Datch's eyes lingered on the first mission prompt:
Support Guilliman, subdue the teenage rebels inside the Illyric Museum, and keep casualties to a minimum.
"Simple. If we work quickly, it'll be over in minutes."
The reward might be small, but every little bit helps. They desperately needed points for infrastructure right now, so he intended to take what he could get.
Next, he tackled the second quest:
His mission was to rebuild Macragge and make it as beautiful as Terra itself. The rewards were exceptionally generous—not only points and experience, but also flying items and more.
Datch opened the item's detail page.
A pair of blazing, 3D-projected, spinning flying wheels appeared, streaming lines of flame through the void. The design was clearly inspired by the mythos IP universe and belonged to the same series as the purple-gold gourd he'd seen before.
"Regardless of anything else, just the look alone is unbelievably cool."
He unconsciously imagined himself standing atop these fiery wheels, dual-wielding guns, striding boldly into battle—his eyes sparkled at the thought.
He had once owned a flying device—a jetpack, given as a quest reward—which was environmentally friendly. That time, he also had the Tartaros Terminator set.
My favorite tactic was always to don the Tartaros Terminator suit, crank the jetpack to full, and instantly overwhelm the enemy.
Unfortunately, after upgrading to his original armor, he needed an adaptation kit to use the old backpack with the new suit. Unwilling to part with any points, Datch just left the old pack in the warehouse and never touched it again. Mostly now, he used a Bamboo Copter for flying.
But this aircraft, as a reward, was truly useful now. Function and speed aside, the sheer style of the Wind and Fire Rings alone made them worth it.
After reading through the item description, Datch nodded to Guilliman.
"Lord Regent, I will complete the mission without fail."
Task accepted, Datch cast his eyes toward the not-so-distant Illyric Museum, where the rebels were hiding.
The museum itself was shaped like a giant drum, with three-layered roofs and balconies on each floor. On the mountaintop above, a secondary tower nearly equal in size had been built.
The Night Watch and local defense forces had sealed off the museum, barricading the access roads.
Armed with laser rifles, the rebels hid behind balconies and windows, occasionally popping out to fire at the encircling Imperial troops.
"They're hardly a threat."
Datch bent his knees lightly, double-jumped, then slid skillfully through the air toward the museum. Soldiers, night watchmen, and officials alike could only gape in astonishment.
"How is he defying gravity like that?"
How could anyone glide through the air this way?
Even traitors inside the museum's main hall were momentarily stunned, having witnessed Datch's approach through the windows.
Fear spread through their disorganized ranks, ripping away their composure.
"Shoot! Shoot him down!" yelled their commander.
Dozens of crimson laser beams crisscrossed, forming a deadly net aimed at the figure streaking through the air. But Datch was fast as a ghost, blinking and leaping through the air as if defying inertia. The lasers left bloody trails in the air, grazing his afterimages—none of them came close.
The traitors had also stolen a heavy lascannon from the military camp. The cannon fired mid-charge, unleashing a beam as thick as a bucket with a deafening roar, instantly piercing through anything in its path with blinding brightness.
Unfortunately, the shot still missed Datch, who vanished as if teleporting to another spot the second it was fired.
Barely a few breaths later, Datch dashed into the museum's collection room.
Just as the traitors, now in a panic, switched to melee weapons, Datch whipped out a hypnotic panpipe. Without giving them time to react, the melody played.
Instantly, every traitor in the museum—previously tense, angry, and despairing—froze in place.
The madness and determination in their eyes washed away like tidewater, replaced by an irresistible wave of drowsiness.
Their weapons clattered to the ground.
Limbs grew weak.
Their eyelids felt a thousand pounds heavy.
Within just a few breaths, the traitors collapsed to the floor one by one, falling into a deep sleep—some even began snoring.
Guilliman, staring in the museum's direction and catching a strange note on the air, allowed himself a faint smile.
"The traitors are handled. Only cleanup remains."
Sure enough, combining the Nameless One's abilities with my wisdom—none in this universe could match us.
The Nameless One and I are a perfect team, and our strength is a thing to make anyone tremble.
"Sicarius," the Primarch ordered without turning, "bring in the soldiers, clean up the site, and arrest all targets. Remember—move quickly."
"Yes, my lord." Sicarius turned at once, ready to obey.
"Wait!"
A commander in cream-colored fatigues and blue armor—Caledus from the Night Watch—hurried over.
"The enemy has powerful firepower and is emotional. A reckless attack could cause massive casualties..."
Sicarius silenced the chief security officer with a hand gesture.
"Commander Caledus—there is no enemy left. The Nameless Lord has already dealt with them.
Execute the order and commence at once. The Nameless Lord abhors wasted time."
