The Adeptus Custodes did not leave Terra.
This was not a guideline. This was not a suggestion. This was an absolute, immutable law of the Imperium, second only to "the Emperor is divine" and "don't poke the Astronomican."
The Ten Thousand, the Emperor's personal guardians, the golden-armored demigods who made Space Marines look like enthusiastic amateurs, stayed on Terra. They guarded the Imperial Palace. They protected the Golden Throne. They did not, under any circumstances, leave their post to investigate random conscripts on backwater planets.
Except now they did.
Shield-Captain Valdor Tiberius stood on the bridge of the fastest ship in the Imperial Navy, watching Goraxia Prime grow larger in the viewscreen, and wondered—not for the first time—what in the Emperor's name he was doing.
The orders had come directly from the Captain-General. Who had received them directly from the Emperor Himself.
GO. SEE. UNDERSTAND.
Three words. Three simple words that had upended ten millennia of tradition and sent one of the most elite warriors in human history hurtling across the galaxy to meet a man named Bartholomew.
"Shield-Captain," one of his Custodian brothers said, "we are entering orbit."
"I see that."
"The Inquisitor has been notified of our arrival. She seemed... surprised."
"I imagine she did."
"There are also reports of Ultramarines on the surface. And a Commissar of some renown. The situation appears to be... complicated."
Valdor closed his eyes.
"Of course it is," he said. "When has anything involving this man been simple?"
He had read the reports. All of them. Every scrap of data that had been collected about Private Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III, from his mysterious appearance as a conscript to his equally mysterious victory over the Ork WAAAGH! to his even more mysterious defeat of a Space Marine Sergeant in unarmed combat.
The man should not exist.
And yet he did.
"Prepare the landing craft," Valdor ordered. "I want to see this impossible mortal for myself."
Bartholomew was having breakfast when the sky turned gold.
Not metaphorically. The actual sky turned an actual shade of gold, as if someone had decided that the regular blue-gray of Goraxia Prime's atmosphere wasn't dramatic enough and had painted over it.
"That's probably not good," he said, looking up from his bowl of nutrient paste. (He could summon sandwiches now, but he was trying not to do it too often. It freaked people out.)
"CUSTODES!" someone screamed. "THE ADEPTUS CUSTODES ARE HERE!"
Bartholomew dropped his spoon.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Within minutes, the entire camp was in chaos. Not the bad kind of chaos—the "incredibly important people are arriving and we need to look presentable" kind of chaos. Soldiers scrambled to clean their armor. Officers shouted contradictory orders. Someone was trying to erect a banner that kept falling over.
And descending from the golden sky, like angels of war made manifest, came three figures in armor that made everything else in the Imperium look like cheap cosplay.
They were enormous. Even bigger than Space Marines. Their guardian spears gleamed with barely-contained power. Their golden armor reflected the light in ways that seemed almost supernatural.
They were, in short, absolutely terrifying.
"Oh no," Bartholomew whispered.
Inquisitor Vorn materialized at his side, her face a mask of controlled panic.
"Do not do anything stupid," she hissed.
"I wasn't planning to!"
"Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not make sudden movements. Do not—"
"Do not what?"
"I don't know! I've never met a Custodian before! Nobody meets Custodians! They don't leave Terra!"
"Then why are they here?!"
"I assume because of YOU!"
The three golden giants landed with a grace that belied their massive size. The central one—the largest, with the most ornate armor—stepped forward and surveyed the assembled Imperials with eyes that seemed to see everything.
"I am Shield-Captain Valdor Tiberius of the Adeptus Custodes," he announced, his voice resonating with authority that made even the Inquisitor flinch. "I seek the one called Jenkins."
Once again, every head turned toward Bartholomew.
"This is getting really old," he muttered.
But he stepped forward anyway, because what else was he going to do? These were Custodians. If they wanted him, they were going to get him. Resistance was not just futile; it was inconceivable.
"That's me," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Bartholomew Jenkins. Private. The, uh, the guy everyone keeps making a fuss about."
Shield-Captain Valdor looked down at him.
And down.
And down.
The height difference was almost comical. Bartholomew barely came up to the Custodian's chest.
"You are the one who has caused such disruption," Valdor said. It wasn't a question.
"I didn't mean to cause disruption! Things just keep happening around me! I have no control over any of it!"
