War Hammer: The reality Bender Chapter 9 9: The Emperor's Covenant

Imagine a mundane universe utterly devoid of anomalous manipulations of the materium, a reality where all things are ordered, comprehensible, and objective.

A place where universally understood laws govern within their rightful domains, never to be unwritten by the re whim of an existential aberration.

If one were to extract the universal commonalities of all matter within such a place, it would form the very definition of reality, perhaps even its sole definition: absolute objective existence.

To asure the sheer existential weight of an object's objective reality, the scholars of Rowan's clandestine past had codified a specific tric: ontological density.

The unnatural gift possessed by architects of reality lay in their ability to command and manipulate the ontological fields generated by their own physical forms.

Furthermore, the existential density of their bodies was inevitably higher than that of baseline reality, while the density of their surrounding environnt was forced lower. The greater the disparity between these two states, the more terrifying the architect's power to unmake and reshape the world.

And what Rowan intended to do at this exact mont was to sever a portion of his own ontological weight and graft it directly onto Lucia, forcefully transmuting her into a newly forged weaver of the materium!

A minute later.

"That should just about do it..."

Rowan gauged the existential density now anchoring Lucia to the materium, noting that she had successfully reached the threshold of a primary-grade architect, and imdiately ceased the transference.

The sheer willpower of an architect of reality could bend the physical universe, and even the weakest primary-grade initiate was no exception.

For soone like Lucia, whose ironclad faith had allowed her to endure the torturous ascension of a Living Saint for so long, this level of empowernt was more than sufficient.

Regrettably, the psychic tether-weight he had harvested from slaughtering those Chaos Space Marines had been entirely consud in the process of transmuting Lucia. If he wished to further elevate his own dominion over reality, he would have to start his grisly harvest anew.

Rowan paid this loss no mind. Reaping such a quantity of souls would have been a difficult task in the suppressed world of his forr masters, but in this grim darkness, it was practically insignificant. He could easily replenish his reserves by simply dropping into any hive world currently engulfed in the fires of rebellion.

In comparison, gaining a Living Saint as a personal vanguard—one possessing the miraculous abilities to heal, resurrect, and rally—was of paramount importance to Rowan, whose own physical vessel remained incredibly fragile.

The golden flas gradually dissipated, one silver-white skeleton after another crumbling into fine ash, as Lucia, kneeling upon the deck, finally opened her eyes.

As if birthed by a true miracle, Lucia's charred and ruined skin sloughed away, revealing a completely unblemished form beneath. Long, luminescent white hair grew with unnatural speed, and a faint, auric halo manifested above her brow.

A pair of pristine white wings violently tore from her back. With a single sweep of her pinions, Lucia ascended toward the vaulted ceiling, hovering ethereally in the air.

Rowan looked up, eting the gaze of her pupils that now radiated a golden, divine luminescence.

Truth be told, he had to admit that the old man on the Golden Throne possessed an undeniably impeccable sense of aesthetics.

Lucia slowly descended, coming to a halt before Rowan. She knelt upon one knee, her voice perfectly calm yet radiating profound power:

"Lord Rowan, by the will of the God-Emperor, I shall beco the blade in your hand, swearing upon my eternal soul to safeguard your life in this dark galaxy."

"You say, the will of the God-Emperor?"

Rowan was sowhat taken aback. "What exactly did the Emperor, that old... revered ancient, say to you?"

"He commanded to exhaust every fiber of my being to ensure your safety, for you are His covenant-bearer, the star of hope in the endless night, the savior of mankind, an irreplaceable treasure, the ender of boundless agony..."

Before the deadly serious Lucia could finish her litany, Rowan waved his hands frantically, cutting her off.

"...That is quite enough, there is no need to continue."

Utterly absurd. The Master of Mankind was actually displaying human tact!

Where was this level of emotional intelligence during the Great Crusade ten millennia ago?

Yet, upon reflection, it made sense. Having sat upon the premier torture device in the entire galaxy for ten thousand years, finally glimpsing the faintest opportunity to clock out, such a reaction could only be described as perfectly rational.

"Did He dictate any specific arrangents for our next course of action?"

Rowan asked, a spark of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Clearly, the Emperor's current state was incomprehensibly better than His usual schizophrenic, disjointed ravings, even allowing Him to issue relatively coherent directives.

"No. His aning was that you may dictate our ensuing actions at your own discretion, so long as they remain within the bounds of your covenant."

Lucia shook her head.

"However, there is one other matter. I can sense that there are currently two loyal survivors holding the bridge. If we advance in ti to rescue them, it should prove beneficial to your future endeavors."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let us move!"

Rowan made the decision instantly.

Common sense dictated that any resistance fighters capable of surviving a localized assault by Chaos Space Marines could not possibly be ordinary mortals.

...

At this very mont, upon the bridge.

A savagely desperate battle was raging.

"Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!"

This was the staccato roar of a bolter pouring its mass-reactive fury upon the enemies of mankind.

"Boom-boom-boom!"

That was the thunderous retaliation of frag grenades hurled by the traitors.

"Crackle-hiss..."

Ultimately, all gunfire and explosions were violently silenced by arcs of psychic lightning that tore through the atmosphere, leaping like a storm of silver serpents.

The Chaos Space Marines fell back. Though the reprieve was rely temporary, it nevertheless afforded the two sole remaining loyalists on the bridge a precious mont to draw breath.

The blinding blue witch-light slowly faded from Cybia's eyes. She exhaled a ragged, heavy breath, attempting to recover from the crushing psychological strain inflicted by her sustained channeling of the immaterium.

The cavernous muzzle of a bolter extended from her flank, pressing coldly against her temple.

"Well? Can you hold on?"

Cybia exhibited absolutely no reaction to this, nor did she reveal any flash of indignation. She rely stated with utter calm:

"...There is no need. The fated hour of my death is not upon us, and the Emperor still requires my dutiful service."

She entirely understood the lethal pragmatism of her temporary comrade.

Psykers occupied a profoundly precarious position within the Imperium. They were utterly indispensable, their shadows found across nearly all Imperial institutions, including the Adeptus Astronomica, the Inquisition, the Imperial Navy, the Astra Militarum, and the Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes.

Yet, because psykers were inherently chained to the warp, the vast majority suffered from varying degrees of psychological degradation.

More terrifyingly, the warp presence of every psyker burned like a radiant lighthouse in the eyes of the daemonic entities of the Empyrean, serving as highly volatile gateways for daemonic incursion into realspace. A single lapse in concentration could unleash apocalyptic devastation.

Given Cybia's recent display—channeling warp-craft to forcefully repel the charge of over a dozen Chaos Space Marines—if her mind were to fracture and tear open a warp rift, the resulting breach could very well be massive enough to allow a Greater Daemon to manifest in the materium!

She turned her head, looking up at her temporary ally.

He was a transhuman giant towering over three ters in height, his colossal fra draped entirely in black robes.

Even having just waded through a brutal at grinder—accomplishing the staggering feat of single-handedly butchering a dozen Chaos Space Marines and executing a Chaos Champion in single combat—his respiration remained perfectly asured, neither hurried nor strained.