"Do you repent?!"
The roar echoed through the palace courtyard, punctuated by the rhythmic, wet thud of armored fists.
"Heretic, I ask you again! Do you repent?!"
Marcus, the Chief Librarian of the Blackwatch, was a man of cold logic, but being called a 'daemon' by a primitive chieftain had ignited a thousand years of suppressed fury. Every strike was a fusion of physical force and psychic trauma. Marcus didn't just hit T'Challa's body; he hit his mind.
If not for the Vibranium-weave of the Panther Habit, T'Challa would have been reduced to a slurry of broken bone and pulp within the first few seconds. But even the world's most advanced kinetic armor had its limits. It could absorb the shock, but it couldn't stop the internal organs from rattling or the brain from bruising under the sheer frequency of the assault.
Marcus had a dozen ways to kill the Black Panther, but he chose the most visceral. He wanted the boy-king to break.
"Tsk..." Olsen watched from the perimeter, his arms crossed over his massive chest-plate. "You shouldn't have provoked him, boy. Librarians are dangerous enough when they're calm. Marcus? He's the most unstable soul in the Company."
To these former Fallen Angels, 'daemon' was a curse that cut to the marrow of their shame. In the old days, such an insult would have earned T'Challa a slow death by flaying in the deepest cells of the Rock.
Seeing T'Challa finally go limp, his breath coming in ragged, bloody gasps, Olsen stepped forward. "Enough, Marcus. If you kill him, Emrys will have our heads. He's no use to the Lord as a corpse."
Marcus paused, his glowing eyes dimming slightly as he regained control. He let out a final, huffing breath of psychic static.
"Strip him," Olsen commanded. "Chain him. Let the city see their 'God' in irons."
The legendary Black Panther, the pride of a golden civilization, was dragged through the dust like a common cur. The Vibranium suit was peeled away, leaving T'Challa battered and half-naked, bound by heavy cold-iron chains around his neck.
The squad continued their march, Marcus dragging the King behind him with one hand. They hadn't gone a hundred yards before they encountered the Dora Milaje.
Okoye stood at the head of a hundred spears, her face turning a ghastly shade of gray as she saw the Prince. The savior of Wakanda, their indomitable guardian, was being dragged through the dirt like a slave.
"Prince T'Challa!" she screamed, her voice cracking. The sight of their champion—beaten, stripped, and humiliated—was a psychological blow that hit harder than any bolter round. "Royal Guard! Charge! Rescue the King!"
She raised her spear, her eyes bloodshot with a mix of terror and suicidal rage. "For Bast! For Wakanda!"
"Bast?" Marcus's voice was a low, chilling rasp. The air around him began to frost, and the very stones beneath his feet cracked under the sudden weight of his psychic presence. "You cling to false gods and idols while the Emperor's shadow falls upon you? You are not just heretics—you are blind."
Olsen didn't stop him this time. These guards weren't on the 'Essential' list.
Marcus didn't even raise his hand. He simply focused his mind.
"Mind Burst."
A psychic ripple, invisible but lethal, expanded from the Librarian. It hit the charging Dora Milaje like an unseen wall. There was no sound of impact, no spray of blood. One moment they were screaming war cries; the next, a hundred women collapsed in unison, their brains turned to ash by the sheer intensity of the Warp-strike.
Silence returned to the street, broken only by the sound of falling bodies.
"Simple. Efficient," Olsen noted, stepping over the fallen guards without a second glance.
The conquest of the palace wasn't a siege; it was a walk through a graveyard. The Wakandan defense had completely disintegrated. The psychological shock of seeing their gods defeated and their elite guards extinguished by a thought had broken the people's will to fight.
By the time they reached the throne room, the rest of the company was reporting in.
"Sector Seven secure. The Great Mound is ours. The Shuri girl is in custody," the comms crackled.
"Herb gardens occupied. All cultivars secured for transport."
Olsen stood on the palace balcony, looking out over the silent, terrified city. The smoke was clearing. The "war" was over.
"Chapter Master," one of the veterans asked, his voice sounding oddly hollow. "Do we set up defensive perimeters? Should we prepare for the counter-attack? Will they bring out their heavy walkers? Their Titans?"
Olsen sighed, the sound echoing in his helmet. "No. There are no Titans. There are no Knight-Legions. There aren't even any Orks, brother."
"So... that's it?" The veteran sounded exasperated, even offended. "We spent three hours in prayer and anointing for... this? We've seen hive-gangs in the under-levels of Necromunda put up a better fight."
"It's over," Olsen confirmed.
A nearby Dark Angel kicked a piece of golden furniture across the room, muttering under his breath. "What kind of 'Penitent Crusade' is this? This isn't an atonement; it's a vacation."
Olsen didn't disagree, but he didn't have the energy to argue. He looked at the cowering Wakandan nobles huddled in the corner.
"Quiet, brother. A mission is a mission. Just... try not to look so disappointed in front of Lord Emrys."