Chapter 12 God Emperor?

With Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka's flight, the ork invasion of Armageddon began to falter. For the first time, the green-skinned hordes felt fear as their main force fled in panic and was crushed near Hades Hive. No one knew if Ghazghkull had survived, but his body was never found, leaving his fate a mystery.

Meanwhile, the orks' troubles were far from over. As the battle for Hades Hive subsided, the Blood Angels descended upon the approaching ork forces near Acheron Hive. It turned out that not only had Saint Stanislav's fleet responded to the call for aid, but so had the Emperor's Angels.

The towering Space Marines tore through the panicking ork ranks with ease, while orbital bombardments and artillery barrages reduced the greenskins to ash. When the roar of bolters and the hiss of promethium flames finally died down, the survivors of Acheron knelt and pledged their loyalty to one of the most successful and noble of the Emperor's Angels—Commander Dante.

Legends and rumors about Dante were so numerous, even among the Astartes themselves, that many considered him almost a reincarnation of Sanguinius. Having lived for over a millennium and a half, the leader of the Blood Angels was a figure of awe. It was no surprise that the desperate people of Armageddon chose to rally under the banner of someone greater than mere mortals.

One of Dante's first decrees was to arrest and imprison Von Strab, the planetary governor responsible for the horrors Armageddon had endured. Thus, any hope the orks had of finding a new warboss and continuing their WAAAGH! was crushed with the arrival of the Blood Angels.

Caught between the forces of the Saint and the Angels, the orks went from being loud and aggressive to silent and dead. Among the surviving greenskins, a growing tale spread of a monstrous, bald human who was "so dangerous, even fungus beer goes bad near him, and all the shootas stop workin'!" For the orks, who loved their "shootas" and "brew," the prospect of losing such cherished things was terrifying, and the story of the nightmare human began its slow journey from planet to planet, system to system.

Though Saint Stanislav's army had suffered heavy losses, reducing its numbers to a mere hundred thousand, every survivor could rightfully call themselves a veteran. These men had stared death in the face countless times, and the cruel universe of Warhammer would have to work hard to break their spirit.

Much of this resilience was due to the man who led them. Among the Saint's forces, wilder and more exaggerated rumors of his deeds spread. Stories of "accidentally" destroying two ork cruisers leaked from the crews of the fleet, and no one doubted who to thank for such incredible luck. With a string of victories over the orks, the fervent admiration for the Saint quickly won the hearts of Armageddon's people.

After the battle, a somber Stanislav met with the man who had prevented Hades Hive from falling. Yarrick, still weakened from the loss of his right arm and eye, had mustered the strength to greet the man who had saved his city. Due to Yarrick's condition and the need to pursue the remaining orks, their conversation was brief. The only thing that stuck in Sebastian's memory was the Saint's incredibly sad expression. As he later learned, the Saint was deeply upset that the ork forces had been depleted, leaving him with no immediate opportunity to kill xenos.

This was why the leader of the small Crusade immediately set off in pursuit of the remaining ork armies, refusing any celebrations or feasts in his honor that the liberated hives wanted to hold. Whether it was the victories or his title, the Administratum practically groveled before the Saint, eager to fulfill his every wish.

Such sincere and selfless dedication to the Imperium deeply moved Commissar Yarrick. Though the title "Saint" made him uneasy, Yarrick saw in this man an example of true service to the Emperor. This example gave Sebastian an inexhaustible source of new ideas. Bored? Go kill xenos. Too much free time? Killing xenos won't do itself. Measure twice, kill a xenos once. If the xenos won't come to you, go to the xenos.

The Saint's inner circle also gained fame. Walter Fischer and Decius Numenor proved themselves excellent tacticians, skillfully commanding numerous regiments in the heat of battle. Though they constantly credited the Emperor's guiding hand, it was clear they were far from poor commanders themselves.

Konstantin also made his mark. With fervent zeal, he threw himself into preaching to the local Ecclesiarchy. While not everywhere welcomed his sermons, the sharp, sickle-to-the-groin intensity of his words broke through any resistance. He even got into a few fistfights with several clergymen.

