A soft, creaking sound rose from beneath Datch's feet—the crunch of iron boots grinding sothing that resembled crystallized sand.
He stood on a ruined, unfamiliar platform. The floor was covered in mosaic tiles of unknown material, each one etched with distorted star charts. The mont you looked away, the charts shifted subtly, which was deeply unsettling.
"This is the Warp. If it weren't strange here, that would be the strangest thing of all," Datch muttered to himself.
Behind him stood the two beings he had summoned—Kratos and the Doom Slayer—both quietly observing the alien environnt.
Kratos had never received Astartes enhancent surgery, yet he still towered over two ters tall. His muscles looked carved from living stone; each one twitched faintly with every breath. Light-brown skin stretched over countless scars. A bold red battle-pattern tattoo ran from the center of his bald forehead down the bridge of his nose. In his right hand he gripped the Leviathan Battle Axe, its handle wrapped in worn leather and soaked in dried blood. The runes engraved along the blade flared one by one, each releasing a deep, resonant growl that echoed like an ancient prayer.
The Doom Slayer wore the sa dark olive-green power armor and full-face helt as before. He held the Crucible in both hands—broad, heavy, its surface flowing with dark-red patterns like scars forged in hell itself.
The two god-slayers had t in the air above the platform. Kratos studied the Doom Slayer from head to toe, his gaze finally lingering on the man's hands and the crimson blade. As a Spartan who had once slain gods, he could sll divine blood. The other was a god-slayer as well. What a coincidence that two such warriors had beco partners.
The Doom Slayer's optical lenses scanned Kratos, the Leviathan Axe, and the raw power radiating from the Spartan. Kratos's voice carried the proud, regal tone unique to Spartans.
"You are a powerful warrior."
The Doom Slayer nodded, his voice hoarse. "You as well."
Datch ignored their exchange. He turned slowly, taking in every detail of his surroundings.
They stood on a raised pedestal carved with strange star maps. The platform was ringed by colossal stone structures—windowless towers hundreds of ters tall, each bristling with hundreds of doors. No two doors were alike: so round, so triangular, so irregular hexagons, others twisted into shapes that defied description. All were forged of black tal, their surfaces pitted with rust that shimred with iridescent light.
The tallest structure resembled a temple: seven stacked tiers that narrowed as they rose, each edge adorned with intricate reliefs. The higher the tier, the more abstract the carvings beca. By the seventh floor only pure lines and blocks of color remained. At the very top stood a bizarre sculpture—almost certainly a god of so long-dead alien faith.
Farther away, palaces leaned at impossible angles, their twisted shadows overlapping under sickly illumination. Spiral staircases and inverted doorways flickered in and out of existence. Doors opened and closed at random; occasionally long, sucker-covered tentacles would slither out, only to vanish back into darkness.
An abandoned xenos city—eerily beautiful and utterly wrong.
Hardly surprising. The Warhamr universe had existed for over thirteen billion years; galactic history was beyond comprehension. Even the oldest saints and the most death-fearing mortals were re ripples in that vast river of ti. No one knew how many ruined civilizations lay buried in the Warp. In this graveyard of empires, daemons bred like cockroaches and thrived.
A pack of hyena-like creatures raced up the steps of a collapsed temple. When their fur sloughed off, writhing masses of fingers replaced muscle—each finger painted a different color, so still wearing rusty rings taken from countless victims. As they ran they clawed desperately at the empty air, as though trying to seize sothing just out of reach.
From every window, insects with human faces protruded halfway out of their bodies—n, won, young, old—all wearing the exact sa expression: eternal, gnawing hunger.
In the distance an inverted pyramid floated, its underside covered in bat-like daemons hanging upside-down. Their bodies were a grotesque blend of ape and insect, skin the sickly yellow of lted wax. They laughed with the high, piercing voices of infants, the sound echoing through the ruins in endless, maddening layers.
While Datch studied the Warp, gods and other mighty entities studied him in return. Surprise and wary caution flickered in countless eyes. The power of the Naless One was too strange, too potent; no one wished to provoke such a being. Yet now that he had entered their domain, they had no choice but to respond. If you ignored a threat on your own doorstep, you might as well not exist in the Warp at all.
