In the reception hall of Macragge's Honour, terror filled the air like a living thing, clutching the hearts of every person present. Corpses still lay twitching on the floor, limbs spasming in death. Blood fountained from their chests, tracing thick crimson streaks across the marble. The stench was unbearable — the metallic reek of blood mixed with the acrid smell of urine from those who had lost control of their bladders in sheer panic.
Dignitaries and representatives alike trembled, faces drained of color. Datch stood in the center of the blood pool, the Star Spear in his hand still dripping. His gaze swept the room. No one dared meet his eyes. They all feared they would be next.
After confirming there were no red or yellow names remaining, Datch sheathed his weapon and stepped before Guilliman.
"Your Highness, do you have any orders for me?"
Guilliman stared at the Nameless One, momentarily speechless. He had braced for the worst — helping the Nameless Ones crush the massacre, then settling accounts with whoever stood behind it. He had wanted to teach these people never to underestimate the unknown.
Instead, after killing only one man, they had stopped.
Nameless One… your heart is still far too kind.
But don't be afraid. I'm here.
Datch waved a hand in front of the dazed Primarch's face.
"Your Highness, do you have any orders for me?"
Guilliman snapped back to reality and nodded.
"Yes. The Nameless Ones."
The Primarch raised his hand. A massive holographic display unfolded before them. It showed a planet — Vigilant Star. Countless red dots pulsed across its surface, each one a raging battlefield. Data streams flickered and changed in real time: territory held, force ratios, resource consumption. Every number told the same story.
This world was sliding into the abyss.
"The situation on Vigilant Star is dire," Guilliman said, voice grave. "Green-skinned Orks, Genestealers, and Chaos rebels are tearing apart Imperial control. The local forces are on the verge of collapse."
He looked directly at Datch.
"If possible, I want you to reinforce the garrison and protect Vigilant Star."
A mission prompt appeared in Datch's vision.
[Mission: Proceed to Vigilant Star]
Vigilant Star was the linchpin of the Nachmund Sector and the second defensive line against the Chaos incursion pouring through the Cadia Gate. It had been built to be impregnable — fortresses, strongholds, and vast stockpiles of war materiel. Yet Orks, Genestealer cults, and peasant uprisings had turned the region into a quagmire.
Roboute Guilliman wanted you to go there, hold the planet, and keep the Imperium's vital supply lines open.
[Quest Rewards: 1800 EXP, 1800 Points, +500 Reputation, TARDIS Phone Box ×1]
Datch glanced at the rewards out of habit — then his pupils shrank.
TARDIS-type Phone Box.
The name burned into his mind like lightning. The blue police box from the Doctor Who's universe. A time machine that could travel freely along any timeline. With it he could return to the past and stop Horus's rebellion, journey into the future to witness the Imperium's fate, or travel to the very edge of the galaxy.
A smile slowly spread across Datch's face. Guilliman looked puzzled.
What was the Nameless One thinking now?
"Nameless One?" the Primarch murmured.
"I'm heading to Vigilant Star," Datch said, nodding excitedly. "I'll make sure it doesn't fall."
He wasted no more words. From his inventory he drew the teleport gun, entered the coordinates, and pulled the trigger. A green portal tore open. Through the swirling light he could see gray skies and barren ground. Datch stepped through. The portal snapped shut behind him, vanishing without a trace.
Deathly silence fell over the hall.
Only after the Nameless One disappeared did the powerful figures dare to breathe again. Some collapsed. Others leaned against walls, gasping. A few dropped to their knees in thanks to the Emperor.
An elderly noble staggered to his feet, straightened his robes, and forced a servile smile.
"Your Excellency…" His voice still shook. "Since the Nameless One has departed, may we… may we now take our leave?"
Others looked up hopefully. What they had just witnessed had terrified them to the bone. They wanted wine, women, and distraction — anything to erase the memory of that fear.
Guilliman said nothing. He simply stood there, gazing down at them. There was no anger in his eyes. Only pity.
You think you can still walk away alive after angering the Nameless Ones?
What pleasant dreams you must be having.
The Primarch's gaze sent ice down every spine in the room.
"Lord Regent?" the old noble asked again, voice cracking. "What… what do you intend to do?"
Guilliman's voice was calm.
"Your hostility toward the Nameless Ones is not tolerated by the Imperium."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Faces that were already pale turned corpse-white.
"Your Excellency, there has been a misunderstanding! We—"
Guilliman spoke over them.
"You hate the Nameless One only because he revived Malcador. And because Malcador enacted new tax laws, you resent him. The man he just killed was planning to assassinate him. Yet the Nameless One showed mercy. He does not slaughter the innocent."
The elderly noble stepped forward, trembling.
"Praise the mercy of the Nameless One! Since he has forgiven us, let us depart—"
Guilliman shook his head.
"His mercy does not mean this matter ends here."
The Primarch's voice turned cold as the void.
