In the lower decks of the Pride of Hera, the mood was tense and heavy.
The gathered soldiers and crew leaned against cold metal walls, sitting or standing.
Some gathered in small groups, quietly discussing their looming deaths.
Their voices were eerily calm, faces showing no fear—only a devout serenity.
To be chosen for the Pilgrimage fleet, each was a battle-hardened elite, unshakable in faith.
They knew the Imperium's policy towards warp-tainted: absolute purification.
The heavy hatch's hydraulics hissed, breaking the oppressive silence.
Everyone looked up, eyes fixed on the slowly opening door.
A stern Commissar in pressed uniform stood at the threshold, his shadow stretching long in the overhead light.
Behind him was a squad of Astartes, armored like steel fortresses, their power armor gleaming coldly in the dimness.
They stood silent as mountains, their presence enough to freeze the air.
The clatter of metal boots on deck echoed like funeral bells.
The prisoners rose, eyes on the fully armed squad.
The Commissar scanned the faces—haggard, filthy, some twisted with mutation—his Adam's apple bobbing slightly.
He unfolded a document stamped with the Imperial Aquila; the sound of paper rustling was faint but clear.
"By Imperial Navy emergency ordinance and direct order of the Inquisition—"
His voice reverberated in the sealed chamber.
"To prevent the spread of warp corruption and ensure the fleet's safety, all with irreversible physical or mental mutation are hereby sentenced to final purification, effective immediately."
No outcry, no weeping, not even a protest—only dead silence, and a sense of peace, almost relief.
They had put life and death aside the moment they set out for Holy Terra.
The timid would never have stood here.
"May the Imperium endure. May humanity's glory be eternal."
One soldier, his voice hoarse but firm, shouted.
His hand, now partly clawed by mutation, struggled up to salute with the Aquila.
His gesture stirred something; others raised their hands to their chests, echoing the salute.
Their low, devout prayers gathered like a tide in the chamber.
"May the Imperium endure. May humanity's glory be eternal."
"..."
They stared at the Commissar and the black muzzles of the Astartes' guns, eyes burning with the light of martyrs—pure and fierce.
Faith is a terrifying power, making people face their own destruction without fear.
The Commissar's eyes passed over the faces—once so vital, now scarred by war and corruption.
His lips trembled; deep grief and guilt flickered in his eyes.
"I'm sorry..." he finally choked out, his icy composure cracking. "You should have been met with honor and flowers at the award podium, not... this."
"It's fine, Commissar," an old soldier smiled wryly, weathered and scarred. "Just make it quick—that's the best end we can hope for."
As the tragic mood rose to its peak, even the Astartes shifted their guns, ready to deliver the "mercy" of the Emperor...
Suddenly, a commotion outside the hatch interrupted, guards shouting in panic.
Next moment, before all eyes, the door was shoved open with brute force.
Datch, in a Terminator suit, bounced in with a jaunty step.
The Astartes behind the Commissar, seeing Datch, instantly saluted with fists to chest—the highest honor, filled with awe.
Datch paused beside the Commissar, opened a box for collecting dog tags, and, seeing it empty, kicked it across the room with a clang.
The Commissar was dumbstruck.
Huh?! You could have just come in—why kick my box?!
Datch ignored the NPCs and scanned the crowd, hopping over to the group awaiting their fate.
"My lord,"
The Commissar, suppressing shock and confusion, stepped forward,
"You're here to supervise the execution?"
But Datch paid him no mind, as if the Commissar and the Astartes might as well have been air.
He approached a soldier with an exclamation point overhead—one arm fully mutated into a vicious, clawed limb.
To everyone's bewilderment, Datch took out his gleaming golden hammer and gently tapped the mutant arm.
"Clang~"
A clear, melodious ring.
A warm, pure golden light rippled outward.
A miracle unfolded before their eyes.
The terrifying, mutated tissue on the soldier's arm melted away like snow in sunlight,
leaving healthy, unblemished human skin—without even a scar.
The soldier stared in disbelief, clenching his restored fist, trembling with emotion, tears streaming down his face.
"Praise the Emperor! Praise the Angel!" he choked out, sobbing.
The Commissar: ???
His grief, guilt, and grim resolve all froze in an instant, replaced by utter stupefaction and existential shock.
He opened his mouth, but could not speak.
All that remained in his mind was a deafening trio of philosophical questions:
Who am I? Where am I? What just happened?!
The Astartes, faces usually hidden under helmets, were equally shocked.
They had fought warp-spawn for years, knew how terrible and stubborn Chaos corruption was.
Even the best-case scenario for the tainted was "the Emperor's Mercy."
They'd never heard of Chaos corruption being curable.
The other prisoners erupted in irrepressible emotion.
This mysterious Angel of the Emperor had "repaired" their corrupted flesh as if fixing a vehicle or machine—restoring them to pure human form!
[You have repaired a loyal soul for the Emperor; gain 10 XP, 10 points.]
Seeing the prompt, Datch beamed.
He hurried to the other exclamation-marked NPCs, hammer striking again and again.
"Clang" "Clang"
Crisp rings, gentle golden light.
Each time, a tormented soul was redeemed.
When Inquisitor Greyfax arrived, she found a scene that shattered her lifelong beliefs:
The condemned had not only regained human form—they glowed faintly with golden light.
That was the sign of the Emperor's blessing!
...
Bonus chapter at 100 PS