The summons came three weeks after the Miracle of Kalixus.
It was not a request. It was not an invitation. It was a summons, delivered by the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes himself, in person, with an escort of thirty golden giants.
"The Master of Mankind requires your presence on Terra," Captain-General Trajann Valoris announced, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Immediately."
Bartholomew, who had been in the middle of trying to figure out why his morning recaf tasted like promethium, looked up with the expression of a man who had stopped being surprised by anything.
"What did I do now?"
"You did nothing wrong. The Emperor wishes to... honor you."
"Honor me?"
"That is what the message said. I do not know the details. The Emperor does not explain His decisions to me."
"He doesn't explain them to anyone," Bartholomew muttered. "That's kind of His thing."
"Will you come willingly, or must I compel you?"
"I'll come willingly. I just... give me a minute to finish my recaf?"
Valoris stared at him.
"You wish to delay a summons from the God-Emperor of Mankind... for recaf?"
"It's the only good cup I've had in weeks. The ship's servitors don't understand proper brewing."
For a long moment, the Captain-General said nothing.
Then, impossibly, he smiled.
"You are exactly as the reports describe. Finish your recaf, Private Jenkins. The Emperor has waited ten millennia. He can wait five more minutes."
The journey to Terra was significantly faster than last time.
Whatever the Emperor had planned, He apparently wanted it done quickly. The ship carrying Bartholomew was given absolute priority—warp lanes cleared, navigational hazards marked, even the tides of the Immaterium itself seeming to calm as they passed.
"THIS IS UNPRECEDENTED," Deus Invictus observed through their neural link. The Titan had insisted on being transported as well, refusing to be separated from his Princeps. "THE WARP ITSELF IS FACILITATING OUR JOURNEY."
"Is that the Emperor's doing?"
"UNKNOWN. BUT THE EFFECT IS MEASURABLE. OUR TRANSIT TIME HAS BEEN REDUCED BY APPROXIMATELY FORTY-THREE PERCENT."
"He really wants me there fast."
"SO IT WOULD APPEAR. ARE YOU NERVOUS?"
"Terrified. As usual."
"THAT IS HEALTHY. TERROR KEEPS ONE ALERT."
"Thanks, Deus. Very reassuring."
"I WAS NOT ATTEMPTING TO REASSURE. I WAS STATING FACT."
The Imperial Palace was, if anything, even more overwhelming the second time.
Bartholomew was escorted through corridors he hadn't seen before—deeper into the palace, through sections that even most Custodians never accessed. The architecture grew older, more ornate, more powerful as they descended.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"The Sanctum Imperialis Profundus," Valoris replied. "The deepest chamber of the Palace. Where the Emperor conducts His most important rituals."
"Rituals?"
"I do not know what He has planned. I only know that He has not used this chamber in eight thousand years."
That was not comforting.
The Sanctum Imperialis Profundus was... not what Bartholomew expected.
He had anticipated something dark and gothic, filled with skulls and candles and the oppressive weight of ten millennia of suffering.
Instead, he found light.
Pure, golden light, radiating from the walls themselves. The chamber was vast—larger than any space had a right to be underground—and every surface gleamed with warmth and power.
And at the center, standing rather than sitting, was the Emperor.
Not the corpse on the Golden Throne.
Not the withered figure he had seen before.
The Emperor. As He had been, or close to it. A projection, a manifestation, but one with substance and presence and power that made Bartholomew's knees buckle.
YOU CAME, the Emperor said, His voice no longer a psychic whisper but something closer to actual speech.
"You summoned," Bartholomew managed. "I came."
GOOD. I HAVE SOMETHING TO DISCUSS WITH YOU. SOMETHING IMPORTANT.
"What is it?"
The Emperor smiled.
I WISH TO CREATE SOMETHING NEW. AND I WISH FOR YOU TO BE ITS FOUNDATION.
The Emperor began to pace—actually pace, His manifestation moving through the chamber with a vitality that seemed impossible.
FOR TEN THOUSAND YEARS, I HAVE WATCHED THE IMPERIUM STAGNATE. THE SPACE MARINES, FOR ALL THEIR POWER, ARE BOUND BY TRADITION AND THE CODEX. THE CUSTODES ARE MY GUARDS, BUT THEY CANNOT LEAVE TERRA. THE INQUISITION HAS BECOME MORE CONCERNED WITH POLITICS THAN PROTECTION.
