The next day, the first day.
A hundred Terran meters outside Cilicia's home, the air still carried a faint, acrid tang—a ghostly echo of warpfire and corruption.
Amidst the grim scene, Ulysses, the Seneschal, stood observing the aftermath.
His expression was a familiar blend of sternness and resolve, his gaze fixed on the house.
The entire area where the home once stood was now shrouded in a thick, unnatural mist ever-changing and shifting like liquid shadow.
It pulsed with subtle, wrong colors that seemed to twist and reform in the corners of one's vision.
This was the raw, undeniable proof of a highly warp-contaminated area—an infected wound left by daemonic incursion.
Around the house, a solemn ritual circle had been formed by the priests of the Ministorum. Their dark robes stood out against the disturbed ground, and they knelt in precise positions, heads bowed.
From each, a low, resonant murmur rose into the air as they tirelessly recited litanies and prayers of containment and protection, their voices a steady bulwark against the unsettling energies emanating from the shrouded dwelling.
Standing sentinel behind the priests, a Sister of Battle in gleaming power armor held her boltgun at the ready, her face stern beneath her helmet.
Beside her, a hulking Ogryn—clad in crude plate armor and gripping a massive ripper gun, stood as a living wall of muscle and unwavering loyalty. Both were poised and vigilant, ready to protect the holy men from any manifestation of corruption that might burst forth from the shifting mist.
Right before the house,
facing the swirling, unnatural mists, Father Grigori knelt alone. Unlike the other priests, he had no Sister of Battle or Ogryn standing guard over him.
His posture was one of unyielding defiance, his face a mask of iron resolve. His voice—clear and unwavering—cut through the drone of the other prayers, a testament to a faith much stronger than any temptation the Empyrean could offer.
Ulysses turned to one of the Sisters maintaining the cordon, her gaze fixed on the wary Artinites beyond the perimeter.
"How long has he been there, Sister Meredith?" Ulysses asked, his voice low but cutting through the ambient hum.
The young Sister answered without shifting her gaze. "Since the incursion, Master Seneschal."
Ulysses nodded once. His gaze shifted again to Father Grigori, alone before the churning veil.
"Since the incursion yesterday..."
That meant nearly an entire night without rest, without food, without so much as a pause in his litany.
"Stubborn old man."
But perhaps that stubbornness was what they needed most now.
The Seneschal's eyes swept the rest of the scene.
A perimeter had been hastily erected—tall iron-etched banners of the Ministorum staked into the ground, each inscribed with wards of faith.
Thin ropes of sanctified wire connected them—a crude but effective warding circle meant to keep lesser entities at bay and prevent the corruption from seeping further into the colony.
Even so—he could feel it. The air itself was wrong. The skin prickled beneath his coat. His vox-bead crackled intermittently, though no one spoke. Machines shuddered without cause.
Warp-taint.
"I will have the Enginseer bring promethium and his flamer-servitors," he said
—then muttered with a faint smirk, "I bet when he hears this, his motors will explode out of joy."
"Yes, Seneschal. But what do you want us to do with the observers?" The young Sister asked, eyeing the murmuring crowd at a distance.
"Tell them they don't need to worry. The gate will disappear within three days." His tone grew colder.
"And nobody except Sisters of Battle, Priests of Terra, Ogryns, and Servitors is to pass beyond you. If they try, give them a warning shot.
If they still persist—execute them on the Order of heresy."
Ulysses gave his orders with grim finality before turning away.
His next destination was the workshop.
After a short walk, Ulysses entered the crowded space. The clamor of shouted orders, clanging tools, and the low thrum of generators filled the air.
Guardsmen hauled crates of munitions onto waiting Samaritans—half-track carriers while servitors clanked past with canisters of promethium strapped to their backs, their vox-grilles muttering half-garbled catechisms. The place reeked of oil, incense, and urgency.
At the center of the chaos stood Philos, hunched over a flickering cogitator screen. Mechadendrites snaked from his spine, issuing bursts of Binaric Cant as he directed the flow of resources with algorithmic precision. Electro-glyphs danced across his optics.
"Enginseer," Ulysses called, raising his voice above the din.
Philos turned. "Seneschal" he intoned, his voice a grated blend of wet flesh and modulated machine-speech.