And his approach worked. His fiery speeches attracted more and more people across the planet, eager to hear of the adventures and victories of the Emperor's chosen. Many, inspired by Konstantin's sermons, gladly joined the ranks of the small Crusade.

In their gray, meaningless lives, the golden beacon of the Saint's path shone brightly. Like moths, they flew to the light, eager to become part of his story. It was no surprise, then, that with such a surge in volunteers, it wasn't long before the two armies met, grinding the remaining organized ork forces to dust.

Of course, final victory over the greenskins was still a distant dream, if it was even possible. The spore-reproducing orks, hidden deep in Armageddon's jungles, were a persistent and troublesome problem.

On the day the officers of the Saint's army were unusually nervous, knowing they were about to meet none other than the Emperor's Angels. Some had seen the World Eaters tearing through the orks from a distance, but a thick layer of greenskins had prevented any direct confrontation.

The meeting was set in a small valley, once a quarry. While the Saint himself seemed bored, his entourage fidgeted and glanced around anxiously. The rumors about the Blood Angels were beyond belief, and even Decius, who had seen much in his life, couldn't calm down.

Commissar Yarrick also decided to attend. The surgeons had operated on him, fitting him with prosthetics for his arm and eye. Though some heard that Yarrick had ordered the severed arm of the ork boss to be preserved, hoping to have the Mechanicus refit it for his own use.

"They're coming," a whisper spread through the ranks, and the gathered men strained their eyes to see the bright red figures approaching. Despite the Astartes' seemingly unhurried pace, each of their strides was so long that a normal human would have to sprint to keep up.

The precision and fluidity of their movements made it clear that no ordinary human could ever achieve such mastery. By their insignia, regalia, and seals, it was evident that these were the elite of the Blood Angels, surpassing even their fellow brothers as an ork surpasses a grot.

However, not all of them wore red armor. The most striking was the towering figure at the front, clad in ornate golden armor. Stanislav had already heard of who this was.

But it wasn't just the Blood Angels who drew attention. Besides Dante and his three companions, there was another man being carried like a hunted piglet. His hands and feet were bound behind his back, and one of the Astartes held him effortlessly with one hand.

The bound man was a fat, unpleasant-looking individual, his face flushed red from the blood rushing to his head. His discomfort seemed of no concern to his carrier.

When the Emperor's Angels reached the waiting group, they stopped. Dante's tense silence made everyone even more wary.

"O blessed Angels of the Emperor," Konstantin stepped forward decisively, seeing that no one else was eager to speak first, and the situation was becoming awkward. "It is a great honor to see you here today. To know that we fight alongside you for a common cause..."

"Commissar Yarrick," Dante's heavy voice cut through the air, silencing the preacher instantly and drawing all attention to the tense commissar. "You were the one who initiated the distress signal?"

"Yes, my lord," Yarrick nodded sternly, showing respect without groveling. He already sensed this conversation would not be easy, as the lord of superhumans was clearly displeased. "It was I."

"Do you know that at this very moment, ten vital, developed worlds of the Imperium are under attack?" The golden figure tilted his head slightly forward, making his screaming mask even more terrifying. "And before coming here, I had to make a difficult decision—which world to aid first, and which to leave to the Emperor's mercy?"

"No, my lord."

"But it is so," Dante's voice dropped a few degrees colder. "And when I finally arrive here, it turns out our aid is no longer needed, and the ork forces are nearly destroyed. What do you have to say for yourself?"

It was clear to everyone that if the brave commissar didn't come up with something quickly, things could end very badly. Dante was not one to wait long.

Yet, despite the danger, Yarrick remained calm.

"My lord, when the distress signal was sent, the situation on the front was dire. Due to the incompetence of the planetary governor," Yarrick glanced at the muffled, struggling Von Strab in the Astartes' grip, "an entire legion of Titans was lost, and the PDF scattered. In such circumstances, I took the initiative to call for aid to save this loyal world of the Emperor."

Yarrick paused and looked at the Saint standing nearby. Seeing the man's absolute indifference, Yarrick couldn't help but admire his self-control. Even he, standing before the Emperor's creations, felt a flicker of uncertainty.

"However, when the situation spiraled out of control, we were unexpectedly aided by the small Crusade led by... Saint Stanislav." Yarrick hesitated slightly but said the title nonetheless.

