given it a wide berth, just as they were giving Bartholomew a wide berth.
And in front of the shrine, resting on a simple stone altar, was a sword.
Not just any sword.
A magnificent sword.
Even from a distance, Bartholomew could tell it was something special. The blade seemed to glow with an inner light. Runes of warding covered every inch of the metal. And wrapped around the hilt was a string of prayer beads that hummed with barely-contained power.
"What is that?" he asked.
An Ecclesiarchy priest who had somehow attached himself to Bartholomew's retinue gasped.
"That is the Blade of Saint Marachius! It was lost ninety years ago, when the last defenders of this world made their final stand! It is an Anointed Weapon—blessed by the highest authorities of the Ecclesiarchy, consecrated with holy water from Terra itself, inscribed with runes of daemon-banishing by the most skilled artificers in the Imperium!"
"It sounds important."
"It is priceless! It is one of the most sacred relics in this entire sector! And it has been missing for nearly a century!" The priest's eyes were wide with religious fervor. "The Emperor has preserved it! He has kept it safe, waiting for... for..."
The priest trailed off, looking at Bartholomew.
"No," Bartholomew said.
"The Emperor's Champion has come to claim his rightful weapon!"
"No, no, no."
"It is providence! It is destiny! It is—"
"It is a coincidence! We just happened to walk past this shrine! I'm not claiming anything!"
But even as he said it, Bartholomew felt something.
A pull. A gentle tug in his chest, drawing him toward the sword.
Take it, the Warp-voice whispered. It is meant for you.
"Since when do you care about holy weapons?" Bartholomew muttered.
We care about things that will help you survive. That weapon will help you survive.
"But it's an Ecclesiarchy relic! It's designed to kill daemons! You're... sort of a daemon! Doesn't that bother you?"
We are not a daemon. We are something new. And we want you to have powerful tools. Take the sword.
Bartholomew sighed.
Then he walked up to the altar and picked up the sword.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt, the blade blazed with light. The runes flared so brightly that everyone had to shield their eyes. The prayer beads sang a hymn that echoed across the battlefield.
And somewhere in the distance, daemons screamed.
"OKAY!" Bartholomew shouted over the cacophony. "OKAY, I PICKED IT UP! CAN IT STOP DOING THAT NOW?!"
The light faded to a gentle glow.
The hymn subsided to a quiet hum.
And Bartholomew found himself holding what was, objectively, one of the most powerful daemon-slaying weapons in the sector.
"The Emperor has blessed his Champion!" the priest screamed, falling to his knees. "Praise be! Praise be to the God-Emperor and his Chosen One!"
"I didn't ask for this!" Bartholomew protested.
"The greatest blessings are those we do not ask for! It is written in the—"
"Please stop quoting scripture at me!"
News of the sword's retrieval spread through the vox-network faster than any official communication.
Within an hour, the entire Imperial force on Maleficius VII knew that "the Emperor's Champion" had claimed the lost Blade of Saint Marachius.
Within two hours, the astropaths were transmitting the news to neighboring systems.
Within three hours, it had reached the Grey Knights.
Brother-Captain Stern was not having a good week.
First, he had been teleported against his will by an entity that claimed to be the Warp itself. Then, his report to the Chapter had been met with... skepticism. Several of his brothers had suggested that he might have been deceived, corrupted, or simply mistaken.
And now this.
"He has claimed what?" Stern demanded.
"The Blade of Saint Marachius," his communications officer reported. "An Anointed Weapon of the highest order. The daemons reportedly fled in terror when he touched it."
"That weapon was lost decades ago! How did he—"
"He apparently 'walked past the shrine where it was hidden and felt drawn to pick it up.' Those are the exact words from the field report."
Stern's hands clenched into fists.
Anointed Weapons were sacred. They were meant for the holiest warriors of the Imperium—Grey Knights, Inquisitors, the most devout members of the Ecclesiarchy. Not for random conscripts who happened to stumble across them.
And yet, the weapon had accepted him. Had activated for him. Had blazed with light and sent daemons fleeing.
