Chapter 17: The Emperor’s Angel
Chapter 17: The Emperor’s Angel
“Master, have you summoned me for a command?” Sicarius stepped inside, his eyes fixed on Kiliman seated solemnly, his tone tinged with curiosity.
Kilimam rose, the armor adorning him singing a melodious chime with his movement. He wore that life-restoring armor at all times. This was no mere creation of the Mechanicus; it contained a fragment of the power of Death itself. It was Death’s power that mended the wounds within Kiliman’s soul, granting him resurrection.
In the duel on Sesarra, Kiliman was stabbed viciously by the treacherous Primarch Fulgrim. The blade pierced his neck, casting him into a slumber that lasted over ten thousand years. That wound was not merely physical—it was a scar upon his very soul. Otherwise, even if a Primarch’s heart were torn out, death would not be so instant.
Similarly, the slain Primarch Ferrus fell because Fulgrim wielded a weapon infused with the corrupting power of Chaos; without it, no Primarch could be felled.
To this day, Kiliman has found no way to free himself from this armor. Perhaps when his “Golden Finger” database unlocks its second tier, a solution may be found.
“Star Seers have intercepted a message,” Kiliman began, his voice steady and resolute. “The Sarran system is under siege by the Plague Warriors. They require assistance. I’ve analyzed the message; this system lies along our path. Thus, I have decided to dispatch the Macragge’s Glory, leading a portion of the fleet, to address this crisis. I need you to gather the warriors so that when we emerge from hyperspace, we strike as a unified force. Our speed must be as swift as possible. Once the Sarran system is secured, we will return to the fleet and proceed to the industrial system of Konor.”
Sicarius hesitated, then spoke cautiously, “This mission need not be undertaken by Your Grace personally. Sergeant Fikris can handle it admirably. You should not risk the battlefield; we cannot bear the loss of you.”
“No,” Kiliman’s tone was firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I cannot make decisions and then let others fight in my stead while I hide behind. The fleet will inevitably divide, dispatched separately to aid various systems. I am a Primarch—the Empire needs my victory; its people need my victory. This matter is settled, Sicarius. Prepare accordingly.”
Beyond pacifying the populace, Kiliman harbored his own ambitions for the Sarran campaign. The Lord Commander template could transmute the faith of the Empire’s citizens into power. The greater his renown and the more glorious his victories, the deeper the Empire’s trust in him would grow.
Like the relentless stacking of buffs in the Book of the Canyon, each triumph compounded his legend until none could stand against him.
Kilimam’s enemy had always been clear: the Chaos Gods.
He lived, the Chaos Gods perished.
He died, the Chaos Gods endured.
Their opposition was as sharp as fire and water—irreconcilable and uncompromising. One side must fall for this war to end.
Kilimam would seize every opportunity to bolster his prestige and presence so that the Empire’s people would firmly believe him—the Thirteenth Son of the Empire, the Lord of Ultramar—as their savior.
Hearing Kiliman’s unwavering resolve, Sicarius had no choice but to acquiesce. Bowing his head respectfully, he turned and strode out to rally the warriors aboard the Macragge’s Glory, preparing them to swiftly clear the Sarran system.
Kilimam would personally lead a fleet to save the Sarran system. Other fleets would be commanded by different heroes.
Gathering such a vast armada in one place was powerful, but it could not swiftly restore Ultramar’s stability. The fleet had to be divided. Heroes like Celestine and Amarech would each command a fleet to rescue star systems ensnared by Chaos’s claws.
All fleets shared a final goal: the industrial system of Konor, situated on Ultramar’s outermost border, closest to the Empire’s frontier.
The heroes would approach Konor via different routes, saving systems along the way.
When all fleets reached Konor, the campaign against Chaos within Ultramar would be effectively won, allowing the Empire to extend influence into other star realms.
Saint Celestine, Inquisitor Grey, and other heroes did not wish for the Primarch to personally enter battle, fearful he might be lost as he was ten thousand years ago. Yet Kiliman’s conviction persuaded them to lead their fleets and save those suffering.
Aboard the Macragge’s Glory’s bridge, the servo-skulls connected to the main control center trembled violently, their shaking so severe that the neural cables linked to their cerebral cortexes quivered as well.
The servitors announced in unison, “Coordinates detected: Sarran system.”
The captain, armed with a mechanical arm and electronic ocular implant, scrutinized the myriad data windows before him. “Engage realspace.”
Data officers, propulsion supervisors, and intelligence chiefs updated streams of data at maximum speed, utilizing every mechanical augmentation to better command the colossal vessel.
“Realspace coordinate data parsing complete.”
“Energy conduits rerouting—realspace portal opening.”
“Propulsion systems stable.”
Amid the rapid-fire reports, the twenty-six-kilometer-long Macragge’s Glory burst from hyperspace, trailed by warships of other battle groups fighting alongside Kiliman.
A flood of information surged into the bridge, shared swiftly among the fleet.
The augur array emitted a shrill alarm; the cogitator clicked and whirred at high speed.
“Alert: Chaos vessels detected.”
“Alert: Chaos vessels detected.”
The neural cable-linked annunciator spasmed, the brass voice emitter embedded in its throat rapidly broadcasting enemy data.
“Convert Geller fields to void shields! All units, prepare for battle! Open fire freely! Eradicate these damned traitors and show them our might!” the captain roared, clutching the railing.
On Sarran.
The Grixis Hive City.
This ancient colossal hive had largely fallen under the onslaught of the Plague Warriors.
Surviving civilians had been evacuated to the massive Star Speech Fortress, its void shields still operational—the last bastion for the survivors.
The thunder of artillery fire continued unabated. The remaining planetary defenders clung to the hive’s final fortress, sniping at the Plague Warriors, desperate to halt their advance.
The plague-born undead steadily devoured the defenders’ positions; death’s shadow drew ever nearer, deepening their despair.
Within the fortress, civilians huddled together, seeking warmth and solace from one another—a faint spiritual strength to endure this bleak and hopeless world.
Able-bodied men and women had already been conscripted to the front lines, only to fall as corpses, then rise again as plague zombies.
An ancient woman held two children close. The innocent eyes of the young ones shone with fear and unease; the unspeakable sadness within their gaze was heart-wrenching.
At an age that should be carefree and pure, they already understood the agony between life and death.
Born into a dark age, their vision encompassed nothing but despair and suffering.
Their peaceful lives had been shattered months ago. They watched their father take up arms and follow the soldiers to battle.
They witnessed their mother seized by plague zombies, crying out in agony for them to flee, only to be torn apart.
“Grandma, don’t we always say the Emperor will protect us? Why hasn’t he sent his angel to save us? Why didn’t he save Dad and Mom?” the trembling girl asked, casting a fearful glance at the kneeling worshippers nearby before turning to the old woman holding her.
The grandmother gazed at the girl, forcing down her own dread, and smiled gently. With skeletal, emaciated arms, she drew the child close.
“I don’t know, perhaps the Emperor’s angel is simply too busy.”
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(Second update of the day; intended to be earlier but fatigue overtook me.)
(End of chapter)