On the Hekaton Continent of the planet Pamenio, two colossal hive cities stood tall.
One was the mountain hive of Hekate, the other the port hive of Delos.
The mountain hive Hekate lay cradled within the central mountain ranges of the continent, towering with solemn grandeur. Countless structures, fused seamlessly with the bare rock, climbed the steep slopes layer upon layer, disappearing into the clouds and fog that swirled there all year round. Elevated railways and overhead pipelines, like spiderwebs, linked districts at different altitudes, making the region renowned for its prosperity and openness.
The nation's proud democratic parliamentary system had functioned well for centuries. Citizens enjoyed comparatively broad freedoms, which fostered rationality, self-confidence, and even a faint sense of superiority.
The people of Hekate debated art, philosophy, and commerce, and once shone as the brightest star of civilization on the continent.
Across the wide strait, the hive city of Delos was located on King Kong Island.
This hive was not built on the island but was instead an enormous artificial structure that had risen from the seabed, reinforced and expanded across many generations. It resembled an incredibly complex steel honeycomb fixed directly onto the continental shelf. Its cold, unyielding silhouette was formed of towering seawalls, numerous gun emplacements, and a labyrinthine internal network of control passages.
Because of the long-term threat from mutated marine life and the need to maintain order over vast subsea production facilities, the Delos administration had always enforced an efficient, militarized, and autocratic regime.
The inhabitants' lives were strictly monitored and regulated; personal freedoms were sacrificed in the name of collective survival and production efficiency.
The Hekateans often mocked Delos, calling it a dictatorial cage.
Yet the people of Delos, relatively weak in economic clout and aesthetic discourse, often found it hard to refute such claims. There was even an old saying:
"Better to own a bed in the hive of Hekate than a home in the hive of Tiros."
But when the Plague Fleets of the Death Guard ravaged the skies of Ultramar and brought war and corruption to Pamenio, the fragility and resilience of these two social models were mercilessly tested under extreme conditions.
In the hive of Hekate, the democratic system proved abnormally slow and inefficient in responding to infiltration. Efforts to root out cultists were disastrously inadequate.
This allowed Nurgle's plague-bearing traitors to slip in among the refugees and exploit loopholes in the law, successfully sowing seeds of corruption throughout the city.
When outbreaks of plague erupted simultaneously in multiple districts, the city government was utterly helpless. They could only watch as their beautiful mountain fortress turned into a living hell. Rotten corpses littered the streets. Mutants smashed down doors and tore apart innocent citizens. The former inhabitants had become zombies, wandering the once-bustling plazas and corridors.
In less than a month, the hive city of Hekate collapsed completely under internal implosion and ferocious external assault. It became a gigantic tomb, shrouded in yellow-green pus and fungus. Only a tiny handful managed to escape to the hive city of Delos.
Thanks to Delos's efficient administrative and military-mobilization systems, it was extremely difficult for the plague to spread quietly there as it had on Hekaton Island.
By the time the Death Guard reached its walls, the entire hive was already moving like a finely tuned war machine.
Under the command of Colonel Stevoros of the 99th Regiment of Kos, they had held for four months.
Even so, the colonel knew full well that under the traitors' assault the city could last at most another week before falling.
The city of Delos and its orbital defense grid were still functioning.
The enemy could not approach the city from orbit or from the air. The mine-filled strait itself was also an extremely formidable barrier.
Yet the Death Guard had found a solution: they would build a causeway across the strait.
The traitors stripped ruins from Hekate—architectural fragments, megaliths, even bound corpses—and dragged them away. Day by day, piece by piece, these were pushed into the sea. Warp sorcery bound these materials together in defiance of physical law. The causeway extended slowly yet inexorably toward Delos, like the scythe of Death creeping toward the city's throat.
Colonel Stevoros tried to destroy the causeway with artillery fire, but his plans were thwarted by the plague mists and sorcery unleashed by the Death Guard. He also dispatched suicide squads to blow up the bridge, yet more often than not they succumbed to disease before they could get close.
After repeated failures, the defenders could only watch in impotence as the Death Guard slowly repaired and extended the causeway, like a noose tightening around their necks.