"That's... accurate," Bartholomew admitted.
I HAVE WANTED TO CREATE SOMETHING NEW. SOMETHING THAT COULD ADAPT, EVOLVE, RESPOND TO THREATS IN WAYS THE EXISTING INSTITUTIONS CANNOT. BUT I LACKED THE CATALYST. THE FOUNDATION. THE TEMPLATE.
"Template?"
YOU, BARTHOLOMEW. YOU ARE THE TEMPLATE.
Bartholomew blinked.
"Me?"
YOU. A BEING WHO ADAPTS TO ANY SITUATION. WHO GROWS STRONGER FROM EACH CHALLENGE. WHO BEARS THE BLESSINGS OF MULTIPLE GODS—INCLUDING, NOW, MYSELF—WITHOUT BEING CORRUPTED OR OVERWHELMED BY ANY OF THEM. YOU ARE UNIQUE. AND FROM YOUR UNIQUENESS, I WILL BUILD SOMETHING UNPRECEDENTED.
"What... what are you going to build?"
The Emperor stopped pacing and turned to face him directly.
A NEW ORDER. A NEW FACTION. KNIGHTS WHO SERVE NOT THE CODEX OR THE ECCLESIARCHY OR THE MECHANICUS, BUT HUMANITY ITSELF. KNIGHTS WHO CAN WIELD ANY POWER, BEAR ANY BLESSING, ADAPT TO ANY THREAT. KNIGHTS WHO ARE, LIKE YOU, IMPOSSIBLE.
"That sounds... ambitious."
IT IS. AND IT BEGINS WITH YOU. KNEEL, BARTHOLOMEW THADDEUS JENKINS III.
Bartholomew's legs moved before his mind caught up.
He knelt, his head bowed, his heart pounding.
The Emperor approached, and with each step, the light in the chamber intensified. Power gathered—not just psychic power, but something deeper, something fundamental.
I NAME YOU THE FIRST HOLY KNIGHT. THE TEMPLATE. THE FOUNDATION. FROM YOU, OTHERS WILL FOLLOW—NOT THROUGH GENE-SEED OR AUGMENTATION, BUT THROUGH BLESSING AND ADAPTATION. YOU WILL BE THEIR EXAMPLE. THEIR INSPIRATION. THEIR STANDARD.
"I... I don't know if I'm worthy of that."
WORTHINESS IS NOT GIVEN. IT IS FORGED. AND YOU, MY FRIEND, HAVE BEEN FORGED IN FIRES THAT WOULD HAVE DESTROYED LESSER SOULS.
The Emperor raised His hand.
RECEIVE MY BLESSING. NOT THE SUBTLE TOUCH I GAVE YOU BEFORE. NOT THE QUIET EMPOWERMENT. THIS TIME, I GIVE YOU EVERYTHING I CAN SPARE. RECEIVE IT, AND BECOME WHAT YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE.
Light descended.
And Bartholomew screamed.
The blessing was not painful.
It was overwhelming.
Power flooded through him—the Emperor's power, ten thousand years of accumulated strength and wisdom and will, compressed into a single moment and poured directly into his soul.
He felt himself changing.
His body, already enhanced by months of blessings, began to transform further. Muscles strengthened. Bones densified. Neural pathways rewired themselves to process information faster, react quicker, think more clearly.
But it was more than physical.
His connection to the Warp deepened. The nascent consciousness that had protected him—the Warp-sentience—expanded, becoming more defined, more powerful, more present.
His existing blessings—from the Chaos Gods, from Vulkan, from the Omnissiah—didn't diminish. They integrated, merging with the Emperor's power into something cohesive. Something unified.
Something new.
When the light finally faded, Bartholomew was no longer kneeling.
He was floating.
An inch off the ground, surrounded by a corona of golden light, his eyes blazing with power that wasn't entirely his own.
RISE, HOLY KNIGHT, the Emperor commanded. RISE, AND SEE WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME.
Bartholomew's armor had changed.
He hadn't noticed during the blessing—he'd been too overwhelmed by the power coursing through him—but now he saw it clearly.