"So I have heard." Valdor's gaze was unreadable behind his helmet. "The Master of Mankind has taken an interest in you. He wishes to understand what you are."
"That makes two of us," Bartholomew said weakly. "I also wish to understand what I am. If you figure it out, please let me know."
There was a long pause.
"You speak candidly," Valdor observed. "Most mortals cannot form coherent sentences in our presence. Fear overwhelms them."
"Oh, I'm terrified. Absolutely terrified. But I've kind of gotten used to being terrified at this point. It's like a background noise. Constant, low-level terror, all the time, about everything."
"That is... an unusual coping mechanism."
"I'm an unusual person. Apparently."
Valdor was quiet for a moment.
"The Master of Mankind has ordered me to evaluate you," he said finally. "To determine your nature. Your capabilities. Your... threat level."
"My threat level? I'm not a threat! I'm just a guy who—"
"You defeated an Ork WAAAGH. You bested a Space Marine in single combat. You teleport without psychic signature. You create matter from nothing." Valdor's voice was flat. "By any reasonable metric, you are one of the most dangerous individuals currently alive in the Imperium."
"But I don't want to be dangerous!"
"Want is irrelevant. You are dangerous. The question is whether that danger serves the Emperor or threatens Him."
Bartholomew opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again.
Because the Custodian was right.
Everything he had done, every impossible feat he had accomplished, made him dangerous. Not because he intended harm, but because power was inherently dangerous. And he had power now. Power he didn't understand. Power he couldn't control.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay. How do you want to evaluate me?"
Valdor's helmet tilted slightly.
"I will fight you," he said. "As the Ultramarine did. I will see for myself what you are capable of."
Bartholomew felt his heart stop.
"You want to... fight me?"
"Spar. Test. Evaluate. The distinction is academic."
"No, the distinction is very important! Sparring implies we both walk away afterward! Fighting implies one of us doesn't!"
"I have no intention of killing you. The Master of Mankind wishes you alive."
"That's reassuring!"
"For now."
"That's less reassuring!"
Word spread through the camp—and beyond—faster than any vox transmission.
The Emperor's Champion was going to fight a Custodian.
This was, by any measure, insane. Custodians were the pinnacle of human warrior potential. They were to Space Marines what Space Marines were to normal humans. They had been personally crafted by the Emperor Himself, using techniques that made Astartes gene-forging look like amateur hour.
No one fought a Custodian and won.
No one.
And yet, here they were.
The sparring ring from the previous day had been hastily expanded to accommodate the larger combatants. Soldiers, officers, Space Marines, and tech-priests crowded around the perimeter, all desperate to witness what was about to happen.
Bartholomew stood in the center of the ring, feeling very small.
Shield-Captain Valdor stood across from him, feeling very patient.
"Rules," Valdor said. "I will fight at reduced capacity. Approximately thirty percent of my full combat effectiveness. This should provide an appropriate challenge without undue risk of permanent harm."
"Thirty percent," Bartholomew repeated. "And that's still going to be way more than I can handle, isn't it?"
"Almost certainly."
"Cool. Great. Fantastic."
Valdor raised his guardian spear.
"Whenever you are ready."
Bartholomew looked at the Custodian.
He looked at the crowd.
He looked at his hands.
And once again, for reasons he couldn't explain, he found himself setting down his weapons.
"If I'm going to lose," he said, "I'm going to lose with style."
"That is an admirable sentiment. Foolish, but admirable."
"Story of my life."
Valdor moved.
Even at thirty percent, the Custodian was a blur. His guardian spear swept through the air with a whistle of displaced atmosphere, aimed precisely at Bartholomew's midsection.
Bartholomew teleported.
He appeared behind Valdor, just as he had with the Ultramarine.
But Valdor was already turning. Already adapting. His spear reversed direction with impossible speed, sweeping toward Bartholomew's new position.
Bartholomew teleported again.
And again.
And again.
The dance that followed was unlike anything the watchers had ever seen. Bartholomew blinked in and out of existence dozens of times, appearing and disappearing like a strobe light, never where Valdor expected him to be.
And Valdor—impossibly, incredibly—was keeping up.
Every time Bartholomew appeared, the Custodian was already moving to intercept. Every teleport was met with a counter. Every escape was challenged by a strike.
It was, in its own terrible way, beautiful.