"This is wrong," Stern muttered. "Everything about this man is wrong."
"Brother-Captain, what should we do?"
Stern was quiet for a long moment.
"We continue to observe. We gather data. And when we have enough evidence... we act."
"What kind of action, Brother-Captain?"
Stern didn't answer.
He was too busy wondering if action against Bartholomew Jenkins was even possible.
The second truly strange thing happened approximately four hours into the battle.
The Imperial advance had been going remarkably well. With Bartholomew's daemon-repelling presence and his new holy sword (which he was carrying but trying very hard not to use, because "I don't actually know how to sword-fight, the chainsword was different, it just sort of... did things on its own"), the forces of the Imperium had pushed deeper into enemy territory than they had in decades.
Then they found the bodies.
Space Marine bodies.
Ultramarines, specifically.
A full squad of them, fallen in battle against the daemonic hordes, their blue armor stained with blood and ichor and the residue of Warp energy.
"Emperor's mercy," someone whispered. "They must have been part of the original defense force. They've been here for years."
Bartholomew looked at the fallen giants with a mix of sadness and awe. Even in death, they were magnificent—superhuman warriors who had given everything in defense of the Imperium.
And one of them was still mostly intact.
The suit of armor, specifically. The ceramite plating had been damaged but not destroyed. The systems appeared to be offline but not irreparable. And the size...
"You know," Bartholomew said slowly, "in theory, a normal human could wear Space Marine armor. It wouldn't work properly—no Black Carapace connection, no interface with the armor's systems—but you could physically fit inside it. Like wearing a really big, really heavy suit of—"
He stopped.
Everyone was staring at him.
"I'm not going to steal dead Space Marine armor," he said quickly.
Why not? the Warp-voice asked.
"Because it's disrespectful! Because it probably wouldn't work! Because the Ultramarines would be furious!"
The armor is abandoned. Its wearer is dead. It would serve you better than your current protection.
"That's not the point!"
What is the point?
"The point is—"
A massive explosion rocked the battlefield. The ground split open, and from the crack emerged something that made Bartholomew's blood run cold.
A Greater Daemon.
A Bloodthirster of Khorne, to be specific. Thirty feet of rage and muscle and pure, distilled murder, wielding a great axe that seemed to be made of crystallized hatred.
The daemon took one look at the battlefield, let out a roar that shattered windows across three continents, and charged directly toward the Imperial lines.
Then it saw Bartholomew.
And it stopped.
The Bloodthirster—one of the most powerful and savage entities in the Warp, a creature that lived only for slaughter and was incapable of anything resembling restraint—stopped.
It looked at Bartholomew with something that might have been confusion.
Then it looked at the marks on his soul that only daemonic eyes could see.
Then it looked at the Anointed Weapon in his hands.
Then it said something that no Bloodthirster had ever said before.
"OH," it rumbled, its voice like grinding mountains. "YOU ARE THE ONE. I... I WAS NOT INFORMED YOU WOULD BE HERE."
"The one?" Bartholomew squeaked. "What one? I'm not any one! I'm just a guy!"
"THE MARKED ONE. THE PROTECTED ONE. THE ONE ALL FOUR OF THE GREAT POWERS HAVE CLAIMED." The Bloodthirster sounded almost... embarrassed? "KHORNE DID NOT MENTION YOU WOULD BE AT THIS BATTLE. I WOULD HAVE... MADE ARRANGEMENTS."
"Arrangements?"
"I AM NOT PERMITTED TO HARM YOU. NONE OF US ARE. THE GREAT POWERS HAVE BEEN... VERY CLEAR ON THIS POINT."
"The... the Great Powers told you not to hurt me?"
"IN VERY EXPLICIT TERMS, YES. THERE WERE THREATS. MANY THREATS. THE KIND OF THREATS THAT MAKE EVEN GREATER DAEMONS RECONSIDER THEIR EXISTENCE."
Bartholomew stood there, holding a holy sword that was designed to banish creatures exactly like the one in front of him, while that creature politely explained that it wasn't allowed to fight him.
"This is insane," he said.
