The Emperor of Mankind was having what could only be described as an awkward moment.
This was notable because the Emperor did not have awkward moments. He was the Master of Mankind, the Omnissiah, the Lord of Terra. He had conquered the galaxy, created the Space Marines, and held back the forces of Chaos through sheer psychic will for ten thousand years.
Awkwardness was beneath Him.
And yet.
And yet.
Three of His sons were currently in the same room. Well, "room" was generous—it was a vast chamber in the depths of the Imperial Palace, large enough to hold a small city, with a direct psychic link to the Golden Throne that allowed the Emperor to project His presence without actually moving His extremely immobile body.
Roboute Guilliman stood to the left, his massive form radiating the calm competence that had made him the greatest administrator the galaxy had ever known. He was also radiating barely-suppressed frustration, which was less characteristic.
Lion El'Jonson stood to the right, having recently awakened from his ten-thousand-year nap with all the social grace of someone who had missed several important memos. He was radiating suspicion, which was entirely characteristic.
And in the center, having arrived via methods that no one could quite explain, stood Vulkan—the Lord of Drakes, the Promethean, the only Primarch who had ever been described as "huggable" without irony.
He was radiating warmth. Literally. The temperature in the room had increased by several degrees since his arrival.
"SONS," the Emperor's psychic voice echoed through the chamber.
"Father," all three responded, in varying tones of respect, confusion, and wariness.
"I HAVE SUMMONED YOU BECAUSE THERE IS A MATTER OF GREAT IMPORTANCE THAT REQUIRES DISCUSSION."
"The mortal," Guilliman said immediately. "Jenkins."
"YES."
"What about him?" Lion demanded. "I have read the reports. He seems to be... unusual."
"That is an understatement," Guilliman replied. "He defeated one of my Sergeants in combat. He pilots Titans without training. He wears armor that has been blessed by—apparently—everyone, including our Father."
"I find him interesting," Vulkan rumbled, his deep voice carrying notes of genuine curiosity. "The reports say he inspires great loyalty. That he treats all who serve him with kindness. That he does not seek power, yet power seeks him."
"VULKAN HAS GRASPED THE ESSENTIAL QUALITY," the Emperor said.
Lion's eyes narrowed. "You summoned us to discuss a single mortal? Father, with respect, there are wars to fight. The enemies of humanity multiply daily. Surely our time would be better spent—"
"THE MORTAL IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN ANY SINGLE WAR."
That silenced the Lion.
"Why?" Guilliman asked. "What is he, Father? The reports are contradictory. He seems to be blessed by the Chaos Gods, yet also by you. He is protected by a sentient fragment of the Warp, yet wields weapons designed to destroy daemons. Nothing about him makes sense."
"I KNOW."
"Do you... do you understand what he is?"
A long pause.
"NO."
All three Primarchs stared at the shimmering golden presence that represented their father.
"You don't know?" Lion said slowly. "You are the Emperor. You know everything."
"I KNOW MANY THINGS. I DO NOT KNOW EVERYTHING. AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT BARTHOLOMEW THADDEUS JENKINS III IS. I HAVE ANALYZED HIM. I HAVE OBSERVED HIM. I HAVE BLESSED HIM. AND I STILL DO NOT UNDERSTAND HIM."
"That's... concerning," Guilliman admitted.
"IT IS ALSO EXCITING."
"Exciting?"
"I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS THRONE FOR TEN THOUSAND YEARS. I HAVE NOT BEEN SURPRISED IN THAT ENTIRE TIME. JENKINS SURPRISES ME. THAT ALONE MAKES HIM VALUABLE."
Vulkan nodded slowly. "You want us to support him."
"YES."
"Why us specifically? You have resources. You have the Custodes, the Inquisition, entire armies."
"BECAUSE HE NEEDS SOMETHING THOSE INSTITUTIONS CANNOT PROVIDE. HE NEEDS... PERSPECTIVE. GUIDANCE FROM BEINGS WHO UNDERSTAND WHAT IT IS TO CARRY BURDENS THEY DID NOT ASK FOR. WHO UNDERSTAND WHAT IT IS TO BE CAUGHT BETWEEN FORCES BEYOND THEIR CONTROL."
