So this is the Omnissiah's Chosen?
Archmagos Cawl's mechanical eyes flickered with torrents of data; the shards of personality in his mind argued noisily, and the heat-sinks, spinning at full tilt, even condensed pale mist in the surrounding air.
Before meeting the man he had formed a few conjectures.
As a magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus who had marched in the Great Crusade and watched the Emperor walk among men, Cawl believed few in the Imperium understood the Master of Mankind better than he.
In his imagination the Emperor's Chosen would be towering, clad in golden armour, embodying a heroism mortals could scarcely dream of, wreathed in endless glory.
Or perhaps super-human like a Primarch, instantly recognisable and carrying the Emperor's hope for the future.
Never had he pictured… this.
The one who greeted him looked merely human, of ordinary height and face.
At a glance his easy manner felt less like a high lord than a mid-hab denizen of a Hive City—nothing more.
The jarring contrast made Cawl overlook, for a moment, the companions standing beside him—men and women of towering stature in the Imperium:
a commissar of the Astra Militarum, a Custodian of the Emperor, even a Living Saint of the Ecclesiarchy.
The sight only deepened the Archmagos's confusion.
After a brief exchange he voiced his doubt at once.
"Lord Adam, I require proof."
Cawl's tone sharpened. "Your arrival is too sudden; will you consent to prove your identity?"
"Easily done."
Adam had prepared his answer before the teleport. He drew the sword of solomon; golden flame roared along the blade.
"You who endured the Great Crusade should know the Emperor's psychic fire."
"…A most compelling testament."
Even through a mechanical shell Cawl felt that familiar warmth when he saw the golden fire.
It was the breath from the soul that scours all evil, and Archmagos Cawl lowered every ward.
"Forgive my earlier suspicions."
"No error," he said, voice tinged with relief. "This is the power of the Omnissiah recorded in my archives. Your claim is verified."
"Your appearance is… unexpected, I admit."
"So is yours."
Adam studied the mountain of steel before him; its alien mechanical beauty and inhuman presence pressed like a weight upon the lungs.
"Nor did I expect to meet you, Archmagos Cawl."
"You know me?"
"Of course. You are the keystone of the Emperor's design."
Noting the tension tightening Cawl's frame, Adam left it at that. "We can reminisce later; first let me blunt the Necron assault."
"Oh? And how will you stop them?"
Clearly intrigued, the Archmagos pressed.
He had long wondered about the Emperor's Chosen; the squad was formidable, yet against a Necron host it still seemed wanting.
Surely the man possessed some further merit to be the Omnissiah's covenant-bearer.
Yet every scan showed an ordinary human—no major bionics, no cybernetics, no Warp-signature; neither Psyker nor pariah.
So how was he to halt the Necron advance?
"Watch and see for yourself."
Adam stepped forward; his companions wordlessly fell back, forming a wide ring.
He calmly lifted a hand; soil and air responded, and a perfect square pillar rose from the ground.
With a thought he re-wove its structure, then reached out again and an unremarkable wooden bow settled into his palm.
???
Cawl's lone organic eye widened in shock.
Every sensor and sub-atomic analyser in his body had found no principle behind the feat.
All readings normal: no Warp-flux, no energy spike, no exotic radiation.
No warning, no explanation.
The scientist within the Archmagos reeled.
What was this?
What principle allowed matter to transmute?
Had a researcher from the SCP Foundation of another universe been present, he might have patted the magos sympathetically and said:
First time?
Adam did not pause.
He borrowed an unseen sliver of WAAAGH Field from Yarrick, shared Sibylla's psychic sight, and clearly marked the targets beyond the camp.
Then he drew the bow.
A blinding blue-white Plasma Arrow materialised on the humble wood, radiating heat above ten thousand degrees; the air shimmered yet bow and fingers remained unharmed.
Cawl was struck speechless.
His analysers swept again and again—still nothing.
Gravitic containment?
Mag-cage?
Warp sorcery?
None. Not a shred of data supported any hypothesis; it simply was.
The contradiction reminded the Archmagos of the Blazing Blood, who swore the Omnissiah's blood was searing plasma that must be wielded—and here was the proof.
Was this not its very embodiment?
Under Adam's reality-bending will the plasma kept swelling, finally becoming a two-metre lance poised upon the bow.
He smiled and released the string.
**"I reckon I can hit it.**
The shaft blazed into a streak of light, carving an elegant arc through the air toward the camp perimeter.