Deep within the Warp.
There is no direction here. No time. Only an eternal, roiling ocean of emotion.
In this realm of souls partitioned and fought over by the four Chaos Gods for untold eons, a blurry halo hovered quietly on the very fringes of the territory illuminated by Holy Terra's Astronomican.
The halo was roughly three hundred kilometers in diameter. On the scale of the Warp, it didn't even amount to a speck of dust.
But upon closer inspection, the structure of this halo was extraordinarily intricate. Its outer layer was formed from continuously flowing, unaligned Chaos energy, encasing the interior like an eggshell.
This energy was deliberately sculpted to be indistinct, completely devoid of any characteristics associated with the domains of the Ruinous Powers.
There were no blue runic patterns of Tzeentch, no blood-red flames of Khorne, no putrid green luminescence of Nurgle, and no beguiling purple hues of Slaanesh.
It blended perfectly into the background of the Warp, utterly unremarkable.
Inside the halo, however, was an entirely different scene.
A palace constructed purely from psychic energy floated in the core region. Its architectural style was... exceedingly bizarre.
It wasn't a brass fortress of Khorne.
Nor was it a labyrinthine tower of Tzeentch, a festering garden of Nurgle, or a pleasure palace of Slaanesh.
It looked more like modern, minimalist architecture. Its structure was simple, the entire edifice a smooth, milky white with pale golden patterns flowing across its surface.
Looking closely at those patterns, they were formed by countless microscopic symbols. They weren't Chaos runes, nor were they Imperial Gothic. They were...
Simple English words.
Dignity. Hope. Future. Solidarity. Labor.
In the main hall at the center of the palace, Lucian Sanctus's humanoid avatar lounged on a hovering reclining chair.
He appeared to be in his early twenties, possessing an almost unfairly handsome face. With his black hair, golden eyes, and simple black suit, he looked like a student fresh out of the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna—if not for the utterly transcendent psychic pressure radiating from him.
"It got rounder..."
Lucian looked down at his hand, palm facing up.
A warm, golden sphere of light coalesced in his palm. Within the sphere, a dense pattern of five-pointed stars slowly rotated.
This golden sphere was Lucian's true form; his humanoid body was merely a vessel sculpted from emotional energy.
"It got a little rounder again." He sighed, his tone laced with helplessness. "I've absorbed too much hope-infused emotional energy recently because all the ninety-eight million people in Kent Hive are thinking about a better tomorrow every single day… It seems to be seriously affecting my composition."
Lucian shook his head, merging the sphere of light back into his body.
"If this keeps up, sooner or later I'm going to turn into a literal sun, a genuine God of Hope and Change. By then, Nurgle and Tzeentch will definitely come knocking on my door for a cup of tea. After all, this 'hope' thing severely encroaches upon both of their domains. Those two insidious bastards... one's always painting a grand illusion of hope, and the other constantly beautifies his own paternal love to breed yearning."
But at this moment, he didn't actually care what he was composed of. Because as long as he willed it, he could instantly transform into a Chaos God, or into a God of Hope that brings actual salvation.
He was not bound by the rules of this universe.
He stood up and walked to the edge of the palace.
Through the transparent walls constructed of psychic energy, he could see the external camouflage shell operating at peak efficiency.
Countless streams of emotional energy, siphoned from the players and the residents of Kent Hive, were filtered and purified by the system before being converted into neutral Chaos energy, continuously reinforcing the protective shell.
Lucian looked at the massive number representing his system's energy, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.
In just a five-day requisition operation, Paul and his squad of eight had emptied the warehouses of thirteen hive cities. After conversion, they brought in a staggering profit of over two hundred and seventy billion Imperial Coins.
The vast majority of it had been siphoned off by his 90% cut and converted into system energy.
"As expected, in the Warhammer universe, playing the farming simulator is never as fast as playing the bandit." He murmured to himself, "Though... the version update will have to wait a little longer."
Lucian's gaze pierced through the veil separating the Warp and the material universe, falling upon the grayish-yellow planet of Aurelian IV.
Within his perception, the planet was currently surrounded by three immensely powerful forces.
The first emanated from the Gloriana-class battleship Red Tear in low orbit.
It was Sanguinius's psychic radiance—warm, compassionate, and overflowing with idealism.
The second originated from the direction of the City of the Holy Anthem.
It was an obscured, insidious blue psychic fluctuation, reeking of Tzeentch's signature thirst for knowledge and conspiracy.