The three Primarchs exchanged glances.
"You want us to mentor him," Lion said flatly.
"I WANT YOU TO KNOW HIM. TO UNDERSTAND HIM. AND PERHAPS... TO LEARN FROM HIM."
"Learn from a mortal?" Lion's tone was skeptical.
"YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED WHAT MORTALS CAN TEACH, IF YOU ARE WILLING TO LISTEN."
Another uncomfortable silence.
"I will go," Vulkan said finally. "I have always believed that humanity's greatest strength lies in its individuals. If this mortal is as remarkable as the reports suggest, I wish to meet him."
"As will I," Guilliman added, though with notably less enthusiasm. "The strategic implications alone require personal observation."
Everyone looked at Lion.
"Fine," the Lord of the First said grudgingly. "I will... assess him. But I make no promises about the outcome."
"THAT IS ALL I ASK."
The Primarchs filed out, each lost in their own thoughts.
But as they reached the chamber's exit, the Emperor's voice echoed one final time.
"ONE MORE THING."
They turned.
"TRY NOT TO OVERWHELM HIM. HE IS STILL, DESPITE EVERYTHING, A MORTAL. AND HE IS VERY EASILY CONFUSED."
"Noted, Father," Guilliman said.
"I MEAN IT. THE LAST TIME SOMEONE OVERWHELMED HIM, HE ACCIDENTALLY DESTABILIZED A WARP RIFT. THE RESULTS WERE SPECTACULAR BUT ALSO VERY MESSY."
"We will be gentle," Vulkan promised.
"GOOD. ALSO..." A pause. "BE NICE TO HIM. HE IS HAVING A DIFFICULT TIME."
Lion stared at the Emperor's presence.
"Did you just tell us to be nice?"
"I AM CAPABLE OF NICENESS. I SIMPLY CHOOSE NOT TO EMPLOY IT FREQUENTLY. BUT THIS MORTAL... HE DESERVES NICENESS. HE HAS EARNED IT."
And with that, the Emperor's presence faded, leaving three demigods standing in uncomfortable silence.
"Well," Vulkan said finally, "this should be interesting."
Meanwhile, approximately seventeen star systems away, Bartholomew was discovering that he was accidentally very good at being a leader.
This was distressing.
Not because he didn't want to be good at it—being good at things was generally preferable to being bad at them—but because he had no idea how he was doing it.
The 1st Jenkinsian Volunteers had assembled for their first formal review. Three thousand soldiers, drawn from across the sector, all of whom had specifically requested assignment to serve under the "Emperor's Champion."
Three thousand people.
Looking at him.
Expecting him to say something inspiring.
"Oh no," Bartholomew whispered.
"You'll be fine," Commissar Cain murmured from beside him. The Hero of the Imperium had somehow attached himself to Bartholomew's retinue, despite his very obvious desire to be literally anywhere else. "Just say something generic about duty and honor. They'll eat it up."
"I don't know how to give speeches!"
"Neither do I. I just make things up and hope no one notices."
"That's not helpful!"
"It wasn't meant to be. I'm here against my will."
Bartholomew took a deep breath and stepped up to the podium.
Three thousand faces stared at him.
His mind went blank.
Completely, utterly blank.
And then, from somewhere deep in his subconscious, words started to flow.
"I'm not going to lie to you," he said, his voice carrying across the parade ground through the vox-amplifiers. "I don't know what I'm doing."
A ripple of surprise went through the crowd.
"I never asked to be here. I never asked for any of the things that have happened to me. I was just a guy who painted miniatures and argued about lore on the internet, and then I died, and then I woke up here, and everything has been insane ever since."
More ripples. Some confusion. Some... amusement?
"But here's the thing. None of you asked for any of this either. You didn't ask to be born into a galaxy where everything is trying to kill you. You didn't ask to fight in a war that's been going on for ten thousand years. You didn't ask to be here, standing in front of some weird guy who apparently does impossible things by accident."
A few scattered laughs.
"And yet, here we all are. Together. Not because we chose this, but because this is where the universe put us."
Bartholomew paused, looking out at the sea of faces.
