Misty Star Territory, Cadia.
The Watcher of the Eye of Terror.
This gray planet, like an old veteran clad in heavy armor, silently stood at the edge of the Eye of Terror.
Its surface was covered with defensive fortifications that had endured millennia of warfare; un-dried blood stained every trench, and exorcism prayers were carved into every gun emplacement.
As the Imperium's most crucial military fortress, Cadia's very existence was an iron curtain stretched between Chaos and order.
At the planet's core, the obsidian spires of Kadia Fortress pierced the leaden clouds.
On normal days, it was so quiet here that one could hear the hum of servo-skulls flying by.
Aside from a few administrative personnel buried in data-slates, most Space Marine and Inquisitors were hunting Chaos heretics in the surrounding star systems.
But today, the Fortress was uncharacteristically bustling, its noise comparable to a harvest festival on some agricultural world.
That is, if one ignored the fully armed guards, the softly chanting Ecclesiarchy priests, and the faint scent of burning holy oil in the air.
The roar of transport engines tore through Cadia's leaden sky, as a thunderhawk gunship bearing the emblem of the Daemon Inquisitorial slowly descended onto the central landing platform of the Fortress.
On either side of the platform, dignitaries from the Cadia sector had already lined up: Planetary Governors wore gold-embroidered robes, Rogue Traders adorned themselves with exaggerated jewelry, and representatives of the Adeptus Mechanicus continuously uttered prayers in binary.
From the crowd, an old man in a paint black robe slowly emerged.
He wore a wide-brimmed Inquisitor hat, and the silver badge on his chest gleamed coldly in Cadia's dim sunlight, while the metallic outline of a psychic suppressor was faintly visible within his wide sleeves.
His appearance instantly silenced the surrounding whispers, as if even the air solidified with reverence.
"Inquisitor Sima, sir…"
A Planetary Governor whispered, unconsciously taking half a step back.
In the shadow cast by the old Inquisitor's wide-brimmed hat, a pair of eagle eyes swept over the crowd.
The silver Inquisition badge on his chest glowed faintly.
Those familiar with the situation knew that this device also served as a portable psychic nullifier, capable of causing collective incontinence among psykers within a fifty-meter radius.
"I heard he just 'disinfected' a certain world with an Exterminatus last month…"
"Shh! His ears are sharper than a servo-skull's!"
Sima's mouth twitched imperceptibly.
He heard these whispers clearly.
Thanks to the Imperial standard issue listening enhancer in his right ear, he could listen to hymns while counting how many ambiguous words like "maybe" were used in a heretic's confession three hundred meters away.
As the shadow of the transport ship enveloped the platform, a figure stepped out from within the hatch.
As one of the highest representatives of the Daemon Inquisitorial on Cadia, Sima von Kleist's archives contained more Exterminatus applications than some planets' tax records.
But at this moment, this old Inquisitor, known as the "Smiling Executioner," actually wore an expression that could be described as benevolent, his gaze fixed on the person emerging from the hatch.
"Welcome back, my dear disciple," Sima's voice was exceedingly gentle.
Knox 's heels had barely touched the ground before he froze, his eyebrows twitching imperceptibly.
It wasn't because of the bustling crowd, but the source of the voice.
The last time he heard Sima speak in such a sickly sweet tone was after the purification operation in the Ixion system.
At that time, he and his squad had completely overturned the Chaos cultists' lair, bringing the Warp pollution index of the entire moon to its lowest value in ten thousand years.
And the result? The old man patted his shoulder, praising "well done," while assigning him the task of hand-copying three hundred times the "Inquisition Psychic Safety Protocols."
And it had to be in High Gothic archaic script; one wrong stroke meant starting over from scratch.
"What? Not used to your master's amiability?"
Sima's fingernails scraped against his wrist-guard, producing a harsh sound.
"This disciple would not dare, it's just seeing such a grand welcoming ceremony, and having you personally greet me, my heart is filled with so much gratitude I don't know what to say."
Knox respectfully bowed his head, his voice imbued with just the right amount of humility, for heaven knew what tricks this old fox was up to again.
As a transmigrator, his ability to survive in the Inquisition until now relied entirely on having "An Actor's Self-Cultivation" and "A Hundred Ways to Pretend to Be Pious" etched into his cerebral cortex.
