Chapter 57: The Grey Knight

The vox-communication sounded so divine.

It felt as though one's very soul had been washed clean.

The Living Saint was the embodiment of fervent faith, the manifestation of the Emperor’s will.

Their appearance stood as proof that humanity’s hope had not yet been extinguished.

Felix and Sicarius exchanged a glance. Even though they had stood in the presence of the Saint on multiple occasions, hearing that voice still filled them with involuntary awe.

"Open the void shields. Permit boarding," Guilliman’s voice remained utterly calm.

Accompanied by the shimmering glow of the warp, a group materialized within the bridge command center.

At their fore was Celestine, clad in golden armor, a pair of pristine white wings unfurled upon her back.

Her soft, golden hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and her flawless female visage possessed a nobility so profound that it left no room in the hearts of beholders for even a flicker of desecration.

Standing behind the Saint was a warrior encased in off-white Terminator power armor. His helmet was unclasped and rested at his waist, while a heavy greatsword was bound by chains directly to his gauntleted hand.

"My Lord," Celestine bowed in salutation.

Guilliman nodded, then directed his gaze toward the warrior in Celestine's wake, sensing an aura emanating from him quite distinct from that of a standard Space Marine.

"Allow me to introduce him, My Lord. This is Clovis, the leader and Champion of the Purifier Chapter, belonging to the Grey Knights' Second Brotherhood. I encountered him while in pursuit of traitors. He traversed the raging warp storms to seek you out here in Ultramar, bearing intelligence of the utmost importance."

Celestine stepped aside, clearing the space between Guilliman and Clovis, while introducing the origins of the Grey Knights Champion.

Humanity's eternal nemesis was, and would always be, Chaos.

The ultimate objective of those horrific entities was not the sheer destruction of mankind, but corruption, subjugation, and eternal torment.

The Dark Gods yearned for the cosmos to plunge into perpetual chaos, with all life reduced to mere playthings in their grasp until the day the universe itself expired.

To prevent the Imperium of Man from collapsing, to keep the flame of human civilization from extinguishing in the dark and brutal void, and to preserve a final thread of hope,

the Emperor had left behind a contingency for humanity: the Grey Knights.

Forged by the Emperor and Malcador,

the eight founding members of the Grey Knights had been summoned in strict secrecy toward the twilight of the Horus Heresy and charged with a singular, specialized mission.

These eight founders possessed absolute loyalty to the Imperium and mankind, and they understood the deepest secrets of the warp. Every single one of them had stared unblinking into the face of daemons without suffering corruption.

With the aid of these eight, the Emperor utilized gene-seed belonging to no known Primarch to fashion an entirely new Chapter.

This brand-new brotherhood was stationed upon Titan, the frigid moon of Saturn.

When the Sol System was besieged by Horus and his traitor legions,

the Emperor channeled His immense psychic might to sever Titan from the bonds of physical reality, concealing it deep within the warp.

Only when the dust of the Heresy had settled did they return to the material stars, dedicating themselves wholly to the eternal war against daemons.

Such was the genesis of the Grey Knights.

Neither the civilian populace nor the aristocratic echelons of the Imperium possessed any official records regarding the Grey Knights.

Unlike the preventative measures of the Inquisition's Ordo Malleus,

the deployment of the Grey Knights invariably signaled that a situation had deteriorated beyond all possible salvation.

For a tainted planet, the mildest sentence was total sterilization.

At worst, it meant orbital bombardment and fire-cleansing, leaving not a single soul alive.

Most terrifying of all, the Grey Knights bore no record of betrayal throughout the history of the Imperium.

Their loyalty was absolute.

"My Lord," Clovis saluted Guilliman, his armor's servos humming softly—a testament to the meticulous maintenance bestowed upon his wargear.

"It is a pleasure to meet a Grey Knight. I had half-believed that your kind held certain reservations and would be reluctant to seek me out." Guilliman smiled. There was indeed a contingent of Grey Knights stationed on Macragge, though he had strictly relegated them to overseeing the research of unnatural phenomena.

"The Grey Knights share in the jubilation of the Primarch's return, yet..." Clovis looked at Guilliman, his expression grave, hesitating on the verge of speech.

"Speak your mind freely, Clovis."

"I perceive upon your person the intertwined lifelines of daemons. Forgive my presumption, but are you marked by them?"

Clovis asked with cautious hesitation.

The ability to perceive lifelines was Clovis's innate psychic gift.

He had always been able to witness the thread of fate binding every living soul.

This talent aided him immensely in hunting daemons and pinpointing their vulnerabilities.