"Affirmation of Purge Protocol?" he asked, static-laced enthusiasm barely concealed behind ritual formality.
"I see you're already mobilized," Ulysses replied, noting the organized chaos around them.
"Very well. I grant you full command of the operation—containment, cleansing, do what you must."
Philos's mechadendrites straightened as if in benediction.
"Praise the Omnissiah," he whispered with reverence.
"By sacred ignition and consecrated flame, I shall enact purification. Let the taint be unmade by fire."
Ulysses glanced around the workshop. Soldiers moved with trained precision, but tension clung to the air like static. Even the machines seemed disturbed—flickering hololiths, a cogitator sparking without input, and a nearby servitor grinding its jaw in a looping glitch.
"You feel it too?" Ulysses asked, voice lowered.
Philos emitted a burst of binaric clicking before replying.
"The Veil grows thin. The gate pulses not alone."
"Anomalous readings indicate secondary entities. Interference beyond primary incursion."
Ulysses narrowed his eyes. "Location?"
Philos turned his head slightly, servo-motors whirring.
"You have already extrapolated the coordinates, Seneschal. Confirmation unnecessary."
Ulysses gave a slow, grim nod. "Leave that one to me."
The air between them crackled faintly—whether from raw tension or residual warp interference was unclear.
Philos bowed his head slightly, mechadendrites coiling back into standby positions.
"As decreed. May your flesh be strong and your logic unwavering."
—
Afternoon of the same day.
The Samaritans came to a halt just outside the established perimeter, engines groaning under the weight of fuel drums and munitions.
Guardsmen disembarked and began digging hasty trench lines, setting up forward posts under the gaze of Sister Meredith.
The trenches soon formed a rough but deliberate ring around the corrupted dwelling, enclosing it in a second perimeter.
Sandbags were piled. Firing lines were drawn. Vox-units crackled as squads reported readiness.
Outside the trench line, Philos moved with unsettling calm.
The only Tech-Priest on Artine, the commander of this operation. His red robes dragged across the soil, and his mechadendrites waved in a slow rhythm, occasionally emitting bursts of machine-code to nearby servitors.
Each step he took was measured—as though aligning himself to some invisible sacred pattern only the Mechanicus understood.
The servitors obeyed without question, marching past the guardsmen and Sister Meredith.
They stood motionless next to the kneeling priests from the day before, flamer-nozzles hissing gently, awaiting the command to advance.
The purge had not yet begun—but everything was in place.
Philos moved with mechanical precision, gliding past the humming Sister Meredith who stood vigil at the perimeter.
He came to a halt beside her and turned his head slightly.
"Why are you not halting my advance, Sororitas?"
he asked, vox-grated tones tinged with faint confusion.
"The Seneschal's orders were explicit. No one passes but selected personnel. And yet you permit me to proceed unquestioned."
Sister Meredith stopped humming, blinked, then turned to him with an awkward smile beneath her helmet.
"Oh! Master Enginseer. I thought you were a servitor. Haha—silly me."
Philos paused. Static clicked softly through his vox unit. Shocked.
She added, "But still, you're the one in command, aren't you? I'm not going to stop my commanding officer."
She resumed her humming like nothing had happened.
Philos stood there for a moment, silent. Her words echoed in his internal processors:
"I thought you were a servitor."
His mechadendrites drooped slightly. Hunching a little more than usual, the Tech-Priest trudged forward—discouraged—toward the inner circle of the perimeter.
He arrived next to Father Grigori, who remained kneeling at the edge of the mist, voice steady in litanies that never ceased, never faltered.
Philos said nothing. He simply stood beside the old priest, the two of them framed in their own forms of devotion—faith and function.
"Greetings, Master Servitor," Father Grigori said with a smirk, eyes closed, his voice still laced with rhythmic cadence.
Philos tilted his head slightly. "Is it wise to break your litanies merely to humor me, priest?"
"Don't worry about it," Grigori replied, tone light.
"I may be speaking to you, but my soul is still focused."
The old priest paused just long enough for his words to settle, then added with a faint chuckle,
"Still, don't you think this feels like a Crusade of our own?"
"Priests of Terra and Mars—standing shoulder to shoulder against the Ruinous Powers."
Philos's vox clicked softly as he considered the thought. "A statistical anomaly,"
he said at last, "but... acceptable."
