Datch skipped and bounded toward the refugees huddled in the mine. His heavy black boots pulverized the gravel beneath him with every landing. After a few strides he halted abruptly and looked down at himself.
He was still wearing the Cursed Warrior skin — flesh scorched black, wreathed in living flame. If I walk in like this, they'll scream and scatter before I even reach them.
He scratched the back of his head, opened the equipment interface, and swapped skins. The Cursed Warriors were replaced by Imperial Guard troopers; the stone hats that had hidden their true nature vanished. Golden armor materialized across his frame, the shoulder plates adorned with spread wings of the Aquila. A full-face helm engraved with sacred litanies covered his head. A cloak of smooth satin, embroidered with the Emperor's double-headed eagle in gold thread, cascaded down his back and fluttered even in the still air.
In an instant he became a towering blond giant — three meters tall, shoulders nearly two meters across — radiating an aura that screamed Do not approach. Datch examined his new reflection, nodded in satisfaction, and strode into the abandoned mine.
The entrance was narrow, half-choked by rubble and rusted iron fencing. Strange mutated plants with sickly purple leaves clustered around the mouth. From deep inside came a low, chaotic chorus: coughing, the thin wail of infants, and the broken sobs of the hopeless.
Datch's golden boots rang dully on the gravel. The refugees pressed themselves against the tunnel walls, cramming into every crevice. Their clothes were rags, faces streaked with mud and blood, eyes empty of everything except despair.
When the golden giant appeared, those eyes widened. Awe, terror, and one fragile spark of impossible hope flickered to life.
He passed among them. His armor blazed in the gloom, painting their pallid faces in warm light. People instinctively recoiled, flattening themselves against stone as though the mere touch of that golden figure would burn them. Some could not meet his gaze and dropped their heads. Mothers clamped hands over their children's mouths. A few whispered frantic prayers to the Emperor, voices shaking.
From the darkness ahead came the sound of running feet. Several figures burst into view and blocked the passage. Their leader dragged one leg yet moved with unnatural speed, laspistol already raised. Behind him shuffled a handful of emaciated soldiers in tattered uniforms, clutching an assortment of weapons.
The leader wore once-fine silk now caked in mud and blood, torn in half a dozen places. Exhaustion lined his face, but his eyes burned with unyielding fury.
"Stop! Not one step closer!"
The soldiers leveled their weapons. The leader's voice trembled with fear yet remained iron-hard.
"I know you. Imperial Guardsman — what business do you have here?"
Datch said nothing. His gaze alone made the man's hands shake. To anger an Imperial Guardsman was suicide, yet the noble stood his ground before the crowd.
"Has the Emperor not taken enough from us already? Will you continue to plunder in His name?"
He glanced back at the refugees, then looked away, voice cracking.
"Pity them. They have nothing left."
Datch ignored the words and opened the information panel floating above the man's head.
Darak Derrick, Baron — Lord of the Blade Cave District, current patriarch of House Derrick.
When the Blade Cave fell, Darak could have fled. Duty and ancestral oath kept him here. His family had always taught that noble privilege was merely advance payment for a brave death. When the Emperor's trial came, the sons of Derrick must be ready to die — and to kill the Emperor's enemies while protecting the innocent for as long as possible.
Darak had lived that creed. When the gene-stealers rose, he led his household guard without hesitation and had fought every day since.
Datch's brow furrowed. He drew the Golden Hammer and struck.
Clang.
Soft golden light flooded Darak's legs. Broken bones knit, torn muscle regenerated, dead tissue sloughed away. The agony vanished. Darak took one tentative step, then another — then ran. His ruined leg was whole.
He stared at Datch, words tumbling incoherently.
"This… this…"
Datch walked past him toward the wounded soldiers. One by one the hammer fell. In under a minute every injury, every infection, every hour of exhaustion was gone. The soldiers stood dazed, faces cycling through shock, disbelief, and wild joy.
The refugees lost all restraint.
"A miracle…!"
"The Emperor's miracle!"
"He is the Emperor's messenger!"
"The Master of Mankind has not abandoned us!"
They poured from every crevice, fell to their knees, and bowed their heads. Tears streamed. Prayers rose. One man tried to kiss Datch's boot and was gently restrained by the newly healed soldiers.
Datch put the hammer away and produced the Minecraft infinite water bucket. He walked to a flat stretch of tunnel, summoned Zarhulash, and tilted the bucket.
Water thundered out in a sparkling torrent. It spread, pooled, and kept flowing. The bucket never emptied.