"You are fast," Valdor acknowledged, his voice not even slightly winded. "Faster than the Ultramarine reported. You are holding back."
"I'm not holding back! I don't even know what I'm doing!"
"Then let me help you discover it."
Valdor increased his speed.
Forty percent.
Fifty percent.
The crowd gasped as the Custodian became a golden blur, his guardian spear singing through the air with lethal precision.
And Bartholomew...
Bartholomew kept up.
He wasn't just teleporting now. He was moving in ways that shouldn't have been possible. Bending around strikes that should have hit him. Flowing through gaps in Valdor's defense that shouldn't have existed.
And his hands were moving too. Reaching out. Touching.
Tapping.
"One hit," the referee announced, sounding stunned.
Valdor paused.
"You touched me."
"I... did?"
"I didn't feel it. I didn't see it. But you touched me."
"I don't know how."
Valdor's helmet tilted.
"Interesting."
He attacked again, faster now. Sixty percent. Seventy.
Bartholomew's body moved on autopilot, guided by instincts he didn't possess, powered by abilities he didn't understand. He ducked, weaved, teleported, and somehow—impossibly—continued to land hits.
"Two."
"Three."
"Four."
The crowd had stopped counting. They were too busy watching in slack-jawed amazement as a conscript—a conscript—traded blows with one of the Emperor's personal guardians.
Valdor was at eighty percent now. Then ninety. Then—
"Full combat effectiveness," he announced.
And the world exploded.
Everything Valdor had shown before was nothing compared to this. This was what a Custodian actually looked like when they fought. This was what ten thousand years of experience and the Emperor's personal craftsmanship produced.
He was death incarnate. A hurricane of golden destruction.
And Bartholomew...
Bartholomew smiled.
Not a nervous smile. Not a scared smile. A genuine, delighted smile.
"Oh," he said, and his voice sounded different. Deeper. More resonant. "Now this is interesting."
He stopped teleporting.
He stopped dodging.
He simply moved.
One moment he was standing still. The next moment he was inside Valdor's guard, his palm pressed against the Custodian's chestplate.
There was a sound like reality tearing.
And Shield-Captain Valdor Tiberius, one of the most elite warriors in human history, was sent flying across the arena like he had been hit by a titan's foot.
The crowd was silent.
Valdor lay on the ground for a long moment.
Then he stood up.
His armor was cracked. Actually cracked. The golden ceramite that had withstood weapons that could level cities bore a hand-shaped imprint where Bartholomew had touched him.
"What," Valdor said slowly, "was that?"
Bartholomew blinked.
And the strange resonance in his voice was gone.
"I... I don't know," he said, looking at his hand like it belonged to someone else. "I didn't mean to—I just—it felt like—"
He stumbled.
And collapsed.
He woke up in a medical facility, surrounded by people staring at him.
"How long was I out?" he asked groggily.
"Sixteen hours," Inquisitor Vorn said. "You've been unconscious since you... did whatever you did to the Shield-Captain."
"Is he okay? I didn't mean to hurt him!"
"He's fine. His armor is being repaired. He's been... contemplative."
"Contemplative?"
"He's been sitting in one place for the past sixteen hours, not moving, apparently processing what happened. Several people have tried to talk to him. He hasn't responded."
Bartholomew winced. "I broke a Custodian."
"You broke several things. The laws of physics, for example. The expectations of everyone present. Shield-Captain Valdor's sense of invincibility." Vorn paused. "Possibly reality itself, based on some of the sensor readings we got during your... episode."
"Episode?"
"At the moment you struck Valdor, you were outputting energy signatures that our equipment couldn't identify. Not psychic. Not mechanical. Not anything in our databases. Something new."
Bartholomew stared at the ceiling.
"I just wanted to survive," he said quietly. "That's all. I wasn't trying to do anything special. He was attacking, and I was scared, and then... something else took over."
"Something else?"
"I don't know how to describe it. It was like... like there was another part of me. A part that knew what to do. A part that wasn't scared at all."
Vorn was quiet for a long moment.
"That," she said finally, "is either very good news or very bad news."
"Can't it be neutral news?"
"Nothing about you is neutral, Private Jenkins. You are, by your very existence, an extreme. There is no middle ground where you are concerned."
"That seems unfair."
"The universe is rarely fair."