Though it was exceptionally well-disguised, to a peer like Lucian, it was as obvious as a lighthouse in the dead of night.
"A Gamma-tier psyker being corrupted by a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch..." Lucian narrowed his eyes. "Sacken Alar... an orphan of House Alar from eighty years ago, now masquerading as Garrison Conmo... Fascinating."
The third force pulsed from deep within Kent Hive.
It was Paul's psychic imprint, a blend of the fluctuations of all five great traits.
In Lucian's perception, it was like a star still incubating in a nebula. Though it wasn't strong enough yet, its potential was terrifying.
"Paul Dawn..." Lucian spoke the name Paul had taken after accepting the Champion quest line. "Let me see how you handle this situation."
Right at that moment, within Lucian's perception, Sanguinius's psychic energy suddenly spiked violently.
The Great Angel seemed to have noticed something.
--
Bridge of the Red Tear.
Sanguinius's eyes snapped open.
His pristine white wings unfurled reflexively, stretching to a wingspan of over five meters. The psychic luminescence on every single feather flared with a blinding intensity.
"Father?" Azkaellon stepped forward quickly, his hand snapping to the hilt of his sword.
The Commander of the Sanguinary Guard acutely sensed his Primarch's anomaly.
Deep within Sanguinius's pupils, the swirling phantoms of starlight were spinning out of control—a manifestation of his precognitive abilities being violently triggered.
"Just now..." Sanguinius's voice carried a rare hint of... confusion? "A gaze."
He slowly stood up, his wings folding back against his armor.
"It was not the prying of heretics, nor the stare of one of my brothers, nor the majestic will of Father..."
Sanguinius walked to the observation port, the grayish-yellow planet reflecting in his amber-gold slit pupils.
"That gaze... it was very calm. Even... curious? Like a child standing outside a glass terrarium, observing the ants within."
Azkaellon's expression turned grim. "Can you pinpoint the source?"
"No," Sanguinius shook his head, his wings flapping lightly, unconsciously. "The sensation vanished in an instant, but the feeling of being observed... was distinct."
He fell silent for a few seconds before suddenly turning his head. "Azkaellon, do you remember the Imperial Truth's description of the Warp?"
"I do, Father," the Commander said solemnly. "The Emperor teaches us that the Warp is merely a collective projection of humanity's subconscious, an ocean of emotion. The so-called gods and daemons do not exist. Psychic power is a controllable tool, to be used with caution, and obsession must be avoided."
"And if..." Sanguinius's voice was very soft. "...if Father is wrong?"
Dead silence fell over the bridge.
Azkaellon opened his mouth to speak but ultimately just bowed his head deeply. "Father, such words... should not be spoken."
"I know." Sanguinius turned back to the viewport, his wings leaving faint trails of light in the air. "But ever since we entered the Aurelian System, my precognition has been constantly interfered with. First the fog, and now this... sensation of being watched."
He paused. "Assemble the Sanguinary Guard. Prepare a Thunderhawk."
"Father?"
"To the City of the Holy Anthem." Sanguinius's gaze hardened into a piercing stare. "Since I cannot see clearly, I will go see for myself. I want to look upon these proxies of the four major factions that have ruled this world for eighty years. And while I am at it..." He looked down at the planet's surface. "...I will ask them exactly what they are hiding."
He paused, murmuring so softly that only he could hear, "Who else besides Father... could restrict my foresight to such a degree?"
--
Thirty minutes later.
Two Thunderhawk gunships detached from the Red Tear and began their descent toward the City of the Holy Anthem.
The lead gunship, painted in crimson and gold and bearing the six-winged angel insignia on its hull, was Sanguinius's personal transport, the Holy Word.
Its interior featured a Primarch-scale sanctum, a tactical command terminal, and a psychic ward designed to insulate the vessel from Warp-based scrying.
Trailing closely behind was the Sanguinary Guard transport, the Crimson Oath..
At this moment, thirty Sanguinary Guard warriors clad in artificer power armor stood at attention inside the transport.
Their armor was heavier and more resilient than standard issue. Their pauldrons were etched with no fewer than seven honor rings, and their chest plates were inscribed with litanies of Baal.
Every single warrior rested their hands on the grips of their bolters.
Though this was an official visit, Azkaellon had issued absolute orders:
"At the first sign of anomaly, prioritize the defense of the Primarch. If necessary... purge the entire area."
--
Four hours later. The City of the Holy Anthem, the plaza before the Planetary Governor's Palace.