The blue ceramite of his scavenged Ultramarine armor was gone. In its place was gold—pure, radiant gold, the same shade as the Custodians' armor but somehow more. It seemed to glow from within, as if lit by an internal sun.
Behind him, rising from his back, was a wheel.
Not a mechanical wheel—a halo. A ring of golden fire and light that floated behind his head, rotating slowly, casting rays of illumination in all directions. It was the symbol of divine authority, of celestial blessing, of something beyond mortal understanding.
A red cape hung from his shoulders—not the dark crimson of the Custodes or the bright scarlet of the Blood Angels, but something in between. A red that spoke of sacrifice and duty and unwavering purpose.
And a helmet had materialized on his head—ornate, golden, with a face-plate that could seal or retract at will. It was designed to intimidate, to inspire, to declare to all who saw it that its wearer was something special.
But the most remarkable feature was the symbols.
They covered every surface of the armor, etched in lines of silver and blue and green and a hundred other colors. Bartholomew recognized them all:
The flames of the Salamanders—Vulkan's gift, now permanently emblazoned on his left pauldron.
The sigils of the Grey Knights—daemon-banishing runes that glowed with inner light.
The Ultramarines insignia—modified, evolved, but still recognizable.
The wolf of Fenris—snarling and proud on his right gauntlet.
The gear of the Mechanicus—integrated into the armor's power systems.
The Inquisitorial rosette—subtle but present, marking him as sanctioned by the highest authorities.
The Commissar's cap—stylized, worked into the crest of his helmet, a nod to Cain and the mortal soldiers he served beside.
And behind all of them, threading through every symbol, was the Aquila—the two-headed eagle of the Imperium, reimagined, with wings that seemed to move when viewed from the corner of one's eye.
"This is..." Bartholomew started.
OVERWHELMING. YES. BUT ALSO APPROPRIATE. YOU BEAR THE BLESSINGS OF MANY. YOUR ARMOR NOW REFLECTS THAT.
"It's a lot."
IT IS. BUT YOU WILL GROW INTO IT. AS YOU HAVE GROWN INTO EVERYTHING ELSE.
In the Warp, four gods watched with undisguised fury.
"He blessed him AGAIN!" Slaanesh shrieked. "Directly! Openly! With ceremony!"
"THE CORPSE-EMPEROR OVERREACHES," Khorne growled. "THE MORTAL WAS OURS FIRST."
"He was never 'ours,'" Tzeentch corrected, though his voice was tight with suppressed anger. "He was always everyone's. That was his nature. But this... this is the Anathema claiming ownership. Declaring the mortal as His champion."
"We cannot allow it," Nurgle rumbled. "If the mortal becomes wholly aligned with the Anathema, our blessings will fade. Our connection will weaken."
"THEN WE MUST RESPOND. WE MUST REMIND THE MORTAL WHO BLESSED HIM FIRST."
"Agreed. But how? We cannot appear to him directly—the Anathema's blessing would repel us. We cannot send daemons—his protections are too strong now."
The four gods were silent, contemplating their options.
"We bless him further," Slaanesh said finally. "Not in opposition to the Anathema's blessing, but in complement to it. We show the mortal that we are not enemies of his new status, but supporters of it."
"THAT IS DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO COOPERATION WITH THE CORPSE-EMPEROR."
"It is pragmatism. We cannot fight the Anathema for the mortal's soul. But we can ensure that our place in that soul is not diminished."
"THE MORTAL WILL KNOW WHAT WE ARE DOING."
"Yes. But that has never stopped him from accepting our gifts before."
Tzeentch considered.
"Very well. We bless him. Subtly, but significantly. We ensure that no matter how much the Anathema claims him, a part of him will always belong to us."
"WE ARE CHAOS GODS. WE DO NOT SHARE."
"We do now. Because the alternative is losing him entirely. And that is unacceptable."
The additional blessings hit Bartholomew in waves.
First came Khorne's gift—not rage, but clarity. A sharpening of his combat instincts, an enhancement of his tactical awareness, a bone-deep understanding of violence and how to employ it effectively.
