Hell reigned on Terra.
The Throneworld was the most fortified planet in human history. But even in the galaxy's holy of holies, the Great Rift wreaked havoc.
Against the daemons, concept warred against concept and thought against thought.
In one moment he was his namesake, the third century Romani emperor Valerian. The next, he was the Hebrew Evangelist Poul; his spear alive and powerful, sundering soul and spirit, soul and marrow. He was the exorcist by whose name evil spirits were cast out. He bore a hundred other names, each more ancient than the last. They burned into the Empyrean with arcane significance.
The persecuting Farisee-turned-martyr, the golden-mouthed preacher, emperor, slave, civilian and soldier. The countless aliases he had accumulated over centuries reflected with each stab and slash. He impaled one daemon, allowing its warp-formed flesh to be a sheath for his guardian spear.
It was never ending.
But then again, in a sense, so was he.
"The corrupt shall put on incorruption, the mortal immortality," he whispered, drawing his misericordia. The power knife bisected four abominations as he released his utterance. He wondered what the author of those words would think of the Emperor's spin on it.
Valerian would die in the end, and was ultimately as expendable as any guardsman. His own genus of superhuman was but one evolutionary phase on humanity's ascension. With enough millennia, the Emperor would embark on the next step. The successors to His Ten Thousand would be but pale imitations of Himself, but still closer.
After a millennium,or perhaps five or ten, the Master of Mankind would perfect His work. He would recreate Himself.
Another Anathema.
After that the true war to end Chaos and free humanity would begin.
His speculative vision of the future lasted a microsecond in the real world. The Custodian broke in a daemon's kneecap, wading through Warp-filth. His magnificent, yet terrible golden armor smoldered, covered in the unreal ash of the slain. Despite his heavy breathing, the transhuman did not allow the passion of war to reach his head.
His murders were wrought with perfect apathy.
Over the course of his fight, something had changed. He barreled through a Khornate Bloodletter and glanced around at his surroundings. The daemons were still wreaking havoc, but the scale had shifted. The thousands of thousands and myriads of myriads were depleted and fragmented.
The sky was as blue as plasma flare; the air redolent with the scent of untamed nature. He halted, admiring it before turning and swinging his heavy, gauntleted fist. Another gaunt, hellish visage deformed and split apart.
The Warp portal sputtered as the demonic ritual fuelling it began to lose mortal fuel. The Imperium had struck back and was retaking its Throneworld. Yet instead of the news bringing a sense of relief, he felt uneasy. In the 41st millennium, good things didn't simply happen without there being a catch.
The cogitator in his power armor whirred and processed astronomical data. He frowned as he continued to scythe through the last of the Bloodletters, the daemons now dissipating and weak. It was wrong. Everything was wrong.
This was Terra, but it was not Terra. It was Sol, but it was not Sol. The atmosphere's pollution levels were far too low. The temperature was colder than the norm, rather than suffocatingly hot. He frowned as he removed his helmet. He felt the first breeze of an unspoilt, Terran wind for the first time in his life.
"Where are you, my liege?" he asked with something like desperation.
No answer was forthcoming.
As the day dragged on, it became clear to the Custodian that no rescue was forthcoming. He found himself strangely disenchanted with the beautiful environment.
He was not created just to idly gaze at nature or works of art.
Nevertheless, he was no stranger to having to spend months or even years in isolation from the Imperium proper. Even without being a member of the Aquilan Shield, he commanded his own
"Another warp portal," he muttered. Picked out on his HUD were pillars of smoke and exhaust fumes. The air currents were warmer, and he spotted the tiny specks of primitive aircraft. They appeared to him to be fleeing. His slow, steady stride became a jog, and then a sprint. He became a blur on the ground.
Within a few seconds he outpaced the speed of most land-bound vehicles. 'Perhaps this is an industrial world on the outskirts of the Imperium.' If they had any astropaths, he could send out a high clearance distress signal. Within days a small fleet would be in orbit over the planet to extract him.
But he knew that he was trying to deceive himself with false hope. Too many circumstantial details added up. What little information he had garnered so far matched perfectly with the most ancient descriptions of Terra.
As he neared the outskirts of the city he observed his surroundings. The air was dirty, but not dirty enough. The ground was concrete, the buildings metal and glass. It was not a place built to endure war; nor was it a place of piety. To him the place appeared slapdash, not constructed with any singular purpose in mind.
Transitioning from thin-walled, sprawling suburbs, he entered the urban area proper. It was all but clogged with groundcars. They were all designs that were totally foreign to him, in appearance and sensibility. The vehicles weren't properly armored or armed, or shielded. He supposed only important officials and military leaders would be protected.
He passed through the streets, flooded on all sides by panicking civilians. They were running from something, and the Custodian advanced towards it. He knew exactly what it was, even if he had no decisive proof as to its nature. The power field on his spear blade came to life with a gentle purr.
"Time to finish what we started on Terra," he murmured, seeing the faint deformation of reality. "There will be no fallen primarchs to help you now."
His helmet's warning system let out a shrill squeal of alarm. He sprinted behind a slab of concrete for cover. Before his eyes it drizzled and deformed beneath searing, concentrated heat. If the blast had hit him directly his armor would be seriously damaged. The twin spears of energy slowly abated as he stepped out from cover.
What appeared to be a young woman glared down at him. Her size was pitiable compared to him; he was easily twice her height if not more. Yet she all-but radiated power.
'She is no human, though she disguises herself well,' he thought. The Custodian clenched his spear more tightly. He was not overly critical of his own fighting skills; but he was not overconfident either. He doubted that a direct confrontation with the xenos would end well for him. 'There is no need for conflict. Yet. If need be I can always kill her later.' It would likely have to be subterfuge, rather than a head-on fight.
Valerian lowered his weapon slightly. "I am not your enemy, alien," he began, and pointed behind her. "They are."
The xenos turned around to be slobbered on by a Bloodletter. He swung up his spear, aiming the tip at the beast. He fired. A deafening boom rang out. She flinched as he closed in with the daemon.
"It is as I thought," he said as she looked at him in confusion. The powered edge of his guardian spear flashed. The Bloodletter howled as it was cast into the hell that spawned it. "It is harder for the Neverborn to maintain their presence in this realm."
She responded in somewhat mangled High Gothic. To his relief, he recognized the strain of proto- Nord Merican. It sounded a touch too guttural for his tastes, but he was fluent enough. "Neverborn?"
"I'm Kara In-Ze. But you can call me Supergirl."
"Kara In-Ze?" He repeated to her.
Kara nodded. After a few seconds, she asked, "And you?"
'It is not her native tongue.' Her words came hesitant and stumbling. He looked back at her, stowing his knife. "Valerianus. That is the most common of my names."
"Valerian?" She looked at him curiously for an answer. After his nod of approval she flashed him a smile that was eerily human. He was not disturbed by anything that was alien in her expression. He was disturbed by the almost perfect humanity of it.
Almost perfect.
To the untrained eye, nothing would seem amiss. To one such as he, Kara would immediately stand out.
"I suppose we are at an impasse," he began. "We are not enemies, and we have a mutual foe in the form of the daemon."
He could not tell whether she understood all of what she said. Nevertheless, she nodded, and he went on. "I do not know what we will do after they are vanquished, but-"
He tensed. She did so as well. The world itself seemed to go red. Reality itself cried out in the agony of violation. "Bloodthirster," he grunted.