Under Sicarius's stern command, Ultra Marines strike teams and elite Night Watch squads rushed forward, breaking through pre-set barricades and sprinting to the museum's entrance.
As expected—no gunshots. No explosions. No screams. Only eerie silence remained.
Within minutes, soldiers escorted out rebels one by one—legs unstable, eyes unfocused, spirits crushed. They were so meek after being disarmed and bound, it was hard to imagine these were the same desperate criminals who, minutes earlier, were screaming to die together.
Caledus and Macragge's senior officials could only watch in disbelief, blank expressions on their faces.
In the past two months, the Night Watch had responded to 26 riots or terror plots of various scales—every single operation with casualties reported.
Rebels might have been foolish, but their madness bordered on suicidal, often launching kamikaze attacks.
Yet the Nameless One had resolved this in minutes—with zero injuries. Not a soul dead.
Some distance away, Commander Calgar and think-tank Diglas exchanged glances.
Astonishment flickered in their eyes, but they regained composure quickly.
The last time the Nameless One, Belisarius Cawl, and Living Saint Celestine resurrected the Primarch on Macragge, they'd witnessed power beyond belief. Compared to that, this feat of mass hypnosis seemed almost trivial.
Datch received a notification for completing the first mission.
For his reward: 500 experience, 500 points, and +50 reputation.
He now readied a new item—the World Editor—for the second quest on Guilliman's list.
He aimed to rebuild Macragge as a holy land, center of faith and might, in Ultramar.
By an undeniable miracle, it would bring together all worlds of Ultramar.
"Alright, let's begin."
Datch's fingers swiped, clicked, and dragged across an invisible interface, reconstructing the world.
First, he designed thirteen airborne mountains, each topped with crystalline trees capable of absorbing sunlight. By day, these trees drew in light and heat, automatically regulating Macragge's climate to the most comfortable range.
At night, the crystalline trees glowed, illuminating the sanctuary below, ensuring Macragge would never know darkness.
Next, Datch arranged some of the mountains to float, freeing them from gravity. They hovered a full 1,000 meters above ground.
The landscape below became a rolling sea of clouds, with the airborne forests forming a ring in the sky—some peaks were sharp as swords, others formed ridges stretching into the sky.
Ancient, powerful trees and rare, lush flora adorned weathered cliff faces.
White ribbon-like waterfalls burst from the cliffs, plunging toward water below as thunder echoed through the clouds.
He then moved the city of Macragge—bathed in eternal light—into the heart of these floating mountains.
The political and military core, the Fortress of Hera, stood atop the highest, most central airborne mountain.
It was ringed, like stars around the moon, by countless smaller floating peaks.
The mountains weren't hollow—remnants of massive railguns, void shield generators, missile silos, and other old defense systems slumbered within the cliffs.
Finishing his preparations, Datch paused—feeling as though something was missing.
Facing Guilliman again, inspiration struck and he slapped his forehead.
How could the capital of the Second Empire lack thrones for the Regent, Emperor, and Generals?
He moved a mountain even higher than the Fortress of Hera, cut off its top, and shaped it into a pedestal.
There, he placed three giant thrones in different styles.
Next, he erected three colossal sculptures—ten thousand meters tall—of Guilliman, Sanguinius, and Lion on the ground.
"That's perfect."
Datch admired his masterpiece, then hit "Preview" and checked for any issues. Finding none, he selected the plan and confirmed it.
In an instant, the entire world of Macragge was remade according to the Datch editor's vision.
Catching sight of this transformed Macragge, Guilliman smiled in satisfaction. It was exactly as it should have been.
But when the Primarch saw the three thrones on the highest pedestal, and the gigantic statues on the ground, his smile faded in a heartbeat. At the corners of his lips, there was the tiniest twitch.
Did the Nameless One think he didn't understand what three thrones and three statues meant? Was the chaos of the Second Empire ever to be resolved?
At this moment, the Primarch's irritation mattered to no one.
Everyone in Macragge seemed to freeze in complete shock—
In a flash, their world had been overturned, utterly transformed.
A single question surfaced in countless minds:
Where am I? Is this still Macragge?
Calgar, Diglas, and the other high-ranking Ultramarines' composure was shattered.
Ordinary officials—Caledus among them—were stunned speechless.
They gazed at the Hera Fortress, now surrounded by mountains towering into the sky like the palace of gods, unable to close their gaping mouths.
Their brains shut down entirely, unable to process what they were seeing.
To change the face of a planet with a gesture—was this the work of the gods?
Sicarius and Tribune Caucon, senior officers of the First Unwavering Expedition, had somewhat steeled themselves for miracles.
But standing on the scene of this world-shaking wonder, they too felt their souls quiver as the ground itself floated beneath their feet.
The Ecclesiarchy faithful led by Matthew all dropped to their knees as one, chanting,
"Oh great God-Emperor! Oh great Nameless One!"