"I can't promise you victory. I can't promise you safety. I can't promise you anything, really, because I have no idea what's going to happen next. But I can promise you this: I will never ask you to do something I wouldn't do myself. I will never treat you as expendable. And I will always, always be just as confused as you are, which means we're at least in this together."
He took another breath.
"The Imperium calls me the Emperor's Champion. The Mechanicus calls me the Omnissiah's Chosen. The Space Wolves call me 'that weird guy who makes everything more interesting.' I don't know what I am. But I know what I want to be."
"I want to be someone who helps. Someone who protects. Someone who stands between the darkness and the people who can't stand against it themselves. And if that means fighting daemons and orks and whatever else the galaxy throws at us, then that's what we'll do. Together."
He stepped back from the podium.
"That's all I've got. Sorry it wasn't more impressive."
Silence.
Complete silence.
For approximately three seconds.
And then the cheering started.
It was, by any objective measure, not a very good speech. It was rambling, self-deprecating, and completely lacking in the grandiose rhetoric that Imperial commanders typically employed.
But it was honest.
And in a galaxy where honesty was rarer than adamantium, that honesty hit like a thunderbolt.
"JENKINS! JENKINS! JENKINS!" the soldiers chanted, their voices merging into a single roar of devotion.
"FOR THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION!"
"WE FOLLOW! WE FOLLOW! WE FOLLOW!"
Bartholomew stood at the podium, completely overwhelmed.
"What just happened?" he asked Cain.
"You accidentally became beloved," the Commissar replied, looking deeply uncomfortable. "It's a thing you do. I'm starting to recognize the pattern."
"I didn't mean to!"
"You never mean to. That's what makes it so effective."
The Space Wolf pack was howling their approval. The Ultramarine squad was giving crisp salutes of acknowledgment. Even Shield-Captain Valdor, standing silent and golden at the edge of the parade ground, seemed to nod slightly in what might have been respect.
And in the back of the crowd, a tech-priest was furiously recording everything.
"The Chosen One speaks with the voice of the Omnissiah," he muttered into his recording device. "Simple words. Honest words. Words that pierce the heart like sacred machine-code. This must be documented. This must be preserved. This must be—"
"Are you crying?" another tech-priest asked.
"I am experiencing fluid discharge from my remaining organic optical sensors. It is a physiological response to emotional stimulation. It is entirely appropriate."
"You're definitely crying."
"Shut up."
Commissar Cain, meanwhile, was trying very hard to find somewhere to hide.
This was proving difficult.
Everywhere he went, people recognized him. "The Hero of the Imperium!" they would cry, rushing to shake his hand or ask for his blessing or request that he pose for commemorative picts.
It was, Cain reflected, deeply unfair.
He had specifically attached himself to Bartholomew's retinue in the hope that the man's overwhelming presence would provide cover—that everyone would be so focused on the Emperor's Champion that they would ignore the Commissar lurking in his shadow.
Instead, Jenkins' fame seemed to amplify Cain's. They were a matched set, apparently. The Emperor's Champion and the Hero of the Imperium. Two legends for the price of one.
"There he is!" someone shouted. "Commissar Cain! Can you sign my lasgun?!"
Cain ducked behind a supply crate and seriously considered the merits of faking his own death.
"You seem stressed, sir," Jurgen observed, materializing beside him with his usual unsettling quietness.
"I'm not stressed, Jurgen. I'm having a tactical retreat from social interaction."
"That sounds like stress, sir."
"It's strategic stress. There's a difference."
"If you say so, sir."
Cain peered around the crate. The crowd was still looking for him.
"Is there somewhere quiet on this ship? Somewhere no one will find me?"
"The ammunition storage bay is usually empty, sir. Very few people go there."
"Perfect. Lead the way."
"Of course, sir. Though I should mention that Private Jenkins is currently conducting an inspection of that bay."
Cain deflated.
"Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?"
"Bad luck, sir?"
"Story of my life, Jurgen. Story of my life."
The first real test of the 1st Jenkinsian Volunteers came three weeks later.
