No retreat, no mercy, only duty.
---
"CHARGE! IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR, PURGE THESE HERETICS!" the Commissar roared, raising his power sword high, signaling the start of the wave—something the mask-wearing guardsmen had been awaiting.
Hundreds of the sons of Krieg rose from their trenches and began marching onward—unflinching, unhesitating. With inhuman discipline, they advanced, trampling over the fallen, the tired, the injured from the previous charges who had been left behind to die where they lay.
It didn't matter. What mattered was the objective: the main base of the heretics was just ahead, their last stronghold on this continent.
Guardsman-38912-K was cold—his fingers stiff and bloodless as he clenched his weapon tightly. He was tired—his limbs heavy like stone, each movement a struggle to lift the rifle. He was in pain—yet none of it mattered.
He and his brothers would always continue on. Always in service to the Emperor.
Marching toward the enemy trenches, they were met on all sides by heavy fire from the heretics' defensive line. Las-bolts, crude projectiles, and plasma rounds rained down on him and his brothers, tearing into the ranks, ripping through flak and flesh alike.
Many of his brothers fell, returned to the Emperor's grace in violent spasms of light and blood.
Despite the gore-slicked scene, Guardsman-38912-K did not flinch. His gaze remained forward. His focus was on the objective.
They were getting closer.
Many of his brothers had already fulfilled their duty, their final breath given in sacred service. Each death was another brick on the road to victory.
"Die, Imperial scum! Death to the Corpse-Emperor!"
A heretic, mustering what little courage remained in his corrupted soul, stood atop the trenchline—a lasgun in hand. He fired wildly, shrieking in blind hatred, killing one of 38912-K's brothers just ahead.
Guardsman-38912-K, being the closest to the traitor, fixed his bayonet, ready to deliver the Emperor's justice to this foul being.
"Glory to chaos! die, imperial dogs!"
The cultist screamed, taking down another of 38912-K's brothers in a frenzy. He was too focused on killing, too caught up in his madness to notice 38912-K charging toward him through the smoke.
Bayonet fixed, 38912-K drove the blade into the cultist's neck.
"Ghaa!!"
The force and momentum sent them both tumbling backward into the trench behind.
And then—nothing. The trench swallowed them whole.
---
That was the last thing Guardsman-38912-K remembered before waking up atop the corpses of the heretics he had purged.
He did not understand where he was or how he got here—a city ablaze with fire and chaos.
But as his gaze settled on a small human girl being approached by robe-wearing heretics, he understood his duty.
This was a human settlement under siege by the ruinous powers. He needed to locate the PDF and report for duty.
As a loyal servant of the Emperor, 38912-K dealt with the heretics without hesitation and began marching forward, hoping to encounter the PDF as soon as possible.
"Help!"
"Someone, we need help!"
"We are surrounded!"
Multiple screams of terror echoed from ahead—desperate, pleading cries.
38912-K marched toward the sound, soulless in his execution of duty.
Upon arrival, he was greeted by a familiar sight: robe-wearing heretics, laughing and jeering as they surrounded a group of civilians.
Men and women trembled behind a ragtag band of warriors clad in iron armor, wielding crude melee weapons.
It seemed it was a dire situation—this settlement had been reduced to fighting with whatever was available.
"Hahaha! Adventurer scum! We're going to enjoy tearing you apart!" a heretic—seemingly the leader—howled with maniacal laughter. "And we'll be taking your little gods with us when we're done! Hahaha!" he added, gesturing to the civilians behind the "adventurers."
"Slicius Frostius!" a female shouted. With a swing of her wooden staff, an invisible blade tore through the heretic ranks—the very air split asunder from the force of her attack.
"I will never let you take Lady Hecate, you Evilus scum!" she proclaimed, righteous and unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds.
38912-K resumed his march, the sound of his boots echoing down the burning streets.
He took aim and fired.
Fwoosh!
One heretic down. Five remained.
"Who the hell is shooting at us?!" one of the cultists screamed, panic overtaking their cruel bravado as they were flanked.
The adventurers and their so-called gods exhaled a collective sigh of relief—help had arrived.
"Agh!"
Two more heretics dropped, their heads vaporized into smoldering remains.
"God damn it! Show yourself, coward!" another cultist shouted.
His demand was answered.
From the smoke-choked streets of Orario emerged a monstrous figure—slow and disciplined in his march, raising his weapon with cold precision.
Their eyes were drawn not to his strange, dirty armor, but to the inhuman mask he wore: a long-nosed mask with twin lenses, behind which no trace of humanity could be seen. This was not a man—this was a monster.
Fwoosh!
Another cultist fell—his head obliterated by a single, precise shot.
"Die!" the two remaining heretics screamed, charging ahead in blind fury.
38912-K was momentarily caught off guard by their speed, but managed to take one more down before the last one closed the distance—too close now to use the lasgun effectively.
"I'll tear your guts out!" the heretic roared, lunging with a knife.
