"It just won't die!"

Lucius the Eternal, the Champion of Slaanesh, erupted into boisterous laughter as the fiery behemoth swung its blazing sword, laying waste to a legion of a thousand cultists and a hundred Chaos Marines in a single, devastating sweep. Its weapon left behind a trail of flames, shadow, and ash in its wake. With a thunderous roar, the behemoth sent shockwaves through the ground, ejecting chunks of magma in its furious wake. Formidable, rune-warded chains were flung toward it, ensnaring its fiery maw, yet the inferno that blazed over its form intensified, causing even chains capable of restraining a Greater Daemon to liquefy. It became increasingly apparent that this entity was not a Daemon. Its aura lacked the typical presence of one, and, despite sharing similarities with a Bloodthirster, it bore distinct differences.

Most peculiar of all, it was growing in strength.

What was this fascinating creature?

Just minutes ago, upon its arrival, the behemoth had struggled to overpower a lone Chaos Marine. It had been treated as little more than a plaything, tossed around and subjected to merciless abuse despite being twice the height of a standard human and roughly three times as strong, with only rudimentary command over fire and shadow. The Chaos Marines had utterly dominated the creature. However, at this moment, its blazing sword was capable of cleaving through tanks and incinerating a thousand bodies in a single sweep. It now loomed four times taller and possessed a strength exponentially greater by a factor of a hundred. Its mastery over fire and shadow had also substantially expanded.

"It's feeding on the ambient warp energies from the portal, my lord!"

Lucius grinned. Soon, it might just grow strong enough to be worthy of his attention. Right now, it was essentially just a wingless Bloodthirster. Not interesting in the slightest. "I know. I can see that."

The burning behemoth roared, unleashing a cloud of fire and ashes and dust and shadow. Those caught in it burned and blistered; they screamed in agony and rolled on the floor as their skin and muscles blackened – a torturous death. The Chaos Astartes survived in its vicinity, but even they must've felt the heat it radiated, the ground turning to lava right beneath them. One particularly foolhardy marine rushed forward in an attempt to bully the... thing into submission – incredibly unwise, Lucius mused as the behemoth reached out and crunched the marine's torso into burning scrap, before tossing it towards a group of cultists, who were all crushed upon impact. He actually chuckled at that; hearing their screams was a delight.

Lucius leaned back as he took a glass of wine to his lips – made by the Daemonettes themselves, usually served only the Palace of Pleasure. The flavor changed each time he tasted it so that it was always better than the previous tasting. "And I still don't know what this creature even is."

"My lord, if we don't kill it now, it'll become too powerful!"

"Be quiet, wretch." Lucius said, calmly, as he eyed the burning behemoth. It thrashed wildly, destroying everything in its path. As it was now, it could very likely defeat a weak Bloodthirster in a duel. The stronger ones would very easily thrash it, but this being had the very peculiar ability of growing stronger by absorbing warp energy. It was fascinating. Lucius would readily admit that he wasn't sure how he could defeat such a creature, but that was the whole point; that was where the thrill came from, the idea that his enemy might be capable of besting him, the idea that he might've been outmatched. For now, however, Lucius was reasonably certain that he could kill it. That was why he wanted to wait until that certainty faded. "This might just be the most interesting thing this world has to offer. You will not spoil my entertainment."

"My lord, Imperial Reinforcements have been detected: Carcharodons Astra. ETA is four hours, maybe less."

Lucius raised a brow. "The Space Sharks, eh? I've never fought them before. This should be amusing. Call for reinforcements as well; we may need additional numbers on our side."

It wasn't a Daemon.

No, its presence was beyond the presence of Daemons.

A spectral, skeletal giant with bone wings burst forth from the shattered building, a marauding behemoth. In its bony grasp, it held a massive scythe adorned with anguished faces, souls trapped in eternal torment, their cries for help etched upon the weapon. The aura it emanated was pure death, a bone-chilling harbinger of doom. All who sensed it trembled, their spirits howling in fear as the Reaper of Souls itself loomed before them. With a single sweep of its scythe, a hundred men perished, torn apart, along with armored vehicles and crumbling buildings, felled like ripe wheat. A crimson mist tainted the air, and yet, the Reaper stood unwavering, even as countless Lasgun beams, bolter rounds, and plasma shots rained upon it. The Chaos Astartes were not spared from the onslaught either, as the Reaper seemingly vanished in a flash of purple, only to reappear behind the fallen angels of the Corpse Emperor, silently cutting them all down in one fell swoop.