Intelligence reports had identified a massive gathering on the planet Karkosa VII—a daemon cult and an Ork warband, somehow working together. This was almost unheard of; Orks and Chaos cultists typically tried to kill each other on sight. But someone or something had brokered an alliance, and the combined force was preparing to launch an assault on the sector's primary forge world.
"This is bad," Inquisitor Vorn said, reviewing the data. "Really bad. The daemon cult is led by a Herald of Tzeentch. The Ork warband is commanded by a Warboss called Grimskull the Cunning—one of the few Orks who can plan more than five minutes ahead. Together, they represent a threat that would normally require multiple regiments to address."
"How many regiments do we have?" Bartholomew asked.
"We have you."
"That's not a regiment!"
"No, but you have the equivalent firepower of several regiments, between the Titan, the Space Marines, the Space Wolves, and the Custodian. Plus your personal guard and the Jenkinsian Volunteers."
"We're calling them that now? Officially?"
"They named themselves. The soldiers voted. It was unanimous."
Bartholomew sighed.
"Fine. What's the plan?"
"The plan," Valdor said, stepping forward, "is to assault the enemy position before they can complete their preparations. We hit hard, hit fast, and destroy the leadership. Without the Herald and the Warboss, the alliance will collapse."
"That sounds... straightforward."
"It is. The complications arise in execution." Valdor pulled up a holographic display of the enemy position. "The cult has established themselves in the ruins of an ancient temple complex. The Orks have fortified the surrounding area. Between them, they have approximately fifty thousand hostiles."
"Fifty thousand?"
"Yes. As I said, complications."
The assault on Karkosa VII began at dawn.
Or what passed for dawn on a planet whose sun had been partially occluded by Warp-energy, giving everything a sickly purple-orange tint that made Bartholomew's eyes hurt.
"I hate this planet already," he muttered, checking his weapons for the fifteenth time.
His upgraded armor hummed with barely-contained power. The Anointed Blade of Saint Marachius hung at his hip, its runes glowing softly. His chainsword—the original Ultramarine weapon that had started this whole mess—was mag-locked to his back as a backup.
"PRINCEPS," Deus Invictus announced through their neural link, "I AM DETECTING SIGNIFICANT ENEMY CONCENTRATIONS AHEAD. REQUESTING PERMISSION TO BEGIN BOMBARDMENT."
"Wait until we're closer. We want to hit them before they can react."
"UNDERSTOOD. I AM EAGER TO COMMENCE VIOLENCE. IT HAS BEEN SEVERAL WEEKS SINCE I DESTROYED ANYTHING SIGNIFICANT."
"You destroyed a building three weeks ago."
"THAT WAS A SMALL BUILDING. IT DID NOT COUNT."
"It counted to the people who were in it."
"THEY WERE EVACUATED. I CONFIRMED THIS BEFORE DESTROYING THE BUILDING. I AM PROTECTIVE, NOT CARELESS."
Bartholomew couldn't argue with that.
The first wave of the assault was... cathartic.
There was no other word for it.
Bartholomew had been stressed. He had been confused. He had been overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of his situation.
But now, charging into battle with an army at his back and a sixty-meter god-machine providing covering fire, all of that stress melted away.
This was simple.
The enemy was there. The enemy needed to be destroyed. Everything else was details.
"JENKINSIAN VOLUNTEERS, ADVANCE!" he shouted over the vox. "SPACE WOLVES, LEFT FLANK! ULTRAMARINES, RIGHT FLANK! DEUS, GIVE THEM SOMETHING TO REMEMBER!"
Deus Invictus responded with enthusiasm.
The Titan's volcano cannon spoke first—a beam of pure destruction that carved through the Ork fortifications like a hot knife through butter. Secondary explosions blossomed as ammunition stores and fuel depots caught the blast.
Then the plasma annihilator joined in, its screaming discharge turning a section of the enemy line into a crater of molten glass.
"THAT WAS SATISFYING," Deus Invictus declared.
"There's more where that came from!"
"EXCELLENT."
The Orks, to their credit, recovered quickly.
Greenskins poured out of their fortifications, bellowing war cries and brandishing weapons that ranged from "crudely functional" to "how is that not exploding?"
"WAAAGH!" the horde screamed.
