The Weeping Flame

The air hung thick with the tang of ozone, stale industrial lubricants, and something fouler — the sickly-sweet scent of the Empyrean bleeding into the flesh and blood of the material realm. Forge World Xylos IV was dying, its colossal manufactoria contorting into blasphemous shapes as minor daemons of the Warp poured through fresh tears in reality.

Brother-Captain Valerius of the Deathwatch Kill-Team levelled his bolter, its retort sharp in the clamour of tortured metal. Around him, his battle-brothers moved with ruthless precision — Brother Ignis bathed a squirming knot of Nurglings in promethium, Brother Corvus carved through screeching horrors with his chainsword, and Brother Titus laid down suppressing fire with his heavy bolter.

Beside them, the Sisters of Battle of the Order of the Argent Shroud fought with righteous fury. Bolters spat death, power swords hummed with lethal grace. Sister Superior Anya, her eyes burning with faith, parried a daemonette's swipe, her blade hissing against corrupted claws.

"Hold the line!" she voxed, unwavering. "For the Emperor!"

Yet for all their skill and zeal, the daemons were too many. They poured from vents, clawed at the mind with whispers, pressed against the bulwark of the Imperium's finest. The tide of the Warp pressed forward, inexorable.

Then he moved.

Not clad in ceramite or sacred plate, but in earth-toned robes beneath a patterned haori — absurd in this hellscape. His youthful face bore profound sorrow beneath grim resolve. In his hands gleamed a weapon unlike any they had seen.

A katana, yes — but its blade shimmered with light that seemed to burn the darkness itself. Liquid sun on steel. With each breath, the light surged, radiating pure flame.

He moved like flowing water. Not the heavy stride of an Astartes nor the disciplined charge of a Sister, but a graceful dance. He wove through daemon packs, blade flashing. Where it struck, unholy flesh didn't bleed — it dissolved, screaming as it was unmade.

A hulking, multi-limbed daemon bore down upon Sister Anya. Before she could act, the figure intervened. With a sorrowful sigh, a single diagonal cut flared like the dawn. The daemon howled, its bulk exploding into ash.

Brother-Captain Valerius watched. His cybernetic eye widened slightly, processing: speed, strength, tactical effectiveness. "Unregistered asset," he voxed. "Observe. Maintain formation. Do not impede."

He respected results above all.

The figure — already whispered as The Weeping Flame — carved a path through the thickest corruption. But then he paused near a mound of fused biomass — a dying Forge worker, half-consumed by the Warp.

He knelt, not to deliver a mercy kill, nor to recoil, but to weep.

His blade dimmed as tears streaked his face. Compassion in the heart of the abyss. For a long moment, the battle faded around him. Then, with renewed resolve, he rose and fought on.

Sister Anya saw this and felt her faith shudder — not with doubt, but revelation. Compassion, in a galaxy of cruelty? This warrior burned with a flame untouched by the Imperium's dogma, yet utterly aligned with its true ideal: protection of humanity.

Her vox whispered, trembling with awe. "A Saint… surely a Saint walks among us."

With his presence, the battle turned. The Kill-Team and Sisters regrouped behind his blazing path. When the final daemon faded, silence fell — save for tortured metal and ragged breaths.

Tanjiro stood amid the stillness, blade's light fading, eyes downcast.

Brother-Captain Valerius approached, bolter lowered. "Identify yourself," he demanded. "Combat classification unknown. Weapon unregistered. State your allegiance."

Moments later, Sister Anya arrived, armour scorched, eyes shining. "Brother-Captain… see him. No heretic wields such a flame. His sorrow, his blade — both are pure."

Valerius considered. Faith was not his metric, but effectiveness. "High-value asset. Tactical integration pending," he voxed.

Yet already, across the Imperium, reports spread. Vox-relays, pict-feeds, accounts from tech-priests and Sisters alike — all spoke of The Weeping Flame: a warrior who burned daemons to ash yet wept for the lost.

In Terra's shadowed halls, the reports reached ears both curious and wary. High Cardinals leaned forward, eyes gleaming. Inquisitors frowned over data slates. Assassinorum agents of the Vanus Temple began filtering data, subtly shaping the narrative.

Control the story. Control the power.

Was he a Saint? A rogue psyker? A xenos weapon in human form? The truth was less important than the narrative the Imperium would enforce.

From a high chamber on Terra, a robed Cardinal spoke: "He inspires faith. We must ensure the people understand why he weeps — and in whose name. If necessary, we will define his purpose… or end it."

The battle was won. But for Tanjiro Kamado, The Weeping Flame, the true war had only begun — a war for his soul, his freedom, and the meaning of hope in a galaxy where mercy itself is heresy.