Arraissa's world was once extremely prosperous. The reason: it sat on a core warp route node connecting to Terra. Countless pilgrims, caravans, and Imperial ships would dock here for respite after long voyages through the warp, stopping for their final jump to holy Terra. But the invasion of Chaos turned this flourishing world into a burning hellscape.
Mad laughter of cultists filled the hive streets. The air reeked of blood, mingled with the stench of burning and blasphemous spices. The symbol of Chaos—the eight-pointed star, painted in blood—was everywhere.
"Kill all these idiots."
"Don't let them escape."
A troop of cultists, faces painted with bloody stars and adorned with bone spikes, shouted loudly. They drove a bone-studded, head-stuffed converted tank, chasing down a group of panicked Imperial citizens. A man clutched his daughter and supported his injured wife as they fled. But burdened by his family, he fell behind, becoming an easy target for the cultists.
Shhk!
A savage ray pierced the man's calf. He screamed in agony.
"Go, quickly!"
He endured the pain, putting his daughter down. "Run with your mother, hurry—"
"No!"
His wife shook her head, staring at his wounded leg. "We can't go on."
The man looked down at his innocent daughter, who hugged him tightly, her immature face frozen in terror.
"No…"
His voice was filled with despair and self-loathing.
"It's all right. At least we're together, as a family."
His wife embraced him. "May the Emperor bless us, Schwan. Can you do what we promised before, if it comes to the last?"
Behind them, cheers from the cultists rang out.
"Take them alive. I want to practice my skinning skills."
"Put the man in the back, let him watch with his own eyes."
It was obvious what fate lay ahead if they fell into these inhuman cultists' hands.
The man drew a sharp dagger, remembering the promise made with his wife: if escape became impossible, he would end their lives with the blade, rather than let them fall into enemy hands.
"Schwan."
His wife kissed his forehead. "I love you."
The man broke down in tears, wanting to end his wife's life with the dagger. But an angry voice interrupted him.
"Shameful traitors! Your Uncle Hansen is here!"
"The Emperor and those old men—all should go to hell!"
Schwan turned to see an elderly man with gray hair and a sturdy build. He wielded an old lasgun, firing at the cultists. The locals called him "Old Hansen," a former Imperial Navy ace pilot, who served the Empire for over 80 years, earning great merit. Repeated use of enhancement potions and gradual replacement of limbs with cybernetics kept him at his peak. But time and constant warfare dulled his neural reflexes and physical capabilities, making high-speed aerial combat impossible. He retired, choosing to spend his twilight years on the relatively peaceful world of Arraissa.
A loyal dog, an old shotgun, and a cabin overlooking Star Harbor were all he owned. He thought he'd spend his last years in teetotaling peace, occasionally hunting mutants in the underhive or wastelands.
Sadly, that peace didn't last. The Great Rift tore the galaxy apart. Darkness fell. Arraissa, a node world to Terra, became a battlefield for both sides, the heart of a meat grinder.
Imperial forces were defeated in the ongoing onslaught, civilians withdrawn to defend more critical regions. Hearing the cries of innocents, Old Hansen took up arms again, fighting in the Emperor's name.
Behind Old Hansen stood brave men and women with weapons, chanting slogans for the Emperor, firing at the cultists. Their attack caught the cultists by surprise; they scrambled for cover, trying to fight back.
"Hurry, get up! Retreat to the underground pipeline area—hide!"
Old Hansen helped evacuate the wounded Schwan and his family to the pipeline—still safe for now.
Schwan limped away with his wife and daughter, enduring the pain. Old Hansen and his group covered the refugees, fighting and withdrawing. His marksmanship was deadly, felling cultists with every pull of the trigger.
But the enemy was too numerous—everywhere.
Shhk!
A crimson laser from Old Hansen's left tore through his armor, flesh, and blood in an instant. The burning pain darkened his vision. He staggered, falling to his knees, the stench of burning guts rising.
His face paled instantly, sweat pouring as he collapsed behind a bunker. Others tried to help, but he waved them off.