Now, the patience of the Death Guard had been rewarded.
The causeway finally linked both sides of the strait.
The end of Delos drew near.
Ear-splitting air-raid sirens and the deep bellow of battle alarms erupted simultaneously across the outer defense perimeter of Delos.
The sound reverberated through narrow metal corridors and reinforced bunkers. A wave of terror swept rapidly through soldiers and civilians alike. They had steeled themselves mentally for this moment, but when the enemy truly crossed the sea, despair still clutched every throat.
Whoooosh—BOOM!
The first barrage began.
Shells tore through the sky, stained a sickly chemical yellow, shrieking like mournful whistles as they slammed into the meticulously prepared forward positions.
The explosions did not produce the usual flash and shrapnel; instead, thick brown-yellow smoke gushed out. The smoke rose and spread as if it had a will of its own, engulfing a wide area in an instant.
They were gas shells.
Any soldier whose bare skin touched the cloud let out inhuman screams. Flesh blistered and rotted visibly fast; in barely ten seconds, their bodies turned into bubbling, blood-soaked lumps of meat.
Under the yellow sky, those bursting clouds looked like splashes of filthy powdered paint exploding from crushed paper bags, smearing an abstract painting of death across the air.
After two waves of gas, the bombardment did not stop. Instead, it shifted to conventional high-explosive shells. Massive shockwaves deliberately churned the still-lingering clouds of lethal gas and pushed them deeper into the battlefield.
The enemy's tactics were simple yet brutal: first, create a dead zone of poison gas and foul the air; then, use explosives to drive death into every corner of the city and complete the conquest.
"Hold your positions! Check your filter masks!"
"Do not panic! The Emperor is with you!"
"Any man who flees in battle or disobeys an order will be executed on the spot!"
The officers' hoarse shouts echoed from the vox channels into the depths of the bunkers.
At the same time, a horde of undead surged along the causeway, pressing toward the defensive lines. Their numbers were beyond counting, as if every dead soul in Hekate had risen. Some zombies still retained roughly human forms, their skin ulcerated and peeling. Others had transformed into crawling monstrosities with multiple limbs, shrieking endlessly in hunger for living flesh and blood.
The defensive lines responded at once: automated turrets, laser arrays, and heavy explosive bolt guns unleashed a storm of fire. Dense beams and solid projectiles formed a scorching web of death, tearing, toppling, and burning the front ranks of undead to cinders.
It did not matter.
The walking dead knew neither fear nor pain, nor did they know how to dodge. They shambled forward in numb determination, relying solely on their overwhelming mass to break through the concentrated fire.
Soon, the first wave of undead punched through the curtain of flame and crashed into the forward trenches.
A young soldier, too slow to retreat, was dragged down by several zombies. A bone-chilling scream rang out as undead tore at his armor and flesh with fangs and mutated claws. More and more soldiers were pinned down and ripped apart.
"Fall back! Abandon the first line! Withdraw to the second defensive line!"
Colonel Stevoros gave the order as he drew his sidearm. He aimed at the soldier whose body was being shredded and soaked in blood, then pulled the trigger. A single gunshot cut off the screaming.
The colonel stooped, tore the identification tags from the man's neck, and shoved them into his pocket. He knew his actions were cruel, but this was the last mercy he could offer. At least that poor man would not be devoured alive by zombies—or reborn into something far worse.
"Protect the girl! Get her to Sector C-7!"
Stevoros roared, eyes fixed on a white figure at the rear of the position, surrounded by a tight cordon of Battle Sisters. She appeared to be a barefoot girl of perhaps thirteen or fourteen, dressed in a simple white dress. Around her, poisonous gas turned into clean air, and polluted water became pure again. Wounded soldiers who came near her found their infections slowing and the symptoms of plague easing.
The girl in white was one of the reasons the hive of Delos had managed to hold out these four desperate months. Many secretly believed she was a living saint sent by the Emperor out of pity. Her safety had to be guaranteed by any means necessary. Failing that, she must be granted a pure death and never fall into traitor hands.
Whoooosh—BOOM!
Just as Stevoros tried to reach the girl, a piercing whistle shrieked right next to his ear, freezing his spine.