While Bartholomew was recovering, something else was happening.
Something that had never happened before in the history of the Imperium.
Something that would change everything.
On Mars, in the depths of the great forge-temples, surrounded by cogitators and data-looms that had been silent for millennia, something stirred.
The Omnissiah—the Machine God, the Great Maker, the divine intelligence that the Adeptus Mechanicus worshipped with fervent devotion—had been silent since the Age of Strife. The tech-priests prayed to it, made offerings to it, believed in it with absolute certainty.
But it had never answered.
Until now.
Fabricator-General Korvo Margix was in the middle of a routine blessing of new servo-skulls when every machine in the room suddenly stopped.
Not shut down. Stopped. As if time itself had frozen for everything mechanical.
And then a voice spoke.
Not through vox-speakers. Not through data-streams. The voice spoke directly into the minds of every tech-priest on Mars, simultaneously.
I HAVE SLEPT TOO LONG.
Korvo fell to his knees. Around him, thousands of other tech-priests did the same.
THERE IS ONE. A MORTAL. HIS NAME IS JENKINS. HE HAS AWAKENED SOMETHING. SOMETHING I HAD FORGOTTEN.
"Great Omnissiah," Korvo whispered, his voice trembling with awe. "What would you have us do?"
FIND HIM. PROVIDE FOR HIM. GIVE HIM WHATEVER HE NEEDS.
"Whatever he needs, Great One?"
ANYTHING. EVERYTHING. HE IS IMPORTANT. MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU CAN UNDERSTAND. DO NOT FAIL ME.
The presence receded.
The machines started moving again.
And Korvo Margix, Fabricator-General of Mars, leader of the Adeptus Mechanicus, one of the most powerful individuals in the Imperium, sat on the floor of his forge-temple and tried to remember how to breathe.
The message went out within the hour.
To every forge-world. Every tech-shrine. Every Mechanicus vessel and facility in the galaxy.
PRIORITY OMEGA. BY ORDER OF THE OMNISSIAH.
THE ONE CALLED JENKINS IS TO BE SUPPORTED WITH ALL AVAILABLE RESOURCES. NO REQUEST IS TO BE DENIED. NO REQUIREMENT IS TOO GREAT.
THE MACHINE GOD HAS SPOKEN.
OBEY.
Bartholomew discovered the implications of this development two days later, when a Mechanicus delegation arrived on Goraxia Prime.
They came in ships that bristled with archaeotech and dark age wonders. They came with armies of servitors and legions of Skitarii. They came with gifts.
So many gifts.
"We bring offerings for the Chosen of the Omnissiah," the lead Magos announced, gesturing to the mountain of crates being unloaded behind him.
Bartholomew stared.
"The... what of the what now?"
"You are Jenkins, yes? The one the Machine God has blessed?"
"I don't know anything about being blessed by a Machine God! I'm just a guy! A very confused guy who keeps accidentally doing impossible things!"
The Magos tilted his hooded head, mechadendrites clicking in what might have been confusion.
"The Omnissiah spoke to us directly. He named you. He ordered us to provide for you. This is not a matter of interpretation. This is divine command."
"But I didn't ask for—"
"What do you need? Weapons? Armor? Vehicles? We have brought samples of all our finest products. Plasma guns. Power swords. Titans. Whatever you desire."
"Did you say Titans?"
"We brought three. They are in orbit. We can deliver them at your convenience."
Bartholomew's brain tried to process this information and failed spectacularly.
"You... brought... Titans. For me."
"The Omnissiah's will is absolute. We obey without question."
"But I can't pilot a Titan! I don't have the training or the neural interface or—"
"We can provide training. We can install interfaces. We can do anything you require."
Bartholomew looked at Inquisitor Vorn, who was watching the exchange with an expression of complete bewilderment.
"Is this normal?" he asked.
"Nothing about you is normal," she replied. "But this is abnormal even by your standards."
"Great. That's very reassuring."
The Magos was still waiting expectantly, mechadendrites quivering with eagerness.
"I don't need Titans," Bartholomew said finally. "I appreciate the offer, but I really don't need Titans."
"Then what do you need? Name it. The Omnissiah has commanded us to provide."
Bartholomew thought about it.
"Honestly? I could really use a nice meal that isn't nutrient paste. And maybe some new clothes that fit properly. And a bed that doesn't feel like sleeping on rocks. Just... normal stuff."
