They walked through the deep corridors of the fortress, each step taken under the gaze of statues of past Inquisitors.
The faces of these stone statues had long been eroded and blurred by time, but the flaming longswords held high in their hands still gleamed with an unsettling cold light.
The doors to the Daemon Inquisitorial's council chamber slowly opened before them, accompanied by the hoarse chanting of servo-skulls.
The space within the hall was deliberately designed to be suffocating.
Towering holy statues of the Emperor cast judgmental gazes from all directions, miniature surveillance devices embedded in their pure gold pupils, and portraits of successive Grand Inquisitors hung on the walls, each painted with special living pigments that made the eyes of the figures in the paintings constantly follow visitors.
With a soft click, Sima locked the door.
The moment he turned, the benevolent mask on his face vanished as if swallowed by the Warp.
The Inquisitor's face was now as cold and hard as his black armor, and even the whirring gears of his mechanical bionic eye carried a chill.
Sima's metal boot heels clacked on the podium, echoing like a judgment hammer.
He looked down at Knox , his mechanically enhanced eyes gleaming with a cold blue light.
It was said that these bionic eyes could see through three layers of ceramite armor, let alone the pitiful psychological defenses of a mortal.
Suddenly, the wrinkles on the Inquisitor's face smoothed out like melting wax.
The smile was so warm it would make the most devout Ecclesiarchy sisters feel ashamed.
If one ignored the faint electrical hum of the psychic suppressor charging in his sleeve, that is.
"Praise the Emperor."
Sima's voice was like a blade wrapped in honey.
"Your soul is still as pure as a newly manufactured melta bomb."
He deliberately used a Tech-Priest's metaphor, observing Knox 's reaction.
Knox immediately adopted a textbook-perfect posture of piety, his hands clasped in the standard Ecclesiarchy prayer position, the angle of his fingers perfectly conforming to Chapter 17 of the "Guide to Faith Postures."
"Of course," his voice was full of emotion, "I always remember the teachings of the Inquisition."
Sima's bionic eye irises constricted slightly.
Just now, during that seemingly warm exchange of glances, Sima had subtly activated seven layers of psychic probing—from basic mind-reading to soul spectrum analysis requiring a Level Three clearance.
However, all data showed "normal," but it was precisely this excessive normalcy that caused his suspicion index to break through the red alert line.
"Damn it," Sima cursed inwardly, "these readings are so clean they look like they've been formatted by a Tech-Priest."
Meanwhile, Knox maintained a golden-ratio smile, but inwardly he was complaining:
(Do you understand the value of maxed-out magic resistance? I suggest you borrow a Titan from the Grey Knights and try again?)
"Come, tell me about the situation on Planet immor."
Sima's mechanical vocal cords suddenly switched to a gentle mode, as if the psychic scan just now had been an illusion.
He made a gesture, and the servo-skulls in the hall immediately lowered their recording quills, entering a dormant state.
This action seemed considerate, but in reality, it was to ensure that the subsequent conversation would not be preserved by any form of recording device.
Knox 's breathing rate consistently remained at 18 breaths per minute, the perfect value stipulated in the "Inquisition Interrogation Response Manual."
As he began to narrate, even the intonation of his voice seemed calibrated by a sound wave analyzer: "At that time, I thought I would be devoured by a Daemon..."
When he reached the crucial moment, his pupils dilated just right, and his voice carried just the right amount of tremble.
"But just as the claws touched my throat, a light more dazzling than the Terra sun descended."
Sima's mechanical bionic eye recorded that Knox 's heartbeat accelerated by 13.7% when he said this... It perfectly matched the standard physiological response to encountering a miracle.
"I saw... a phantom of the Golden Throne."
Knox deliberately made this sentence sound dreamily hazy.
He knew that in this era of fanatical faith, the more vague the description, the more it would inspire fervent imagination.
Sima's breathing paused for half a second, long enough for his lung replacement valve to emit a slight hiss.
Knox knew his performance was working.
"It seems I truly didn't misjudge you."
Sima's voice suddenly became as smooth as an over-lubricated servo-joint, and as he stood up, the pure gold sashes on his Inquisitor's robe jingled.