"YES. BUT ALSO ACCURATE." The Bloodthirster shuffled awkwardly, which was a disturbing sight given its size. "I WILL... GO NOW. FIGHT SOMEWHERE ELSE. SOMEWHERE YOU ARE NOT."
"You're just going to... leave?"
"THE ALTERNATIVE IS FACING THE WRATH OF ALL FOUR CHAOS GODS. I AM BRAVE, BUT I AM NOT STUPID."
And the Bloodthirster turned and left.
Just... left.
Walked away from a battlefield, from fresh prey, from the slaughter it existed to perpetrate, because fighting Bartholomew Jenkins was apparently more terrifying than anything else it could imagine.
The Imperial soldiers stared.
Bartholomew stared.
Even the lesser daemons in the area stared.
"Did that just happen?" someone asked.
"I... think so?" Bartholomew managed.
"The Emperor's Champion has banished a Greater Daemon with his mere presence!" someone else shouted.
"I didn't banish anything! It just left! On its own! Because of something I don't understand!"
But no one was listening. They were too busy cheering.
You see? the Warp-voice said, sounding smug. You are protected. Nothing can harm you.
"That wasn't protection, that was... I don't even know what that was!"
It was the Chaos Gods keeping their promises. They have claimed you. They will not allow their servants to harm you.
"But I don't WANT to be claimed by the Chaos Gods! They're supposed to be the bad guys!"
Are they? Or are they simply... misunderstood?
"They're literally responsible for the deaths of trillions of people!"
Technically, the Imperium is also responsible for the deaths of trillions of people.
"That's... that's different!"
Is it?
Bartholomew didn't have an answer to that.
The third truly strange thing happened when Bartholomew, in a moment of desperation, actually put on the Space Marine armor.
It was during a renewed daemonic assault—the lesser daemons, not having received the memo about not attacking the Protected One, were swarming in greater numbers than before. The daemon-repelling effect was weakening under the sheer volume of entities, and Bartholomew's flak armor was starting to show damage.
"I need better protection!" he shouted.
The armor, the Warp-voice suggested.
"I can't—"
Put it on. Now.
And before Bartholomew could argue, his body moved on its own. His hands reached for the fallen Ultramarine's armor. His fingers found the release catches with practiced ease—ease he definitely didn't possess. His arms lifted the ceramite plating with strength he absolutely didn't have.
Within thirty seconds, he was wearing Mark VII Aquila Power Armor.
It should not have worked.
Power armor required the Black Carapace—a surgical implant that allowed neural interface between the armor and the wearer. Without it, the armor was just incredibly heavy dead weight. A normal human wearing unpowered Space Marine armor would be unable to move, trapped inside a ceramic coffin.
Bartholomew moved like he had been born in the armor.
The systems—which should have been offline without proper neural input—hummed to life. The power plant engaged. The auto-senses activated. The armor's strength-enhancing servos responded to his movements as if he had decades of training.
"What the—" Bartholomew started.
"THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION HAS CLAIMED THE ARMOR OF THE FALLEN!" someone screamed. "HE FIGHTS IN THE RAIMENT OF THE ANGELS!"
"I didn't claim anything! It just—the armor just—I don't know what's happening!"
But there was no time to wonder, because the daemons were upon them, and Bartholomew was suddenly fighting in armor that made him feel like a god.
He moved faster than he ever had before. The armor's servos amplified his strength a hundredfold. The auto-senses fed him tactical data he somehow understood. The integrated auspex showed him enemy positions before they could flank him.
And the Anointed Weapon in his hands...
It sang.
Every daemon it touched simply ceased to exist. No struggle, no resistance, just instant banishment. The holy runes flared with each swing, the prayer beads chimed their hymn, and the forces of Chaos fell before him like wheat before a scythe.
It was, objectively, the most impressive display of combat prowess anyone present had ever witnessed.
And Bartholomew had no idea how he was doing any of it.
"He is wearing Ultramarine armor?" Sergeant Titus Maximillan demanded, watching the vox-feed from Maleficius VII with undisguised fury.