"Take them. Find a way to keep them alive. I'll buy time."
His companions hesitated, grieving.
Seeing their reluctance to leave, Old Hansen cursed.
"Get out, I said! What's with those faces? I've lived long enough."
"Let's go, take them!"
His companions, holding back their sorrow, left to fulfill their mission.
Old Hansen smiled, endured the pain, stood up, and fired at the enemy from cover.
"Come on, you bastards!"
Bang!!
His accurate shots split the heads of two charging cultists, forcing the rest to hesitate, afraid to move forward.
"My name is Old Hansen. Remember that name. Even in death, I'll come back as a ghost and bite you!"
He shouted, growing weaker with the pain in his abdomen. He watched as his companions disappeared one by one into the tunnel leading underground. A smile, mixing pain and relief, crept up his bloodstained cheek. No more worries.
"You must live."
Cough! Cough!
Old Hansen gasped, slumped against the shattered wall, slowly sliding to the ground as blood pooled beneath him.
"Emperor… please receive my soul… I have… given everything…"
His vision blurred, unable to see clearly. Only his ears still worked. The footsteps of cultists approached. They shouted blasphemous words, ordered him to bow his head for execution.
Then came a barrage of gunfire, screams, and thunderous blasting. In the next moment, a golden-armored warrior appeared in Old Hansen's blurred vision. Light enveloped him, obscuring the warrior's face.
"Your Majesty… Have you really come to greet every last warrior who fights to the end?"
The figure didn't reply, just spoke calmly.
"One more thing."
Old Hansen felt the figure lean over and tap something against his wounded abdomen.
Bzzzz—
An indescribable warmth instantly flowed through his body, as if soaking in a hot spring. The pain vanished. Torn organs and muscles healed rapidly, skin returning to normal. Even his battered, bullet-riddled shell was renewed with every pulse of golden light.
Old Hansen sat up abruptly, staring at his strong hands in disbelief, touching his now-uninjured abdomen, feeling the top of his head. Once sparse and gray, his hair was now thick and black, and most of his wrinkles were gone.
The cultists nearby had been reduced to scorched corpses. The golden warrior had vanished without a trace, as if he'd never existed.
Old Hansen was stunned. What just happened? Did the Emperor appear? He looked down at his rejuvenated body—he was decades younger.
Suddenly, realization struck.
"Wait, my bodily functions are fully restored… my hair's black again… does the Emperor want me to serve for another 80 years?"
"No… ahhh!"
His black-humored scream echoed through the ruins.
In the distance, Datch didn't bother listening to the veteran's howl. He bounced off to another battlefield in the hive capital, to help those in need.
…
The Imperial fleet led by the Macragge's Honour had fully seized the advantage in the void battlefield. Chaos warships, realizing defeat was certain and irreversible, abandoned their comrades still fighting on Arraissa's surface without hesitation, overdriving their engines and fleeing into the depths of the void.
The Imperial main fleet gave chase for a symbolic distance, then gave up. The commanders watched coolly as the sensor's red dots faded from range, then ordered the fleet to withdraw to Arraissa's orbit.
The void was too vast. Once the enemy left the battlefield, it was impossible to chase them all down. The noise of the void battle faded, but on the surface, the flames of war had only just peaked.
With orbital dominance secured, Imperial landing forces crashed through the thin atmosphere in transports and drop pods, smashing into Arraissa's devastated surface.
"For the Emperor! Purge this place!"
The moment Valerian's boots touched the scorched earth, he was struck by the dazzling form amidst the enemy ranks: a golden, power-armored warrior, surrounded by light. The figure closely resembled the Emperor depicted in the palace library's scrolls from the Great Crusade.
"My lord…?!"
Valerian's mind reeled, unconsciously thinking it was the Emperor himself. The Cutodes soldiers beside him were even more dumbfounded. Beneath the golden helmet, the perfect face was filled with utter shock. At this moment, the Emperor should be on the Golden Throne, maintaining the Webway and the Astronomican—how could he appear here in person?