The crowd froze, then surged forward. People dropped to their knees, scooping water with bare hands, drinking until they choked, laughing and weeping at once. Some buried their faces in the growing pool.
Datch produced the multiplier and loaves of bread. One became two, four, eight, sixteen… Within moments a mountain of fresh bread stood ready for every mouth in the mine.
Baron Darak watched, hands and legs trembling. His entire body shook.
This… this is the Emperor's own power.
He dropped to his knees with a heavy thud.
"Forgive my earlier insolence! Sinner Darak offers his most sincere apology! I did not know… I did not recognize…"
He faltered, unsure what title to use. Emissary? Divine messenger? Or something greater?
Datch glanced down, then turned and walked out of the mine. Experience and credits flowed in. The exclamation marks above the refugees' heads faded one by one.
No point wasting time on NPCs that offered neither reward nor unique story.
"Pack water and flour. We follow."
Darak was a man of action. If more lives could be saved by attaching himself to power, he would do it.
Datch had barely stepped into daylight when he felt the presence behind him. Darak led a column of soldiers and refugees, carefully matching his pace. They carried the water and bread he had given them, eyes bright with hope and fear.
Datch stopped, bewildered.
Why are they following me? They never did this before.
He remembered past refugee camps. Once fed and healed, those NPCs had stayed put, waiting for Imperial relief. They had homes, communities. But here… only ruins stretched in every direction. Further out, the endless war between environmentalists and gene-stealers still raged. These people had nowhere left to go. Their only hope walked on two legs and carried a golden hammer.
Datch scratched his head, studied their faces — Darak's unyielding resolve, the soldiers' gratitude, the refugees' fragile relief — and sighed.
"The emotion and behavior modules on these NPCs are way too detailed…"
He opened the minimap, plotted the safest route, and deliberately slowed his stride. At the same time he opened the command interface and released the Dark Angels and Black Templars from their holding cells. Mordachi and the other Astartes accepted the escort mission without comment. They formed a loose but unbreakable cordon around the column.
The refugees stared at the fully armored Space Marines in awe, then offered awkward thanks.
Datch led them through the shattered streets of the Blade Cave District toward the next refugee hideout. Twisted girders and collapsed ferrocrete were all that remained of once-proud buildings. Burned-out vehicles and unburied dead littered every roadway. The air reeked of rot, cordite, and blood.
Small bands of green-skinned raiders tried ambushes. Black Templars chainblades roared; bombs detonated. In seconds the attackers were reduced to scattered meat. Dark Angels bolters answered every rear-flank attempt with precise, explosive finality. The refugees watched and smiled for the first time in weeks.
At last they reached the ruined church — once the spiritual heart of the district, now a half-collapsed shell. The spire had fallen; stained glass lay in glittering shards. Yet the main structure still stood.
Inside, more refugees cowered in the deepest nave. When they saw the golden giant, terror seized them anew. Even the sight of the Aquila could not overcome months of betrayal and slaughter.
Datch said nothing. He simply set down the bucket and poured water. Then came the bread and the multiplier. The refugees' expressions shifted from horror to confusion, confusion to shock, shock to rapturous joy. They rushed the water and food like starving animals, laughing and sobbing.
Datch watched the last exclamation marks vanish, nodded, and began swinging the Golden Hammer.
Cracks sealed. Broken pillars realigned. The shattered spire rose again. Shattered bricks leapt back into place. Even the ancient bell — silent for years — was restored and rehung. In five minutes the church stood whole once more, walls pristine, roof solid, stained-glass saints glowing in the sunset. The generator roared to life at a single hammer blow; automated turrets hummed back into readiness.
A functional sanctuary now waited for Imperial relief — or for the refugees to rebuild once the cunning patriarch was dead.
Datch mounted his mechanical steed and rode out. Darak and his followers watched him go, then raised the Aquila salute in unison.
"May the Emperor bless you, nameless traveler. Safe journey."
...
For the next three days Datch ranged across the Blade Cave region. He found every refugee camp, healed the wounded, fed the starving, and repaired every shelter and defense turret he encountered. Between rescues he hunted for the location of the cunning patriarch.
On the third day a surviving power-plant worker gave him the final piece.
The patriarch and his inner circle had burrowed beneath the plasma energy stack at the heart of the facility. Anyone who tried to reach him died.
Datch approached the colossal structure — hundreds of square kilometers of fortress, cooling towers stabbing the clouds. Gene-stealer sentries patrolled every wall and pipe. Purebloods three to four meters tall, claws like scythes, moved with predatory grace. Lower levels swarmed with infected, heavily armed cultists.
A frontal assault would only alert the patriarch and give him time to flee.