The cohort, initially assigned to accompany a company of Chaos Marines on a push into enemy territory through underground tunnels, disintegrated. Those men who had once pledged allegiance to the dark gods broke, fleeing without their weapons. Their screams filled the air as they trampled over one another in sheer madness. Yet, the Reaper did not pause; only seconds had passed, after all. It moved with swift, deadly grace, slashing its scythe upward and carving a deep trench into the earth. An unseen blade seemed to slice through the followers, rending them apart as if they were mere illusions. Death operated in silence. It moved and struck, each sweep of its scythe reaching far beyond its apparent range, dismantling structures nearly fifty meters away. A handful of brave souls attempted to confront the embodiment of death, but their courage proved futile; they too were swiftly cut down, just like the rest. Nothing could withstand its onslaught. Within moments, an army of thousands was reduced to a mere handful, and that handful was obliterated in the blink of an eye.

Tavis Stoll shuddered uncontrollably as he hid behind a ruined chunk of metal and stone, far from the carnage he'd witnessed through the binoculars he held in his shaking hands.

What was that?

They had received no warning, no inkling of the horror that would be unleashed by their treachery. He had been lured in by promises of freedom, glory, and unimaginable wealth in exchange for joining the uprising. Victory and pleasures beyond his wildest dreams were pledged to him, and to all who embraced the darkness, abandoning the God Emperor—referred to as the Corpse Emperor by the Chaos Marines, a false deity. His superiors had assured him, and everyone else, of an effortless triumph over the planet. Initially, he believed their words.

Tavis had been there to witness the breaking of the Imperial Guard, their swift retreat, and the massacre of billions. Yet, none had warned him that death itself would come knocking, in the form of the Grim Reaper. The cruel reality had caught them all by surprise. And, if he was being honest, even the Chaos Marines looked absolutely baffled by the enemy that struck them down with an almost godlike ease. Was this punishment? Was this the God Emperor's justice? Was this divine retribution for turning his back on the guardian of humanity?

His eyes widened. And tears streamed from them. His shaking ceased and his heart ached.

Tavis took a deep breath, steeling himself as he knelt and pressed his forehead to the ground. His life had been marred by a litany of terrible deeds, acts that haunted him, things he wished he could erase from his memory. His sins were myriad, too numerous to count or recall. Yet, among them, he recognized his gravest transgression: turning his back on the Emperor and mankind. In that betrayal, he had forsaken everything and everyone, including his own honor. There was a time, in his youth, when he aspired to be a Space Marine, to dedicate himself to the Imperium's service, safeguarding its people and borders against its adversaries. How had he fallen so far? When had he stooped so low?

Gritting his teeth, Tavis took his knife and began slicing away the patch of skin on his forehead that held the brand of the Prince of Pleasure. The agony was beyond anything he'd ever felt before. It felt as though his very skin had turned against him and fought back to keep itself from being sliced off. Still, Tavis pushed himself through the pain and endured. The brand had to be removed. Time seemed to blur and he lost himself in its stream – minutes felt like hours and hours felt like moments. With one, final, agonizing stroke of his knife, Tavis pulled the patch of skin free, hissing and burning in his grip, writhing as though it had a will of its own. He tossed it away in disgust.

He stood up and noted the Reaper's absence. Its work was done. Every living thing that'd stood in its shadow was now dead – even the armored vehicles were not spared, split asunder or simply torn apart alongside their crewmen.

Tavis breathed in. He was a traitor now. There was no changing that and there was no going back. He couldn't return to the Emperor's embrace. It was too late for that now. But there was something he could do to atone for... well... everything, really. For his sin, it was only right that he paid with his life. But to simply kill himself would be meaningless. No, there had to be more. He would take out as many traitors with him as he could, even if it meant strapping explosives into his chest. Tavis would atone for what he did – one way or another.