Then Slaanesh's—not corruption, but refinement. His senses sharpened to supernatural levels. He could hear whispers from across a battlefield, see in spectrums beyond mortal perception, feel the subtle currents of emotion in those around him.
Then Nurgle's—not decay, but endurance. His body became nearly indestructible, capable of shrugging off wounds that would kill lesser beings, recovering from injuries in seconds rather than days.
And finally Tzeentch's—not madness, but understanding. Knowledge flooded into him—tactics, strategies, histories, secrets that had been lost for millennia. He understood the great game now, the dance of powers that shaped the galaxy.
All of this happened in the span of a heartbeat.
And through it all, the Emperor watched.
THEY RESPOND, He observed. THE DARK GODS REFUSE TO RELINQUISH THEIR CLAIM ON YOU.
"I can feel them," Bartholomew said, his voice strange to his own ears—deeper, more resonant. "They're... jealous?"
YES. AND THAT JEALOUSY DRIVES THEM TO BLESS YOU FURTHER. TO MAINTAIN THEIR INFLUENCE. THEY DO NOT REALIZE THAT EVERY BLESSING THEY GIVE STRENGTHENS YOU AGAINST THEM.
"How?"
BECAUSE YOU DO NOT WORSHIP THEM. YOU DO NOT SERVE THEM. YOU SIMPLY RECEIVE THEIR GIFTS AND USE THEM FOR YOUR OWN PURPOSES. THEY ARE POURING POWER INTO A VESSEL THAT WILL NEVER BE THEIRS.
"That seems like something they should have figured out by now."
THEY ARE ANCIENT AND POWERFUL, BUT THEY ARE ALSO CREATURES OF EMOTION. JEALOUSY BLINDS THEM. ATTACHMENT WEAKENS THEM. AND THEIR ATTACHMENT TO YOU HAS BECOME... PROFOUND.
Bartholomew absorbed this.
"So I'm accidentally playing the Chaos Gods against each other. By existing."
ESSENTIALLY, YES.
"Cool. That's definitely not going to backfire."
IT MIGHT. BUT WE WILL DEAL WITH THAT IF IT HAPPENS. FOR NOW, ACCEPT THEIR GIFTS. LET THEM STRENGTHEN YOU. AND REMEMBER THAT NO MATTER WHAT THEY GIVE, YOUR LOYALTY IS YOUR OWN.
The arrival of Vulkan interrupted the moment.
The Lord of Drakes strode into the Sanctum Imperialis Profundus with the easy confidence of a Primarch visiting his father's house. His eyes swept over Bartholomew, taking in the transformed armor, the golden halo, the radiant cape.
"You look magnificent," Vulkan said simply.
"I feel ridiculous."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
The Primarch crossed the chamber, carrying something that made Bartholomew's eyes widen.
A hammer.
Not just any hammer—a warhammer. A massive, two-handed weapon that stood taller than Bartholomew himself. Its head was wrought from some metal that seemed to drink in the light, covered in flames that burned without heat. Its haft was wrapped in drake-scale leather, and along its length were inscribed runes that Bartholomew recognized as similar to those on Dawnbringer, Vulkan's own legendary weapon.
"I made this for you," Vulkan said. "I have been working on it since we first met. It is my gift to you, little smith. My acknowledgment of who you are becoming."
"It's... it's bigger than I am."
"Yes. I may have gotten carried away. Primarchs are not known for subtlety in gift-giving."
"I can't lift that. It must weigh a ton."
"It weighs three tons, actually. But I do not think that will be a problem for you anymore."
Bartholomew looked at the hammer.
Then he reached out and took it.
It should have been impossibly heavy. It should have crushed him to the ground. Three tons of master-crafted metal, designed for hands that could lift tanks.
He held it like it weighed nothing.
"Oh," he said.
"I thought as much." Vulkan's smile was radiant. "The blessings you carry—Father's, mine, even those of the Dark Powers—they have remade you. You are no longer bound by mortal limitations."
"I can feel it. The fire. Your fire. It's... it's in the hammer."
"Yes. A portion of my forge-soul, embedded in the metal. When you strike with that weapon, you strike with the fire of Nocturne itself. Nothing in this galaxy can withstand it."
Bartholomew hefted the hammer experimentally. It moved like an extension of his will, spinning and twisting with a grace that belied its massive size.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "This is... this is the most incredible thing anyone has ever given me."
