Psychic power—a signature product of the Warhamr universe. It isn't like the "magic" of high-fantasy tales; it is sothing far more volatile.
A psyker can manifest anything from regeneration and prophecy to pyrokinesis and ti manipulation. But unlike other worlds where magic might spring from one's blood or inner potential, psychic power is drawn entirely from the Great Source: the Immaterium.
In plain terms: a physical body in the material universe cannot generate psychic energy. Only a soul can act as a conduit, and all souls belong to the Warp.
This is where the nightmare begins. Since the War in Heaven and the Fall of the Aeldari, the Warp has beco a churning cesspit of madness. Drawing power from it is like trying to find sustenance in a sewer; drink too much, and you don't just poison yourself—you explode, becoming a living rift through which the filth of the Sea of Souls pours into reality.
These are truths known only to the Inquisition, Astartes Librarians, and Sanctioned Psykers. To the average Imperial citizen, whose education rarely exceeds basic survival and religious dogma, a psyker is either a monster to be burned or a miracle-worker to be worshipped.
In the 41st Millennium, "living saints" are often just high-level psykers or, worse, puppets manipulated by the Ruinous Powers.
Enkidu didn't know which category he fell into. Was he a rogue psyker, a toy for the Dark Gods, or that rarest of breeds—an actual chosen of the Emperor? Regardless, he held a profound, paralyzing suspicion toward his own power.
"Why do you think that way?" Sebastian asked with a touch of naive frustration. "In this den of heretics, only you could purge the filth from a brother's wound. Is that not the very definition of the sacred? You were born on a Shrine World; surely you have a closer bond to the Throne than any of us!"
This is why rational n can't talk to religious fanatics, Enkidu thought, staring at Subject Seventeen until the clerk uncomfortably closed his mouth.
"I will say it again: this is psychic power," Enkidu said, his voice dropping into a stern, low vibrato. "It is a dangerous thing. Sotis it can knit a wound, yes. But more often—"
He glanced around, ensuring the other initiates were listening.
"—it will make your head detonate or turn you into a living conduit for the very monsters we fear. Have you never heard stories of the Witches?"
"But you can't be a witch!" Sebastian insisted, earning nods of agreent from the others. "A witch wouldn't protect us in a place like this!"
"Don't be so sure. Sotis, a false kindness is the quickest path to a long walk off a short pier."
He thought of the Great Deceiver, the Changer of Ways, who could craft illusions of harmony and hope just to reel in a desperate soul. Considering that Astartes initiates were essentially adolescents in the bodies of giants, and Sebastian was a man whose logic was entirely circular due to his faith, Enkidu realized that arguing theology was useless. He needed to set rules.
He wouldn't be like the Emperor—a father who refused to speak and then razed a "Perfect City" to the ground for the cri of worship.
"It saddens , Sebastian, that you do not see the gravity of my warning." Enkidu's gaze softened from sternness to a weary, heavy disappointnt. "You have seen too little of the void. Every 'unreasonable' warning in this universe is written in the blood of those who ignored it."
The color drained from Sebastian's face. He felt a sudden, sharp fear—not of the ship, but the fear of disappointing the man who had beco his surrogate older brother.
"I... I understand."
"I hope my bluntness doesn't wound you. If we are done with this topic, let leave you with a story. It happened thousands of years ago. There was a man nad Basillius. He claid to speak for the Emperor, and the Ecclesiarchy declared him a saint..."
Enkidu's calm voice filled the dark dormitory, recounting the tragedy of the Abyssal Crusade. Gradually, Sebastian's heart settled, and the heavy pull of exhaustion finally dragged him into sleep.
The barracks were silent, save for the rhythmic rise and fall of snoring.
Enkidu lay on his back, staring into the gloom. He held a single finger up before his eyes, tracing its outline. He replayed the healing of Bellator's wound in his mind, second by second.
A tiny flicker of luminescence appeared in the dark. It was no more than a spark, a fragile, microscopic candle-fla.
He stared at the light and sighed.
Psychic power that seed to purge Warp-corruption. It was either the ultimate blessing or the ultimate bait. There was a one-in-a-billion chance he could actually resist the rot. The alternative? He was a rogue psyker whose head would eventually burst, or he was already being watched by sothing with too many eyes.
The four entities in the Warp were all masters of cruel irony. He terrified of becoming like Basillius—the false saint who led thirty chapters of Space Marines into the Eye of Terror, corrupting them all in one stroke. He could handle his own soul being shredded, but the thought of giving these n false hope only to lead them into damnation was a weight he couldn't bear.
He couldn't find anyone to bind his powers here. If anything, the Chaos Marines would be thrilled to turn him into a sorcerer for their own ends. For now, he had to hide it.
Keep your head down. Don't use the light unless there is no other choice.
He placed a hand over his primary heart.
The Third Legion gene-seed was dormant and stable. His dual hearts beat in a perfect, synchronized rhythm. His Larraman cells, neuro-glottis, preomnor—every organ was functioning within optimal paraters. There were no signs of mutation. No trace of the Blight.
He was still pure. For now.
Enkidu snuffed out the tiny psychic fla, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to sink into the cold embrace of sleep.
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