Upon receiving the mission, Datch produced his teleport gun and pulled the trigger on the floor of the Primarch's study. Viscous green light sprayed from the barrel, rapidly swirling to form a glowing portal. He leapt through its strange cavernous entrance, followed closely by a mage in gray robes—disguised as a shape-shifter—and an elegant masked dancer who moved with light, supple steps. A round, plump creature followed, plunging in headfirst with a cheerful splash like a small shell. Once they were all inside, the gateway rapidly shrank and blinked out of existence, leaving the study silent once more, disturbed only by the faint thunder from the anchor array and the distant hum of ship engines.
Guilliman turned his gaze from the now-vanished portal to the Eldar Far Seer, whose face was still a little pale. When he spoke again, his voice resounded with unmistakable strength.
"Prophet, as you've heard, the Nameless One has promised us his aid. So long as he stands with us, victory is assured. As we have felled countless other foes, so too will we defeat the Silent King."
"You speak plainly, Lord, but it appears you do not fully grasp the terror that the Necron overlords command." Natasé met Guilliman's stare unflinchingly. "They have existed since before even the Eldar rose, wielding technology so advanced that it transformed the material universe to astonishing levels. They were, and are still, the destroyers of the Old Ones. Do you understand what that means?"
"The ancients you call the Old Ones were a godlike civilization, free to shape the galaxy and guide the evolution of life as they wished. They reigned over reality itself for uncounted aeons. The Necrons and the C'tan joined forces to wage a celestial war against these deities—and they won," Natasé gestured emphatically, pacing with heavy meaning.
"After that victory, the Necrons betrayed the gods who fought at their side, shattered them, and twisted them into mere power sources—slaves for their own designs. Then they slept for sixty million years, and now they are awakening once more."
"It's not that I doubt the Nameless One's power," Natasé continued, "but the power of the Necrons is rooted in the total understanding and absolute control of physical laws. Their manifestations and force far outstrip any conventional logic of war. This is warfare at the level of law itself."
"We will win," Guilliman replied, his voice steady and unwavering. "I say this not as blind optimism, but from countless desperate situations of the past. As long as the Nameless Ones stand by us, the scales of victory tip in our favor. Macragge, the Maelstrom, Terra, Baal—whenever all hope seemed lost, he miraculously turned the tide."
Natasé saw resolve in the Primarch's eyes and sensed further debate would be in vain. He sighed, a mix of worry and helplessness clouding his breath. "If fate's threads truly yield to your hopes, if the Emperor is truly your son, then may it be so. Otherwise, just as we glimpse the first rays of hope, the Imperium may slip into darkness once more."
"No matter how mighty the Nameless One may be, can anyone truly stand against the very embodiment of physical laws? And did not these masters of undeath massacre the gods themselves? I fear you may become their next prey." With those parting words, Natasé turned and left the study, worry for the fate of both their peoples hidden beneath his graceful bearing.
…
Back aboard the Far Seer flagship, Natasé made straight for his private sanctum. He dismissed his aides and sent his guards outside on errands. With all preparations complete, he activated his psychic barrier, sat cross-legged upon the glowing bone floor, and meditated. His consciousness slipped free from the confines of flesh, tearing through the veil of reality and immersing him in the vast, endless, and alien sea of souls.
He wove through the torrents of thought and threads of fate, calling out to the great Seer Eldrad. It was imperative that he report Guilliman's decision and the imminent return of the Silent King—and beg for assistance. The fate of humanity was entwined with the Eldar's own.
Compared to the recently returned Sanguinius, Guilliman—with his command of strategy and statecraft—was the best current hope for the Eldar. They would have to find a way to lend more support and help humanity weather this storm.
…
Meanwhile, aboard the Macragge's Honour...