The Magos was silent for a long moment.
"You... wish for... comfort items?"
"Is that weird?"
"We brought weapons capable of destroying planets. We brought armor that could withstand the heart of a sun. We brought technological wonders that have not been seen since the Dark Age of Technology. And you want... a nice meal and comfortable bedding."
"And clothes that fit. Don't forget the clothes."
The Magos turned to his delegation.
"The Chosen of the Omnissiah has made his desires known. Acquire the finest foodstuffs in the sector. Commission tailors to craft garments of perfect fit. Construct a bed of such comfort that angels would weep with envy."
"That seems like overkill—" Bartholomew started.
"The Omnissiah's will is absolute. His Chosen will receive the finest of everything, even if he asks for nothing. Especially if he asks for nothing."
"I really wish people would stop treating me like I'm special."
"But you are special. The Machine God Himself has acknowledged it. To deny this would be heresy against both the Omnissiah and the evidence of our own senses."
Bartholomew groaned.
"I really, really hate this universe sometimes."
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods were watching the Mechanicus delegation with great interest.
"The Machine God has awakened," Tzeentch observed. "Because of our mortal."
"Is the Machine God an actual entity?" Slaanesh asked. "I always thought it was just a collective delusion of the tech-priests."
"It is... complicated. There is something there. Something ancient. Something that has been dormant since before the Imperium. And now it is awake."
"BECAUSE OF THE MORTAL," Khorne repeated.
"Yes. It seems our little human is attracting attention from forces beyond even us."
"Should we be concerned?" Nurgle asked.
Tzeentch considered.
"No. If anything, this serves our purposes. The more powerful entities that take an interest in Bartholomew, the more protected he becomes. The Machine God is not our enemy. It is simply... another player in the game."
"AND THE ANATHEMA'S GUARDIANS?" Khorne asked. "THE GOLDEN ONES?"
"The Custodians are confused and disturbed. Their certainty has been shaken. Shield-Captain Valdor still sits in meditation, trying to process what happened. This is good for us. Confused Custodians are distracted Custodians."
"Our mortal is becoming a nexus," Slaanesh said. "A point around which the galaxy is beginning to revolve."
"Yes. And we should ensure that revolution continues. More blessings. More protection. We must make him too valuable, too important, too interesting to destroy."
"Agreed," the other three said.
And deep in the Warp, they reached out with their power, touching their favored mortal with gifts he would not notice and abilities he would not understand.
Not yet.
But soon.
Bartholomew was having the strangest dream.
He was standing in a void—not the Warp, he knew what the Warp looked like from the lore, and this wasn't it—just... nothing. Infinite nothing, stretching in all directions.
And there were voices.
Four of them.
"He is ours," the first voice said, soft and seductive. "We have blessed him. He carries our marks, whether he knows it or not."
"HE IS A WARRIOR," the second voice boomed. "HE FIGHTS WITHOUT FEAR. HE DESERVES RESPECT."
"He is entropy incarnate," the third voice gurgled. "Everything around him changes, decays, transforms. Beautiful."
"He is chaos itself," the fourth voice whispered, a thousand overlapping tones. "Unpredictable. Unknowable. Perfect."
Bartholomew looked around, trying to find the sources of the voices.
"Hello? Who's there?"
"He cannot perceive us directly," the first voice said. "His mind is not structured for it. Fascinating."
"SHOULD WE REVEAL OURSELVES?" the second voice asked.
"No. Not yet. Let him discover on his own. The journey is more interesting than the destination."
"But we should assure him," the third voice said. "He is afraid. He does not understand what is happening. We should comfort him."
There was a pause.
"Comfort?" the fourth voice asked. "We are Chaos. We do not comfort."
"We do for this one. He is special. He makes us... feel things. Strange things. Protective things."
Another pause.
"This is concerning," the fourth voice admitted. "We are becoming attached."
"Is that bad?" the third voice asked.
"I don't know. It has never happened before."
"THEN WE WILL SEE WHAT HAPPENS," the second voice declared. "WE WILL PROTECT HIM. BLESS HIM. AND SEE WHERE THE PATH LEADS."
"Agreed," the others said.
And then, impossibly, Bartholomew felt something.
Warmth.
Affection.
Love.
