The bishop's outburst sowed renewed confusion and fear among those who, moments ago, had dared to hope in the Emperor's blessing.
Datch's miracles had undeniably saved them.
Yet those crying out for his condemnation were the representatives of the Ecclesiarchy—the bishops, imperial spokesmen, and evangelists.
Now the people faced a dilemma: trust the authority of the Ecclesiarchy, or their own eyes?
"This is no miracle!"
"Liars, all liars—it's the work of Chaos, sent to deceive us!"
The rebels among the crowd clung to every opportunity, subtly steering public feeling, smearing Datch in an attempt to preserve years of careful subversion.
Canoness Imelda Veritas, clad in silver-grey power armor and a crimson robe, frowned deeply. Her Sisters looked on, confused, hands resting on trigger-guards, but not yet raising their guns.
They'd seen Datch arrive with the guard, build the forts, repair the vehicles, fix homes, produce food. If he was a daemon, what could be the motive? He radiated no psychic aura.
"This man's a heretic, a demon!" Again the bishop raved, rallying the crowd:
"Do not be seduced by his paltry favors! Suffering is the Emperor's test—to prove the purity of our souls and worthiness for paradise. This demon wishes only to corrupt us, make us lose favor, and consign our afterlives to torment."
The people showed terror. Memories of monstrous daemons—real or imagined—haunted them.
Some, fearing their souls damned for eating bread, now even threw away their rations.
"Unfounded accusations are slander," Imelda interjected, stepping firmly before Datch and the crowd.
"This man is a special envoy sent by the Lord Regent himself, escorted here by the Emperor's own guards. Bishop, enough. Do not spread panic."
"Lies! Nonsense!" the bishop spat.
"If he wields not daemon power, how do you explain all this? Unless… it is the Emperor's mercy?"
A timid voice in the crowd called out:
They turned to see a thin man, clean bread in hand, dragging his thin daughter clutching a bottle of water. Datch's acts had saved them.
"Mercy…?"
The bishop laughed with bitter irony, gesturing toward a distant spot where, once, an Emperor's statue had stood—since broken down by Datch for fortifications.
"Did he ever praise the Emperor? Kneel before the holy image? He even destroyed the Emperor's statue, showing zero reverence! How could the Lord show mercy through such a one?"
Growing ever more impassioned, the bishop drew crowds, especially among soldiers and refugees.
"He's corrupting your faith, undermining the very Imperium! You've all been deceived! For the purity of the Emperor's faith, he must be purged! Burn the heretic!"
The crowd grew restless, some fanatics' eyes showing a mix of fear, doubt, and swelling fanaticism.
"Enough!" Imelda snapped, hand already on her chainsword's hilt.
"In the name of the Silver Shroud, I order this sedition to cease! The Nameless One is our ally!"
"You are blind!" the bishop screeched. "For the Emperor, we—uuaaaagh!"
Suddenly, a searing red laser bolt cut through the air and vaporized the bishop's right forearm. The sharp burnt stench filled the air.
The crowd, terrified, drew back.
The shooter was Commander Dvorgin, eyes frozen and laser pistol still smoking.
He cared naught for dogmatic argument—only for the safety of the lines and soldiers' morale.
The bishop had sown discord, Datch's "miracles" had brought real food, water, and shelter. Dvorgin just wanted peace.
But his shot revealed an even greater horror—
The bishop howled, no longer human—thick, bubbling black ichor spurted from his wound as his body bloated and twisted, bishop's robes tearing, revealing crimson skin, bony spikes, writhing tentacles.
His face stretched, mouth splitting to the ears, layers of fangs bared, eyes burning with hellish fire.
The nearest onlookers screamed and ran in terror.
"Daemon!" Imelda roared, all doubts burned away by holy wrath.
As the monster materialized, she let loose her boltgun's deadly flame.
"For the Emperor! Purge!"
The Sisters opened fire.