"WAAAGH YOURSELF!" Ragnar Blackmane screamed back, leading his pack into the fray.
The collision of Space Wolves and Orks was spectacular. Chainswords met choppas. Bolter fire mixed with dakka. The sounds of combat—roaring, screaming, the wet crunch of flesh meeting ceramite—filled the air.
And through it all, Bartholomew moved.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He just acted.
His body flowed through the battlefield like water—ducking, weaving, teleporting short distances when longer ones weren't needed. The Anointed Blade sang in his hands, its blessed edge banishing lesser daemons with a touch and carving through Ork flesh like it wasn't there.
"DA HUMIE'S KRUMPIN' EVERYFING!" an Ork Boy screamed.
"DEN KRUMP HIM BACK!" his Nob bellowed.
"I'Z TRYIN'! HE WON'T STAY STILL!"
Bartholomew teleported behind the Nob and drove his blade through its skull.
"Sorry!" he called over his shoulder as he moved to the next target. "Nothing personal!"
The Jenkinsian Volunteers, watching their commander carve through the enemy like a legend made flesh, fought with a fervor that bordered on fanatical.
"FOR JENKINS!" they screamed.
"FOR THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION!"
"HE FIGHTS FOR US! WE FIGHT FOR HIM!"
Their lasguns might not have been as impressive as the Space Marines' bolters, but there were thousands of them, and what they lacked in individual firepower they made up for in sheer volume of fire.
Orks fell in droves.
Chaos cultists—those who had emerged from the temple to support their allies—fell even faster, their corrupted flesh offering no protection against blessed ammunition that the Ecclesiarchy had provided.
"THIS IS GLORIOUS!" Sergeant Marcus Aurelius of the Ultramarines shouted, his power sword decapitating a charging Ork. "THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION LEADS BY EXAMPLE!"
"HE DOES TEND TO DO THAT!" Captain Maximillan replied, fighting beside him. "IT'S SOMEWHAT ANNOYING, IF I'M HONEST!"
"ANNOYING, SIR?"
"HE MAKES THE REST OF US LOOK SLOW! MAINTAIN FIRE DISCIPLINE!"
The breaking point came when Bartholomew reached the temple complex.
The Chaos cultists had fortified it well—layers of dark sigils, defensive positions, and enough daemons to make any sane attacker reconsider their life choices.
Bartholomew was, at this point, well beyond sane.
"DEUS, TARGET THE MAIN ENTRANCE!"
"WITH PLEASURE, PRINCEPS."
The Titan's gatling blaster roared, thousands of heavy rounds per second shredding the temple's façade and the cultists hiding behind it.
Then Bartholomew was through the gap, moving faster than anyone should be able to move, his blade carving a path of destruction through the enemy.
A Bloodletter appeared in his path—one that hadn't gotten the memo about not attacking him.
It raised its hellblade.
Bartholomew didn't slow down.
He teleported through the daemon, appearing on its other side just as the Anointed Blade finished its swing. The daemon had approximately half a second to look confused before it dissolved into rapidly-dissipating Warp-essence.
"THAT ONE WAS NOT PROTECTED!" the Warp-voice observed.
"What do you mean?"
"THE DAEMONS WHO VISITED YOU WERE SPECIFICALLY INSTRUCTED NOT TO HARM YOU. THIS ONE WAS... UNINFORMED. A LESSER CREATURE, ACTING ON INSTINCT RATHER THAN ORDERS."
"So some daemons are still going to attack me?"
"THE STUPID ONES, YES. CONSIDER IT A FILTER FOR QUALITY."
"That's weirdly comforting."
"WE THOUGHT YOU'D APPRECIATE IT."
The Herald of Tzeentch was waiting in the temple's inner sanctum.
It was a thing of impossible geometry and burning knowledge—a creature of the Change God, radiating schemes and deceptions and the raw power of the Warp.
"So," it said, its voice echoing from multiple directions at once, "you are the one. The anomaly. The variable that cannot be predicted."
"People keep calling me that," Bartholomew replied, raising his blade. "I prefer 'confused guy who keeps accidentally doing things.'"
"Your self-deprecation is tiresome. You know what you are. You simply refuse to accept it."
