Cloud Hammer
Do you believe this world might just be a clichéd, tasteless fictional setting, written by an author who isn't even as handsome as the reader?
I believe it.
In the past, if someone had said that to me, I would've typed back without hesitation: "If you think that, then quit."
But who would've thought?
I really did quit…
---
Prologue: The Cloud Hammer That Liked
Time: December 5, 2025, 11:45 PM
Location: Blue Star, East 8th Time Zone — a rented room in a village within a major coastal city
The winter night wind was like a drunken old man, relentlessly slamming against my cheap, rattling window.
The lights were off. The only illumination came from my cracked, low-end smartphone, casting a pale blue glow across a typical "corporate slave" face—heavy dark circles, messy stubble, and hollow eyes devoid of vitality, like someone who had just survived a week of "blessings."
My name is Li Wei. Male. Twenty-six years old.
Profession: backend operations and maintenance at some nameless internet company.
Hobby: veteran Warhammer 40,000 enthusiast — with ten years of "cloud gaming" experience.
In this era where physical miniatures cost as much as gold bars and painting them requires craftsmanship on the level of micro-carving, I naturally chose the glorious path of being a "Cloud Hammer."
I don't buy model kits.
I don't play tabletop.
I've barely purchased a few official novels — they're absurdly expensive.
But forums? Wikis? Lore threads? Video breakdowns?
I consume them religiously.
From the War in Heaven between the Old Ones and the Necrons…
to the birth of Slaanesh…
to the Horus Heresy and the Siege of Terra…
to the Great Rift splitting the galaxy in two…
to Roboute Guilliman's resurrection and return as Lord Commander of the Imperium…
I know the 41st Millennium like the back of my hand.
Dreadnoughts are noble.
The Emperor is righteous.
Which is better — a golden toilet or a brass one?
I could argue that for three hundred rounds straight on a keyboard.
Right now, I'm curled up in my damp but slightly warm blanket, performing my sacred pre-sleep ritual:
Scrolling short videos.
On the screen, a familiar marketing-account narrator passionately explained one of the most outrageous and controversial moments in recent Warhammer canon — from Godblight, the final installment of the Dark Imperium trilogy.
"…Brothers! Who would've imagined! Just when Lord Commander Roboute Guilliman was being beaten senseless by that unfilial son Mortarion, his soul drowning in Nurgle's plague and despair — when even the Emperor's Sword burned but could not finish the job — a miracle occurred!"
"That little girl — the one following Ecclesiarchy priest Mathieu — that ordinary mortal child… was suddenly possessed by the Emperor Himself!"
"This wasn't ordinary possession! The Emperor's psychic will burned through the warp! Golden fire swept through Nurgle's Garden! Even Nurgle's mansion trembled! Across the Sea of Souls, the Plague God felt the slap of divine wrath!"
"And though the Emperor has sat upon the Golden Throne for ten thousand years — sustained by a thousand sacrificed psykers each day — His will remains supreme!"
I burst out laughing.
Even knowing the actual lore — that the Emperor's power manifested through a mortal vessel in Nurgle's Garden, scorching the Garden itself and humiliating the Plague God — the narrator's exaggerated tone made it hilarious every time.
Games Workshop's recent plot progression really did feel like:
"Please buy more miniatures. We'll resurrect whoever you want."
Naturally, I opened the comments.
My fingers flew.
[This plot is outdated already. The main account AFK on the Golden Throne burning psykers daily, and now he opens a mortal loli alt to smurf? That girl's body definitely can't handle that much psychic overflow. Lore-accurate ending: ashes. Is this the Emperor's currency exchange program?]
Sent.
Several likes popped up quickly.
Satisfied, I swiped.
The next video wasn't commentary. It was cosplay.
The background music was the usual fast-paced short-video soundtrack. But something felt… off.
On the screen stood a tall cosplayer in a sleeveless white robe. The silhouette was elegant, almost reminiscent of high gothic-meets-futuristic design.
But that wasn't what froze me.
As the music peaked, she slowly raised her head.
I stopped breathing.
I've seen countless female Emperor cosplays — joke versions, fanservice versions, meme versions.
This one was different.
Long golden hair flowed like liquid sunlight. Her features were sculpted and severe — not the soft prettiness of an internet celebrity, but something cold. Majestic. Remote.
And her eyes.
Golden contact lenses, yes — but it wasn't that.
It was the gaze.
Ancient. Heavy. As though she had witnessed ten thousand years of humanity's suffering. As though she bore the weight of a dying species chained to a Golden Throne in the Imperial Palace on Terra.