"You truly are a saint sent by the Emperor to guide us toward the light."
"What... a saint?"
Knox 's vocal cords tensed just right, his surprised expression worthy of an acting award.
At this moment, his mind was rapidly replaying the scene from that day:
After gaining a wave of "experience points," the cleanup became the top priority.
In previous small-scale operations, he could silently clean up the battlefield like a veteran cleaner, leaving no fault for even the most paranoid Inquisitor to find.
After all, when it came to purifying Chaos corruption, he was far more professional than those fanatics with flamethrowers.
But this time, a Greater Demon-level opponent suddenly appeared, making things tricky.
Solving the problem alone after sending people away was not difficult; the challenge was to provide a reasonable explanation to the Imperium.
The first scapegoat that came to his mind at that time was naturally our esteemed Emperor —otherwise, was he supposed to honestly confess, "I'm Khorne's distant cousin, specially here to send his naughty child back to the Warp"?
So he skillfully activated the half-Waste Mirror of Retribution, weaving a fantasy that intertwined reality and illusion.
This trick had worked flawlessly in past missions, even fooling the Inquisition's most precise psychic detectors.
But even the most perfect performance could not hide a fatal fact:
The "miracle" he meticulously fabricated had now swept across the entire sector like a Warp Storm.
Those Space Marine not only wrote this into their official reports but probably also attached eight volumes of supplementary supporting materials.
Perhaps even the precise angle at which he stood at the time was recorded.
Sima's fervent gaze seemed to want to burn two power armor-sized holes in his face.
Knox could only maintain a stiff smile, but inwardly he was frantically calculating:
How many more "miracles" would he have to perform to maintain this lie?
When the Inquisition finally discovered the truth, how could he secure a comfortable position for himself on the stake?
Although his Underworld enterprise had indeed seen a slight improvement recently, to talk about directly confronting the entire Imperium of Man... that difficulty was probably equivalent to single-handedly challenging a Titan legion with a broom.
...
Sima's mechanical lung lobes slowly expelled a bionic sigh, the grinding of gears particularly clear in the silent council chamber.
"Have no doubt."
His voice suddenly became as rigid as an official announcement on a data-slate, each syllable carrying an undeniable weight.
"This is the Emperor's divine will."
A holographic image projected from Sima's mechanical bionic eye unfolded between them, a long-sealed battlefield record.
The scene from two years ago gradually became clear amidst static interference: beneath a sky torn by a Warp Storm, Sima's purification squad was passing through plague-ridden ruins.
Suddenly, his psychic detector emitted a sharp alarm.
It wasn't detecting Chaos corruption, but rather capturing an abnormally pure energy fluctuation.
The camera zoomed in on a pile of collapsed church arches.
Between twisted rebar and shattered holy icon fragments, they found a young figure in faded priest's robes standing quietly.
What was shocking was that within a three-meter radius around him, the ground remained eerily clean.
There was no blood, no signs of corrosion, as if an invisible barrier had completely isolated all the filth of Chaos.
"Your psychic readings at the time."
Sima's mechanical finger traced the data stream.
"More stable than the purest holy spring. You must understand, the atmosphere of that planet was filled with Warp toxins that could make an Space Marine vomit blood."
Sima's narration in the recording was so excited it changed pitch: "This young priest is simply a living exorcism talisman!"
"I've consulted all the ancient texts."
Sima's voice suddenly lowered.
"Since the Great Crusade era, only one type of existence has been able to maintain absolute purity amidst Warp corruption..."
His mechanical bionic eye gleamed: "That is the sacred power of the Emperor."
Hearing this, a subtle curve appeared at the corner of Knox 's mouth, an expression that was both self-deprecating and mocking of the absurd reality.
His thoughts were pulled back to five years ago.
That was a more... free time, before Sima "picked him up."
At that time, he had just been thrown into this damned galaxy, crashing like an unwelcome boarding torpedo onto some agricultural world in the Cadia sector where even a Navigator would get lost.
This place was so barren that even an Ork would shake his head and leave.
Relying on his "professional expertise" as the Underworld CEO, he quickly found a way to survive in this crisis-ridden universe.