After all, the price of failing to act was more stimulating than a Slaanesh daemonette performing a lap dance: at best, a VIP one-way ticket on a Black Ship; at worst, a first-class seat on a pyre.
Ultimately, in this fantastical 41st Millennium, the art of manipulating souls, apart from the half-dead old relic on the Golden Throne, was something only the flamboyant lunatics among the Chaos Gods dared to openly engage in.
If he, Knox , were to expose himself, his headshot would surely appear on the Inquisition's "Today's Execution List" tomorrow—complete with a gilded title of "Candidate for Heretic of the Year."
Sima suddenly grinned, his mechanically enhanced teeth glinting coldly: "Don't worry, this isn't about punitive copying this time."
He affectionately put his arm around Knox 's shoulder: "Let's talk privately…"
The intimate gesture between the Inquisitor and his disciple sparked a suppressed commotion in the crowd.
The pure crystal-implanted bionic eyes of the Planetary Governors gleamed with gossip, and the Adeptus Mechanicus's data-slates emitted urgent binary hums.
These dignitaries outwardly bowed their heads respectfully, but secretly exchanged various bizarre speculations through encrypted communication channels.
"I heard this Inquisitor acolyte once served as an attendant in the Imperial Palace on Terra…"
"Absurd! The intelligence I received indicates he is actually the illegitimate son of a certain missing Primarch…"
These whispers spread through the crowd faster than Chaos corruption spread through the lower levels of a Hive City.
But soon, a more important thought occupied everyone's minds. Their true purpose for this journey was to witness with their own eyes the miracle that had shaken the entire sector.
This "Saint" personally blessed by the Emperor.
Just a month ago, an explosive piece of news spread throughout the entire sector via the Astropathic Choir's encrypted channels: the Emperor's glory had once again shone upon humanity!
It was well known that since the Horus Heresy, the Master of Mankind had never left his Golden Throne.
Even the most devout bishops could only glimpse his visage through blurred holy icons.
And now, this legend, considered a myth by countless people, was actually happening in their era!
Even more astonishing was that the witness to this miracle was none other than four Space Marine from the Iron Hands Chapter.
These superhuman warriors, revered as "Angels of the Emperor," vouched with their ironclad credibility, meticulously recording every detail of that divine light.
In the Chapter's official archival documents, they even precisely marked the latitude and longitude coordinates where the miracle appeared, and the refractive index of the holy light at that time—this almost obsessive rigor, paradoxically made the entire event seem even more credible.
"Look at that sacred countenance, the Emperor's selection truly possesses unique insight!"
A Planetary Governor excitedly tore off his meticulously groomed beard, completely oblivious. His data-servitor was frantically recording every subtle expression of the "Saint," preparing to compile a new "Acts of the Saints."
The Adeptus Mechanicus's mechanical arms trembled uncontrollably, and binary hymns spewed from their vocalizers: "01001000 01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01001111 01101101 01101110 01101001 01110011 01110011 01101001 01100001 01101000!" (Hail the Omnissiah!)
The Rogue Traders, meanwhile, had already begun calculating their business plans:
"If we could print his image on indulgences…"
"No, a holographic icon would be worth more!"
"You're too superficial, we should develop 'Saint-themed' rosaries…"
The Ecclesiarchy bishops' faces were flushed, as if they saw the hope of their annual budget doubling.
One elderly cleric even fainted from excitement, and after being revived by his attendants with holy water, his first words were: "Quick! Prepare the 'Canonization Application Documents'!"
Amidst the rising and falling discussions, no one dared to raise any doubts.
In this insane era, the cost of doubting "the Emperor's manifestation" was certainly not something ordinary people could bear.
After all, faith was the most precious currency in this dark galaxy, and this young man before them had suddenly become the wealthiest "faith banker."
However, these dignitaries' wishful thinking was destined to fail.
Inquisitor Sima's broad black robe billowed behind him, like a living black flag, isolating the fervent crowd.
His bionic limb firmly gripped Knox 's shoulder, the force precisely balanced between "master-disciple affection" and "preventing escape."
Knox lowered his head, listening to the crowd's discussions, his mouth twitching as he already anticipated the content of the upcoming conversation.