Chapter 31: The Black Star Rises
The void above Serran Primus cracked with new orders.
Imperial astropaths across the Segmentum Tempestus received a pulse of encrypted directives, their minds scorched by visions of fire, faith, and fate. Somewhere between the stars and the warp, a decree had been issued.
Lucien Artor Vale, newly minted Major of the Emperor's Blade Division, was being sent to the edge of the Halo Stars.
To a world that should not exist.
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System Designation: Hexen-VI Classification: Xenos-Contaminated / Pre-Exterminatus Quarantine Primary Threat: Unknown / Uncatalogued Anomalies
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The order was clear. Investigate. Survive. Report.
No reinforcements.
No backup.
Just Lucien, his 5,000 men, and whatever the warp had spawned on the ghost world.
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The journey took fourteen days through semi-stable warp corridors. The Gellar fields of their transport ship, Iron Candor, flickered more often than usual. Men began reporting whispers behind bulkheads. Lights blinked in impossible patterns. A tech-priest flayed himself, claiming he had seen the machine god weeping.
Lucien walked among them, never showing fear. He carried the weight of their belief like a second set of armor. His presence calmed the crew. And still, the ring pulsed on his hand—brighter now. Eager. Hungry.
He had started dreaming again.
Always the same image: a broken sword floating in a black ocean. A voice calling out, echoing with static and fire.
"You are the echo of a dying god."
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They made planetfall under a veil of midnight.
Hexen-VI was death incarnate. A ruined world of shattered structures, impossible geometries, and sky-borne storms that never ended. Strange ruins older than the Imperium dotted the landscape, whispering secrets in long-forgotten tongues.
No vox. No comms. No satellites. The air was breathable, but tasted like rust.
Lucien stood on a cliffside overlooking the ruins as his division deployed. Lightning forked behind him, casting his silhouette like a statue of old.
"Marell," he said, voice calm. "Send scouts into each cardinal direction. Forty men per squad. Set fallback points every 500 meters. No one wanders. No one dies alone."
"Yes, Major."
"And Marell... no prayers tonight. Whatever's here, it might be listening."
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Within hours, the world responded.
Scouts vanished. Vox-signals returned only with static screams. Men reported seeing copies of themselves in the fog, acting out moments that hadn't yet occurred. One corporal swore he saw his own corpse ahead of him—and tripped over it a moment later.
One of the tanks, a beloved Leman Russ called Saint Ritha's Voice, simply turned inside out. No explosion. No warning. Just—gone.
And through it all, Lucien walked the line.
He comforted the mad.
He shot the corrupted.
He marked sigils in the soil that he didn't remember learning, but which worked. Repelled the wrongness. Even the psykers began gravitating toward him like moths to flame, whispering that he carried the Emperor's echo in his soul.
They made it thirty kilometers into the heart of the ruins before they found the source.
A black spire. Covered in living metal, pulsing with energy that hurt to look at.
And beside it, a figure waited.
Not xenos.
Not man.
Something old.
Lucien stepped forward, alone. His men tried to stop him. He silenced them with a look.
The figure spoke without moving.
"The ring chose you because you can break the wheel."
Lucien didn't answer.
"Others died screaming. You remain. But the blade must be reforged. You are its edge."
Lucien clenched his fist. The ring pulsed—not with light, but with memory. He saw his past life. The truck. The pain. The stars. The voice.
He walked toward the figure.
Every step rewrote the world.
Behind him, the Emperor's Blade Division watched as the sky cracked open.
And their captain became something more.
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