"So what is your plan, commander?"
Father Grigori asked, his voice calm beneath the ever-present hum of chanting.
"Preparation is almost completed," Philos replied flatly, his mechadendrites twitching in anticipation.
Streams of binary flashed across his ocular lens as he interfaced with the local network, dispatching silent commands to his servitors.
All around them, the lumbering servitors responded with mechanical precision.
Flamer-arms whirred into position, hissed pressure seals engaging, ignition units primed.
They stood in place—motionless, silent, waiting.
Awaiting the final command.
—
At the same time, back at the church.
The scent of burning incense mingled with sanctified oils, thick in the air like armor against corruption. Rows of tall candles lined the altar, their flickering light cast long, wavering shadows against the worn stone walls—like spirits reaching toward salvation.
Sister Thessia sat in silence on a simple cot, her breathing was steady, yet each inhale carried the weight of pain and exhaustion.
Cilicia, pale and hollow-eyed, now conscious, had not moved from her side. Her hand rested lightly on the Sister's own, as if grounding herself in something comforting—something untouched by the Warp.
Kochav lay nearby on a separate bed, his body covered by white sheets. Purity seals and litanies of absolution covered his blanket like a warding shroud.
His face was peaceful, but his skin had the fragile pallor of someone dragged back from the edge of something vast and terrible.
Ulysses stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His eyes scanned the interior of the church—not out of reverence, but calculation.
He was measuring things: exit points, wall thickness, lines of fire. His gaze lingered on the boy, then moved to the closed doors.
The walls trembled faintly. Not a quake, not yet. But a pressure beneath them—subterranean, ominous—like a breath being held by something vast and unseen. The tremor passed, leaving behind a silence that rang louder than any sound.
A deep rumble whispered through the stone beneath their feet—like a massive exhale from something far below.
Then...
—CREAK.
The gate to the nave shifted. Not thrown open—but nudged, deliberately. Weapons were raised. Reflexes honed by survival.
A hand emerged from the gap—finger off the trigger, but a bolt pistol clearly visible.
"Stand down," came the familiar voice. "It's me."
Renoir stepped through, expression grim beneath the flickering candlelight. He shut the door behind him with a hollow thud.
"I came as requested, Seneschal," he said, giving Ulysses a nod.
Two Sisters of Battle followed close behind—armored and vigilant. Their helmets hung from their belts, eyes scanning the church interior with the precision. The weight of the situation was not lost on them.
Renoir stepped forward and exhaled slowly.
"So… I brought your reinforcements. But are you sure this will be enough?"
Now, eight people occupied the sanctuary.
Sister Thessia, still recovering on her cot. Sister-Medicae Aurora, who had remained since yesterday, tending to Kochav.
Cilicia and the boy—both non-combatants.
Ulysses and Renoir. And the two newly arrived Sisters—Lance and Willow—alert, armored, and ready.
Ulysses gave a short nod, voice low but certain."Barely enough. But it will do."
"We have until evening to prepare. The enginseer will give us the signal."
—
Back outside, where the main operation was being carried out.
Eight Sisters of Battle, who stood sentinel behind the kneeling priests, moved with practiced, solemn grace. From their belt pouches, they retrieved Krak Grenades, their casings rough and metallic. As one, they held them out.
The eight Ministorum priests, without breaking their chanting, offered small vials of holy water. As the Sisters began to murmur a brief blessing rite, their voices low and fervent inside their helmets, they reverently dipped their grenades into the sanctified liquid.
A faint shimmer seemed to cling to the grenades as they quickly loaded them into their launchers, the heavy thud a stark contrast to the quiet, ceaseless prayers. Their eyes, narrowed behind their helmets' visors, fixed on the shimmering, shifting veil of warp-mist that clung to the corrupted dwelling. Readied.
Philos, standing beside Father Grigori, his optical sensor focusing with chilling precision on the mist. His vox-grille crackled with a sudden surge of static, and his voice, a grated blend of wet flesh and modulated machine-speech, rang out in unison with Father Grigori's deep, resonant bellow—
"Glory to the Omnissiah! / Glory to the God-Emperor!"
they roared, their combined declarations echoing across the contaminated field.
With a precise, almost surgical motion, Philos raised a concealed grenade launcher integrated into his Servo-Arm. With a thunderous roar—
THUMP! KRAK...BOOM!