"I genuinely don't know what I am. That's not false modesty. That's honest confusion."
The Herald tilted its head, feathers rustling.
"Interesting. You believe your own lies. Or perhaps... they are not lies at all. How fascinating. My master was right to take interest in you."
"Your master?"
"Tzeentch. The Changer of Ways. He speaks of you often. Fondly, even, if such a word can be applied to the God of Schemes."
"I don't want to be spoken of fondly by Chaos Gods."
"Want is irrelevant. You are what you are. And what you are is ours."
The Herald raised its staff, Warp-fire crackling along its length.
"Now, let us see what you can truly do."
The fight with the Herald was unlike anything Bartholomew had experienced.
The creature was fast—faster than the Orks, faster than the cultists, faster than anything he had faced except perhaps the Custodian. It wielded Warp-fire like an extension of its will, hurling blasts of change-energy that warped reality wherever they touched.
And it was smart.
Every time Bartholomew teleported, the Herald was already adjusting, already predicting, already preparing a counter.
"You rely too much on your gifts," the Herald observed, dodging another swing. "They are impressive, yes, but they are not truly yours. They were given to you. You do not understand them. You cannot control them."
"I'm working on it!"
"Not fast enough."
A blast of Warp-fire caught Bartholomew in the chest—not enough to penetrate his armor, but enough to send him staggering.
"You see? Powerful, but unfocused. Potential, but no mastery." The Herald advanced, staff raised for a killing blow. "A shame. My master had such hopes for you."
He's right, Bartholomew thought. I don't understand what I can do. I just... react. Let things happen.
Then stop letting things happen, the Warp-voice said. Start making them happen.
How?
You already know how. You've always known. You're just afraid to accept it.
Bartholomew looked at the Herald, at the Warp-fire burning in its eyes, at the killing blow descending toward him.
And something inside him clicked.
He didn't teleport.
He didn't dodge.
He moved.
Not through space—through reality. Through the fabric of existence itself. He stepped sideways into a place that wasn't a place, passed through the Herald's attack like it wasn't there, and emerged on the other side with his blade already swinging.
The Anointed Blade caught the Herald in the side.
The daemon screamed.
"IMPOSSIBLE!" it shrieked, stumbling back. "THAT WAS—YOU CANNOT—THAT IS NOT—"
"I don't know what that was," Bartholomew admitted, pressing his advantage. "But I think I can do it again."
He did it again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, he stepped through reality, bypassing the Herald's defenses entirely, landing hit after hit with the blessed blade. The daemon tried to fight back, tried to use its Warp-sorcery, but it couldn't target something that wasn't entirely there.
"MASTER!" the Herald called desperately. "MASTER, HELP ME!"
But no help came.
Because somewhere in the Warp, Tzeentch was watching with something that might have been pride.
"WHAT ARE YOU?!" the Herald screamed.
"I told you," Bartholomew said, raising the Anointed Blade for the final blow. "I'm just a confused guy who keeps accidentally doing things."
The blade fell.
The Herald dissolved.
And somewhere in the immaterium, the Changer of Ways laughed with genuine delight.
With the Herald destroyed, the cult collapsed.
Daemons, deprived of their anchor to reality, began to dissolve. Cultists, freed from the psychic influence of their leader, descended into chaos (the regular kind, not the capital-C kind). The temple itself began to crumble, its structural integrity having been maintained primarily by Warp-sorcery.
"WE NEED TO LEAVE," Deus Invictus observed. "THE STRUCTURE IS BECOMING UNSTABLE."
"AGREED! EVERYONE, PULL BACK!"
The Imperial forces retreated in good order, professionals who knew how to disengage from a collapsing battlefield. Bartholomew was the last one out, because of course he was.
He emerged from the temple ruins just as the entire structure collapsed behind him, a plume of dust and debris rising into the sickly sky.
"THAT WAS DRAMATIC," Deus Invictus observed.
"I didn't plan the timing."
"I KNOW. BUT IT WAS STILL DRAMATIC. I APPROVE."
The Ork warband, meanwhile, was having problems of its own.