"Since the day the Nameless One appeared in this world, he has helped the Imperium slay countless mighty foes and has revived both Sanguinius and Malcador. We live in constant fear that he might one day vanish… and we dread what would happen if he did."
He looked at the gathered nobles and magnates the way a butcher looks at lambs.
"You live in luxury and have forgotten the sacrifices that keep the Imperium alive. You know nothing of what the Nameless One has done for us."
The corner of Guilliman's mouth lifted in a small, terrible smile — the smile of an angel about to pass judgment.
"Kill them," he told Carken and Sicarius. "Not one is to leave here alive."
The fully armed Custodians moved as one. Golden power armor gleamed under the lumen globes. Power halberds ignited, crackling with destructive energy. They formed a golden wall and advanced.
The Honour Guard — deep-blue armor bearing the golden aquila — sealed every exit under Sicarius's command and drove away any Imperial personnel who looked uncertain. Bolters were already raised.
The first volley turned the hall into a slaughterhouse.
Explosive rounds detonated inside bodies, turning men and women into red mist. Blood and shredded meat painted the walls and ceiling. Screams were drowned beneath the thunder of bolters and the wet sound of power weapons cleaving flesh. Heads flew. Bodies were bisected. Nobles who begged for mercy were cut in half. Those who tried to run were impaled from behind. Those who huddled together were blown apart.
It lasted less than a minute.
When the last bolter fell silent, more than two hundred people had been standing in the hall.
Now only severed limbs and rivers of blood remained.
Guilliman watched without expression. He took no pleasure in this. But allowing parasites to bare their teeth at the Nameless One was something he would never tolerate.
"Clean this up," he said quietly. "Silence everyone who knows what happened here. Then deal with their families and the powers behind them."
Carken and Sicarius saluted as one.
"Yes, my lord."
Guilliman gave the carnage one last glance, then turned and walked away.
Today was another day to demonstrate loyalty to the Nameless Ones.
…
Under the hazy stars of Vigilant Star, Datch knew nothing of the purge.
Even if he had known, he would not have cared. For years he had reigned as the Player. His heart was iron. The lives of NPC insects meant nothing to him.
The moment he stepped through the portal onto Vigilant Star, the world felt alien. A massive rift had torn the sky. The entire planet was steeped in a sick, unnatural atmosphere. The sky was no longer blue or gray but a bruised, living purple-red that pulsed with faint, wrong light. Shadows stretched and twisted in impossible directions, as if they had minds of their own.
The vegetation was equally twisted. Thick, fleshy red succulents throbbed with vein-like patterns. Trees grew in spirals or upside-down, roots clawing at the sky. A wind carried the sweet-rot stench of decay.
In the distance rose a massive hive city, spires vanishing into the clouds.
Datch summoned his hover bike and sped toward it.
Along the road he passed signs written in vivid red:
"Looking at the night sky is forbidden. Violators will be arrested."
"Going out at night is forbidden. Violators will be executed."
Beneath them hung wanted posters — men, women, young and old — all with the same hollow, desperate eyes. Some posters were crossed out in red: executed.
He passed burned-out vehicles and the bloated, maggot-ridden corpses of Imperial Guardsmen. He entered the ruins of a small town where bodies lay scattered in civilian clothes, rebel uniforms, and Guard fatigues. Walls were painted in blood:
"The Emperor has abandoned us!"
"Only Chaos can save us!"
"Kill all the damned nobles!"
Beside the slogans was the eight-pointed star of Chaos.
Datch recovered a data-slate from a dead Guard sergeant. After entering the Inquisitorial override, he gained access to the planetary network.
What he read made even him pause.
The Great Rift had triggered an age of darkness. Wildlife had mutated into monsters. Once-docile herbivores now bore fangs and claws. Carnivores had grown enormous and rabid. Plants had become predatory or ambulatory. Staring too long at the rift caused physical corruption.
Nighttime curfews were absolute. Citizens, already suffering nightmares of turning into monsters or murdering loved ones, were pushed to the brink by sleep deprivation and despair. Underground gangs supplied drugs, weapons, and Chaos texts. Local rulers hoarded resources while the poor starved, using assassins to silence dissent.
Datch stared at the data for a long moment.
"…Do these privileged NPCs even know how to act like human beings anymore?"
The roar of engines answered him.
He climbed a rise and saw them — thousands of green-skinned Orks on bizarre, cobbled-together bikes, thundering across the wasteland. At their head rode the biggest of them all: dark green, two massive tusks, half its body replaced with crude machinery. It gripped a red-painted bike whose front was a giant metal claw still clutching a bleeding head. In its other hand it swung a chainsaw axe bigger than a man, howling at the top of its lungs.
"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!"
The war cry of thousands rolled across the plain like thunder.
Datch looked at his hover bike, then at the approaching green tide.
A game notification popped up in his vision.
…
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