Guilliman, after a long silence, returned to his desk, once again embodying the stern, efficient posture befitting the Regent of the Imperium. One by one, generals, administrators, and heads of intelligence awaiting audience were ushered into the study. The holographic star map continued to zoom in, centering on the Nephilim Sector. Tactical simulations played out, their cursors darting across the map, resource allocation lists scrolling at rapid speed. The study buzzed with discussion, debate, and reports.
No matter how formidable the Necrons, how dire the Eldar prophecies, Guilliman had already made his decision. He would personally lead the First Expeditionary Fleet into the mysterious Nephilim Reach, seeking the truth, missing warriors, and a confrontation with the legendary Supreme Ruler of the undead—the Silent King. For the Imperium and mankind, he truly had no other choice. Whether towards victory or ruin, he could only move forward.
…
...
Messinius commanded the Battlegroup Saint Aster as they braved the unpredictable, dangerous torrents of the warp. The flagship, Battlecruiser Anvil of Faith, was cocooned in Geller Fields, fighting to withstand the soul-storms of the Immaterium. Tech-priests vigilantly monitored the Geller Field generators, fearful of overloads that might permit abominable intrusions.
The bridge was dim; faint, chill light from control panels and holoscreens shone on the tense, concentrated faces of the crew. Clad in white power armor, Messinius stood at the center platform beside the captain's command throne. Bareheaded, brow furrowed, he kept a steely gaze upon the tactical displays, his expression hard with resolve.
Captain Yurke sat in the command throne, fused with numerous neural interfaces. He stayed silent, focusing primarily on the intricate data transfer between the Anvil of Faith's machine spirit and the fleet command systems. Only his lips moved from time to time, issuing basic navigational and adjustment orders.
Their mission: reconquer the world of Antopi. Messinius burned with anger at the necessity. Every reconquest rendered all past investments in construction and education futile, draining scarce manpower, ammunition, and time on endless cycles of suppression, cleansing, and rebuilding. The steadfast crusade for Imperial restoration was already taxing; internal strife would only strain the wounded body of the Imperium even further.
What infuriated Messinius most was the rebels' motives. They always claimed the Imperium demanded too much, gave too little, and that the miseries wrought by the Chaos gods were as nothing compared to Imperial oppression. Driven to desperation, they rebelled because they saw little hope for change.
How foolish, how myopic! How many worlds had been consumed by the Tyranid hive fleets? How many reduced to ruin by the deranged laughter of greenskins? How many transformed into hells on earth by the corruption of Chaos? Worlds conquered by Chaos and xenos knew no hope, only death and silence.
Just then, on an open platform at the flank of the bridge, space twisted without warning, stretching and then suddenly coalescing into a teleport portal rimmed with green arcs of energy.
"Enemy attack?!"
Several alert guards swiftly raised their pistols, the hum of charged energy weapons filling the air. But Messinius was swifter. He raised a calm, commanding hand, eyes fixed on the portal.
A moment later, a figure shot out—a man in a comical helmet and power armor painted in five hues, clearly the Nameless One. Behind him followed Life Spirit and Changeling, alongside the Masque of Slaanesh. The guards hesitated, lowering their weapons in a mix of surprise and uncertainty.
Messinius steadied his breath, stepped forward, and struck his right fist to his cuirass with a dull metallic thump. "Greetings, Nameless Lord."
Datch, fresh from teleportation, quickly surveyed the area and locked onto Messinius, a golden exclamation mark hovering above the commander's head.
"The Regent of the Emperor has sent me to assist with the reconquest of Antopi, to strengthen local faith and loyalty to the Emperor," Datch announced. Messinius' eyes flickered with surprise, but he quickly resumed his serious demeanor.
"By the Lord's orders. Understood," Messinius replied. Was the Regent doubting his competence? Or merely concerned about the heavy casualties that a brutal crackdown would bring?
Datch ignored Messinius' speculation. The golden exclamation mark above Messinius' head faded, and Datch—amid the officers' astonished stares—executed a slick slide-tackle toward the hatch, headed into the ship's depths. He intended to explore his new ship, and perhaps find some treasure to earn a little coin.
