"Wake up, 30245011.
Or should I call you...███ von ████?
Oh, what is it that you go by now? —Right.
The Dead Rogue."
The voice continued to speak until everything became a blur.
"Shut it," the prisoner muttered. "Do you even know when to shut your mouth?"
Finally, the voice stopped.
"Ulysses, ████."
The man's lips clearly formed those words. The prisoner's eyes widened. He was in some kind of office, no longer restrained.
"How did you know that name?" he asked, lifting his hand.
The other person stepped closer into view, revealing a short, plump man in his late 50s. His face was no longer obscured.
The Inquisitor.
"Let's say we have aligning interests," the man said. "And don't even bother with your tricks." He finished speaking and pointed his finger toward the woman in the golden mask. She waved at them.
"Was she always there? I couldn't sense her," the prisoner thought.
"I'll save you the headache. She's a Blank. Psychics don't work when she's around."
The man shrugged. "Don't ask me how."
The prisoner calmed down and sat back in his seat.
"So... shared interests. I take it you also want ███ dead."
"Among other things. To get to him, we'll need to shake a lot of places, kill many people. And by we, I mean you."
The Inquisitor leaned against the table and handed him a parchment.It depicted a planet named Erika's Orb.
"You still haven't told me how you know Ulysses," the prisoner asked.
"An old friend you could say," the Inquisitor answered.
"Is that how you know about my real name?" the prisoner questioned.
"Indeed. I've been looking for you for the past seven years. It's very hard to find a dead man, you know. And you don't make it easy, either."
"Who would've thought a dead heir would call himself Dead Rogue? That's just ironic." The Inquisitor let out a scoff.
"So how did you know I was on that ship?" he asked.
"The Blank. And you weren't exactly being quiet these last few years, either. Why are you in such a hurry to die?" the Inquisitor asked.
"Dead? The bastard was finally in my grasp. I could've given him the retribution he deserves—had you not interfered." He slammed his fist on the desk.
The Inquisitor laughed. "I doubt that Psy-damper was part of your plan."
"I... could have managed, I think," he answered hesitantly.
"Sure thing, boy.Are you prepared for real service to the Imperium?" the Inquisitor asked, shoving the parchment against the man's chest.
"All right, Inquisitor Helsin," the man replied after reading the name on the table.
"Theolard Helsin."
"What should we call you, Son of Artine?" Helsin asked.
"Kochav von Artine," Kochav answered, resolute.
"I almost forgot. These are yours, right? She found them in the same holding cell as you," Helsin said, then kicked a box full of items Kochav's way.
A half-body jacket, an old force sword, a golden Aquila, and a pentagon-shaped psy-amplifier.
"Aren't they all a little old?" Helsin asked while observing.
"They're important. A reminder," Kochav answered.
With a look of understanding on Helsin's face, he determined this young man was finally ready. He nodded to the woman.
"Mira will give you the details. Just follow her."
The young man followed the mute woman through a dark hallway into a large, unused hangar, full of cobwebs and dust.
In the center stood a landing pad, clearly used. An out-of-place aircraft was docked there.
A Valkyrie.
Wings of the Emperor—a name given by Imperial Guardsmen. This airborne assault carrier was one of the most widely used vehicles in the Imperium of Man: well-armed, durable, and versatile. Capable of vertical takeoff and landing, with twin engines mounted above and Hellstrike missiles under its wings. A true beauty.
This one was grey, seared with Caledor Blue underneath —matching the biome of the assigned planet.
Erika's Orb.
A glacier planet. The polar opposite of Artine. But harsh all the same.
There were no known settlements there—To the public eye, at least.
"This parchment is useless. It's just general information. What am I supposed to do there?" Kochav asked Mira.
She sat across from him without replying. Mira simply shrugged and walked toward the cockpit.
"Great. She will give me the details, he said," Kochav muttered.