"Artillery! Take cover—"
The blast swallowed his words. A large-caliber shell detonated less than twenty meters away. Stevoros felt an irresistible force slam into him. In an instant, the world went silent; only a high-pitched ringing and blinding white light remained. He was tossed aside like a rag doll. Time stretched, warping into something unreal.
When his consciousness finally reconnected with his body, a wave of agony and vertigo crashed over him. He realized he was lying on his side amid debris; a low buzzing filled his ears. His vision shook and blurred like an old black-and-white film.
He tried to stand, but a jolt of pain and weakness shot through his left leg.
The bone was broken.
Looking around, he saw that the bunker he'd occupied moments ago had become a slaughterhouse. Severed limbs and shattered weapons were strewn amid scorched earth and twisted metal. A few blood-soaked soldiers, miraculously alive, knelt or lay dazed and trembling.
Further away, the battle line had already collapsed. Out of the dense yellow fog of poison strode the swollen forms of heretic Astartes. With heavy, unstoppable steps, they methodically butchered the remaining Imperial troops who were still trying to form a defense.
The soldiers of Kos showed stirring courage. They fixed bayonets, let out desperate war cries, and charged these superhuman monsters. Yet courage in the face of such overwhelming power only led to more tragic slaughter.
The Death Guard swung their corroded chain swords, and the soldiers in their shell armor fell like wheat at harvest.
The dry crack of shattered bone, the dull rip of torn flesh, and the short, pain-filled screams of the dying blended into a single, hideous symphony.
Roaring fanatical prayers to the Emperor, a squad of Battle Sisters charged forward with roaring chain swords and flamers, hurling themselves at the Death Guard. They had resolved to risk everything, luring the heretics into a trap to buy time for Canoness Yolande to escort the saint to safety.
Chain swords struck the Death Guard's heavy armor, showering sparks. Flames from the flamers engulfed the enemy in an instant. Yet warriors blessed by Nurgle barely felt pain. Terrifying strength lay coiled in their bloated frames. Their rusted weapons, seemingly slow, in fact moved fast—precise and deadly—easily rending the Sisters' power armor.
Crimson blood, shattered organs, and fragments of sacred armor splattered across the ground, creating a scene at once tragic and strangely holy.
Stevoros knew the battle was lost, yet he resolved to fight to the end. With his still-functional right hand he groped for his pistol, raised it with trembling aim, and targeted the nearest Death Guard—one who was pinning a Sister to the ground with a power halberd.
He fired.
The las-bolt struck the heretic's helmet, leaving only a faint scorch mark. Shot after shot hit dead-center, but to no real effect.
The Death Guard turned toward him and began a heavy, relentless charge.
"Please… grant mercy to us all."
"For Terra's Throne and the glory of Kos!"
Stevoros shouted as he kept pulling the trigger.
Without warning, a green light flared at his side. In the next instant, a ghostly warhorse wreathed in cold mist burst from a tunnel of light, bearing a knight clad in fierce black armor.
The newcomer swung a massive sword that shone with a cold, moonlike radiance, as though a king of the dead had descended into the mortal world.
The horse's hooves struck the ground without a sound. Ripples of frost spread outward, quietly freezing bloodstains and dust.
The knight raised his dreadful greatsword high and let out a roar that shook the battlefield.
"For mankind, for the Emperor, for the natural disasters, and for great fortune!"
Before the last word left his mouth, the spectral steed surged forward, turning into a pale afterimage that slammed straight into the Death Guard, hurling him aside. In the same breath, the knight brought the giant sword down in a vertical arc. A brilliant, icy crescent of energy swept from the blade.
Shrrrip—!!!
There was no shrill screech of metal—only the smooth sound of a hot knife slicing through butter.
The bloated Death Guard was cleaved cleanly in two by the sword's moonlit power.
The cut surfaces were coated in thick, frigid ice crystals.
For a heartbeat, the knight's sudden appearance plunged the entire battlefield into a hush like death. The Death Guard's frenzied assault, the defenders' desperate resistance, even the undead's numb advance—all seemed to halt.