As if to answer their doubts, the golden-armored warrior swung his warhammer on the battlefield, declaring powerfully:
"For the glory of the Emperor! I am Thunder God Datch!"
Before he finished speaking, his warhammer smashed to the ground with great force.
BOOM—!!!
A terrifying thunderstorm burst around the hammerpoint. Pale arcs of destruction exploded in a ring. Wherever they swept, traitors were flipped like dolls by invisible hands, their armor melted, flesh and blood scorched, and a vast swath instantly cleared.
"The Nameless One."
Aleya chimed in. "I remember his voice. But… why did things end up like this?"
Valerian calmed himself, observing the golden-armored warrior closely, confirming he was the Nameless One. His signature casual jumps and his ability to heal allies with a golden hammer were decisive clues.
"Thunder God Datch… so this is the Nameless One's name?"
Valerian frowned slightly, keeping Thunder God Datch in mind. On returning to Terra, he resolved to record this in the most confidential palace library files. One day, the Imperium might uncover the Nameless One's true origin.
With Imperial reinforcements landing, the morale of Arraissa's defenders rose. They burst from ruined forts and bunkers, chanting the Emperor's name and counterattacking the traitors. Assaulted from both flanks, the traitor army quickly collapsed, their remnants retreating like a receding tide.
Ultimately, the enemy retreated to the hive capital block, a maze of complex terrain, easy to defend, hard to attack, and stubbornly resisted. This district was utterly corrupted by evil.
Building facades pulsed with flesh and tissue, windows morphed into eyeballs oozing pus, streets became like the intestines of a giant beast, and the air was thick with a sickly-sweet sulfur stench.
"No!"
Anxia, the seer accompanying the Cutodes's spiritual support squad, issued a warning. Her psychic vision was filled with ominous crimson. "The enemy is conducting some evil ritual deep in the block, gathering warp energy. We must stop them immediately!"
"All units, charge!"
Valerian ordered without hesitation. "Leave no gap—smash them all!"
The sharp-knife squads of Cutodes and Space Marines sliced through the rotten region's defensive lines like wedges. At the same time, Datch tossed Poke Balls, summoning Skarbrand and the Changeling.
"Tear through the enemy defense quickly."
Obeying Datch's order, the two daemons charged into the traitor gunfire, their destructive power forcibly carving a path for the Imperials.
Under the Imperial onslaught, the traitors lost ground, their fortified positions falling one after another.
Datch and his team fought a bloody path, trampling enemy bones, reaching the block's deepest point, where they found a black stone altar.
In addition to the ritual-leading sorcerers, a powerful daemon with a massive eye stood guard. Seeing Skarbrand and the Changeling, surprise turned to fury.
"Why? Why, as shards of the gods, do you help the cursed ones' lackeys?"
"Kill them."
Datch shouted. There was no time to explain to the daemons.
Skarbrand and the Changeling attacked, pouncing on the daemon. Imperial heroes like Valerian and Aleya fired at the surviving sorcerers and traitors. Blasts and beams tore at their bodies and souls.
"Why? Why betray Chaos?"
Even the daemons summoned by the traitor sorcerers were torn apart by Skarbrand and the Changeling, their unwilling roars fading.
The smoke of battle gradually cleared. The victorious Imperials began mopping up.
Through the urgent interrogation of captured traitor sorcerers, several truths emerged:
The black altar was built from broken stones gathered from destroyed Cadia, reforged with Chaos power and transported here. As a Blackstone altar, it could amplify the warp. If the sacrificial ritual were completed, it would amplify Chaos power, block the warp routes, and completely cut off access to Terra.
"This news must be sent to Terra."
Learning the truth of the Blackstone altar, Imperial commanders immediately sent an astropathic message to Terra. Just one day later, the Chancellor arrived with a larger army and Martian tech-priests, planning to fortify Arraissa as a fortress world.
Datch was also urged to complete his task, and received his rewards:
[1000 XP, 1000 points, +100 reputation, Ripper Power Claw*1.]
…