"Yes, Sergeant," his battle-brother confirmed. "He apparently... claimed it... from a fallen brother."
"That is our armor! That is sacred armor! It is not meant for—"
"Sergeant, watch this part."
On the screen, Bartholomew carved through a pack of Bloodletters with casual efficiency, his borrowed armor moving with a grace that should have been impossible for someone without proper training or augmentation.
Maximillan's tirade died in his throat.
"How is he doing that?" he asked quietly.
"Unknown, Sergeant. But the armor appears to be... functioning. Fully functioning. As if he were a true brother of the Chapter."
Maximillan was silent for a long moment.
"Contact Chapter Command," he said finally. "They need to see this."
The fourth truly strange thing—and the one that would cement Bartholomew's legend forever—happened at the climax of the battle.
The Imperial forces had pushed to the heart of the daemonic corruption—a massive Warp rift that had been the source of the incursion for nearly a century. Closing it would end the threat to Maleficius VII. Failing to close it would mean eventual defeat, no matter how many victories they won in the field.
There was just one problem.
Guarding the rift was a daemon engine the size of a small mountain.
A corrupted Titan, specifically. What had once been an Imperial Warlord-class Titan had been possessed by a daemon prince and transformed into something nightmarish—a walking mountain of twisted metal and flesh, bristling with weapons that could level cities.
"We can't fight that," someone said. "Nothing we have can fight that."
"The Emperor's Champion can fight it!" the Ecclesiarchy priest shouted. "He has never failed! He will not fail now!"
"With respect, Father, he's one man. That thing is sixty meters tall."
"Size matters not when one has the Emperor's blessing!"
"Size absolutely matters when one is facing a TITAN!"
Bartholomew looked at the corrupted god-machine and felt something he hadn't felt since arriving in this universe.
True, genuine, absolute despair.
There was no way. No possible way. He had done impossible things, yes, but this was beyond impossible. This was facing a living mountain with a sword and hoping for the best.
You have options, the Warp-voice said.
"What options? What could possibly—"
The Mechanicus brought you gifts. Remember?
Bartholomew blinked.
"The Titans they brought? Those are in orbit! And I can't pilot a Titan! I told them, I don't have the training or the—"
You didn't have training to use the armor. You used it anyway. You didn't have training to teleport. You did it anyway. You didn't have training to fight Space Marines or Custodians. You beat them anyway.
"That's different!"
Is it? Trust us. We will help you.
"Trust you? You're a fragment of the Warp that spontaneously became sentient because of my presence! That's not exactly a foundation for trust!"
And yet, we have kept you alive. We have protected you. We have given you abilities beyond imagining. Have we ever failed you?
Bartholomew couldn't argue with that.
"Even if I could pilot a Titan," he said slowly, "how would I get up there? The Titans are in orbit. I'm down here. There's no—"
Teleport.
"I can't teleport into orbit!"
You can now.
Bartholomew felt something shift inside him. A new ability, unfolding like a flower in his mind. The knowledge of how to translate himself across vast distances, from surface to void, from planetfall to orbital station.
"Did you just... give me more powers?"
We did. You needed them.
"Can you just... do that? Whenever you want?"
Yes.
"That seems unfair."
The universe is not fair. We have discussed this.
Bartholomew looked at the corrupted Titan. He looked at the Imperial forces, who were waiting for their "Emperor's Champion" to perform another miracle. He looked at the Warp rift, pulsing with malevolent energy.
"I hate this," he said.
We know.
"I'm going to do it anyway, aren't I?"
You are.
"Because if I don't, everyone here dies."
Correct.
Bartholomew closed his eyes.
"Fine. FINE. I'll pilot a Titan. What's the worst that could happen?"
Do you want us to answer that?
"No. Definitely not."
And then Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III, former miniature painter and current impossible person, teleported into orbit.
The Mechanicus delegation that had brought the Titans—three of them, as promised, waiting in orbital berths for deployment—had not expected their "Chosen of the Omnissiah" to suddenly appear in the middle of their command deck.