Datch summoned Skarbrand, the Masque of Slaanesh, the Changeling, Pugh, and several other Warp entities to form a team. During their last visit to the exorcism zone these beings had been heavily suppressed, so he had left them behind. The Warp was their ho; they deserved fresh air.
Zarhulash, being a real-world human, functioned poorly in Warp space, so Datch gave him the day off.
Pop! Pop!
Pugh—the chubby little boy—imdiately launched himself at Datch, scrambled onto his shoulder, and rubbed his cheek affectionately against Datch's neck.
The Masque of Slaanesh's gaze turned dangerous. Today she wore a long purple dress slit to the thigh; her long, pale legs flashed with every step, carrying a hint of dangerous allure. The Naless One ignored her completely. Deeply wounded, she even began to doubt her own worth as a succubus.
If I ever get the chance, I'll kick that fat bastard out. A despicable little daemon who only knows how to flatter the unknown. Next ti I'll try a more innocent expression and see what happens. Unbelievable!
She silently vowed that one day she would have this insignificant, detestable man groveling at her feet.
Skarbrand roared at the sky the mont he was freed, as always—intimidating every lesser being nearby. This ti, however, he behaved himself far better. He had sensed the auras of Kratos and the Doom Slayer—both wrapped in the unmistakable presence of fallen gods.
Damn… are modern humans really this strong?
Datch had refused to bring any of the Astartes NPCs from the Room of Requirents. No matter how rigorously trained, an Astartes's psychological defenses crumbled like paper before the Warp's corruption. One misstep and they would fall, becoming slaves to Chaos. Best to keep them completely out of this.
He opened the minimap. A sprawling schematic of the ruined city appeared—vast, packed with ancient structures. Red enemy markers sward like a crimson ocean. The nearest treasure chest lay twenty kiloters away.
Because the Warp lacked any aningful concept of ti or space, Rick's teleport gun was nearly useless here. They would have to walk.
Following the navigation marker, Datch led his group toward the first chest. He felt eyes on him from every crack, every shadowed doorway, every ruined building—naked hunger, bottomless greed, and madness beyond words. These daemons craved human flesh, human blood, human souls. For entities born of the Immaterium, nothing was more delicious than a living soul and warm body. They would trade anything for the chance to hunt in realspace.
And now one stood right in front of them.
A skinless hyena-daemon finally broke. It knew the power of the Naless One, yet its mind was consud by hunger. It poked its head from behind a fallen pillar, saliva hissing as it ate into the stone. Muscles tensed; it was ready to spring.
More daemons poured out—flooding from cracks, erging from doors, rising from shadows. They did not charge imdiately. Instead they encircled Datch's party, slowly tightening the noose.
Datch drew the Star Spear and Moon Greatsword, settling into a combat stance.
One daemon could stand it no longer and let out a piercing shriek—the signal.
The wave hit.
Kratos bellowed and charged, Leviathan Axe and round shield whirling. His first foe was a four-ard dusa-like daemon. Bone daggers flashed in all four hands; living snake-hair hissed and spat venom. Her face was heartbreakingly beautiful—until her mouth split ear-to-ear, revealing three rows of inward-curving fangs.
She lunged in a blur, all four daggers striking from different angles at eyes, throat, heart, and gut. Venom sprayed in every direction.
Kratos did not dodge. He shifted his left foot back half a step, leaned right, and let the first dagger graze his ear. His right hand brought the axe up in a rising arc, deflecting the second dagger. His left forearm armor caught the third with a shower of sparks. The fourth he simply stepped past, seized the daemon's wrist, and yanked. Off-balance, she toppled forward.
Kratos's axe fell.
The beautiful, terrible head flew. For one frozen instant the face still wore the eager expression of imminent victory—then confusion, terror, and finally emptiness as it reached the apex of its arc.
The headless body's four arms continued flailing. It staggered seven or eight steps before collapsing into black ash.
Kratos turned to the next foe without a second glance.
The Doom Slayer stord into the swarm, super-shotgun in one hand, Crucible in the other. Thunderous blasts tore daemons apart. Survivors t the burning edge of the Judgnt Sword. A tentacled daemon charging him was bisected cleanly; the blade passed through flesh that lted like branded butter. Both halves disintegrated into drifting ash before they hit the ground.
