Datch had no intention of causing any fatalities, so he didn't use any lethal items. But even after several of their comrades were turned into sheep, the remaining Black Templar knights refused to give up the fight. Their eyes still burned with fanaticism, trembling with rage and ready to attack again.
Datch immediately drew out the Hypno Panpipe via his game inventory and brought it to his lips. He could play it without removing his helmet.
The ship's cabin, thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood, rang with the oddly elongated notes of the flute. It sent out an irresistibly mesmerizing shockwave. The flute's melody touched my ear like soft feathers brushing against tense nerves. The Black Templar warriors, who had been preparing for a frenzied charge, visibly slackened and lowered their weapons. The rage in their eyes faded, replaced by an irresistible, deep exhaustion. My heavy eyelids began to droop, slowly and uncontrollably.
In just over ten seconds, except for a few die-hard individuals barely holding on, all the other Black Templar knights collapsed to the floor. Some slumped against walls, others fell beside their comrades' corpses, all sinking into a deep slumber.
"Disarm them quickly!"
"Control everyone!"
Onos reacted instantly and began issuing orders. The Primaris Space Marines, as if waking from a dream, advanced swiftly and skillfully, disarming the sleeping or half-conscious enemies of their boltguns and chainswords. Cutting and dismantling the power backpacks on their backs, their heavy power armor now became their cages, rendering them totally incapable of resistance.
Onos gazed at Datch with awe and respect. This unknown man used a series of strange methods—turning people into sheep, or hypnotizing with flute music—but their effects were immediate and decisive. A conflict that could have ended in mutual destruction and bloodshed was now quelled almost instantly.
Datch put his Panpipe away and checked the minimap. An exclamation mark meant the mission was not yet over. Without stopping, he smoothly made his way deeper into the ship.
Onos quickly realized what was happening and hissed commands at the Primaris Space Marines.
"Follow me. Let's head to the bridge together."
"There are still traitors to deal with."
The gigantic vessel they'd boarded was Admiral Angwen's flagship, the Emperor's Wrath. It was massive, historically significant, and its corridors were adorned with Imperial double-headed eagle motifs and reliefs of Black Sanctuary symbols, testifying to religious fanaticism. The air was thick with incense, oaths, and a scent of steel.
Glancing at the walls covered with holy scriptures, Datch couldn't help admiring the devotion, or rather, the zealotry of these Black Templars. Since their founding, the Black Templar order had continuously waged crusades against heresy, xenos, and chaos. They've always either been at war or preparing for one, with their numbers far exceeding official codex limits. While other chapters rarely numbered over a thousand, they could easily gather 5,000–6,000 Astartes for large-scale crusades.
Yet, even in this holy warship inscribed with prayers, the blood of brother killing brother was spilled.
When everyone reached the bridge, the scene before them was enough to drain their spirits. The fighting had ended, but in the cruelest possible way. The expansive command area of the bridge was in chaos: control consoles wrecked and smoking, holographic displays flickering and malfunctioning. Dozens of corpses, clad in black and white power armor, lay strewn across the floors, blood pooling and slowly flowing.
Fratricide is the galaxy's most tragic sight.
At the very center of the carnage, the Grand Marshal of the Black Templars Angwen knelt with his head bowed—his legendary life ended not by Xenos foes on distant fields, but by the hands of his own brothers. His magnificent armor was riddled with bullet holes and slashes, testament to the ferocity of his last stand.
Kneeling before the corpse was Besnos, Angwen's chief adjutant and ruler of Besnosburg. He held in his hand the Black Sword—an ancient blade passed down through the warband, a weapon blessed by the Emperor himself. The bloodstained, black blade dripped into the spreading puddle at Angwen's feet.
The Black Sword was originally meant for the Emperor's Champion, but Chaplain Mortian had suggested, without official approval, that it be given to Besnos to help them face Grand Marshal Angwen. They wanted to use the sword's power to oppose the Primaris Space Marines, whom Angwen had rejected in the Emperor's name. Their plan succeeded: Angwen was slain, and without Datch's intervention, the Torchbearer fleet might have been wiped out—no one would have known what really happened.
Behind Besnos stood a dozen Black Templar warriors, their armor spattered with blood, weapons still humming, and eyes cold with resolve. All comrades who had pledged loyalty to Angwen, supporting the Primaris, had been executed. To them, the Emperor's creations must remain pure—never tainted by even the smallest stain.