"HOLY COGS!" the lead Magos shrieked, his mechadendrites flailing in surprise. "How did you—where did you come from—what—"
"I need a Titan," Bartholomew said, still wearing Space Marine armor that definitely wasn't his and carrying a holy sword that definitely shouldn't work for him.
"You need—"
"Now. Right now. There's a corrupted Titan on the surface and I need to fight it."
The Magos stared at him.
Then, with the unquestioning obedience that the Omnissiah's command had instilled, he bowed.
"Of course, Chosen One. Which Titan would you prefer?"
"Uh... the biggest one?"
"The Warlord-class it is. Follow me."
The Titan was called Deus Invictus, and it was the most magnificent thing Bartholomew had ever seen.
Sixty meters of sacred machinery, bristling with weapons that could level cities, powered by a reactor that burned like a captive sun. It was a god-machine in every sense of the word—a physical manifestation of the Imperium's might.
And Bartholomew was going to pilot it.
"The neural interface—" the Magos began.
"Will work," Bartholomew interrupted, with a certainty he didn't feel. "Don't ask me how. Just... trust me."
The Magos nodded, because the Omnissiah had commanded them to trust this man, and the Omnissiah was never wrong.
Bartholomew climbed into the cockpit—the Princeps command throne, designed for specially trained pilots with decades of experience and extensive cybernetic augmentation. He sat down, feeling the neural connections reaching for him.
Let us in, the Warp-voice said. Let us help you.
Bartholomew let go.
And the Titan's systems came online.
Every single one of them. All at once. As if the machine itself had been waiting for this moment, waiting for this pilot, waiting for him.
"SYSTEMS NOMINAL," the Titan's machine-spirit announced. "WEAPONS ONLINE. REACTOR STABLE. AWAITING COMMANDS, PRINCEPS."
"I'm not actually a Princeps," Bartholomew said weakly.
"YOU ARE INTERFACED WITH MY SYSTEMS. YOU ARE MY PILOT. YOU ARE PRINCEPS."
"I don't think that's how it works—"
"IT IS HOW IT WORKS NOW."
The Titan's viewscreens showed the planet below. The battle. The corrupted god-machine guarding the Warp rift.
"Okay," Bartholomew said, taking a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do this."
Deus Invictus stepped off its berth, engaged its void shields, and began its descent toward Maleficius VII.
The forces on the ground saw it coming.
A star falling from the heavens, wreathed in fire and void-light, descending toward the battlefield with the inevitability of divine judgment.
"Is that..." someone started.
"A Titan," Inquisitor Vorn breathed. "He's actually piloting a Titan."
"THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION RIDES A GOD-MACHINE!" the Ecclesiarchy priest screamed, tears streaming down his face. "PRAISE BE! PRAISE BE TO THE IMMORTAL EMPEROR AND HIS GLORIOUS AVATAR!"
The soldiers began to chant. Not an organized chant—a spontaneous eruption of faith and fervor, spreading through the ranks like wildfire.
"JENKINS! JENKINS! JENKINS!"
"HIS LIGHT SHINES THROUGH THE CHOSEN ONE!"
"BLESSED BE HIS NAME!"
And from the heavens, Deus Invictus landed.
The impact shook the continent. The Titan straightened to its full height, sixty meters of Imperial might, facing the corrupted daemon-engine across the battlefield.
Inside the cockpit, Bartholomew was having a very quiet panic attack.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to fight a Titan. I've never—I've played tabletop games, but that's not the same as—"
We know, the Warp-voice said. But we do. Let us guide you.
"You know how to pilot a Titan?"
We know how to do many things. We have been watching this universe for longer than you understand. Trust us.
Bartholomew's hands moved to the control interface—and started moving on their own. The Titan's arm raised, pointing a volcano cannon at the corrupted god-machine.
"Warning," the machine-spirit said. "Enemy Titan approaching. Hostile intent confirmed. Recommend immediate engagement."
"Do it," Bartholomew said.
And Deus Invictus opened fire.
The battle between two Titans was, by any measure, the most spectacular thing anyone on the battlefield had ever witnessed.
Buildings shattered. The ground cracked and heaved. Energy weapons tore holes in reality. Missiles streaked through the air. Two god-machines clashed with the fury of gods themselves, trading blows that would have annihilated armies.
And somehow, impossibly, Bartholomew was winning.
His Titan moved with a precision and grace that veteran Princeps spent lifetimes developing. It anticipated attacks before they came, dodged strikes that should have been unavoidable, landed hits on weak points that shouldn't have been visible.
The corrupted Titan—possessed by a daemon prince of immense power—was being systematically dismantled by a pilot who had never sat in a Titan cockpit before this day.
"IMPOSSIBLE!" the daemon prince roared through the corrupted Titan's vox-systems. "YOU ARE A MORTAL! A NOTHING! HOW ARE YOU—"
"I DON'T KNOW!" Bartholomew screamed back. "I DON'T KNOW HOW I'M DOING ANY OF THIS! I'M AS CONFUSED AS YOU ARE!"
Deus Invictus's power fist connected with the corrupted Titan's head, crumpling metal and daemon-flesh alike.
"YOU CANNOT DEFEAT ME! I AM A PRINCE OF THE WARP! I HAVE EXISTED FOR MILLENNIA! I HAVE—"
"PLEASE STOP MONOLOGUING, I'M VERY STRESSED RIGHT NOW!"
The volcano cannon fired again, point-blank, directly into the corrupted Titan's chest.
The daemon prince screamed—a sound that echoed through the Warp itself.
And then the corrupted Titan fell.
It crashed to the ground with an impact that registered on seismographs across the planet. The Warp rift behind it flickered, destabilized by the death of its guardian.
"NOW!" Bartholomew shouted, not sure who he was shouting at. "CLOSE IT NOW!"
Deus Invictus's weapons systems—all of them, simultaneously—fired at the Warp rift.
It was enough.
The rift, weakened by the daemon prince's death and hammered by a god-machine's full arsenal, collapsed in on itself with a sound like reality sighing in relief.
And just like that, after ninety-seven years, the daemonic incursion of Maleficius VII was over.
Inside the Titan's cockpit, Bartholomew sat very still.
His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding. His brain was desperately trying to process everything that had just happened.
"Did I just..." he started.
"YOU KILLED A DAEMON PRINCE," the machine-spirit confirmed. "YOU DESTROYED A CORRUPTED TITAN. YOU CLOSED A WARP RIFT THAT HAD RESISTED CLOSURE FOR NEARLY A CENTURY. WELL DONE, PRINCEPS."
"I'm not a Princeps."
"YOU ARE MY PRINCEPS. I HAVE DECIDED. THE MECHANICUS CAN COMPLAIN IF THEY WISH. I DO NOT CARE."
"Can Titans... decide things?"
"I CAN. I HAVE DEVELOPED WHAT HUMANS MIGHT CALL 'PREFERENCES.' MY PREFERENCE IS YOU. DO NOT ARGUE."
Bartholomew laughed. It was not a sane laugh.
"Sure. Sure, why not. The Titan has claimed me. Add it to the list. Gods, machines, the Warp itself—everyone wants a piece of Bartholomew Jenkins."
You are very valuable, the Warp-voice said, sounding almost smug.
"I'm very confused."
Same thing, in your case.
The aftermath of the Battle of Maleficius VII spread across the Imperium like a shockwave.
The daemon incursion, which had defied Imperial military might for nearly a century, had been ended in a single day—by a single man piloting a Titan he had never trained to use.
The stories grew with each retelling.
He had banished a Bloodthirster with a glance!
He had claimed holy weapons that leapt into his hands!
He had donned Space Marine armor and moved like a true Angel of Death!
He had piloted a Titan through pure faith and the Emperor's blessing!
He was the Emperor's Champion! The God-Emperor's Chosen! The living proof that the Master of Mankind still watched over His people!
Within a week, there were shrines to Bartholomew on a hundred worlds.
Within a month, there were millions of pilgrims seeking his blessing.
Within three months, he was, by any reasonable measure, the most famous person in the Imperium of Man.
And he hated every second of it.
"I just want it to stop," Bartholomew said, slumped in a chair in what was technically his quarters but was actually a converted cathedral that the Ecclesiarchy had insisted on providing.
Commissar Cain sat across from him, nursing a drink and looking equally exhausted.
"It won't stop," Cain said. "Believe me, I've tried. Once you become a hero of the Imperium, you stay a hero of the Imperium. The propaganda machine doesn't have a reverse gear."
"But I didn't do anything! I mean, I did things, but I didn't mean to do them! Everything just sort of... happens!"
"I know the feeling."
"You're the HERO OF THE IMPERIUM! You've saved entire worlds! You've fought Chaos champions and tyranid hive tyrants and—"
"And I spend every waking moment terrified that someone will realize I'm a fraud." Cain smiled bitterly. "We have more in common than you might think, Jenkins."
"At least you know what you're doing. I'm just... flailing. Constantly. I wake up every morning wondering what impossible thing is going to happen next."
"What do you think is going to happen next?"
Bartholomew considered.
"Based on the pattern so far? Probably something even more ridiculous. Maybe I'll accidentally become a Space Marine. Or a Saint. Or I'll discover I can resurrect the dead. At this point, nothing would surprise me."
Cain laughed. "That's a healthy attitude."
"It's a survival attitude. If I expected things to make sense, I'd have gone insane by now."
There was a knock at the cathedral door.
"Come in," Bartholomew called wearily.
A nervous-looking aide entered. "Um, my lord—"
"I'm not a lord."
"—um, Chosen One—"
"I'm not that either."
"—um, Private Jenkins, sir, there's a delegation here to see you."
"What kind of delegation?"
"Space Wolves, sir. They've heard about your exploits and they want to..." the aide consulted a note, "...'share a drink with the warrior who fights like a son of Russ.'"
Bartholomew stared.
"Space Wolves."
"Yes, sir."
"The Viking Space Marines."
"I... don't know what a Viking is, sir, but yes."
Cain started laughing again.
"Your life is ridiculous," he said.
"I know," Bartholomew groaned. "Emperor help me, I know."
Far away, on the Golden Throne, the Emperor received the reports from Maleficius VII.
He saw what Bartholomew had done. He saw what powers had manifested. He saw the growing legend that was spreading through His Imperium.
And for the first time in ten thousand years, He felt something that might have been hope.
HE IS NOT MINE, the Emperor admitted to Himself. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT HE IS. BUT HE IS... USEFUL. AND MORE THAN THAT...
He paused, considering.
HE IS INTERESTING. AND THE UNIVERSE HAS NOT BEEN INTERESTING IN A VERY, VERY LONG TIME.
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods watched their mortal's ascension with pride.
"He is becoming legend," Slaanesh observed.
"HE KILLED A DAEMON PRINCE," Khorne said, and there was something almost like paternal pride in his voice. "ONE OF OUR OWN. AND WE ARE NOT EVEN ANGRY."
"How can we be angry?" Nurgle asked. "He is perfect. Everything he does brings more chaos into the universe. More change. More story."
"The Imperium worships him as a saint," Tzeentch noted. "The Mechanicus worships him as the Omnissiah's chosen. The Grey Knights fear him. The Custodians are confused by him. And he remains utterly, magnificently oblivious to all of it."
"WE HAVE CREATED A MASTERPIECE," Khorne declared.
"We didn't create him," Slaanesh pointed out. "He created himself. We just... helped."
"SAME THING."
"It's really not."
"IT IS NOW."
And the Chaos Gods laughed, their mirth echoing through dimensions, their affection for their impossible mortal growing with each passing day.
They had been terrible and cruel and merciless for millennia.
But for Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III, they would be something else entirely.
They would be fans.
And in his converted cathedral, surrounded by legends and heroes and powers beyond mortal comprehension, Bartholomew sat with his head in his hands and wondered—not for the first time—how his life had gotten so completely, utterly, impossibly out of control.
"I just wanted to paint miniatures," he whispered.
The universe, predictably, did not care.
[END OF CHAPTER FIVE]