"Father, we have entered the borders of the Mierlan Empire. We are prepared to launch a decapitation strike at your word."
Within the Grand Hall of the Hrafnkel, Leman Russ sat in a simmering fury, drowning his frustrations in massive gulps of Fenrisian ale and slabs of charred meat.
His irritation stemmed from the recent Dulan Campaign. Not only had his "prey" been snatched away by the Lion, but the world of Dulan had been infested with bizarre, verminous creatures.
The Legion's Tech-Priests and Iron Priests had conducted biological scans, confirming these were indeed rats, ancient creatures originating from Holy Terra. While Fenris harbored no such vermin, the Emperor and Malcador had ensured the Primarch was steeped in all the knowledge and culture of Old Earth upon his rediscovery. Thus, the Wolf King possessed an exhaustive understanding of Terra's history and its lesser flora and fauna.
The strangeness lay in their behavior. These rats seemed possessed of a malignant intelligence, swarming in clusters aboard the Hrafnkel and throughout the fleet. Even his keen-scented Space Wolves struggled to root them out. The vermin bred in the lightless crawlspaces of the ships, their gnawing teeth and filth-encrusted claws multiplying the workload of the Tech-Priests tenfold.
"Damned Lion... that arrogant bastard," Russ muttered, letting out a sharp belch after a heavy swallow of ale.
Seeing their Gene-father so disgruntled, the warriors of the VI Legion had proposed a total planetary assault on the Mierlan Empire. However, the Wolf King demurred. He chose to honor the Emperor's standing order: negotiate with human civilizations before resorting to the blade.
Yet, as the VI Legion's fleet moved into high orbit over Mierlan, they met none of the expected resistance. The system's artificial satellites and orbital defense platforms hung silent and cold, as if long abandoned.
Wary of a trap, Russ dispatched squads of Astartes to investigate. What they found was chilling: a stellar empire spanning at least one primary world and two massive orbital stations, with an estimated population of ten billion, was utterly devoid of life.
The world was not empty by design, however. Dried bloodstains, licked clean by small tongues, and the distinctive gnaw-marks now all too familiar to the Legionaries, told a story of a violent, hungry end.
"Fangs of the Wolf... I have a foul feeling about this."
As the reports confirmed the planet was devoid of humans but marked everywhere by rats and an inverted triangular sigil scratched into the grime, Russ recalled the strange behavior of the vermin aboard his own ships.
Reports from both Astartes and the Imperial Army indicated that the rats had been observed arranging twigs, wires, and scrap metal into that same triangular mark, standing before it in a grotesque mimicry of human worship. At first, the men found it amusing, a parlor trick, like a hound mimicking its master. But the novelty had long since curdled into unease.
Russ sensed a profound wrongness. This wasn't merely a Xenos infestation; it felt like a psychic phenomenon, the kind of Warp-taint the Emperor rarely spoke of, yet which all Primarchs understood through silent intuition.
"What is this? Dispatch a fast vessel back to my Father immediately. Ask Him to enlighten us on this matter. We shall not delve deeper into this madness blindly."
The Wolf King made a prudent choice. Haunted by the shadowed fates of his two missing brothers, he remained cautiously observant of the Emperor's edicts, however much his wild nature chafed against them.
"At once, Father!"
…
Aboard a vessel preparing to transition into the Warp for Holy Terra, a group of Tech-Priests, known to later history as the seeds of the Dark Mechanicum, found themselves transfixed by a sight that did not belong in the cold halls of logic.
It was neither gold nor carnal temptation that drew them, but something far more potent: lost knowledge from the depths of antiquity. These technological secrets, the ultimate dream of the Machine Cult, were being offered by a towering entity. He was encased in cybernetics much like a Magos, yet from his cowled head sprouted several pairs of jagged, blackened horns.
"You... what are you? From what archive did you extract these sanctified patterns?!"
The Tech-Priest's vox-emitter trembled with binary static. He checked his internal sensors repeatedly, unable to believe the readings, yet he could not tear his optical lenses away from the forbidden data-streams.
The horned giant spoke with a voice that was both mechanical and venomous. "I am but an envoy of your true Master. I have come to deliver-send His gifts to you... lost lambs of the Cog."
"His?!"
The Tech-Priests seized upon the word, their excitement bordering on hysteria. "The Omnissiah... the Omnissiah! This... this is impossible. The Fabricator-General declared that the Master of Mankind is the Omnissiah! You are not His messenger!"
Dozens of mechadendrites, writhing with an unnatural, serpentine vitality, erupted from the entity's robes and coiled around the Tech-Priests. Only then did they see the face beneath the black cowl: a rodent's visage, entirely reconstructed from brass and clicking gears.
"Hehehe~ poor-deluded fools. My Lord is the true Omnissiah. My Lord is the wellspring of all-all artifice! If your 'Master' were truly the God of Machines, why would he place-put shackles upon your curiosity? Why would he forbid-ban the pursuit of the ultimate? Technology knows no taboos! Every mad-magnificent thought deserves to be made manifest!"
Through the coiling mechadendrites, nightmarish visions from the Forge of Souls flooded the Tech-Priests' cogitators. They saw a world of limitless, depraved invention, a paradise of cold steel and burning Warp-fire.
To their corrupted logic, it was heaven.
"Omnissiah! I see the light! I see the truth!"
The Tech-Priests collapsed to the deck, weeping, though how their bionic eyes produced such saline discharge remained a mystery of the warp.
"Emissary, we pledge ourselves to you! We shall stand for the True God against the False Emperor, that pretender to the Machine Throne!"
The massive mechanical rat shook its head, letting out a dry, rasping cackle. "Chrot does not require-need your blades here. No-no. I want you to return. Go to Holy Terra. Carry-bring the faith of the True God into the heart-core of the Throneworld. Reclaim what the False Emperor stole-taken from the Great Horned Rat and return it to its rightful owner!"
It was a masterclass in deception, but for a creature like Chrot, lying was as natural as breathing. To claim the Great Horned Rat was the true Omnissiah was a triviality, so long as the seed was planted.
"It shall be our sacred duty, Omnissiah!"
"Remember," the envoy hissed, "the rat-vermin is the holy sigil of our Lord. Bring-bring them back to Holy Terra. Let them bathe-drown in the True God's radiance!"
With effortless ease, Chrot had mentally enslaved the Mechanicum contingent.
"Hehehe~ just as my Lord envisioned. The Master of Mankind's psychic aegis is mighty-formidable, but a physical intrusion? He cannot refuse-deny his own 'loyal' subjects. Once the vermin of Holy Terra are touched-marred by the Horned Rat's light, no secret shall remain hidden-burried from His gnawing gaze!"
Chrot laughed in triumph. Meanwhile, Leman Russ, oblivious to the spiritual rot festering in his wake, sent the ship toward Holy Terra, carrying a cargo of vermin and heretics destined to infest the cradle of humanity.
As a candidate for the Dark King, the Emperor did not yet perceive this creeping shadow. For all His might, He had not yet ascended to godhood, and even His foresight was blind to the scurrying of the rat.
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