It wasn't of the warp, but neither was it entirely physical.

Curious.

It was, for a lack of a better term, metaphysical – both material and immaterial at once, an idea, given physical weight and form, forged into the shape of a trinket, a tangible idea. It was a most baffling object, for he knew no power or ability quite like it, never even conceived that such a thing was possible. And yet, here it was, appearing suddenly on his finger. Its effects were instant and... brilliant, relieving him of... much of his burdens.

The moment it materialized, a protective shroud enveloped Terra. It shielded everything and everyone from all malevolent forces directed toward him and humanity. It wasn't a physical barrier that could not be crossed or breached, but a metaphysical one that concealed Terra from those wishing it harm. The ring's power, as he comprehended it, was surprisingly straightforward—an enchantment that cloaked its wearer from evil.

Thus, the ceaseless hordes of Daemons that had been assaulting the breach beneath the palace suddenly discovered an insurmountable barrier. It wasn't because they couldn't physically reach it or because the breach had vanished, but rather because they couldn't perceive it any longer. They couldn't navigate through the shroud that extended just far enough to encompass the breach. Even the sentient parasites in the sea of souls, posing as gods, were rendered blind to him. Once, they and their Daemonic servants had circled him like vultures over a carcass; now, they floundered about and away, their intended prey invisible, but present all the same.

If he had lips, he'd be grinning. Only the Architect of Change had the slightest inkling as to where he was, but – even then – it would've been akin to a falcon in a thick mist, trying to track its prey through sight alone. He felt its frustration, its anger as its plans within plans within plans seemed to shatter around it like brittle glass.

Relief flooded him as, quite simply, the effort to keep the Daemons from flooding into Terra was simply no longer necessary or, at the very least, required so little that it was nearly non-existent.

Briefly, he shifted his focus to the ring. It seemed to double as a form of stasis or preservation—a preservation of the intangible, holding his fragmented mind and soul closer together. In its presence, some shattered shards of his consciousness were melded back into a whole, making his thoughts flow more smoothly and swiftly. How it operated or why remained a mystery, but he intended to unravel its secrets soon enough. Mastering the ring, he believed, would grant him full control over its unique abilities. And those abilities, while seemingly simple, were truly remarkable. With its assistance, he dared to believe it might even be conceivable to fully seal the rift beneath the palace.

Still, a question remained: how did it get to him and, more importantly, who sent it?

The latter was easier to answer as the ring seemed to have left behind a trail of sorts – a spiritual one that marked its apparent passage through the cosmos. Curious and grateful, he followed that trail all the way to a backwater planet at the edge of his Imperium, a planet beset by the Forces of Chaos; Praxtor not alone in that regard. At the very least, the entirety of the Carcharodons Astra was coming to relieve it. Those guys were nuts, but they got the job done.

He peered even closer and found... a guardsman?

What?

This ring came from that guardsman?

How?

He peered even closer, into the very soul of the guardsman and found... a very similar energy as the ring itself – a deeply powerful conceptual power that was unlike the powers of the warp, but not quite the same as the powers of a C'tan either. Strange and alien energies flowed within the guardsman. Perry Anatinus was unmistakably human for he bore the soul of one, but – it seemed – he was born with a connection to a power that was unique. Wait...

It was actually somewhat distantly familiar – something he'd- of course...

Babel

The ring, its power, its essence, and its very existence were all products of an incredibly inventive use of Enuncia, the song of creation itself, the language of the cosmos. This guardsman, to his astonishment, seemed to possess an innate connection to Enuncia, a possibility he'd never considered before. Reluctantly, he had to acknowledge that the ring had to be a byproduct of the guardsman's unwavering faith. This individual had evidently prayed with such fervor and steadfast devotion for his protection and preservation that he had managed to manifest a metaphysical artifact—a ring that alleviated his burdens to such an extent that he now had enough spare power to begin healing himself properly, an idea he'd long since abandoned.

For that, the guardsman had his eternal gratitude.

There was much to be done.

First and foremost, however, he needed to secure that Guardsman.