"I have been marked since ten millennia ago, Clovis. There is no need to fret over this; they can neither corrupt me nor easily harm me," Guilliman replied with a reassuring shake of his head.

He rose from his throne, descended the dais, and stepped directly before Clovis.

Even encasing his form in Terminator armor, Clovis was forced to tilt his head upward to gaze upon the Primarch's noble countenance.

"My Lord," Clovis murmured respectfully.

"Your blade is unusual." Guilliman sensed the distinct reek of daemonic presence, shifting his focus to the greatsword lashed to Clovis's arm.

Clovis disengaged the magnetic locks and presented the massive sword with both hands.

It was a blade of absolute blackness, etched across its surface with a myriad of twisted runes.

Those carvings radiated malice and corruption; a mere glance threatened to sink hooks deep into a mortal's mind, slowly eroding their sanity.

Those who failed to resist inevitably became slaves to the black sword.

"This is the Cursed Black Sword, sealing within its core a warped entity known as Antar. It fell to my duties as Castellans to stand sentinel over it."

Guilliman reached out and took the black sword into his grasp.

This action caused Clovis's heart to skip a beat. The black sword possessed an extraordinarily potent capacity to corrupt minds.

When the Grey Knights Brotherhood had first discovered the weapon, it had already tainted an entire world, reducing its populace to thralls.

To purge the corruption it radiated, the Grey Knights had been forced to invoke Exterminatus to obliterate the entire planet, taking the black sword into custody and entrusting its containment to their most powerful warriors.

Seemingly sensing the touch of another living soul, the black sword began to shudder, recognizing a potential window for release.

"Release me, and you shall attain supreme power. The entire galaxy shall be molded according to your slightest whim, mortal."

A bizarre, discordant voice echoed directly within Guilliman's mind, causing him to frown.

Clovis, who heard the psychic reverberation as well, turned pale. He should never have brought the black sword into the presence of the Primarch.

"Begone from my mind, wretched daemonic spawn," Guilliman said, staring down at the black sword.

"You dare to hold me in contempt? Do you even know what I am?"

The black sword quivered violently, as though a daemon trapped within the massive blade was thrashing in blind, furious rage.

"A foolish wretch courting its own demise."

Guilliman let out a low growl. The formidable willpower and sovereign authority inherent to a Primarch, combined with the latent power radiating from the Sword of the Emperor, surged forward, slamming ruthlessly into the entity attempting to puncture his mental sanctum.

A shrill, agonizing shriek pierced the air, and the vibrating black sword abruptly fell still.

Clovis stared in utter shock. Ever since he had taken up the black sword, the daemon within had never ceased its incessant babbling, yet now it had been silenced entirely.

Guilliman, by contrast, remained utterly nonchalant.

He had previously humiliated and carved words of defiance into the Great Unclean Ones serving the Dark Gods; a mere warp-entity trapped inside a greatsword, unbound to the Pantheon, stood no chance of posing a challenge to him.

"These daemons are perpetually tedious." Guilliman gripped the hilt, tracing the twisted runes with his gaze before looking back at Clovis. "What capabilities does the entity within possess?"

"I have rarely utilized it. I merely bear this greatsword as a matter of custodial duty," Clovis answered.

"Let us discover what secrets this daemon deigns to share." Guilliman tapped the flat of the black sword with his finger.

"Its words are naught but lies, My Lord. There is no sense in wasting time upon it," Clovis cautioned. "I bear far more critical intelligence that must be delivered."

"There is no rush." Guilliman waved a hand, signaling that Clovis's news could wait a moment longer, and lowered his gaze back to the black sword. "Scoundrels speak falsehoods without hesitation when facing the righteous, yet before those far more ruthless than themselves, they turn docile and desperate to bare their very souls. Do you know why that is?"

Before Clovis could venture a reply, Guilliman supplied the answer himself:

"Because the righteous will not exact retribution, whereas the merciless will subject them to endless torment. Daemons are no different. They act without restraint before the weak, yet cower in absolute submission before the strong."

Under the watchful eyes of Celestine and Clovis, Guilliman strode back to his throne and lifted the Sword of the Emperor. Golden flames flared into brilliant life, causing the eerie runes upon the black sword to shimmer and shift. They recoiled in frantic terror from the blistering heat of the Emperor's blade, skittering across the metal like rats fleeing an encroaching inferno.

A piercing shriek echoed within the minds of all present, dripping with distortion and malice.

"Tell me, daemon, what do you know? Your intelligence shall serve as the sole metric for whether I deign to spare your miserable existence."