A red carpet embroidered with golden Aquilas and creeping vines stretched for hundreds of meters, flanked by classical sculptures requisitioned from the planetary museum.
Hundreds of decorative servo-skulls floated in the air, broadcasting solemn Imperial hymns.
The leaders of the four major factions, a dozen high-ranking consuls of the planetary government, and the elite socialites of the city...
Over three hundred people stood in formation on either side of the carpet, dressed in their most opulent formal wear, plastering meticulously practiced, obsequious smiles across their faces.
The visit Magos Occus had scheduled days prior had been canceled due to the successive raids on the hive cities.
Thus, this was their very first time coming face to face with the Angel of the Imperium, the Lord of the Ninth Legion, the Ninth Primarch: Lord Sanguinius.
As the crimson and gold Thunderhawk and its escort transport slowly descended, everyone bowed simultaneously, placing their right hands over their hearts in the sign of the Aquila.
The boarding ramps lowered.
The first to disembark were thirty Sanguinary Guard Terminators.
Their blood-red Cataphractii plate gleamed under the starlight, the golden winged insignias on their pauldrons looking as if they were ready to take flight.
They fanned out in a semicircular formation. Their bolters were angled downward, but their fingers never left the triggers. The gazes sweeping the plaza from behind their visors carried that unique Astartes detachment—the calm of gods scrutinizing ants.
Sanguinius slowly stepped down the ramp.
Even though they already knew of the Primarch's existence, when the Emperor's ninth son truly appeared before them, the vast majority of those present felt the breath catch in their throats.
Standing three point seven meters tall, with pristine white wings sprouting from his back, a face so perfect it seemed utterly inhuman, starlight swirling in his amber-gold slit pupils, and an overwhelming aura that blended absolute divinity with profound humanity...
Many found their knees giving out, nearly collapsing to the ground.
"We welcome you, Lord Sanguinius!" Achil Hysman stepped forward first, his voice trembling with excitement. "Your arrival is the highest glory Aurelian IV has ever known! We have prepared for you—"
"Lead the way to the conference room," Sanguinius interrupted him. His voice was gentle, yet it carried a tone that brooked absolutely no argument. "I am here to listen to reports, not to be entertained."
Achil choked on his words, his face flushing crimson as he hurriedly sputtered his compliance.
Ten minutes later, inside the Governor's Palace conference room.
Sanguinius sat at the head of the table.
His wings were folded neatly behind him.
Azkaellon stood just behind his shoulder, and the thirty Sanguinary Guard terminators secured every exit in the room.
The leaders of the four major factions, the consul representatives, and over twenty others sat at the lower end of the table, sitting ramrod straight and sweating profusely.
"Who will present the report?" Sanguinius spoke, his calm gaze sweeping over the assembly.
Magos Occus's mechanical eye flickered. He stood up, projecting a holographic display from his right mechadendrite.
"Lord Sanguinius, I am Occus Kane, head of the Order of the Omnissian Mind's Aurelian branch. The following is a summary of the data regarding the attacks on thirteen hive cities over the past five days."
He spoke rapidly but clearly, summarizing all the crucial information in three minutes: the number of attackers, physical descriptions, combat style analysis, and the estimated value of the lost supplies.
And the contents of the notice plates left at the scenes...
"Departmento Munitorum, Bureau of Logistics, Archive Classification: ALPHA-976-M30-007. According to queries assisted by the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, this corresponds to a supply requisition order issued three years ago for a world in the Segmentum Obscurus. It has no connection to Aurelian IV."
Occus concluded his report. "Therefore, this series of attacks is a malicious incident involving forged identities, impersonation of the Legions, and the theft of Imperial assets. We humbly request the Ninth Legion to intervene, investigate, and recover the stolen losses."
The moment he finished, Greave Atens couldn't help but slam his hand on the table and stand up. Only after doing so did he realize his breach of etiquette. He quickly retracted his hand, but he couldn't suppress the fury in his voice.
"Lord Sanguinius! Those bandits didn't just steal supplies; they murdered over seventy thousand of our garrison troops! Sycamore, Moulton, Holmes... the PDF and local enforcers of every single hive city suffered catastrophic losses! This is a blatant provocation against the Imperium!"
"What are we supposed to do about this year's Tithe?" Achil couldn't hold back either, his voice verging on a sob. "With so much ore and supplies lost, what are we supposed to offer to Terra in three months?! The Arbites will not let us off lightly..."
"Yes, my Lord!"
"Those bandits must pay the price!"
"Please, Ninth Legion, seek justice for us!"