Countless eyes, filled with fear, confusion, and disbelief, fixed on the knight atop the spectral warhorse, wreathed in an aura of death.
Are you seriously cosplaying as a knight on a ghost warhorse right now?
Do you think you're some medieval grandpa who once speared a Void Dragon?
Plop. Plop-plop.
Wrapped in green light, a chubby little boy named Pugh hopped down from Datch's shoulder. Pugh lay flat on the ground and pressed his small hands to the scorched earth.
Puff.
Centered on Pugh, a warm, vivid emerald halo spread in an instant like a gentle tide, covering the entire front line. Wherever the light reached, miracles occurred.
The dense mass of plague-ridden undead—grotesque, horrific—collapsed as if their strings had been cut. Immediately, plants sprouted from the soil at visible speed, quickly covering the rotting world in fresh green. Poisons and stench in the air were swept away, replaced by the clean fragrance of growing things.
Wounded soldiers watched in disbelief as their bleeding stopped, pain faded, and even itching wounds began to calm. Those lightly infected with the plague, whose skin had ulcerated, saw scabs forming rapidly; dead skin flaked away, revealing healthy new flesh.
Colonel Stevoros felt something amiss and looked down at his broken left leg.
The fracture was wrapped in a soft green glow. Bones slid back into place, knitting together; muscles and fascia regrew at astonishing speed; the intense pain ebbed like a receding tide. Within barely ten seconds, he tested his ankle—though faintly weak, it was fully healed.
"Your Majesty… is this your mercy?" the colonel whispered as he struggled to his feet.
"Feel the terror of the gods!" Zarhulash roared, unleashing blazing beams that exploded among the enemy.
"Chop! Chop! Chop! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Skarbrand bellowed as he charged into the densest cluster of Death Guard. With a single axe blow he split a fully armored champion in half, the force of the strike sweeping away scores of nearby cultists.
The Changeling floated above the battlefield, casting mind-warping spells that confused the Death Guard. Their attacks frequently went wide; some even struck their own allies.
Amid blood and flame, Masque of Slaanesh whirled in a terrible waltz of death, reaping enemy lives. Mounted on his mechanical warhorse, Datch launched repeated charges, cutting down the unlucky again and again.
The crumbling battle line was completely reversed by his arrival.
From the depths of the fog came the low, urgent blare of a retreat horn.
The Death Guard, sated with slaughter, abandoned their prey without hesitation and withdrew into the thick mists behind them.
The sorcerers fled as well, fearing the attention of the Nameless One.
Outlandish rumors about the Nameless One had already spread through the warp and among the hosts of Chaos. Many daemons called him "the absurd god who walks among men." Whether in the Immaterium or the material universe, he always found some absurd way to claim victory.
Riding his mechanical warhorse, Datch advanced to the edge of the hive city. Only after he watched the enemy retreat across the strait back to the Hekaton Continent, shrouded in dense fog and rot, did he reluctantly pull on the reins. He turned his mount and followed the minimap's marker to search for the girl.
The survivors cheered, then quickly fell into grief. Too many had died. No triumph could drown out the sorrow of those who had lost loved ones. Piles of identification tags were gathered and stacked into small mounds.
When Datch appeared, the soldiers saluted him with the imperial eagle. They did not understand his bizarre attire, but they knew he had saved them.
Datch rode through the crowd on his mechanical steed, heading straight for the white-robed girl—until Stevoros and his men moved to block his path.
"Sir, I have one question…" Stevoros began.
"This is a trial. No questions. Move," Datch said curtly. He ignored further talk and took out the inquisitorial seal he'd received from Philia.
Stevoros used the augmetic eye implanted in his socket to scan the seal in Datch's hand. It was indeed from the Inquisition. The colonel's expression turned conflicted.
He glanced toward Sister Yolande, silently asking for guidance. Yolande stepped protectively in front of the girl in white.
"My lord, you may belong to the Inquisition," she said, "but matters of sanctity and evil fall under the primary authority of the Ecclesiarchy."
…Uh-huh.
Hearing the NPC's words, Datch suddenly felt that being an Inquisitor alone wasn't enough—he needed to get himself a Pope title too.