Onos stepped forward, halberd raised diagonally.
"Lord of Besnosburg—surrender your weapons. Marshal Helbrecht and the rest of the Chapter have already accepted the Primaris reinforcements."
"This is the shared will of the Emperor and the Regent. Further resistance and killing is pointless—it will only deepen your guilt."
Besnos slowly rose, his face revealing no madness, only an icy, deathly calm. As though this act of murder had emptied all his emotions.
"Never!"
His voice was dry and hoarse, like sand grating against stone.
"We will never accept those twisted creations from the heretical forges of Belisarius Cawl. No human hand may sully the Emperor's masterpieces."
"We'd rather die a pure death in battle, returning our souls to the Emperor's throne, than desecrate our Chapter's eternal glory by dealing with heretical abominations."
The warriors at Besnos's back stepped forward as one, raising their weapons yet again. Their death-seeking martyrdom chilled the air around them. Their fanatical ideology had convinced them: the proto-Space Marines were a cancerous tumor needing to be stamped out. Anyone who accepted or enabled them was a traitor due for elimination.
But in the next instant, the unexpected happened!
The Black Sword in Besnos's grip—held by a chain, radiating a ghostly light—its dark shine receded like a retreating tide. In the blink of an eye, it changed into a normal-looking longsword of plain metal. Besnos, clearly bewildered, stared at his hand, unable to process what was happening.
Where's the Black Sword? Where's my greatsword?
The Black Sword was a token of the Emperor's blessing. Now it had lost its true power, and even the machine spirit inside failed to respond. The meaning was obvious.
"No…"
Has the Emperor abandoned us? Why? Why would he do this? We were so loyal to you!!
Besnos, who had been ready to die, now looked shattered, voice trembling with despair. The Black Sword's loss was worse than any enemy's blade—it was a condemnation from the Emperor himself. To Besnos, death would have been preferable to this betrayal.
This scene also terrified the remaining Black Templar knights.
Had the Emperor forsaken them? Why? They were his most loyal soldiers!
In the brief moment that shook their core beliefs and cracked their faith, the Imperial Guard moved!
Onos became a streak of gold, moving with such speed he outpaced even Astartes reflexes. Like a shooting star across the night sky, his halberd stroke was precise beyond compare.
With a sharp metallic "clang!", the halberd's tip sliced through the chain, causing Besnos's wrist to tremble. Powerless, the Black Sword slipped from his grip, spinning to land with a thud not far away.
Immediately, Onos swung the polearm's shaft downward, cracking Besnos's leg armor. The fortress lord grunted and collapsed. The Primaris Space Marines leapt in, swiftly pinning him down.
The other Black Templar knights realized what was happening and moved to counterattack, but Datch was faster. The hypnotic Panpipe played again, its lingering, sleep-inducing notes filling the air. Already demoralized by the Black Sword's failure, the warriors had no fight left in them; their eyelids grew heavy, and one by one, they collapsed, disarmed, and had their power packs removed.
Mortian the Chaplain and other Black Sanctuary members who'd been turned into sheep were returned to their human forms. Just as Datch was restoring them, Mortian was forcefully thrown to the ground before he could react. Alongside Besnos, both were made to kneel in front of Angwen's corpse and the bodies of their fallen Black Templar brothers.
These loyal warriors had died for the stupidity and arrogance of just two men.
A Son of Dorn's warrior crouched down and picked the now-ordinary longsword from the ground. And then, something strange happened again! Once it entered the hand of a true Son of Dorn, the faded blade regained its deep, dark luster, as though absorbing light. Faint ethereal glows wound along the blade—its spirit awakened and resonated with the swordsman again.
Somewhere, the Emperor looked out upon the battlefield and allowed himself a faint smile.
Do you feel my favor, O nameless one? This is a privilege I would grant to no other. Don't let this little kindness sway you into sacrificing your life or heart for me. After all… you overthink things.
Datch remained expressionless, not even replying—wounding the Yellow Emperor's feelings deeply.
They offered a blessing so openly and sincerely; the least you could do is show some gratitude!