"So it seems the only one guilty here is the planetary governor," Dante concluded sternly, turning to the Astartes holding Strab. The Space Marine obediently lifted the bound man, allowing him to stare in terror into the slits of the golden helmet.

"Herman Von Strab, by the authority granted to me by the Emperor, I accuse you of neglecting your duty, betraying the interests of the Imperium, committing numerous errors that led to catastrophic damage to an entire world, and sheer stupidity. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

Even the fearless, foolish governor froze as Dante read the charges. But as soon as Dante fell silent, Strab tried to speak, only to be muffled by the rag in his mouth.

"Mmm! Mmm!" Strab thrashed irritably, but his discomfort concerned no one.

"So, you have nothing to say," Dante concluded coldly, ignoring Strab's frantic struggles. "Then, given the severity of your crimes, I sentence you to death. Carry out the sentence immediately."

The Astartes holding the rope casually shifted his grip, seizing Strab by the legs and arms, and then—with a sharp pull—tore the governor in two. A loud crunch and a sickening rip echoed as Strab's body was effortlessly split in half.

Blood splattered across the already red armor of the Angel, but the Astartes seemed unfazed.

Yet, the conversation wasn't over.

Dante took a few steps and stood directly over the Saint, who looked up at him. Given that Dante was even taller than the average Astartes, Stanislav's head only reached the commander's abdomen.

The calm eyes of the Crusade's leader met the hidden gaze of the Blood Angel.

"When I first heard of a so-called 'Saint,' my initial desire was to find and burn the arrogant heretic who dared claim such a title," Dante's threatening voice made Stanislav's men reach for their weapons, which in turn displeased Dante's guard. "However, the more I heard of your deeds, the more puzzled I became."

Dante demonstratively looked Stanislav over, then fixed his gaze on the man's bald head.

"You know, in all the tales about you, they say you have beautiful, golden hair." Someone in the background seemed to choke—probably Decius.

Stanislav's eyes narrowed.

"In that regard, we're alike," the Saint smirked crookedly. "Honestly, I thought you'd be taller."

The onlookers froze, anticipating the reaction of the living death machine that was every Astartes, let alone one as ancient as the commander of the Blood Angels.

"Pahaha!" A sudden, booming laugh made everyone jump, then relax slightly. Dante's heavy, adamantium-clad hand clapped Stanislav on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. Without his power armor, the Saint might have suffered a few broken bones. "I like your courage, leader."

Fischer, who had been holding his breath, exhaled loudly and smiled in relief.

"The orks are broken, and our men can handle the rest without us. I propose we celebrate the victory at my camp," Dante gestured invitingly. "I would be glad to hear of your exploits, 'Saint,' firsthand. After all, it's not every day you make a warboss run!"

"I don't mind," Stanislav shrugged, following the giant. "You deal with the remaining ork forces," he ordered his men curtly. "I'll manage here without you."

Reluctantly, the Saint's subordinates stepped back, while Dante mentally agreed with his decision. Sharing a drink and a conversation with such a brave man would indeed be interesting.

Meanwhile, one of the two fleets rushing to Armageddon finally arrived in the system, emerging from the Warp. The Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy were in a hurry to be the first to seize this unusual subject for study.

---

"We'll exit the Warp in a few seconds," Captain James Smoll of the small but dangerous fleet said curtly to the fat representative of the Ecclesiarchy standing beside him. Smoll commanded four cruisers and even a grand cruiser serving as the flagship.

Such force was more than enough to destroy entire small space civilizations in unexplored regions of the galaxy. Now, they were heading to Armageddon with a single goal.

Though Sebastian Thor had once limited the Ecclesiarchy's influence, forbidding them from directly controlling troops and fleets, the priests had found a way around it by aligning themselves with various free traders and even fleets from the Imperial Expeditionary Forces.

Yes, technically these forces did not answer to the Church, but only a fool would ignore their "advice."

So, when Smoll was contacted and informed that a cardinal himself was interested in his success, he used all his influence to be the first to leave the dock.