38912-K slapped the weapon aside and drove his fist into the heretic's gut, sending the man crashing to the ground.
"Agh… what the fuck?!" the cultist wheezed, blood spilling from his mouth from the sheer impact.
38912-K felt four of his fingers break, but ignored the pain entirely. He retrieved his shovel and brought it down on the heretic's skull.
"Aghh!" the cultist screamed. It wasn't enough.
So 38912-K struck again.
And again.
And again.
By the time he was done, what remained was a pulped, unrecognizable mass—once a slave of Chaos, now just bloodied meat.
38912-K rose, lasgun ready, his gaze locked on the cornered civilians.
The adventurers stared at him with uncertainty, unnerved by the brutality of the stranger who had saved them.
The girl from earlier stepped forward cautiously.
"Fiona, don't!" a black-haired woman called out, concern in her voice. But the girl didn't stop.
"Uh… thanks!" Fiona said with a shaky smile. "We were in a very screwed state!" Her wariness faded slightly as she saw no immediate threat in his posture.
38912-K had witnessed this girl wield the power of the Warp. He had also heard how the heretics referred to the civilians behind her as "gods."
Now, seeing her up close, his hatred—burning quietly beneath his mask—intensified.
Before him stood a female Eldar. The pointy-eared xenos.
The enemies of Mankind.
"Psyker confirmed," 38912-K said—a cold military report rather than a declaration, yet still an affirmation of faith.
"Uh… what was that, buddy?" the Eldar girl asked, inching closer, checking if their savior was alright.
"Presence of xenos and heretics confirmed," he repeated, reloading his lasgun with a new charge pack.
The Eldar girl tilted her head, confused. "What's a xeno?"
38912-K's sight shifted toward the civilians, who were watching the exchange with curiosity, not yet understanding.
"False gods walk among the populace. Blasphemy given form," he declared, his cold voice now edged with fury.
"Hey—are you one of them Evilus?!" the Eldar shouted, alarm rising in her tone, her expression hardening.
"Chaos reigns here. This world is lost," 38912-K concluded, raising his lasgun toward the xenos before him.
Fiona's eyes widened. She instinctively raised her arms to shield herself—but it was futile.
Fwoosh!
The concentrated beam hit her square in the head, vaporizing it instantly.
"Noooo!" Lady Hecate screamed, her child slain before her very eyes—what was once a kind, cheerful face now a smoldering ruin.
"You bastard!" one of the adventurers roared, stepping forward with his shield raised, rage overtaking fear. His stance was shaky, but his eyes burned with fury.
38912-K turned to the shocked and terrified adventurers and gods.
His unflinching advance sent a chill down their spines.
"Orders: Purge"
---
One
A giant pillar of light tore the sky apart—the sign of a god returning to heaven.
Two
A second one rose.
Three
Then another.
Four, five, six, seven. Eight.
It was a slaughter, as if the world itself had come to an end. The citizens of Orario wept in terror, and the familias of the slain gods lost their blessings, rendering them helpless against their foes.
"Sublime, is it not?" noted Zald.
"Yes," replied Alfia. "The sight is, at least." Her ashen hair fluttered in the wind. "But if I close my eyes... I can still hear their noise."
Erebus chuckled. It was all according to plan. "And... nine," he counted, watching the last planned pillar of light rise.
Two of them had been their own agents.
Nine pillars of light.
Nine gods returned to the heavens.
Never before had an exodus like this been seen.
But while the city reeled, the servants of evil breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Erebus clapped his hands together. "Now—onto the big proclamation."
They were standing on the roof of a partially ruined temple—a perfect vantage point to look down upon the burning city.
And a perfect one to proclaim the surge of evil.
But before Erebus could begin his theatrics, something completely outside his plans occurred.
"…Ten?" he muttered, taken aback as another pillar of light rose into the sky, signaling the return of yet another god.
Then another rose.
"Eleven…" Erebus muttered again.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
Fifteen!
"Six more. Six unplanned ones," Erebus said, his tone cold, cut with the sharp edge of the unexpected occurrence.
Alfia and Zald exchanged a sideways glance.
"Are you not going to resume your little show?" Alfia asked, growing tired of this farce.
Erebus almost gritted his teeth, but remained composed.
"I shall…" he answered, voice quieter now, more contained.
As he prepared himself for the grand proclamation, his mind drifted elsewhere—schemes and punishments took form in his thoughts, directed at the crude, undisciplined worm who dared defy his orders.
He would enjoy their screams.
A fitting atonement.
---
The end
---
AN: Yeah… So I'm just gonna keep this going until I'm back on my feet and ready to continue my other fic.
This one's gonna be a short one—might not even finish it, honestly.
But if I do, it'll probably cap at around 10 chapters, covering the events of Astrea Record, The Seven Days of Blood.
Btw this is still not a serious fic, I wrote this in like... Two hours, don't expect top notch.
I'm sorry if your disappointed.