To cover his tracks, he meticulously designed a perfect identity: an itinerant priest, specializing in providing "end-of-life care services" for the deceased on remote planets.
"What a sacred profession!"
Knox in his memory couldn't help but sneer.
He was indeed providing "prayer services"—only the objects of his prayers weren't that old fossil sitting on the Golden Throne, but rather freshly departed souls.
In those days, he was like a diligent agricultural servo, "harvesting" soul crops in the most desolate corners of the Imperium, even humming the tune of the "Ork Happy Song," making this shady business look respectable.
Unfortunately, good times didn't last.
Two years ago, on that damned Tuesday, the sky suddenly turned a nauseating yellowish-green.
A group of joyous Nurglings bounced down, these walking pustules singing off-key nursery rhymes, distributing death plague like candy.
By the time the Imperium's relief fleet slowly emerged from the Warp, the entire planet had become a branch of the Plague Garden.
"That was truly a pleasant surprise."
Knox licked his lips in recollection. Although the Nurgle Demon's aesthetic taste was comparable to roadkill, the widespread death they brought did somewhat improve his nearly bankrupt Underworld enterprise.
If it weren't for Sima, that meddlesome old fellow, suddenly appearing, perhaps several floor tiles on the Bridge of Sighs would have already been laid.
Speaking of Sima... Knox 's thoughts turned to the moment that changed his destiny.
The old Inquisitor's gaze at him then was like a Tech-Priest discovering an intact STC template.
What "Chaos corruption review," it was simply kidnapping in disguise!
After a series of threats and inducements, he inexplicably became this Inquisitor Sima's "chief apprentice," beginning a nine-to-five (if the Inquisition had such a concept) working life.
"At least the food is good."
Knox consoled himself inwardly.
Although he had to face various mentally polluting Daemons every day, it was better than eating synthetic protein on an agricultural world.
And undeniably, it was Sima who showed him the true face of this galaxy: from the interrogation of heretics in the Inquisition's dungeons to the magnificent sight of a planet's atmosphere burning when an Exterminatus order was issued.
Seeing Knox's complex expression as he fell into contemplation, Sima patted his shoulder, pulling him back to reality.
Sima's expression became serious. He brought up this matter not for the other party to reminisce, but with a deeper purpose.
"Knox , listen carefully!"
Sima's voice suddenly became amplified as if through a loudspeaker, even the holy statues of the Emperor on the wall seemed to tremble.
"In the name of Holy Terra—" Sima's mechanical vocal cords switched to sermon mode, each syllable carrying undeniable authority, "I declare, I officially grant you the title of Daemon Inquisitor."
???
Knox 's eyebrows nearly flew into his hairline.
According to normal procedure, it would take at least thirty-seven years to go from junior apprentice to Inquisitor, during which one would undergo twelve soul purity tests and five combat assessments.
Although he had been certified by Sima as "exceptionally talented," and had indeed participated in many actual combat missions over the past two years.
Like that time, the Ixion System purification operation, which made him copy the safety regulations three hundred times afterward.
But his seniority was still ridiculously short, so short that even the servo-skulls in the Inquisition cafeteria hadn't yet recorded his taste preferences.
"Teacher, I think perhaps..."
Knox 's refusal was just on his lips when Sima's palm was already raised, "No need to say more. I'll give you half a month to rest, and then I will announce this publicly."
Sima's voice echoed in the council chamber, his solemn gaze fixed on the holy statues of the Emperor within the hall: "All of this is a manifestation of the Emperor's divine will, and I am merely the humblest executor of His will."
Knox opened his mouth, wanting to say something more, but seeing Sima's fanatical expression, thicker than the walls of Terra, he ultimately swallowed his words.
Since things had come to this, and seeing no room for refusal, Knox simply decided to return to his quarters first, and discuss further after dealing with some matters at hand.
Thus, in the following days, Knox vanished from everyone's sight as if he had evaporated—his concealment rivaling the daily operations of the Alpha Legion.
Those high-ranking individuals who had been observing him found that this young Inquisitor apprentice seemed to be deliberately avoiding all public occasions, secretly handling something.