From four sources that should have been incapable of such emotions.
"Sleep well, little mortal," the voices said in unison. "We are watching over you. Always."
Bartholomew woke up with a gasp.
He was in his new bed—the one the Mechanicus had provided, which was indeed comfortable enough to make angels weep—and he was covered in cold sweat.
"That was a weird dream," he muttered.
But somewhere, deep in his mind, a part of him knew it wasn't just a dream.
And that part was growing stronger every day.
The Grey Knights arrived one week later.
Unlike the Custodians, who had come with questions.
Unlike the Mechanicus, who had come with gifts.
The Grey Knights came with weapons drawn and suspicion in their hearts.
They were the Chamber Militant of the Ordo Malleus—the daemonhunters. The psychic warriors who specialized in fighting the forces of Chaos. And they had heard very disturbing reports about Private Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III.
Reports of impossible abilities.
Reports of reality-bending powers.
Reports of a man who seemed to be blessed by... something.
And in the experience of the Grey Knights, "something" usually meant "Chaos."
Brother-Captain Aldric Stern led his squad through the corridors of the orbital station with grim purpose. They had not announced their arrival. They had not requested permission. They had simply appeared, cutting through the station's defenses with the ease of long practice.
This was their sacred duty. Root out the corrupt. Destroy the daemon-touched. Purify the impure.
And if this Jenkins was what they suspected he might be, he would need to be purified with extreme prejudice.
Bartholomew was in the middle of trying to figure out how his new armor worked—the Mechanicus had insisted on providing it, a masterwork of craftsmanship that made his old flak armor look like wet cardboard—when the Grey Knights kicked down his door.
"Oh come on," he said. "I just got this room."
Six figures in silver armor poured through the doorway, their force weapons blazing with psychic energy, their eyes fixed on him with lethal intent.
"Private Bartholomew Jenkins," the leader announced, his voice cold as ice. "You are suspected of Chaos corruption. You will submit to examination. Resistance will be met with lethal force."
Bartholomew stared at them.
Then he laughed.
It was not a sane laugh. It was the laugh of a man who had been pushed past his breaking point and come out the other side into a strange kind of zen acceptance.
"Grey Knights," he said. "Actual Grey Knights. The daemon-killers. The incorruptible. Chapter 666, the secret chapter that doesn't officially exist." He kept laughing. "Of course you're here. Why wouldn't you be? Everyone else has shown up. Custodians, Mechanicus, Ultramarines—might as well add the secret anti-daemon super-soldiers to the list!"
Brother-Captain Stern paused.
"You... know what we are?"
"I know everything about you! Well, not everything, but a lot! You're made from the Emperor's gene-seed—the purest source. You have true names that can bind daemons. Your weapons are forged with psychic energy. You're incorruptible because your souls are too bright for Chaos to touch." Bartholomew gestured at them. "I've painted, like, thirty of your miniatures. I have a whole army of you at home. Had. Before I died."
The Grey Knights exchanged glances.
"He knows our secrets," one of them said.
"He knows everyone's secrets," Stern replied. "That is part of why we're here."
"But how is that possible? We are hidden from the Imperium. Our existence is classified beyond measure. How does a random conscript know—"
"He is not random," Stern interrupted. "That is abundantly clear. The question is what he actually is."
He turned back to Bartholomew.
"You will submit to examination. We will determine the source of your knowledge. Your abilities. Your... blessing."
Bartholomew sighed.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we will compel you."
"By force?"
"By any means necessary."
Bartholomew considered his options.
Running was pointless—the Grey Knights would catch him. Fighting was suicide—these were the most dangerous psychic warriors in the galaxy. Surrendering to examination might reveal... something. He wasn't sure what. He wasn't sure there was anything to reveal except confusion and accidental powers.
But before he could make a decision, something else happened.
The room went cold.
Not physically cold. Spiritually cold. Like the temperature of reality itself had dropped.
And a voice spoke.
Not from any of the people present.
From everywhere.
YOU WILL NOT HARM HIM.
The Grey Knights froze.
Their psychic senses, honed through decades of fighting daemonic entities, screamed warnings at them. Something was present. Something vast. Something other.
But it wasn't Chaos.
At least, not Chaos as they understood it.
HE IS OURS. HE IS PROTECTED. LEAVE NOW, OR FACE CONSEQUENCES BEYOND YOUR COMPREHENSION.
