Nyth's mind stirred, flickers of curiosity sparking his timeless gaze as he rose from his eons-long slumber. He didn't wake because of some grand calling or vengeance; he woke up because, frankly, he felt like it. In the heart of a star beyond the reach of the Milky Way's squabbling powers, he unfolded his awareness, taking in everything—from the pathetic squabbles of mortals to the endless galactic wars and, naturally, the overinflated egos of so-called "gods."

With a thought, he brushed away the knowledge of his fragmented C'tan kin. The news of their enslavement, confinement, and shattered forms flickered through his awareness, amusing him as one might find entertainment in the story of a clumsy cousin who couldn't keep out of trouble. No, his kindred's fall wasn't a worry—it was a joke. A cosmic-level punchline. But the galaxy itself—oh, that might be worth a laugh.

In an instant, Nyth's gaze fixed on a backwater rock of a planet, Balustrade IV, where humans and greenskins were locked in a blood-soaked stalemate. He grinned. "Let's have some fun."

With a thought, Nyth appeared in the middle of a battlefield, his robes now transformed into the most advanced suit of power armor the galaxy had never seen, a shimmering dark-blue and gold monstrosity that looked like it was forged out of stardust itself. Spikes of cosmic energy ran along its joints and edges, and the armor adjusted itself to fit his every whim, each movement effortless, fluid, and terrifyingly smooth.

In the distance, an Ork Boy spotted Nyth, slapped his friend on the head, and pointed, "Oi! Look at dat fancy git!" Within seconds, a dozen more greenskins turned, their brutish faces twisted into expressions that might have been excitement or sheer stupidity—often one and the same for an Ork. They raised their choppas, shooters, and one gleefully held up what appeared to be an old car door painted with crude teeth. Together, they charged Nyth in a screaming green wave.

"Well, aren't you precious?" Nyth muttered, eyes flashing with amusement.

The Orks charged, guns blazing, bullets pinging off his armor without so much as scratching it. One even yelled, "Oi! Dis one's gonna be fun ta krump!" as he hefted a massive rusted blade. Nyth sighed, extended his hand, and his armor morphed, forming a cosmic-scale version of a bolter—but unlike any bolter the galaxy had ever seen. With a single thought, it fired rounds of raw stardust energy, blasting the charging Orks to pieces, each round erasing the unfortunate greenskin from existence with a flash of white-hot light.

For a moment, the rest of the greenskins hesitated, looking at the crater where their friends had once stood.

"Oi… dat was sneaky…" one mumbled, his mind trying—and failing—to grasp what had just happened.

Nyth laughed, a sound that rang out like thunder across the battlefield. He flicked a finger, and the bolter reshaped itself into a massive cosmic chainsword, its edge gleaming with the same shimmer as his armor, vibrating with an otherworldly energy that made even the Orks take a step back.

"Come on, then!" he shouted, grinning. "Who's next?"

One particularly large Ork Nob, covered in poorly welded armor plates, roared, "You tink ya scare us, ya shiny git? WAAAAGH!" The Nob and his posse charged, closing the distance with thundering footsteps.

Nyth swung his cosmic chainsword, cleaving through the Nob's armor, bones, and green flesh as though slicing through air. The Ork's two halves separated cleanly, spraying blood in a gruesome arc, but his fellows didn't falter, charging forward into the whirling blade. Nyth moved with a fluidity that would make even Astartes jealous, carving a bloody path through the greenskins. Limbs, heads, and entrails scattered, painting the ground in a sickly green mosaic.

"Bit of a mess," he said, glancing at the carnage around him. "But I suppose you're not known for your cleanliness."

The remaining Orks looked at him with a mix of terror and awe. Some of the smaller ones began backing away, muttering, "Oi, maybe dis one's not fer krumpin'…"

A voice crackled over the nearby Imperial vox-caster. "All units, regroup! We're being overrun!" On a nearby hill, Captain Jorin of the 108th Steel Thunder Regiment watched the slaughter with wide-eyed disbelief. He had no idea who—or what—this figure in star-studded armor was, but he wasn't about to question any help that came with an absurdly high kill count.

Captain Jorin raised his voice, shouting into his vox. "To the armored warrior out there—join us! Push these greenskins back!"

Nyth chuckled, hearing the request through his enhanced senses. "Join you?" He muttered. "Well, that sounds like an invitation I can't refuse."

In a flash, he took a casual step forward, and in the blink of an eye, he was standing next to Captain Jorin, who nearly dropped his bolt pistol in shock.

Jorin stared up at Nyth, then cleared his throat. "You… uh… you seem to be helping us."

Nyth smiled under his helmet, which reshaped itself to show his glowing, amused eyes. "Helping is such a strong word, Captain. I'm here for the laughs."

Without waiting for a response, Nyth raised his cosmic bolter again and fired, the stardust rounds tearing into a fresh wave of charging Orks, vaporizing them as they howled their war cries. Jorin's men cheered, emboldened by the figure in cosmic armor tearing the Ork horde to shreds with casual, almost lazy swipes of his weapon.

A group of armored Ork Nobz charged forward, waving their massive choppas and bellowing, "WAAAAGH!" One of them carried a massive banner, a crude skull painted in blood across it. Nyth couldn't help but grin as he extended his hand, the armor morphing into a plasma cannon—except this plasma cannon fired condensed star matter. When he pulled the trigger, the Nobz and their banner disintegrated into a flash of brilliant, searing light.

Captain Jorin stared, mouth agape. "Emperor's mercy…"

Nyth gave him a sideways glance. "Not quite."

For the next few minutes, Nyth carved his way through the Ork ranks, his armor reshaping itself into every conceivable weapon. At one point, it became a cosmic hammer, which he used to smash an entire squad of Orks with a single swing, sending them flying through the air like ragdolls. Another moment, he wielded a spear that seemed to stretch endlessly, piercing through wave after wave of greenskins like they were made of wet paper.

As the battle began to thin out, with Ork bodies littering the ground and the survivors finally realizing this fight was beyond them, one of Jorin's lieutenants approached, looking at Nyth with a mix of awe and suspicion.

"Uh… sir, if I may ask," the lieutenant stammered, "who exactly… or what… are you?"

Nyth shrugged, the cosmic armor shifting back into its original stardust form, the myriad weapons vanishing as if they'd never existed. "I'm just passing through," he said, patting the lieutenant on the shoulder with a strength that nearly sent the man stumbling. "You all have fun with the mop-up."

With that, he took a casual step forward and vanished, leaving Jorin and his men staring at the space where he had been, mouths agape, wondering if they'd just fought alongside an angel, a daemon, or something far worse.