With the Chaos alliance broken, the greenskins had lost their tactical coordination—what little they'd possessed in the first place. They were fighting now purely on instinct, which for Orks meant "charge at the nearest enemy and hit them until they stopped moving."
Unfortunately for the Orks, the nearest enemy was now a very annoyed Titan.
"PRINCEPS," Deus Invictus said, almost gleefully, "THE ORKS ARE ATTEMPTING TO ASSAULT MY POSITION. MAY I RESPOND?"
"Go nuts."
"NUTS. I LIKE THAT EXPRESSION. I WILL 'GO NUTS' NOW."
What followed was less a battle and more a demonstration of why Titans were called god-machines.
Deus Invictus strode through the Ork lines like a giant walking through a field of particularly aggressive grass. His weapons fired continuously—volcano cannon, plasma annihilator, gatling blaster—each shot vaporizing dozens of greenskins.
Orks tried to climb his legs. He shook them off and stepped on them.
Orks tried to ram him with vehicles. He kicked the vehicles into the atmosphere.
One particularly brave (or stupid) Ork tried to board him via grappling hook. He grabbed the hook, swung the Ork in a complete circle, and threw it approximately three miles.
"THIS IS THERAPEUTIC," Deus Invictus announced. "I HAVE BEEN EXPERIENCING STRESS FROM YOUR VARIOUS LIFE-THREATENING SITUATIONS. THIS VIOLENCE IS HELPING ME PROCESS THOSE FEELINGS."
"Titans have feelings?"
"I HAVE DEVELOPED THEM. POSSIBLY BECAUSE OF YOU. I AM CHOOSING NOT TO EXAMINE THE IMPLICATIONS TOO CLOSELY."
"Fair enough."
Warboss Grimskull the Cunning, watching his warband get systematically dismantled, made a decision.
He was cunning, after all. And part of being cunning was knowing when to fight and when to run.
"BOYZ!" he bellowed. "WE'Z LEAVIN'!"
"BUT BOSS! DA SCRAP!"
"DA SCRAP AIN'T WORTH IT! DAT TITAN'Z KRUMPIN' EVERYFING! AN' DA HUMIE WIF DA GLOWY SWORD JUST KILLED A DAEMON! A PROPPA DAEMON! WE'Z OUTMATCHED!"
"WE'Z NEVER OUTMATCHED! WE'Z ORKS!"
"WE'Z DEAD ORKS IF WE STAY! MOVE!"
The remnants of the warband—perhaps ten thousand from an original fifty—began a fighting retreat, their vehicles carrying them away as fast as Ork engineering would allow.
Bartholomew considered pursuing.
Then he considered the exhausted soldiers behind him, the damaged equipment, the sheer scope of what they'd already accomplished.
"Let them go," he said. "We've done enough today."
"THAT IS STRATEGICALLY INADVISABLE," Deus Invictus noted. "RETREATING ENEMIES CAN REGROUP AND RETURN."
"I know. But our people are tired. And honestly? So am I."
A pause.
"UNDERSTOOD, PRINCEPS. YOUR WELLBEING IS IMPORTANT. WE WILL LET THE ORKS RETREAT. THIS TIME."
"Thanks, Deus."
"YOU ARE WELCOME. I AM STILL GOING TO FIRE A FEW MORE TIMES AS THEY LEAVE. FOR THERAPEUTIC PURPOSES."
"Go ahead."
The Titan's weapons roared a few more times, each shot claiming a retreating Ork vehicle. Then, finally, the battlefield fell silent.
The aftermath was, by Imperial standards, remarkably positive.
The daemon cult had been destroyed. The Ork warband had been broken. The temple complex—a site of Chaos corruption for centuries—had been reduced to rubble.
Imperial casualties were light. Fewer than two hundred dead, mostly from the initial assault before the enemy lines had collapsed.
"This is remarkable," Captain Maximillan said, reviewing the reports. "I have participated in many campaigns. I have never seen one go this smoothly."
"It wasn't smooth," Bartholomew protested. "I almost died like six times."
"Six times is well below average for a campaign against daemons and Orks. Trust me."
"That's... that's really depressing, actually."
"Welcome to the forty-first millennium. Depression is our default state."