The blessed Krak Grenades shot upward, arcing perfectly. They struck the very edge of the roiling warp-barrier, not in its center, but where the ethereal mist thinned and frayed.
The impact created a small, violent ripple, a temporary tear in the fabric of the veil—a small opening, unstable and quickly attempting to recover.
Even before the distortion could fully mend, the Ogryns, without a moment's hesitation, bellowed guttural war cries.
With surprising speed and coordinated precision, eight massive Promethium fuel drums were hurled through the newly formed opening.
The drums struck the unseen ground within the mist-shrouded ruin and began to roll. As they moved, liquid fuel poured from the caps, leaving glistening, straight trails on the ground below.
From above, through the ephemeral tear, eight distinct lines quickly formed, interlocking into a complex, ward-like pattern:
a Promethium Octagrammatic Star, waiting to be kindled, its symbolic power a defiance to the Warp.
A hushed anticipation fell over the assembled forces, broken only by the ceaseless chanting of the priests and the faint hum of power armor. The Octagrammatic Star, etched in volatile fuel, lay waiting.
"Sister Meredith, would you kindly ignite the fuel?"
Father Grigori asked, his voice calm but imbued with a solemn command, even as his own litanies continued unbroken.
Sister Meredith, holstered her grenade launcher for a heavy flamer, snapped to attention. The weapon, gleaming chrome and burnished brass, hissed gently in her gauntleted hands, primed and ready.
A grim and zealous smile spread across her face beneath her helmet's visor.
"I shall burn the perfect ward in the glory of God-Emperor, Father," she answered, her voice ringing with conviction.
With a powerful HIZZ! of igniting gas, she pulled the trigger. A thick, roaring jet of sacred promethium fire erupted from the flamer's nozzle, streaking through the lingering tear in the veil.
The flame plunged into the dwelling, racing across the fuel-soaked lines.
Instantly, the Octagram ward burst into furious, glorious life. Roaring gouts of flame erupted from the ground, tracing the lines of the star in brilliant, purifying light.
The fire blazed with an unnatural intensity, consuming the corrupting mist around it, pushing back the very unreality of the Warp.
"HAHAHAHA! Blood for the Emperor! Skulls for the golden throne!"
Meredith laughed, her voice a raw, zealous cackle that was barely muffled by her helmet, as she kept her flamer spewing fire into the inferno.
Both Philos and Grigori turned to each other instinctively, concerned?, worried
"Behavioral pattern deviation approaching heretical threshold detected. Recommend observation, Priest."
Philos broke the awkward silence, his vox-grille modulating his voice to a low, gravelly tone.
"That is one of the few things we agreed upon, Tech-Priest"
Grigori agreed, a faint, weary sigh escaping him.
The burning Octagram star prevented the mist from mending itself; the opening would stay as long as the promethium burned. The Warp fought back, letting out a wounded shriek that vibrated through the air.
From the pulsating opening, Horrors, pink and blue, began spewing out like ants from a disturbed nest.
Guardsmen in the trench behind the first line immediately opened fire in unison. Las-beams lanced out, incinerating the daemons. Some of the Pink Horrors split into smaller Blue Horrors when hit, as was their unnatural nature, but most died instantly in bursts of warpfire.
The ward was working effectively, funneling the daemons directly into the waiting guns of the Artinites forces.
Amidst the chaos, Sister Meredith's zealous laughter echoed once more, cutting through the crackle of las-fire and the screams of the daemons.
With a practiced snap, she released her flamer, letting it drop to hang from its magnetic clamps on her armor. In a fluid motion, she drew her boltgun, its heavy frame familiar in her gauntleted grasp.
Without missing a beat, she leveled the weapon and opened fire on the surging tide of daemons, the bolt rounds exploding into gory, purifying mist against the Warp-spawn.
This would continue as Philos intended.
"Primary objective: successful. Remaining variables… rest with Ulysses." Philos muttered, as his integrated weapon systems crackled, unleashing bolts of energy and streams of coherent plasma with unnatural accuracy into the surging tide of Horrors.
His ocular lenses glowed, processing tactical data even as he delivered judgment.
His gaze fixed on the distant church.
Back at the Church. Ten minutes ago.
POP.....BOOM!