He pulled out his hypnotic panpipes, ready to put everyone under. At that moment, the girl in the white dress finally spoke.
"Let him come," she said.
Her voice was soft yet carried unmistakable authority. Yolande looked back at the girl, intent on refusing, but the instant she saw the golden light flicker in those eyes, she relented.
"Make way," the high-ranking nun ordered.
The Star Guardians and Battle Sisters stepped aside to open a path.
Datch dismissed his mechanical warhorse and slid forward in a smooth tackle, stopping right in front of the girl. He opened her information panel. At the same time, a system panel that only he could see popped up before his eyes:
[Fourteen-year-old Nameless Girl, Human Vessel of the Emperor]
"She really is a loli Emperor!!"
Datch muttered to himself as he sized her up.
The girl was barefoot, her white dress immaculate, looking like pure innocence. But on closer inspection, faint golden cracks shone beneath the skin of her exposed arms and neck. It was a sign that the Emperor's power was tearing this vessel apart.
Datch took out Golden Hammer and, under the watchful eyes of Sister Yolande and Colonel Stevoros, gently tapped the girl once.
A metallic clang rang out.
The cracks running through the girl's body knit back together, allowing her to survive a while longer.
"What did you do to the saint?" Sister Yolande stepped forward, ready to drive Datch away.
The girl in white shook her head slightly, signaling her not to act rashly. Yolande could only retreat in silence.
Datch put away the golden hammer and studied the girl, who now seemed to have a question mark floating above her head.
"Little sister, is there anything you want your big brother to do?" he asked.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" the girl replied, staring at Datch. Shyness and trust mingled in her brown eyes.
"If it's reasonable, I can help," Datch said.
"I want to free the Emperor from the Golden Throne…"
"Skip."
(Emperor: ...)
Please. Sitting on the Golden Throne is very comfy, you know?
You didn't actually think I wanted to leave the Golden Throne, did you?!
It's not that I don't want to—it's just, I was asking.
The girl paused, then smiled. She did not know why she was smiling, only that something truly amusing had just happened.
"Can you restore Pamenio to its former glory and beauty?" she asked. "I don't want any more war. I don't want to watch so many people die every day."
A task panel appeared.
[Quest: End the War on Pamenio]
An orphaned girl looks upon her war-torn homeland and longs to end this terrible nightmare. Please help her.
[Reward: 800 XP, 800 points, Reputation +100]
A side quest—very nice, Datch thought, nodding.
"Don't worry, little sister," he said. "I'll help you end this war on your planet."
Seeing this, Sister Yolande opened her mouth, intending to question Datch again about his identity and purpose—but then…
Suddenly!
High above Pamenio's murky yellow sky, blinding flashes burst forth, as though ripping the heavens open. Even from the ground, one could feel the violent surges of energy rolling through the atmosphere.
The Imperium's main fleet, with support from interstellar navigation, had reached Pamenio's outer orbit.
At its head sailed the Macragge's Honour, leading a massive formation of dozens of Imperial warships. They launched a saturation bombardment against the Death Guard fleet in orbit and the corrupted defense platforms.
Titanic batteries roared in unison. Searing lances of light tore through the void, and countless torpedoes streaked toward their targets. At the same time, a titanic shadow, like a small moon, slowly slid into planetary orbit.
That was Galletan Fortress—a mobile interstellar fortress over a hundred kilometers in diameter, fully capable of destroying a planet. Once deployed as the final defensive line of the Macragge system, it had now been moved along its orbital path to the front at Pamenio.
Its mountain-sized gun arrays rotated and opened fire in unison, turning multiple space stations into blazing fireballs. Under such overwhelming firepower, the Death Guard fleet was forced to withdraw, abandoning their hold on orbit and retreating into the depths of space.
Within a short time, the Imperial fleet seized complete control of Pamenio's orbital space. Immediately afterwards, the Macragge's Honour issued the order for a full-scale planetary assault.
["Ground forces, this is Regent Roboute Guilliman speaking. Orbital space is clear. We have secured air superiority."]
["From the hive city of Tiros, we now begin a full-scale counteroffensive against the Hekaton Continent."]