The restoration of the Black Sword utterly shocked both Lord Besnosburg and Mortian the Chaplain. Even if the sword were merely damaged, they could make excuses—but this made it plain: the Emperor had not approved of their actions.
Why, Your Majesty? We swore our loyalty to you! Those others are all traitors and villains plotting for your throne. Why do you draw close to traitors and push loyal ones like us away?
For Mortian, the thought of being forsaken by the Emperor overwhelmed his fanatical soul. The priest collapsed into a coma.
The instigators of this bloody rebellion were, without argument, Besnos and Mortian.
Onos decided to take them captive and deliver them to Helbrecht, High Marshal of the Black Templars.
As for the other rebel Black Templar knights,
Datch locked them all in the Room of Requirement, confining them and turning them into loyal servants under his command. At this point, the Room of Requirement had been expanded and remodeled by Datch several times; it was no longer the monotonous place it once was, but now boasted a vast interior. At its center stood a sturdy fortress marrying Gothic and functionalist design, with nearby lawns and groves for strolls. But at the room's deepest edge, a bottomless darkness always loomed—a reminder that this was a prison, not a sanctuary.
The likes of Mordachi and Nasri—dark angels who had murdered innocents in the dungeon by accident—had already grown used to their prison life. Their daily routine: machine drills, exploring the fantastical spaces, and reciting prayers to the Emperor. They had no freedom and could not communicate with the outside world; Datch would only allow them a brief stint in realspace when he needed them.
When Black Sanctuary was thrown in with them, Mordachi and the other Dark Angels immediately gave smiles.
Most people confined here had committed crimes for which, despite being found guilty, execution was difficult.
"Everyone, welcome to the prison."
"Don't even think about escape. There's no way out."
Mordachi grinned at the bewildered newcomers from the Black Sanctuary.
…
With everything resolved, Datch finally saw the expected "Mission Complete" notification appear before him.
[Mission Complete!]
You have aided Onos and successfully suppressed the fanatic revolt in Black Sanctuary.
[Quest rewards: 1,000 EXP; 1,000 points; +200 Fame; 1 Frost Dragon Mount]
Datch looked at the Frost Dragon, shrouded in ghostly blue light, in his game inventory. He felt an overwhelming urge to summon it and take it for a spin.
"This is way cooler than a Land Raider or Thunderhawk Gunship—way cooler than my old Pumpkin Fighter."
After glancing around, Datch managed to suppress his excitement.
"Forget it, I'll test this out on a barren planet when I have time. This space is too cramped to move freely. Better not risk damaging NPCs."
With the immediate crisis resolved, Datch took out his teleport gun, set coordinates for the Macragge's Honour, and activated the teleportal. In the next instant, he strode into a magnificent, bustling grand strategy room, filled with a solemn, tense pre-battle atmosphere.
From the vast, curved viewport, one could gaze out over the breathtaking expanse of space, where thousands of warships floated in the void. Countless transports, supply ships, repair vessels, and other auxiliaries gathered around them. The blue glow of engines shimmered like clustered stars, their overwhelming power making the real stars seem dim by contrast. What a glorious sight: "Ships stretching for millions of miles; banners covering the heavens." The vanguard had already rushed ahead, piercing the Nephilim anomaly like the tip of a sword.
As expected, the counterattack from the void necromancers (Necrons) was swift and fierce. The grand strategy room's display screens scrolled with ongoing combat and casualty reports.
As Datch returned to the Macragge's Honour, he happened to witness Guilliman in the middle of a conversation with the Silent King, lord of the Necrons. The Silent King had used some kind of teleportation technology to intrude upon the Macragge's Honour system and create a massive projection in the grand strategy room. The hologram displayed a strange black-metal, stepped pyramid floating silently in space—ancient, majestic, and awe-inspiring. Sitting atop the pyramid was a platform of flat black stone. On the dais, three imposing figures stood tall.
Right at the center, at the highest point, stood the Silent King, Szarekh. Compared with other Necron Overlords, he was taller and more dignified, his form crafted of a special living metal blending white jade and black silver. Countless intricate energy patterns flowed slowly over his body. Unlike most Necron nobility, he wore no gaudy, overblown crown. His face was calm and profound, with two ghostly green flames quietly burning in his sockets. He simply sat with legs crossed but exuded an unparalleled authority, as if he embodied the cold laws of the universe, ruling over all things and ignoring all lesser beings.