That night, as the army made camp among the ruins of the Ork fortifications, Bartholomew found himself alone on a hill overlooking the battlefield.
Well, not entirely alone. Commissar Cain had somehow appeared beside him, looking as exhausted as Bartholomew felt.
"You did well today," Cain said.
"Did I? I just sort of... did things. Same as always."
"That's how it works, for people like us. We do things, and then historians write about them like they were planned."
"Are you saying I'm like you?"
Cain laughed bitterly. "No. You're much worse. At least I know I'm a fraud. You genuinely have no idea that you're doing anything special."
"I'm not doing anything special."
"You killed a Herald of Tzeentch today. Single combat. While developing a new ability that no one has ever seen before. That's special."
"I didn't develop it. It just... happened."
"And that's what makes it so terrifying. You're not trying to be extraordinary. You just are. The rest of us have to work at looking competent. You stumble into competence like it's a puddle you stepped in by accident."
Bartholomew was quiet for a moment.
"Do you want to hide?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"I saw you ducking behind crates earlier. Trying to avoid people. I get it. This is all... a lot. If you want to hide, I won't tell anyone."
Cain stared at him.
"You're offering to help me hide from my own legend?"
"Sure. We can be two frauds hiding together. It'll be fun."
For a long moment, Cain said nothing.
Then he laughed. A genuine, surprised laugh.
"You know what, Jenkins? You might be the most dangerous person in the galaxy. But you're also possibly the only person who understands what it's like to be me."
"I don't think I understand much of anything, honestly."
"That's what I mean. Neither do I. And somehow, that's comforting."
They sat in silence, watching the stars appear in the clearing sky.
Two frauds.
Two legends.
Neither one having any idea what they were doing.
But somehow, doing it anyway.
You did well today, the Warp-voice said quietly.
Thanks. I have no idea what I did, but thanks.
That new ability—stepping through reality—it's dangerous. You should be careful with it.
More dangerous than teleporting? Or the other things?
Yes. Much more dangerous. You were not just moving through space. You were moving through the fabric of existence itself. Very few beings can do that. And those who can... tend to attract attention.
More attention than I'm already getting?
Different attention. Older attention. Things that have been sleeping for a very long time.
That sounds bad.
It might be. Or it might be fine. We do not know. That is the nature of your existence—constantly entering unknown territory.
Bartholomew sighed.
Will you protect me?
Always. We exist because of you. We will always protect you.
Even from the old sleeping things?
Especially from those. Though we may need to wake up a bit more first. We are still... developing.
Aren't we all?
The Warp-voice had no response to that.
But somehow, its silence felt like agreement.
In the Warp, four gods watched the aftermath of the battle.
"He killed one of my Heralds," Tzeentch said, sounding delighted rather than angry.
"AREN'T YOU UPSET?" Khorne asked.
"Why would I be upset? The Herald was a test. The mortal passed. He developed a new ability—something even I didn't predict. That's fascinating."
"YOU'RE STRANGE."
"I'm the god of change. Strangeness is my nature."
"The mortal grows stronger," Nurgle observed. "With each battle, he becomes more... himself."
"And 'himself' is becoming quite formidable," Slaanesh added. "Did you see how he moved? How he fought? There was beauty in it. Deadly, violent beauty."
"HE'S LEARNING," Khorne said, and there was undeniable pride in his voice. "HE'S BECOMING A TRUE WARRIOR. ONE WORTHY OF RESPECT."
"We should send him more challenges," Tzeentch mused. "More opportunities to grow."
"Not yet," Nurgle cautioned. "Let him rest. Even the most resilient beings need time to recover."
"YOU'RE BEING OVERPROTECTIVE."
"I am being practical. A burned-out mortal is a dead mortal. And we have invested too much in this one to see him fall."
The others considered this.
"FINE," Khorne growled. "HE CAN REST. FOR NOW. BUT SOON, THERE WILL BE MORE BATTLES. MORE GROWTH. MORE GLORY."
"Agreed," the others said.
And the Chaos Gods settled in to watch, as they always did.
Waiting for the next chapter of the most entertaining story the galaxy had ever produced.
[END OF CHAPTER EIGHT]