There was even exhaustion there.
The exhaustion of a shattered soul holding back the warp.
"Holy…"
I swallowed.
"If the Emperor really looked like that… why would Horus betray Him? He'd kneel and call her— no, call Him— whatever He wanted…"
For a fleeting moment, my loyalty wavered in a direction that would absolutely qualify as heresy.
Not lust.
Devotion.
My thumb tapped the red heart icon.
And with inexplicable sincerity, I left my final comment of the night:
[Too strong. That gaze is lethal. If the Emperor actually looked like this, forget a thousand psykers a day — I'd volunteer as a battery for the Golden Throne. For the Emperor. Burn me. Let me become ash beneath Your Throne.]
Send.
The moment the heart icon solidified red—
Something changed.
The phone's brightness surged.
From cool white to blinding gold.
At first I thought the screen was malfunctioning.
Then I realized—
The light was flowing.
Like liquid gold seeping out from the glass.
It ran across my fingers.
Down my arm.
"What the hell? Is it leaking electricity?!"
I tried to throw the phone away.
I couldn't.
My hand was stuck.
On the screen, the previously static image of the female Emperor moved.
Not like a looping video.
She leaned forward slightly.
The indifferent expression shifted into something almost amused.
Mocking.
Like a higher-dimensional being observing an ant in a glass box.
A voice exploded inside my mind.
Vast. Layered. Like cathedral organs and supernovae overlapping.
"As you wish."
I don't know if it was High Gothic.
Or pure psychic transmission.
My brain shut down.
The next second—
Something grabbed my soul.
There was no pain.
Or perhaps the pain exceeded biological limits.
The room stretched into a kaleidoscope. Walls, desk, takeout boxes — everything twisted into impossible geometry.
I fell.
Faster than light.
Spinning into the abyss.
My final thought before consciousness shattered:
"Wait — I was joking! They're not actually using me as a battery, right?!"
---
Time: Nonlinear — The Warp
Location: The Sea of Souls
If you ask me what warp travel feels like—
It's like shredding your consciousness into ten thousand fragments, throwing them into separate nightmares, then blending them back together.
I had no body.
Only energy.
Around me were colors that did not exist in human perception. Screaming hues. Living madness.
I knew where I was.
The Immaterium.
The Warp.
The Sea of Souls.
Shadows moved within it.
A bloated green presence reeking of rot and decay — Nurgle.
A crimson tide of endless slaughter — Khorne.
A shifting storm of eyes and feathers — Tzeentch.
A seductive, nauseating violet-pink ecstasy — Slaanesh.
They sensed me.
A streak of golden light tearing across their domain.
"It smells familiar…"
"Not Him… but close…"
A tendril of Tzeentchian distortion reached toward me—
The golden light erupted.
Not defensively.
Dominantly.
The kind of authority that declares:
I am your master.
Even the projections of Chaos recoiled.
I became a bullet wrapped in the Emperor's will, punching through the warp barrier toward a fixed coordinate.
A cold synthesized voice echoed in my mind:
[World initialization complete.]
[High-dimensional interference protocol activated.]
[Calibrating timeline… M41.999… End of the Plague War.]
[Target locked: Iax.]
Then—
Falling again.
---
Time: Late 41st Millennium — End of the Plague War
Location: Ultramar Sector — Iax — Trench Line 42
Gravity returned.
Pain returned.
Smell came first.
Rotting flesh. Chemical burn. Sulfur. Old blood. Excrement. Disease.
The signature stench of Nurgle's corruption.
Then sound.
Bolter fire. Chainswords tearing through meat. The buzzing of plague flies. The laughter of the diseased.
Then sight.
The sky was a sickly yellow-green, choked with warp-tainted clouds.
The ground was black mud mixed with toxin.
Corpses piled in trenches.
Plague-ridden soldiers in swollen, ruptured armor rose again as shambling corpses.
Nearby stood warriors in battered cobalt power armor — Ultramarines. No halo of divinity. No cinematic glory.
Just mud, blood, cracked ceramite, and desperate resistance.
And in a shell crater at the center of it all—
Lay "me."
Or rather—
The body I was about to enter.
A little girl.
Fourteen. Maybe younger.
Emaciated.
Sunken cheeks.
Ill-fitting oil-stained coat like some hive-world scrap scavenger.
Flaxen hair matted with mud and blood.
Bandaged hands.
Her breathing had stopped.
The flame of life flickered like a candle in a storm.
[Suitable carrier detected: Erin.]
[Carrier status: Near death — vital signs null.]
[Beginning injection of high-dimensional energy…]