To Silent King's left and right, one step lower, stood two other Necron Overlords, both equally tall. The one to the left stepped forward and spoke to the assembly in the grand strategy room.
"Lowly creatures, be grateful for the mercy my lord bestows at this moment, and answer this call for negotiation."
"I am Hapsatra, one of the Triarch Council of the Necrons, loyal servant to the Silent King, His Majesty Szarekh."
Hapsatra's gaze swept over the gathered human generals—especially lingering on Guilliman in the front row, accompanied by a look of clear disdain.
"My lord is an eternal being, one who crushes gods and remakes worlds."
"If you submit, you may remain as the justly subjugated servants and slaves of the Terrifying Ones, prolonging the brittle existence of your kind.
But if you refuse..."
Hapsatra's voice went cold as ice.
"Only complete annihilation—erasure from matter and memory alike—awaits you. All will return to nothingness."
The entire strategy chamber fell silent but for the faint hum of machinery. Anger, humiliation, and tension filled the air. This was no negotiation, but rather, a contemptuous ultimatum—a direct insult to all of humanity.
Guilliman walked to the front with a calm expression.
"I am Roboute Guilliman, thirteenth son of the Human Emperor."
Hapsatra stared at the Primarch.
"Roboute Guilliman… it's wise for you to step forward, that you may represent your lesser kind…"
Was that a racist barb?
"I am the Regent of the Imperium of Humanity," Guilliman said, his authority indisputable. "I represent the Empire, and I rule this galaxy."
"To rule this galaxy?" Hapsatra's tone was openly mocking.
"Ha! That's the most naïve and ignorant claim I've heard since my awakening!
You are but primitive, foolish, lesser lifeforms, parasites who have settled—by chance—upon our ancient territory."
"Even as your 'civilization' reached its pathetic height, you plundered the Necrons' rightful resources and heritage. To us, you are unworthy motes, mere ripples in the endless flow of time!"
Hapsatra's gaze returned to Guilliman, his tone shifting to a patronizing pity.
"You should be grateful the Silent King allows your wretched, pitiful species to continue existing."
"We could wipe you and all your wretched creations from the Milky Way in a moment—without mercy."
Guilliman curled his lips in scorn.
"I thought you'd come to surrender."
"Why would any of my anonymous generals be afraid of you? The Triarch has no right to speak with me—let your Necrons in their prime address me."
"Hmm…" Hapsatra paused in disbelief, wondering if he'd misheard.
"Are you trying to be funny? What a crude, poor joke."
Guilliman asked,
"If this is not a surrender, then what's the point of this visit?"
Hapsatra's arrogance returned.
"Listen well, lowly creatures, to your final verdict: this is the rightful territory of the Nihilakh Dynasty."
"The Imperial fleet must immediately and unconditionally withdraw, and any attempts to interfere with the psychically-shielded Necron territory network are to cease forever."
"Those who do not obey will see their ships and soldiers utterly annihilated."
Guilliman's brow furrowed.
"What about the human residents who lived in this sector? Where are they now?"
"Those humans?!" Hapsatra scoffed.
"They are now the personal property of our species. The Imperium has no say in their disposal or location."
"Furthermore, our race will soon dispatch a formal delegation to negotiate the terms of Imperial submission, the corresponding tribute, and tithes owed to the Silent King."
These words turned the faces of every Imperial commander in the chamber a pale shade of blue—it wasn't just loss of territory or subjects. It was utter humiliations for humanity: the Imperium ruled as a vassal, forced to pay tribute to Xenos overlords. This was the greatest possible insult to ten millennia of Imperial history and the dignity of mankind.
And just as tensions threatened to break—
Screeeeeee—!
Datch, cloaked in his Lich King armor, slid spectacularly into the scene, barreling straight into the Primarch with a loud thud. He approached the holographic projection and closely examined the Silent King.
Everyone in the chamber was shocked by his actions; even the three Necron Overlords were visibly disturbed—these humans are truly rude!
Datch stared intently at the Silent King, searching for info tags. After a long, silent pause, he suddenly wore a look of enlightenment.
"Ah, I remember now! This guy is Szarekh, the Silent King who made a deal with the C'tans and lost both soul and body, running away in the end!"
...
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