Considering that the man he was supposed to deliver to Terra had, at best, frigates, and that his ships carried several orders of Sororitas, Smoll felt he had caught a lucky break. Soon, he would have a cardinal in his debt, and who knew how he could leverage such an opportunity.

The Ministorum priest standing nearby said nothing but clearly took his words to heart, gripping the railing tighter.

"Brace!"

Any Warp transition came with danger. The Warp was so unpredictable that anything could happen to a ship. Some fleets vanished without a trace, never to emerge, while others arrived with no living soul aboard.

Smoll shrugged. During the last "jump," he thought the Geller field had acted strangely, but a quick check by the onboard Mechanicus found nothing amiss.

The admiral was about to give the order to move when the bridge erupted with alarm signals.

"Smoll, what in the Emperor's name is happening?!" the priest shouted, clearly frightened by the sudden alert. He nervously wiped the sweat streaming down his plump cheeks.

"Captain!" one of the Mechanicus at the console called out. Even through the mechanical voice, uncertainty and fear were evident. "There are several heavily armed space stations near Armageddon! We are within their firing range, and they clearly consider us a threat!"

"Space stations?!" Smoll exhaled in disbelief, checking the interface. There was no doubt—this was Armageddon, but where had these space docks and defenses come from? Not every world in the Imperium could boast such fortifications!

"Captain!" Another voice brought more bad news. "Multiple contacts detected directly behind us. And if the specs are correct, there are several battleships among them!"

"Battleships..." Smoll whispered, feeling sick. His grand cruiser, with luck, might take on one battleship, but several? "Grox take me, who are we dealing with?!"

"Admiral," the first Mechanicus spoke again. "My data shows that some of these ships belong to the Imperial Fleet, though several others are unknown to me."

"I don't understand," Smoll muttered, feeling sweat drip down his back. If he made even a single move, the station's guns would turn them to space dust, and the fleet behind them would seal their fate.

"Incoming transmission, admiral. Shall I put it through?"

"Do it," Smoll snapped, staring at the screen as an image appeared

The admiral exhaled involuntarily when he saw his opponent wore the same uniform as he did. The man had thick white eyebrows and magnificent mustaches braided into cords.

"At least it's not Chaos," Smoll thought, waiting for what would come next.

"This is Master of the Fleet Heinrich Crowdmour, commander of Armageddon's defense," the owner of the space dock said dryly. "You have illegally entered the Armageddon sector. Identify yourself or be considered a threat and destroyed!"

"I am Admiral James Smoll, here to arrest a man known as 'the Saint' by order of the Ecclesiarchy and Cardinal Giovanni Mitresso!" Smoll spoke quickly, expecting the man's arrogant expression to change when he realized who he was dealing with.

But as time passed, the unknown fleet master not only didn't falter, but a dark, triumphant gleam appeared in his eyes.

"The Ecclesiarchy, you say?" Heinrich Crowdmour drawled with relish, a crooked smile forming. "Then I have an important message for you." The fleet master leaned forward and almost syllable by syllable hissed, "By order of the returned Emperor, the Ecclesiarchy and all those under its command are declared traitors and enemies of mankind. Therefore, my only answer to you is this: surrender and prepare to be boarded. If we detect even a hint of resistance, you will be destroyed on the spot."

- "What… What are you babbling about?!" – a half-strangled wheeze sounded nearby. James, turning his head like a servitor, saw the priest gaping foolishly. – "You rebels! What Emperor are you even talking about?!" 

- "Admiral!" – James, about to say something, was distracted by the wild shout of another subordinate. The man was clearly in disarray, his eyes utterly mad. – "Look at these stellar readings, Admiral!" 

Frowning, Smola did just that. The longer he looked, the paler he became.

 - "It can't be…" – he forced the words through bloodless lips before collapsing weakly into his chair. 

For, according to the sensors, judging by the changes in the star of Armageddon, at least several hundred years had passed since they entered the Warp. 

And if one were to recall the words of Heinrich Crowdmour, what all the citizens of the Imperium had fervently dreamed of had finally come to pass.

 The Imperium had an Emperor once more. 

Yet the irony was that, with the Emperor's return, the Ecclesiarchy had somehow found no place in His Imperium. 

A loud thud echoed nearby. By the sound of it, the priest had deigned to faint.