The muffled report of grenade launchers detonating shook the floor beneath them—a distant thunder of righteous fury.
The purge had begun.
Ulysses's gaze sharpened, his unreadable expression hardening into grim resolve.
"So it begins," he muttered, the words barely audible above the faint but growing tremor.
He nodded to everyone in the sanctuary, a silent command for them to brace themselves.
a short silence of tension and anticipation and then—
GUST....HIZZ...
The very air thickened with unnatural pressure. The ancient church's stone walls trembled. Its sacred plaster cracked, and then rippled, as though reality itself had become fluid.
The sanctity of the place groaned as the Warp tore it open from within.
From the widening fissures in the stone, Horrors spilled forth—pink and blue, tumbling in perverse jubilation, their twisted bodies writhing with unstable anatomy.
They laughed—a sound not heard, but felt—piercing the mind like hot needles, whispering blasphemies meant to unmake sanity.
Ulysses stood his ground at the sanctuary's center, Renoir beside him. Cilicia clung close, cradling Kochav, the boy's face bathed in sweat, his eyes fluttering in disturbed unconsciousness.
She held something tightly to her chest, a Rosarius, gifted by Sister Thessia for safety. Cilicia didn't know the liturgies, nor how to wield it in battle.
But she clutched it now with desperation, whispering words of protection, not from a book, but from the heart.
The purity seals affixed to Kochav's chest and arms began to smolder, reacting to a presence clawing at the edges of his soul.
Then—
the Rosarius pulsed.
As Cilicia clutched the Rosarius to her chest, the amulet flared, warm and pale-golden, growing brighter with each whispered word from Cilicia's lips—even though she had no true prayer, only desperate fragments of memory and hope.
The light expanded around her like a protective bubble, and several daemonic whispers abruptly cut off, their twisted forms recoiling as if pushed back by a presence they could not see nor touch.
Around this central group, the four remaining Sisters (Thessia, Aurora, Lance, and Willow) had swiftly formed a tight defensive square. Between them, a shimmering straight line, made of ash and sanctified oil, had been quickly laid down, a desperate barrier of purity against the encroaching tide of corruption.
This small sanctuary, a bastion of order, stood in stark contrast to the open battle outside.
There, the mission was containment and purge.
Here, in the hallowed but now violated halls of the church, their desperate mission was to protect and survive.
Then, Sister Thessia dropped to one knee, raising her voice in a clear, unwavering chant:
"By fire, we are made pure. By fire, the Emperor's light burns away the heretic, the mutant, and the unholy."
Her final words triggered the ward.
FOOM!
The sanctified oil and ash ignited—not with Promethium's red-orange blaze, but with a lambent white flame, ethereal and incorruptible.
The daemons shrieked. Those closest to the ward recoiled, their flesh bubbling, their forms unraveling from the light alone.
In Thessia's hands was now the Hallowed Brazier—a sacred relic lent by Father Grigori. Small and polished, it shimmered like polished gold.
With grim determination, she dipped the Brazier into the blazing white flame of the ward that encircled them. As the holy fire from the ground met the relic, the brazier pulsed, flared
A narrow beam of sanctified brilliance erupted from it, cutting through a trio of Horrors.
They unmade instantly—flesh, bone, and madness torn asunder, returning to the Immaterium as screeching Warp-light and vapor.
Daemons caught in its path banished instantly, collapsing into ash and fading whispers, utterly unmade by the Emperor's might that channeled through the holy fire.
With a powerful surge of faith, she tossed the potent Hallowed Brazier to Sister Aurora, to her right.
Aurora caught it, her face set in absolute determination, and without hesitation, repeated Thessia's action, a searing beam of purifying light eradicating the daemons before her.
This sacred ritual continued clockwise, from Sister Aurora to Lance, and then to Willow, each Sister wielding the Hallowed Brazier like a beacon of divine wrath, cleansing their section of the defensive square.
With each dying daemon that night, a shadow was cast on tomorrow's dawn; for as is the insidious nature of the Changer of Ways, these foul entities, though banished, would return, stronger in their renewed manifestation, fueled by the very energy expended in their destruction.
And through it all, Cilicia held fast to the Rosarius, whispering broken prayers, unaware that its light still burned—steady, and unwavering.
Yet, for now, the Artinites had achieved a decisive victory.