Arriving atop an icy hill, the Valkyrie landed. Kochav and Mira moved toward the ramp. When the ramp dropped, only Kochav stepped out.
"Am I supposed to do this alone?" he asked.
Mira pointed behind him—Ten o'clock, local northwest—Then went back inside and took off almost immediately.
"...Great."
Sigh.
He started walking in that direction.
About 20 minutes later,
a metallic thud.
Kochav stepped on something buried under the snow. A metal surface. After clearing some frost, he found a hatch.
"Is this it?" Kochav muttered.
He slowly lifted the hatch, revealing a ladder descending into darkness.
Bracing himself, he took a deep breath and began to descend.
"What would Philos say in a situation like this? 'Dispatch the servitors?' No... 'Commencing purge protocol.'"
The scene shifted to the bottom of the abyss.
A narrow hallway lit by red lights spaced far apart.
"Another gloomy place. Where do I get rainbows and sunshine around here?" he said sarcastically.
He walked along the hallway—Metal doors lined both sides. Some bore signs:
High-Compatibility
Volatile
Marked for Disposal
Then, the next door on the left:
Harvest.
This one was occupied. A whirring sound. A sound of butchering.
Kochav stopped next to the door and used his telekinesis to unlock it quietly. Then he peeked inside.
A room in red.
A drill-arm thrust into something again and again, each time dripping with blood and meat. The metallic scent filled the air, disrupting his rationality. He cleared his mind and looked again.
The figure was gone.
He searched for presence. Nothing.
He threw the door open, sword charged and ready.
What he saw was horror.
An examination bed... With a dead Astartes? Decaying. Releasing a horrid odor.
Holes of various sizes marked the torso, matching the shape of the drill.
"It took something from his body...Whatever it was," he muttered.
He searched the room. Desks—empty. Shelves—filled with jars and bones.
Only one lead: A trail of blood.
It led to another door. A wide one —big enough for a small vehicle.
He followed it.
Mist clouded the space beyond. It reeked of warp bleed—A scent known to all psykers.
Dangerous.
Kochav drew his force sword and began channeling power, sparking blue and orange light in the darkened chamber.
The room warped. The floor turned to black liquid. The walls closed in.
If Kochav were to describe it —It felt like a peril of the warp.
A psychic phenomenon.
But Kochav wasn't using much power —only enhanced awareness and detection. He hadn't triggered this.
Then—
A dark figure appeared. Nothing identifiable —Only shapeless shadow.
It crept forward.
With every step, the peril intensified. Daemonic hands rose from the floor, grabbing at Kochav. He swung his sword, launched force lightning—No effect.
Suddenly—
Light.
The room reset. Everything was as before.
"That thing was like...A living Peril," he thought.
Then—
"Someone's coming."
The ones who used this place were returning.
Kochav ducked into the shadows. Rows of servitors stood like statues —Some bloodied. Others Pestined.
"Were these machines the surgeons?" He speculated.
He hid, awakening his psychic abilities. His pupils glowed blue. Ready to strike.
The door creaked open—Tension building.
Fully open—
Nothing.
BANG-BANG!
A barrage of gunfire! Servitors fell—Oil and blood everywhere.
When the smoke cleared, Kochav stood, blood and oil-soaked, holding up a force-shield.
Unscathed. But furious.
"My turn."
Boom.
He retaliated —sending debris and full psychic force down the hallway. No response. He moved to the door and peeked.
A downed machine—A servitor-weapon hybrid.
"Is whoever made this obsessed with servitors?" he muttered.
Then he noticed—A pulsing red core in its chest.
Faster. Flashing.
Kochav's eyes widened. He raised his shield just in time.
BOOM!
The explosion hurled him to the far wall. He staggered, dazed but alive. Using his sword for balance, he tried to stand.
Then—
"We meet again, Dead Rogue."
Kochav fell.
A familiar figure from the past. A foe. Surrounded by manpower.
The figure stepped forward, stood over the downed Rogue.
Then—
A kick to the face.