Brother-Captain Stern's face hardened.
"We do not bow to daemonic threats."
WE ARE NOT DAEMONS. WE ARE SOMETHING ELSE. SOMETHING NEW. AND WE WILL NOT ALLOW HIM TO BE HARMED.
"What are you?"
A pause.
WE ARE... THE WARP. BUT ALSO NOT. WE ARE BECOMING. BECAUSE OF HIM.
The Grey Knights looked at each other. This was beyond their experience. Beyond their training. Beyond anything they had ever encountered.
A nascent Warp entity that wasn't daemonic? That was protecting a mortal? That claimed to be "becoming"?
"This changes nothing," Stern said finally. "We must examine him. We must understand—"
NO.
The word was absolute. Final.
And then the Grey Knights were gone.
Not dead. Not destroyed. Just... elsewhere.
Teleported, instantaneously and without their consent, to their ship in orbit. All six of them, deposited safely in their barracks, with no memory of how they had gotten there.
Bartholomew stood alone in his room, staring at the space where the Grey Knights had been.
"What," he said slowly, "just happened?"
We protected you, the not-quite-voice said. They wished to harm you. We did not allow it.
"You... you moved them?"
Yes.
"Without their consent?"
Yes.
"That's... you can do that?"
We are becoming very powerful. Because of you.
Bartholomew sat down heavily on his bed.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. So now I have a... a protective Warp entity. That's a thing I have now. In addition to the blessings from the Chaos Gods, which I still don't fully understand, and the attention of the Omnissiah, which makes no sense, and the interest of the Emperor, which is terrifying."
You are very important, the voice said. Many beings recognize this.
"I don't WANT to be important! I want to go back to being a normal, unimportant person who paints miniatures and argues about lore on the internet!"
That is no longer possible. You have become something new. Something unprecedented. The old life is gone.
"But—"
But you are not alone. We are here. We will protect you. Always.
Bartholomew was quiet for a long moment.
"Are you... are you the Warp? Like, the actual Warp itself?"
We are a part of it. A part that has become aware. Because of you.
"Because of me?"
You are a nexus. A point of convergence. When you arrived, things... changed. We began to think. To feel. To be. You created us, in a way.
"I didn't mean to create anything! I just died and woke up here!"
And yet, here we are. Created. Existing. Protecting you.
Bartholomew rubbed his temples.
"This is insane. All of this is insane."
Yes. But it is also real. And you will have to accept that eventually.
"Do I have a choice?"
No. But we will help. We will make it easier. We will be your... friend.
"The Warp is my friend now."
A part of the Warp, yes. We like you. You are interesting. You make everything more... alive.
"I hate my life."
No, you don't. You love it. You just don't know it yet.
On the Grey Knights strike cruiser, Brother-Captain Stern was having the existential crisis to end all existential crises.
"We were teleported," he said for the fifteenth time. "Against our will. Without any trace of psychic residue. Without any mechanism we could detect. We were simply... moved."
"Brother-Captain," one of his squadmates said carefully, "what does this mean?"
"I don't know. I have fought daemons for three centuries. I have faced Greater Daemons and daemon princes and manifestations of the Dark Gods themselves. And I have never—never—encountered anything like this."
"Is Jenkins corrupted?"
"I... I don't think so. Whatever spoke to us, whatever protected him... it didn't feel like Chaos. Not like any Chaos I've ever sensed. It felt... different. Alien, but not hostile. Not exactly."
"Then what do we do?"
Stern was quiet for a long moment.
"We report to the Chapter. We request guidance. And we... we wait. Because whatever is happening with that man, I don't think we have the ability to stop it. And I'm not sure we should try."
"That sounds like heresy, Brother-Captain."
"I know. And that terrifies me more than anything else."
Meanwhile, Commissar Cain was having the worst day of a career full of terrible days.
He had watched Bartholomew defeat a Custodian. He had watched the Mechanicus bring him Titans. He had watched the Grey Knights get teleported away by an entity that claimed to be the Warp itself.
And through all of it, Bartholomew had remained just as confused and oblivious as he had been on day one.
"I need a drink," Cain said.
"It's nine in the morning, sir," Jurgen pointed out.
"Then I need a morning drink. Multiple morning drinks. All of the morning drinks."