Explosive shells tore into the writhing daemon, who, in savage retaliation, battered two nuns aside, armor shattering, fates unknown.
The remaining Sisters, supported by guard fire, quickly overwhelmed the beast, reducing it to piles of foul-smelling ash.
The battle ended almost before it began, most barely able to process it.
"This is really quite a story," Datch mused.
The truth was the bishop-daemon had said nothing wrong—by Imperial dogma, Datch was a heretic.
Unfortunately, the one exposing heresy was himself a daemon in disguise…
Datch skipped to the two wounded nuns, tapped their battered breastplates gently with his golden hammer.
Warm gold light spread, healing deep wounds at a speed the naked eye could follow—broken bones reset, pale cheeks regained color.
Soon, the two nuns not only survived, but sprang to their feet, energetic as ever.
"Glory to the Emperor!"
Sister Imelda, awed, saluted the Aquila with trembling voice.
Many others joined in prayer. All suspicion vanished, replaced by awe.
Commander Dvorgin approached, eager to negotiate for further support—this "envoy's" continued aid could turn the war.
But as Dvorgin opened his mouth, Datch packed away the golden hammer, turned, and skipped away.
Dvorgin chased after, shouting,
"Please, Nameless Lord!"
But Datch ignored him, heading into a ruined square, summoning a light hoverbike with a wave.
Under the crowd's astonished gaze, he mounted up, engine roaring with a deep, thunderous rumble—
In the next instant, he shot out of the city, trailing a streak of blue plasma fire.
"Wait for me…"
Dvorgin reached out to thin air as Datch became a dot of blue light and vanished.
"Praise to the Emperor," Sister Imelda prayed again.
"The Emperor's messengers have given us hope. Now the rest is up to us."
…
Beyond the city, Datch sped his hoverbike across the sky, a streak of light.
Following the minimap, he bypassed Iron Warrior fortifications, plunging into enemy-held territory.
Two-thirds of Gathalamor was enemy-occupied, but the foes lacked troops to properly garrison the area.
Most of the land lay empty and desolate—prudent travel meant little risk of discovery.
Datch's goal was now clear: to link up with Achallor's Adeptus Custodes team.
The main mission: investigate the "Hand of Abaddon" and recover the Chaos relic "Bucharis's Ring".
Achallor's assignment was the same.
While Datch healed refugees and fixed defenses, Achallor and his team had already set out to stop traitor excavations and deny them the artifact.
Tribune Maldovar Colquan only assigned Achallor three guards and thirty Primaris Marines, refusing more men due to shortages.
Achallor, lacking options, led this elite but small team against the unknown perils of Gathalamor.
Using Dvorgin's intelligence, they tracked down several enemy dig sites—eliminating scattered cultists and traitors, who revealed that the artifact remained undiscovered.
However, the cult leader, Tharador Yheng, had obtained a lead:
Five thousand years ago, apostate cardinal Bucharis had concealed the relic somewhere in the holy cathedral.
The group's foreboding deepened.
Once, the cathedral had been a pilgrimage site for millions, now enemy-occupied.
If the artifact was truly there, the enemy would soon excavate it. Time was short.
Wasting no time, Achallor's team stormed the cathedral.
They found the complex grotesquely defiled—two-headed eagles hacked off, chaos stars of bone and metal bolted in place.
Statues of saints smeared with blood and flesh.
Banners of the double-headed eagle replaced by vast tapestries celebrating Abaddon.
Servo-skulls spraying blood, spouting chaos sermons.
The squares—once able to host thousands of worshipers—now full of shrieking cultists.
Columns wrapped in chains; Imperial priests bound and bleeding against them.
Cages suspended with dying priests and nuns forced to watch cult atrocities.
Deep within, four heretical altars—each to a different dark god—stood in place of the Emperor's statue:
A brass altar crowned with skulls, radiating rage,
A rusted iron altar adorned in putrid intestines,
A crystal altar swirling with light and shadow,
A purple altar engraved with scenes of indulgence, oozing sickly-sweet fragrance.