Datch activated the molding powder and became a hulking Ork — dark green skin, massive tusks, brutal physique. He marched straight into the nearby greenskin encampment.
No one questioned the newcomer. In Ork society, faces came and went daily.
He found a group arguing over targets and slipped in.
"Waaagh!" he bellowed in perfect Orkish. "We're hitting the sharp-claw bastards hiding in the power plant! Place is stuffed with shiny scrap, big guns, and the best bikes you ever saw!"
The Orks' eyes lit up. Within the hour the entire camp was roaring toward the power plant in a green tide.
While the two factions tore into each other, Datch slipped through the chaos and descended into the reactor core.
Temperature rose with every level. Plasma conduits thrummed overhead. The central chamber was vast; a fifty-meter plasma stack dominated the center, radiating enough heat to melt steel. Curled beneath it was the patriarch — larger than any pureblood, carapace thick as tank armor, four massive claws crusted with dried blood. Dozens of elite guards stood watch.
Datch released his summons without a word.
Skarbrand roared and charged, axe high. The Masque of Slaanesh flowed like living silk through the enemy ranks, blades flashing with hypnotic grace. Zarhulash poured searing energy beams into anything that moved. Pugh bounced wildly, kicking cultists aside. Orange barreled in to protect the smaller summon while the Masque kept at bay.
The patriarch saw the tide turning and lunged at Datch, four claws scything faster than thought. Datch dodged, drove the Star Spear through the carapace, and was hurled backward into the wall hard enough to crater ferrocrete.
"Pugh!" Golden light washed over him, knitting wounds instantly.
Skarbrand's axe bit deep into the patriarch's back. The Masque of Slaanesh blinded him with twin daggers. Zarhulash tore one arm free. The patriarch shrieked, third eye opening, spraying caustic fluid.
Datch drew the Star Spear again, aimed, and hurled.
The weapon became a streak of light. It punched through the patriarch's chest and out his back. The massive creature stared at the smoking hole, then toppled with a ground-shaking crash.
The remaining purebloods broke. Some fought on. Most fled. Skarbrand and the summons showed no mercy.
Minutes later the chamber was silent except for the drip of alien blood.
Mission Complete! Proceed to Hongbei District and eradicate the local cult of the Poor Prince. [Reward: 1500 XP • 1500 Points • Reputation +200]
"Another side quest down." Datch stowed Sadako's videotape and headed back to Supreme Headquarters to claim the next one.
...
The Supreme Command of the Vigilant Star campaign welcomed a most distinguished guest that day.
A Thunderhawk bearing the Ultramarines livery settled on the landing deck. The ramp lowered. Out strode a living legend surrounded by his honor guard.
The herald's voice cracked with emotion as he bellowed:
"Make way for the great protector of Ultramar, Lord of Macragge, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, the Emperor's First Champion, the first hero to raise the Aquila in the realm of the gods — Marneus Augustus Calgar!"
Every soul on the deck dropped to one knee.
Calgar acknowledged them with a single nod and proceeded to the war room. Governor Lucian Agamemnon IX, Supreme Commander Bastian Glick, and Forge-World Sage Nesium Calderak waited with their retinues.
"Lord Calgar," Bastian began, "your presence honors us beyond measure."
"Macragge's protector," Lucian added with a deep bow, "your deeds are sung across the Imperium."
"May the Omnissiah's blessing attend you," Calderak intoned through his vox-grille. "Probability of victory has increased by fifty percent."
Calgar was about to reply when a middle-aged man in dusty, rumpled clothing pushed past the governor and dropped to his knees.
"Lord Calgar! I beg you — deliver justice! Avenge the innocent!"
The room went deathly still.
"The Nameless One!" the man cried, voice breaking. "He incited the mobs of the Deadwood District to slaughter loyal Imperial families and left their corpses to rot in the streets — bodies incomplete, souls denied the Emperor's peace!"
Governor Lucian's face went ashen. They never told me they were going to do this…
Before anyone could react, Calgar's fist lashed out.
The man's head vanished in a red mist. The body remained kneeling for two heartbeats, then blood fountained from the neck stump. The corpse toppled, twitched once, and lay still.
Calgar wiped his gauntlet on a servant's cloth.
"Chaos lies. They impersonate Imperial officials and expect us to believe their slanders."
He looked slowly around the war room. Every officer had gone corpse-pale.
"From this moment forward," Calgar said, voice like distant thunder, "no one will speak ill of the Nameless One. Cross that line and you are a traitor to the Imperium."
He flexed his fingers.
"Now — let us discuss how we will save Vigilant Star."
…
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