"You gave me something equally incredible. You reminded me of hope. This is merely my way of returning the favor."
The Emperor watched the exchange with something approaching warmth.
YOU HAVE MADE AN IMPRESSION ON MY SON, He observed. VULKAN DOES NOT GIVE SUCH GIFTS LIGHTLY.
"I just treated him like a person. That's all."
THAT IS EVERYTHING. NO ONE TREATS THE PRIMARCHS LIKE PEOPLE. THEY ARE TREATED AS LEGENDS, AS DEMIGODS, AS TOOLS OF WAR. YOU TREATED VULKAN AS A FRIEND. AND HE RESPONDED IN KIND.
Bartholomew looked at the hammer in his hands, then at the armor covering his body, then at the halo blazing behind his head.
"I look like an action figure. A really elaborate, over-designed action figure."
YOU LOOK LIKE WHAT YOU ARE. A SYMBOL. A BEACON. A DECLARATION TO THE GALAXY THAT HOPE STILL EXISTS.
"That's a lot of pressure to put on one confused former miniature painter."
IT IS. BUT YOU WILL BEAR IT. AS YOU HAVE BORNE EVERYTHING ELSE.
"Because I don't have a choice?"
BECAUSE YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.
The ceremony that followed was both simple and profound.
The Emperor formally declared the founding of the Holy Knights—a new faction, unprecedented in Imperial history, answerable only to the Emperor Himself.
Bartholomew was named Knight-Commander, the First and Only, the Template upon which all future Holy Knights would be built.
His authority was established as equal to a Lord Commander of the Space Marines, with special dispensations that allowed him to operate across all Imperial jurisdictions without interference.
His forces—the Jenkinsian Volunteers, the Space Marine contingents, the Grey Knights, the Custodian observers—were formally absorbed into the Holy Knights structure, becoming the Order's founding members.
And his mission was declared: to be the Emperor's sword and shield, striking wherever needed, adapting to whatever threat emerged, being impossible in service to humanity.
"This is a lot," Bartholomew said when the ceremony concluded.
IT IS. BUT YOU WILL HAVE HELP. VULKAN WILL ADVISE YOU. GUILLIMAN WILL PROVIDE RESOURCES. EVEN THE LION, IN HIS OWN WAY, WILL SUPPORT YOU.
"And you?"
I WILL WATCH. AND WHEN YOU NEED ME, I WILL BE THERE. THAT IS WHAT FRIENDS DO.
For a moment—just a moment—Bartholomew saw past the ceremony and the power and the cosmic significance of what was happening.
He saw a lonely god on a golden throne, reaching out for connection after ten thousand years of isolation.
And he saw himself—a confused, overwhelmed, ridiculous person in golden armor with a halo and a cape and a hammer bigger than his body—reaching back.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. Let's do this. Let's be friends. Let's save the galaxy. Let's do all the impossible things."
The Emperor smiled.
THAT IS THE SPIRIT.
You have changed, the Warp-voice observed as Bartholomew prepared to leave Terra.
"Yeah. I noticed. The giant hammer was a hint."
Not just physically. Your soul has changed. Solidified. You are no longer a mortal with blessings. You are something else. Something we do not have a name for.
"Great. I'm a mystery even to the mysterious Warp consciousness. That's very reassuring."
We are not attempting to reassure. We are observing. And what we observe is... remarkable.
Bartholomew looked at himself in a reflective surface. The golden armor gleamed. The halo spun gently behind his head. The cape rippled in a nonexistent wind.
He looked like something out of a stained glass window. A saint. A legend.
He still felt like a guy who had once tripped over his own cat and died from it.
"The dichotomy is amusing," the Warp-voice noted. "You look like a god but feel like a fool."
"Story of my life."
"We do not think it will hinder you. Your humility, your confusion, your constant sense of being overwhelmed—these are not weaknesses. They are what make you trustworthy. No one fears a god who admits he has no idea what he's doing."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?"
"It is supposed to be true. Comfort is incidental."
The journey back to his fleet was quiet.
Deus Invictus walked beside the transport, having insisted on personal escort despite the logistical nightmare this created.