Captain Yurke disengaged from his deep connection, glancing to his senior officers whose faces betrayed open disbelief.
"Anvil of Faith is running the Geller field at full power and is in warp translation. How did he get in?" The navigator's voice quivered.
He appeared, inside the ship, by-passing the very walls of the warp, with pinpoint precision. This defied everything they knew about physics and psyker abilities. Not even Chaos traitors could do that.
"Is this man even human? Is he really the Emperor's incarnate?"
"…Enough!" Messinius cut through the whispers. "Don't speculate about the Nameless One, or give way to suspicion. His abilities are beyond mortal understanding. Fulfill your duties. And remember: never ask what shouldn't be asked, nor think what shouldn't be thought."
Messinius's iron resolve stifled any potential for panic or heretical questioning. Yurke and the other officers exchanged glances, mastered their disquiet, and returned to their work. Messinius stood, frowning in deep thought, staring after the direction Datch had vanished.
…
A deep, resonant chime echoed through every ship in the Battlegroup Saint Aster. Moments later came the shrill whine of warp engines ramping down and the rumble before realspace engines activated. On the bridge main screen, the scene turned surreal. The veil of reality was violently torn by invisible forces, and an awful cacophony sounded like the wailing of billions of souls.
The ships began to emerge from the chaos of shifting light and shadow, as though watching an old, cheap and distorted film. Images warped, stretched, and filled with static; the very border between reality and illusion seemed to boil, as if they clung to their hulls to avoid being dragged back into the deranged depths. When they finally touched realspace, engines thundered to life, physically forcing the gargantuan vessels back into the material world.
"Warp jump complete. Coordinates confirmed. We are in realspace!" The navigator's voice trembled with relief, echoed by every crew member on every ship. The palpable tension eased; some crew saluted the double-headed eagle in reverence for the Emperor, praying for their safe translation through the storm. As the warp storms grew more frequent and severe, every voyage felt like a gamble with death—one day, they might simply vanish en route.
"I pray the Imperium one day finds a way to travel faster than light without the warp," one young sailor grumbled as he wiped sweat from his brow. "I'm sick of this kind of navigation. I feel like I have to report to the Golden Throne every time we jump."
"Forget such fantasies," a scarred old veteran replied, clapping him on the shoulder with a wry smile. "Just be glad we're alive. Don't waste time on that kind of thinking. There's no such thing as a non-warp jump."
Once back in the real universe, the Battlegroup Saint Aster rapidly reorganized. Dozens of mainline ships and a host of escorts fired up their conventional drives, streaks of flame trailing behind them like steel rivers as they accelerated toward their target world.
Through the augury screens, their destination—Antopi—gradually appeared. The once-important core world still boasted sophisticated orbital defenses, multiple space stations the size of hive cities, and an array of weapon platforms. An all-out assault would demand a horrific price and devolve into a brutal, bloody struggle.
Messinius ordered communications re-established with Antopi's ground authorities. Thanks to the Tech-priests, a middle-aged man in stately robes appeared on the main screen. Though his hair was neat, his eyes were swollen and exhausted. This was none other than Kinshir, the Elder of Antopi and recently-appointed planetary governor. Several councilors sat behind him in an ornately decorated, somewhat old-fashioned meeting chamber.
"I am Vitrian Messinius, on behalf of the Emperor's Regent," Messinius intoned coldly through the vox. "Your actions are considered rebellion. I demand immediate, unconditional surrender, the laying down of arms, and the lifting of all defenses. Accept the Imperium's judgment. This is your only chance to avoid extinction."
Kinshir straightened, but his weary voice persisted with stubborn determination. "We are a legitimate government. Our power comes from all the people of Antopi. I do not believe this world is guilty—we only wish to live, not be worked like cattle until we bleed. We simply wish to exist with dignity, not misery. Unless the Imperium accepts our terms, every city, every station, will resist to the last drop of blood!"