Another daemon roared through a ring of needle-teeth, black thorny tongue writhing. The Doom Slayer's shotgun answered. Its head vanished in a wet explosion; the corpse flew eight ters and cratered the stone.
There were simply too many. Even with summoned allies, Datch had to fight personally. The Moon Greatsword fell in arcs of silver light, bisecting a three-headed horror at the waist. The Star Spear thrust, pierced, withdrew—every motion economical and lethal. Sword and spear wove an unbreakable net of steel; blood, limbs, and ichor flew in all directions.
With every daemon slain, two more took its place. Kill two, four appeared. The horde seed endless. Datch's arms cramped, vision blurred, mind going white. He fought on pure muscle mory—slash, thrust, block, repeat.
Even mighty Skarbrand was swept up and nearly overwheld, saved only by Golden Hamr and Pugh's frantic healing.
At last they reached the first chest. Datch hurled the impaled daemon aside and staggered forward. The box glowed bright crimson on the minimap.
"Wow—bright red! Sothing good's coming!"
The mont his fingers touched it, the chest vanished into his ga inventory. He selected "Open."
A radiant crystal appeared, covered in countless shifting sigils.
[Congratulations! You have obtained "Dark Matter Collection." Dark matter possesses nurous properties that violate conventional physics and can only be harvested near black holes or certain nebulae.]
Datch's eyes lit up. "This is incredible! If I keep collecting it I can build dark-matter reactors, dark-matter weapons… This tech is perfect. We're taking it back to the Imperium."
They pressed on to the second chest, located at the base of an inverted pyramid floating in the air. Passing through its main gate, they climbed a spiraling ramp lit every ten ters by flickering oil lamps and candles.
Daemons harried them the entire way. The team fought without rest—Kratos, the Doom Slayer, Skarbrand, and the others carving a bloody path. No one bothered to count the kills anymore. They simply raised weapons, swung, sheathed, swung again. Everyone was wounded or had eyes so dry they stung.
Datch kept the team alive with Golden Hamr until they finally reached the second chest.
Another notification:
[Congratulations! You have obtained the Hyperspace Engine!]
"Like the threads of a spider's web…" Datch read the description aloud. "Other dinsions of multidinsional space drift between the gravity wells of most stars. Theoretically, faster-than-light travel becos possible between these hyperspace corridors—without needing stable warp routes or stellar orbits."
A slow smile spread across his face. "If this spreads, the Imperium can reach places stellar navigation can't touch. Territory expansion becos far more efficient. Best of all, the tech keeps working even when I'm logged off."
The third chest waited in the exact center of the city's largest complex. Judging by the ruins, this tropolis had once sprawled across an entire planet—perhaps even Earth itself at its height. Now only rubble and daemons remained.
Another long, grinding massacre followed. Blade after blade, daemon after daemon fell to ash. When the last one dissolved, Datch claid the final prize.
[Congratulations! You have acquired Hydroponics Knowledge! This technology enables controlled-environnt hydroponic farming, allowing crops to grow in places conventional agriculture cannot reach.]
Datch studied the specs and nodded. "This might be the most valuable of the three. The Imperium's current agri-worlds are a disaster—chemical fertilizers, livestock waste, choking smog, workers dying of lung rot. Most food goes to the military and administration; civilians see almost none. Fresh produce is a luxury. Hydroponic farms could fix that. We could even put them in orbit so every world gets fresh fruit and vegetables."
With all three chests secured, the summoning tirs for Kratos and the Doom Slayer were nearly expired. Without constant re-summoning there was no way to fight through the endless daemon tide.
Ti to leave.
Datch drew the teleport gun and locked coordinates on the Macragge's Honour, currently cruising through the Warp. He recalled every daemon—including Skarbrand—leaving only Kratos and the Doom Slayer behind.
"In the final monts," Datch said with a grin, "let them slaughter to their hearts' content."
"Only the two of us remain," Kratos growled, splitting a hound-like daemon in half. He turned to the Doom Slayer. "Shall we make a wager?"
"How?" the Doom Slayer asked.
"Whoever kills more daemons wins."
"Agreed." The Doom Slayer chambered a round in his boltgun and vaporized a cluster of foes. "I pray this isn't too easy for ."
"Hah!" Kratos laughed and charged. "Worry about yourself, little man—you don't stand a chance."
The two roared and tore into the horde, carving bloody swathes before wheeling and fighting their way back toward the extraction point.