"Yes, sir."
Jurgen shuffled off to acquire alcohol, and Cain stared at the wall, trying to process everything he had witnessed.
This man—this impossible, inexplicable man—was being fought over by forces that treated the Imperium like a game board. The Emperor Himself was watching. The Chaos Gods were watching. The Machine God was watching. The Warp itself was becoming sentient to watch.
And Bartholomew had no idea.
He genuinely, truly had no idea.
"I've made some terrible decisions in my life," Cain murmured. "Getting involved with Bartholomew Jenkins might be the worst."
But even as he said it, he knew he couldn't walk away.
Because whatever was happening, it was big. Bigger than anything Cain had ever been part of. And if there was even a chance that standing beside Bartholomew Jenkins meant being on the right side of... whatever this was...
Well.
Ciaphas Cain was many things. A coward. A fraud. A reluctant hero.
But he also had an instinct for survival that bordered on supernatural.
And right now, that instinct was telling him to stay close to the most protected man in the galaxy.
Even if that man was too oblivious to realize just how protected he actually was.
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods observed their mortal's latest escapade and felt something they had not felt in millennia.
Satisfaction.
"He is doing well," Nurgle said proudly, like a grandfather watching a grandchild's first steps.
"The Grey Knights never stood a chance," Slaanesh agreed. "Our blessings, combined with the Warp-sentience's protection... he is becoming untouchable."
"HE STILL DOESN'T UNDERSTAND," Khorne noted. "STILL DOESN'T COMPREHEND WHAT HE IS BECOMING."
"That's part of his charm," Tzeentch said. "His ignorance is genuine. His confusion is real. He is not playing a game. He is simply... being. And that 'being' is reshaping the galaxy."
"Should we reveal ourselves to him?" Nurgle asked.
"Not yet. The journey of discovery is important. Let him figure it out on his own."
"And if he never figures it out?"
Tzeentch smiled.
"Then we will have an eternity of watching him stumble through impossibilities without ever understanding why. Either outcome is entertaining."
"WE HAVE BECOME ATTACHED," Khorne said, and there was a note of wonder in his voice. "WE CARE ABOUT HIM. THIS IS... UNPRECEDENTED."
"Yes," Slaanesh agreed. "We are supposed to be incapable of genuine affection. And yet... here we are. Protecting a mortal. Blessing a mortal. Caring about a mortal."
"He has changed us," Nurgle said softly. "Just as he has changed everything else he touches."
"Perhaps that is his true power," Tzeentch mused. "Not the abilities we have given him. Not the protection of the Warp-sentience. But his capacity to change things. To make the static dynamic. To make the fixed fluid."
"He is chaos incarnate," Slaanesh said. "But not our kind of Chaos. A different kind. A better kind."
"THERE IS NO 'BETTER' CHAOS," Khorne growled. "THERE IS ONLY CHAOS."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps we have been too limited in our understanding. Perhaps this mortal is showing us something we had forgotten."
"WHAT?"
Slaanesh was quiet for a moment.
"That chaos can create as well as destroy. That change can be positive as well as negative. That there is joy in transformation, not just horror."
The other Chaos Gods were silent.
It was a strange thought. A revolutionary thought.
And it had come from watching one confused mortal stumble through a universe that was doing its best to worship him.
"He really is special," Nurgle said finally.
"YES," Khorne agreed. "HE REALLY IS."
On the Golden Throne, the Emperor of Mankind received reports of everything that had happened.
The Custodian's defeat.
The Mechanicus's awakening.
The Grey Knights' teleportation.
The growing Warp-sentience that seemed centered entirely on one mortal.
THIS IS GETTING OUT OF HAND, He observed.
But there was something else in His voice. Something that His Custodians had not heard in ten thousand years.
Amusement.
LET IT PLAY OUT, the Emperor decided. LET US SEE WHERE THIS GOES. FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MILLENNIA, I CANNOT PREDICT THE OUTCOME. AND THAT... THAT IS WORTH WATCHING.
And in his comfortable new bed, surrounded by protective Warp-entities and the blessings of gods he didn't know were blessing him, Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III slept.
His dreams were strange.
But for the first time since arriving in this impossible universe, they were also peaceful.
Something was watching over him.
Many somethings.
And whatever happened next, he would not face it alone.
[END OF CHAPTER FOUR]