Life is precious, but freedom is more precious still. Kinshir quoted Gutera's famous words.
Messinius glanced at the demands: a drastic reduction of the one-tenth tax; a higher share and distribution of local resources; improved welfare for the lower classes; relocating some main industries and shipyards to other systems to ease planetary burden. All they wanted was to return to the old way, to prosperity and peace.
"Say that to the worlds thrown into chaos by your refusal to supply, their soldiers slaughtered by greenskins because their ships went without repairs." Messinius glared, his voice like thunder. "Because of your demands, they lost their chance at life; their homes burned to ash, their men, women, and children became targets for massacre. Your prosperity is built on the sacrifices of unnumbered souls who secured peace and stability from the rage of Chaos and Xenos."
He glared. "Your words about welfare ring hollow over the death-cries echoing across the stars."
Kinshir replied, flaring with anger. "What's that got to do with us? My responsibility is to my people. Antopi's warehouses are empty, fields in ruins, factory workers dying on the job, children starving. If the slavery of the dark gods is slavery, is not your slavery the same? Your salvation just leads us from one hell to another!"
"So you remain stubborn to the end," Messinius declared, preparing to give the order for assault. The moment war erupted there would be bombardment, boarding, and battle for the stations. Countless lives would be lost, precious defenses ruined. Post-war reconstruction would demand endless resources, and civilians fated to serve the Imperium would be wiped out.
Just then, Datch slid up directly before Messinius. "Commander of the White Consul, Vittorian Messinius—"
"It doesn't have to be war and bloodshed to resolve this rebellion. I will handle it."
As Datch finished, he watched the exclamation mark above Messinius' head fade, signifying that a critical plot segment was complete. Messinius was about to ask how, but Datch had already drawn his teleport gun. A spray of green light enveloped both the council chamber—where Kinshir and his senators were—and the bridge of the Anvil of Faith. Datch stepped through the glowing portal.
On the bridge, Captain Yurke and all the officers stared wide-eyed in stunned disbelief. The Astartes officers could barely process that such a feat was possible—if only they had such power to use against Chaos traitors.
In the council chamber, a deathly silence settled before panic broke out. Kinshir and the councilors shouted for guards, who burst in, weapons at the ready—only to be charmed at a glance by the masked dancer who accompanied Datch. With a single gesture, soldier and guard alike turned their weapons inward, forming lines of gun barrels pointed at the council. Fear swept over the elders and senators.
Datch strode to Kinshir, evaluating him. "Order all resistance to cease at once. Open the orbital defenses and prepare to welcome the Imperium's peaceful occupation."
Kinshir's expression twisted with terror and rage. He mustered his will, shaking his head and croaking, "Kill me… I will never… even if you kill me, I will never give such an order…"
He stared into Datch's eyes. "Antopi—has already lost too much. Our food should have fed many worlds… Look outside—see mothers reduced to skin and bone… see children too hungry to even cry…" His voice broke with deep sorrow. "If human civilization must continue inflicting endless pain like this… then better to destroy it outright, rather than let generations drown in despair."
Datch stared at the NPC, marveling at the realism of the emotion module. This was like a difficult multiple-choice scenario.
He could choose to kill the elder without mercy, enforce imperial control, and demand sacrifice from the people until the world was bled dry. The people—hopeless and broken—would die seeing the Emperor no better than a god of darkness.
Or, he could choose to negotiate, seeking a compromise to balance the benefits of both sides. To be a savior, one could not change the definition of salvation on a whim nor abandon the hope of rescue midway. Compromise after compromise would render salvation just another form of exploitation.
Yet, if the former path was chosen, was the crusade nothing but a quest to make people suffer in the name of justice? How could any short-lived, beauty-starved people be expected to endure limitless pain? But if the latter was chosen, Imperial productivity would fall, and more worlds would inevitably suffer. There was no easy solution.