Daemons: ...
First, we would like to state clearly that we provoked no one. Daemon lives are precious too. Please do not treat our slaughter as entertainnt. Thank you.
...
Macragge's Honour
Datch reappeared in the Grand Strategy Room.
He could feel the Macragge's Honour shuddering under the furious roars of countless daemons. Exactly as expected—they were hamring the Geller Field from outside, claws scraping against the barrier.
Navigators monitoring the Warp had collapsed in terror; several had lost control of their bodies entirely. One navigator's lips trembled, eyes locked on the impossible horde, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. He had witnessed horrors beyond counting in the Warp, yet never anything like this—overwhelming, endless, as though every daemon in existence had gathered in one place.
What had happened? Why were they attacking this ship? Surely no one had raided their ho…
The Geller Field flickered with every impact. Each flash sent fresh waves of panic through the navigators.
In the center of the vast strategy chamber, a massive holographic star map hung from the dod ceiling, displaying the Imperium's current borders and known enemy movents. Real-ti data streams flickered across dozens of displays—fleet positions, supply levels, troop deploynts, intelligence reports.
Roboute Guilliman, clad in the Armor of Fate, stood at the head of the long conference table. Docunts, data-slates, and hololithic projections lay spread before him. His fingers moved with precise, economical grace—flipping pages, annotating, signing. Servants waited nearby with still more docunts.
The instant the teleport portal flared, Guilliman knew the Naless One had returned. A faint smile touched his lips, though his expression remained stern.
He did not speak first. He waited.
Datch stepped forward and tapped the glowing exclamation mark above Guilliman's head. A ga prompt appeared.
["Dark Matter Collection" technology – transfer to Roboute Guilliman? ]
[Target is currently under extrely high workload. Estimated utilization rate: 60%. Reward: 3,000 points.]
[Recomndation: locate a better recipient. Utilization above 90% yields 6,000 points. Use minimap filters to find high-authority NPCs and bind them.]
Datch paused, finger hovering. "Sixty percent… only three thousand points. That's a loss."
He read the tooltip carefully. Utilization rate depended on the NPC's current duties and status. As Imperial Regent, Guilliman was drowning in work—thousands of docunts daily, hundreds of decisions, dozens of etings. Even if the technology were given to him, he could only pass it to the chanicus or other departnts and occasionally check progress. Sixty percent was already impressive. Giving it to Sanguinius or Lion would likely yield even lower returns.
To reach ninety percent or higher, he needed an NPC with real administrative power whose sole job was spreading these technologies.
The High Lords of Terra were out of the question—old n scheming in the Senatorum Imperialis, treating the Imperium's future as currency for their own power gas. If thirty percent of any new tech actually reached the field, it would be a miracle.
Mars was no better—endless factional warfare among the oil-barons and tech-priests.
"Guilliman gives the best raw efficiency," Datch mused, stroking his chin, "but the ga wants ninety percent. Is there another way?"
A na surfaced.
Malcador the Sigillite.
The Emperor's right hand. One of the true founders of the Imperium. One of the most powerful psykers in human history. Imperial Chancellor. The Emperor's wisest and most capable advisor. During the Horus Heresy he had sat upon the Golden Throne in the Emperor's place, enduring psychic pressure that would have instantly annihilated any normal human. In the end he burned to ash, his soul shattered into countless fragnts.
But he possessed the "What-If" phone booth. Even ashes could be restored.
If Datch revived Malcador and assigned him to technology dissemination… what utilization rate could he achieve?
Datch opened the helper interface.
[Evaluating…]
[Target: Malcador]
[Identity: Forr Imperial Chancellor, Emperor's Adjutant, One of the strongest psykers in history] [Estimated utilization rate: 97% or higher]
Datch's face split into a wide grin. "Done. Double the points. No more detours."
"Naless One?" Guilliman's voice was calm, but his brow had risen. He watched Datch smiling at nothing.
Why haven't they claid the mission yet?
Datch blinked back to reality, glanced at Guilliman, and said nothing. He simply raised the teleport gun.
Destination: Terra – Throne Room.
A green portal blood. Datch stepped through.
Guilliman remained standing, expression faintly puzzled.
The Naless One… isn't accepting the mission? Why leave so quickly?
…
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