"Why? Why is this happening?!" The psyker roared, slamming his fists onto the table buried beneath a mountain of splayed out animal bones. "This isn't how it was supposed to go!"
He had suffered all his life because of his psychic gift. It was only thanks to the ultimate sacrifice of his parents, who smuggled him from the spire down to the underhive, that he had escaped the fate of being taken by the Black Ships.
Haunted by the horrific visions brought on by his unstable powers, he had ultimately turned to the embrace of the Grandfather—believing that only the Eternal, Kindly God could truly love and accept all beings equally. For seven years, seven months, and seven days, he had meticulously orchestrated a plan to spread His benevolence. But now—what was this?
Those so-called warriors of the Emperor—what in the warp were they?!
Bleeding and dying in the name of the Emperor, yet did they even understand how their rotting corpse of a god, slumped upon his throne, truly viewed the likes of mutants and psykers?
"No—no! I still have a chance! We still have a chance!" he snarled, flipping the entire table in a fit of rage. "A grand sacrifice! A glorious ritual to open the gates to the Empyrean! I will summon the true might of the Grandfather's Garden!"
Yes. Yes!
Although six of his seven pre-prepared strongholds had been overrun by those mad-dog zealots, drowning in their own blood, they had paid a high price. One remained. One final chance.
And even now, he still had more than enough—seven hundred and seventy-seven devout followers to break open the sacred gateway. He was certain they would gladly offer themselves up to win that honor.
"Send the word. Begin the summ—"
"You won't be summoning anything."
A cold, razor-sharp voice echoed from the far side of the corridor. Female. Unrelenting. Layered with menace, it rolled through the dark like a tide.
The psyker froze.
Spinning around, his followers reacted just as swiftly, raising their weapons and opening fire.
Each of these cultists wielded rare and precious bolt weapons, sized for mortal hands—either stolen or traded through unspeakable means. Muzzle flashes illuminated the darkened corridor for a breathless instant, and in that flicker, a violet blur darted forward with unnatural grace.
"Xenos scum!" the psyker cursed. "What are those idiots in the Arbites and Inquisition even doing, letting abominations like you live?!"
But Kia gave no answer.
Dodging bullet after bullet with almost impossible precision, she surged forward. In one fluid leap, she decapitated two cultists mid-air.
"For the Emperor!"
She shouted with glee. At close range, the cultists abandoned their bolters and drew all manner of scavenged melee weapons to buy the psyker time to escape—bone daggers, rusted swords blessed by their foul god, every edge turned toward her.
It didn't matter.
To Kia, they were nothing.
She danced through the battlefield like a storm given form. Each step graceful, every slash precise. Blood bloomed in the air like scattered petals, painting a grotesque yet mesmerizing scene that only the damned could appreciate.
Kill. Kill. Kill!
No thought. No hesitation. Just the rhythm of endless slaughter.
She slipped through their clumsy swings, harvesting heads like wheat. In just eight seconds, the corridor's walls and floor were slick with heretics' blood.
"Blood for the God-Emperor!"
Kia howled, eyes wild with joy. These cultists were no challenge. As a third-generation assassin breed, she was born a killer—engineered to excel at infiltration and elimination.
Her mission? Behead the psyker. And if discovered early? Cut down every fool who stood in her way.
"Skulls for the Golden Throne!"
She cheered, silently tallying her kills.
Eight hundred eighty-seven.
That was her body count so far. And now, only one target remained.
With a wicked grin, Kia licked the blood from her lips, gripping her bone-blade tighter as she pursued her prey.
The psyker's head…
It would be the crowning piece—atop the pyramid of skulls offered to the God-Emperor Himself.
"You won't get away, cowardly heretic!" she roared, darting after him like a panther on the hunt. Despite a full day of killing, she felt no fatigue—only the exhilaration of war thundering through her veins with each falling head.
"Stop! Face me!"
As the distance between them closed, her smile widened—a predator's grin. After all, some scholars claimed humanity's smile was a leftover relic of ancient beasts baring fangs.
"Damn you, alien freak!"
Gritting his teeth, the psyker knew he couldn't outrun her. Instead, he turned and channeled raw psyker energy into his limbs, enhancing his bioelectric field. Sparks flared from his fingers.
A Psybolt—basic, but deadly. Though often mistaken for elemental lightning, it was actually a biotic manipulation of the body's own energy.
Kia twisted her body with inhuman agility, narrowly avoiding the crackling streak. Her predatory mind had already mapped his every move, calculating the bolt's path before it left his hand.
"Your skull is mine, psyker!"
She ducked low, nearly parallel to the floor, then slammed her palm down to spring forward. Her blade flashed—cold and crimson. One arm fell to the floor, severed.
"!"
The psyker stumbled back, jaw clenched tight as he drew on the warp, forcing the energies into his wound.
Seal the flesh. Regrow!
He had learned this trick from a warrior in the Garden of the Grandfather—a gentle, rot-ridden teacher who claimed to be Mortarion's spawn. The man had taught him how to channel psychic strength, but scoffed at the idea he might become anything like him.
Would things be different had that teacher accepted him?
He didn't know.
All he knew now was the terror—raw and paralyzing. The Grandfather's mercy had numbed his pain, but not his fear.
"Don't come any closer! You monster! Stay away!"
In blind panic, the psyker unleashed a wave of psychic energy. A crushing tidal force slammed into Kia's chest, choking her.
Still, she advanced.
Crossing her twin blades before her, she pushed forward one step at a time, an unstoppable embodiment of death. The psyker could see it—her wounds multiplying, her blood spraying—but she never stopped.
No. No!
He pulled on the warp with reckless desperation, casting every spell he knew: Life Leech, Fleshcraft, Boil Blood—
Boom!
The unstable surge backfired, annihilating his remaining arm. Smoke clouded the hallway as Kia lunged through it like a specter. Her raised blade gleamed blood-red. Somewhere, a brass bell seemed to toll.
"The eight hundred and eighty-eighth."
Kia said calmly, lifting the severed head in her hand.
Far away, thousands of her kin were engaged in similar purges. Her mission—the execution of this psyker—was her duty, her honor. But the remaining cultists? They would be judged by the millions who followed behind.
Thus, the plague and farce unleashed by heretics… was at last brought to an end.