A holy site must be built. A holy site must be built! And the Nameless One must be praised to the heavens!
…
Meanwhile, aboard the Eldar craftworld ship trailing the First Expedition Fleet,
Farseer Natase had just finished comms with the other high-ranking Eldar on the world of the Ark of Uthwe.
They'd discussed new strategies for maximizing Eldar interests—contacting the Nameless Ones, the Imperials, and the Primarchs.
After closing the comm, Natase stood gracefully and began gathering the scattered ritual items when—
"Farseer! Something terrible has happened! Something terrible!"
A spirit warrior, losing all Eldar composure and elegance, rushed into the meditation chamber in a panic.
Natase scowled in consternation, mentally rebuking her subordinates—no matter what happened, true Eldar should be graceful and calm.
"An event? After all I've seen, could anything surprise me now?"
But, the ancient Farseer who'd seen centuries pass and regarded her heart as a silent well,
When she saw the new Macragge, she let out a high-pitched cry like a marmot:
"Ah! Ah! Ah!"
…
When Datch finished transforming the world, he immediately received notice of quest completion.
[Congratulations on completing the mission!]
Work with Guilliman to rebuild Macragge and turn it into the holy land of Ultramar!
[Quest Reward: 2000 experience, 2000 points, +500 reputation, Wind and Fire Ring flying mount ×1]
Deep in thought, Datch watched as a burning flaming wheel emerged beneath him.
Opening the item's info panel, he saw it listed as an orange-quality item.
Just then, a prompt appeared: he could apply the Lich King's skin, overwriting the current item.
Once selected, the flames of the Wind and Fire Ring instantly shifted from scarlet to an icy deathly white—like a soul-chilling flame twined around the flying wheels, perfectly matching the Lich King's armor design.
Wow… Unbelievably cool.
Datch looked around, mounted the Wind and Fire Rings, and shot into the sky. He couldn't wait to test the speed of his new equipment.
Down below, Macragge's rebuilt city gleamed, a dazzling sight that felt like a dream—awe-inspiring to all her people.
Many wondered if they all weren't under some mass illusion.
It was only when someone pinched hard enough to feel real pain that they believed:
No, this wasn't a dream—this was a true miracle.
Seizing the moment, Guilliman summoned representatives and envoys from across the world and put the Illyric Museum rebels on public trial.
Most of the captured rebels were mere teenagers—passionate, but naïve, hating evil as if it were their personal enemy.
At first, they glared at the soldiers and Astartes with open hatred—still convinced that these Imperial lackeys wanted only to enslave mankind.
Only their loving Father, they believed, could bring true salvation.
They were proud—believing their actions were righteous, a rebellion against tyranny.
Even if they died now, they would feel no regret, for their souls would ascend to the Father's kingdom and enjoy His blessings forever.
And yet, the Imperium's restrictions on warp-related secrets were extreme.
If these kids ever saw the true nature of the Father's followers, they would tremble in terror and probably cry.
Some even fantasized about having more limbs, regretting their mothers hadn't been exposed to radioactive sources during pregnancy.
When the rebels looked up and saw Macragge rebuilt as a magnificent holy land, their unwavering faith shattered.
This idea that the loving Father was a god—all their teachers had told them so. But in truth, they'd never met the Father, nor knew anything about him.
Surprisingly, Guilliman did not execute them all as expected—only the instructors and ringleaders were shot on the spot.
As for the children, Guilliman spared their lives. There's no point killing minors—such an act brings no deterrent, only public resentment.
It was plain fact that welfare and living standards had dropped for the sake of war, and grievances would only deepen if not eased.
"If I simply suppress your anger with force or violence, the problem will fester and grow into a true uprising."
"You are all innocent. You were misled into irrational actions by the wicked schemes of Primarch Mortarion.
I forgive you—no one shall be executed over this. Your destiny now lies with the Penitent Corps.
Fighting and dying for the Emperor is your highest calling."
After pronouncing the final judgment, Guilliman turned to the gathered parliament:
"We are ready to strike a powerful blow and teach these worms a lesson."
"Gentlemen, welcome! I am Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar and Regent of the Imperium.
For the sake of the entire Empire, I am issuing the order to restore Greater Ultramar."
"But the greed and selfishness of some far exceeded even my worst imaginings.
They put their interests above humanity's—even inciting civil war to stop Greater Ultramar's revival.
I am deeply disappointed in these people.
From this day forward, I will tolerate no more compromise.
While countless Imperial citizens suffer, you fight each other for your own gain—a crime I cannot forgive.
I am reinstating the Four Heroes system—appointing four virtuous Astartes as sector commanders to govern Greater Ultramar.
They will root out all treachery and hold the disloyal accountable."