Security was surprisingly light; the traitor main force was locked in battle with Imperial defenders on the front lines.
For Achallor, it was a perfect chance.
"Move decisively!"
Without hesitation, Achallor led the charge—cults slaughtered like straw before explosive bolts and halberds.
Traitorized mortals had no chance against Custodians and Primaris Marines; resistance meant only death.
A squad of Iron Warriors tried to intervene but was crushed.
Achallor's Guardian Halberd drew a fatal arc, pinning the last Iron Warrior to the ground.
"This is the fate of traitors."
He spat on the corpses. The raid's success seemed certain, but at that very moment…
From the cathedral's inner sanctum, a wave of bone-chilling shadowy energy surged.
The air grew heavy, light swallowed up, whispers roared directly into their souls.
"Pathetic corpse-guardians, how dare you set foot here?"
From the shadows stepped a figure in spike-studded armor—a scepter in his left hand, a blasphemous book bound in human skin clutched in his right.
It was none other than Kar-Gatharr—the Dark Apostle, mastermind of Gathalamor's invasion.
He'd raised the four altars here, exchanging ceaseless sacrifices for the gods' blessings—growing terrifyingly powerful in return.
No time was given for response.
With a mad bellow, the book in his grasp burst into purple-black flames—
The fire didn't consume the space outside, but roared inward into himself.
Bones cracking, flesh mutating, Kar-Gatharr's body swelled hideously.
Skin turning gray and stony, fissures glowing like molten cracks. Arms mutating into clawed limbs, whiplike tentacles bursting from a riven back.
His head grew longer, demonic, reeking of sulfur.
In a breath, the Dark Apostle became a five-meter-tall Chaos monster, radiating despair.
"Open your eyes! Behold the gods' gift. You cannot see truth—you are deceived by the corpse-king."
Achallor transformed into a haloed golden blur, halberd flashing for a killing strike.
Kar swatted the blade aside with a massive claw, launching Achallor across the room.
The others fired at the monster, but two Primaris Marines charging in were instantly repulsed by invisible force.
Kar-Gatharr then slammed his fist into the ground, a pulse of purple-black force radiating outward.
"Come forth!"
With his shout, dozens of blessed abominations crawled out from the tainted earth, howling and attacking the Imperials.
The situation sharply deteriorated—beset by mutant monsters and a transformed Apostle, the defenders faced dire peril.
"For the Emperor!" Achallor roared, hacking his way forward, trying to seize the chance to attack Kar's head.
He leapt, halberd aiming for the kill—but Kar's telekinesis seized him, pinning arms and legs, then crushing him relentlessly.
Just then, the soundless streak of a hoverbike slammed into Kar, knocking the monster aside—
Thus, Achallor survived, though he collapsed bleeding to the ground.
"Seeking death again?" Kar roared.
Datch calmly repaired his bike with the golden hammer, put it back in inventory, then turned to the furious Kar.
"You're actually really ugly."
Kar froze. If he'd been threatened with death, he wouldn't have reacted so.
But this—this was simply humiliating.
"Fool! This is the gods' blessed form—the perfect form!"
Datch shrugged,
"Whatever you say—you're still ugly."
"Burn in hell!" Kar lunged at Datch.
Datch drew his sword to meet him, but was beheaded after only a few rounds.
"That's what happens when you anger me!"
Kar laughed—but the laughter died as Datch's body turned to ash, then reconstituted itself before his eyes.
No, this can't be…!
"So they're just out for the kill now? Well, guess it's my turn."
Datch took out a pokeball, tossed it in the air, and summoned Skarbrand and Changeling.
If you can't win solo, bring the gang.
With a roar, the daemon Skarbrand—wreathed in hellfire—descended on the battlefield, accompanied by spirit-shapes.
Kar-Gatharr's face twisted in disbelief.
How could the corpse-king's servant summon such powerful daemons? And why could he, a Dark Apostle, barely summon any?