"YOU HAVE CHANGED," the Titan observed.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"YOU ARE MORE POWERFUL NOW. I CAN SENSE IT. THE ENERGY SIGNATURE YOU EMIT HAS INCREASED BY APPROXIMATELY FOUR HUNDRED PERCENT."
"Is that a lot?"
"IT IS SIGNIFICANT. YOU EMIT MORE ENERGY THAN SOME SMALL STARS."
"Oh good. I'm a walking sun. That's not terrifying at all."
"IT IS TERRIFYING. BUT ALSO IMPRESSIVE. I APPROVE OF YOUR NEW CAPABILITIES."
"Thanks, Deus."
"YOU ARE WELCOME. I AM PLEASED THAT MY PRINCEPS IS APPROPRIATELY FORMIDABLE. IT REFLECTS WELL ON ME."
Despite everything, Bartholomew laughed.
Some things, at least, never changed.
His army was waiting when he arrived.
One hundred and fifty thousand Jenkinsian Volunteers—now the First Regiment of Holy Knights.
Six hundred tanks—the Holy Knights Armored Division.
Deus Invictus—the Holy Knights Titan Legio (still just one Titan, but a proud one).
Four squads of Ultramarines—now formally seconded to the Holy Knights.
Three packs of Space Wolves—sworn to the Order.
One squad of Dark Angels—observing, as always, but now observing from within rather than without.
Six Grey Knights—the Emperor's daemon-hunters, now serving alongside His newest creation.
And one very confused Commissar, who had somehow ended up part of all this despite his very obvious desire to be literally anywhere else.
They all stared as Bartholomew descended from the transport.
The golden armor.
The blazing halo.
The rippling cape.
The massive hammer that he carried one-handed like it weighed nothing.
"HOLY EMPEROR," someone whispered.
"He really is the Emperor's Champion..."
"He's not just a champion anymore. He's something more."
Bartholomew stood before his army—his Order—and felt the weight of their expectations pressing against him.
"I know I look different," he said, his voice carrying across the crowd. "I know everything is changing. But I'm still the same person I was. I'm still confused. I'm still overwhelmed. I'm still making this up as I go along."
He hefted the hammer, letting it rest against his shoulder.
"But I've been given power. Real power. Power to protect, to defend, to fight for the people who can't fight for themselves. And I intend to use it."
He looked at each group in turn—the soldiers, the Space Marines, the Grey Knights, the Titan towering in the background.
"We are the Holy Knights now. The first of a new Order. We don't answer to the Ecclesiarchy or the High Lords or any of the regular chains of command. We answer to the Emperor. Directly. Personally."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"And the Emperor has given us one mission: be impossible. Be adaptive. Be exactly what the galaxy needs, when it needs it, however it needs it."
He smiled—a slightly crooked smile that was still recognizable as the confused, self-deprecating expression they had all come to know.
"So let's go be impossible. Together."
The cheer that rose from the army was deafening.
Later, in his private quarters, Bartholomew sat alone with his thoughts.
The hammer leaned against the wall, still radiating faint heat. The armor hung on its stand, still glowing softly. The halo had faded when he removed the helmet, but he could still feel it, waiting to manifest again when needed.
He was the Knight-Commander of the Holy Knights.
He was the Emperor's friend.
He was the recipient of blessings from entities that should have been irreconcilable.
He was, by any objective measure, one of the most powerful individuals in the galaxy.
And he still had no idea what he was doing.
That is fine, the Warp-voice assured him. Knowing what you are doing is overrated. Most beings who know what they are doing make terrible decisions. You, who know nothing, make excellent ones.
"That seems statistically unlikely."
Statistics do not apply to you. We have established this.
"Fair point."
Bartholomew looked out the viewport at the stars.
Somewhere out there, threats were gathering. Tyranids, Orks, Chaos forces, things he hadn't even encountered yet. All of them would eventually come for humanity. All of them would eventually need to be faced.
And he would face them.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was confident.
Not because he had any idea what he was doing.
But because someone had to. And somehow, impossibly, that someone had become him.
"Let's go save the galaxy," he murmured.
Let's, the Warp-voice agreed.
And the Holy Knights set forth, into the darkness, toward whatever impossibility waited next.
[END OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN]