The formation of the Holy Knights sent shockwaves through the Imperium.
Not metaphorical shockwaves. Actual, measurable disruptions in the psychic substrate of reality, as billions upon billions of souls simultaneously processed the news that the Emperor had done something new for the first time in ten millennia.
The astropathic networks nearly collapsed under the strain of transmitting the announcement. Vox-stations across a million worlds interrupted their regular programming. Ecclesiarchy bells that hadn't rung in centuries suddenly tolled without anyone touching them.
And everywhere—in hive cities and agri-worlds and forge complexes and naval vessels—people stopped what they were doing and listened.
"By the authority of the God-Emperor of Mankind, Master of the Imperium, Lord of Terra, the Omnissiah Made Manifest..."
The words echoed across the galaxy.
"...there is hereby established a new Order, the Holy Knights, to serve as His sword and shield in these dark times..."
Billions held their breath.
"...led by Knight-Commander Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III, First of His Name, the Emperor's Champion, the Blessed One, Friend of the Master of Mankind..."
And the galaxy reacted.
The Ecclesiarchy
Cardinal Horst stared at the official proclamation with an expression that combined religious ecstasy with bureaucratic horror.
"He called him 'Friend,'" he whispered. "The God-Emperor called a mortal His friend. In an official document. With witnesses."
"What does this mean for doctrine?" one of his subordinates asked nervously.
"It means we need to rewrite approximately seventeen thousand years of theological interpretation. The Emperor was not supposed to have friends. He was supposed to be distant, ineffable, beyond mortal connection."
"And now?"
"And now we have to explain to the faithful that the God-Emperor has a best friend, and that best friend is a confused man who keeps insisting he's 'just some guy.'"
The Cardinal sat down heavily.
"The Jenkinsites are going to be insufferable about this."
The High Lords of Terra
The Senatorum Imperialis was in chaos.
Not the productive chaos of debate and deliberation. The unproductive chaos of twelve of the most powerful individuals in the Imperium all screaming at each other simultaneously.
"This is unprecedented!" the Lord Commander Militant bellowed.
"Everything about Jenkins is unprecedented!" the Inquisitorial Representative shouted back. "That's rather the point!"
"The Emperor has created a new faction answerable only to Himself! That undermines the entire structure of Imperial governance!"
"The Emperor is Imperial governance! He can do whatever He wants!"
"But He hasn't done anything in ten thousand years! Why now? Why this?"
The Master of the Administratum, normally the calmest of the High Lords, slammed his fist on the table.
"Because He's bored!" he screamed. "Don't you understand? The Emperor has been sitting on that throne for ten millennia with nothing to do but suffer! And now He has a friend! A hobby! Something interesting! Of course He's creating new factions and breaking precedent! He finally has a reason to care again!"
Silence fell.
"That's..." the Lord Commander started.
"Terrifying?"
"I was going to say 'surprisingly insightful.'"
"It's both. It's always both with Jenkins."
The Adeptus Mechanicus
On Mars, the forges burned brighter than they had in centuries.
The Omnissiah had spoken. The Omnissiah had blessed the Holy Knights. The Omnissiah had declared Bartholomew Jenkins to be under His protection.
And the Mechanicus responded.
New weapons were designed. New armor patterns were developed. New vehicles were conceived, built, tested, and approved in record time.
"The Knight-Commander requires a personal transport," Fabricator-General Korvo Margix announced. "Something befitting his status."
"We have prepared seventeen different designs," a Magos replied. "Ranging from a modified Thunderhawk to a purpose-built cruiser."
"Build all of them. Let him choose."
"All seventeen?"
"The Omnissiah's Chosen deserves options."
"That will consume resources equivalent to outfitting three Space Marine chapters."
"Then consume them. The Omnissiah has spoken. We obey."
The forges burned brighter still.
The Space Marine Chapters
Across the galaxy, Chapter Masters received the news with varying degrees of shock.
In the Fortress of Hera, Marneus Calgar read the proclamation three times before accepting that it was real.
"Guilliman approved this?" he asked.
"The Primarch was present at the ceremony," his aide confirmed. "He... he apparently had a lengthy discussion with Jenkins about the Codex Astartes beforehand."
"A discussion about the Codex?"
"Yes, Chapter Master. The reports indicate that Jenkins criticized several aspects of the Codex's long-term strategic implications, and the Primarch... listened."
Calgar sat in silence for a long moment.
"I need to meet this man," he said finally.
In the Fang, the Great Wolf Logan Grimnar laughed so hard that he fell off his throne.
"The little mortal has done it!" he roared. "He's become a faction! A whole faction! Just like that!"
"Should we be concerned, Great Wolf?" one of his Wolf Lords asked.
"Concerned? This is the best thing that's happened in centuries! Ragnar's packs are already with him, and they say he's the most Fenrisian non-Fenrisian they've ever met. If the Emperor Himself has blessed him, then the Allfather has blessed him too!"
"Some might say that's theologically questionable..."
"Some might say a lot of things. I say we send more wolves. This Jenkins sounds like exactly the kind of lunatic we should be supporting."
In the Rock, Supreme Grand Master Azrael received the news in characteristic silence.
The Lion had fought Jenkins. Had failed to defeat Jenkins. And had then endorsed the man's elevation to Knight-Commander.
That alone was remarkable enough.
But there was something else in the reports. Something that made even Azrael's stoic demeanor crack slightly.
"He knows," Azrael murmured.
"Knows what, Supreme Grand Master?"
"He knows about us. About the Fallen. About our secrets. He mentioned it once, apparently—casually, like it was common knowledge. And then he... kept talking about other things."
"He knows and he doesn't care?"
"It would seem so. He treats our darkest shame like trivia. Like it's just... information."
"Is that a threat?"
Azrael considered the question carefully.
"No," he said finally. "I don't think so. I think he genuinely doesn't understand why we're so secretive about it. To him, it's just history. Old history."
"That's... almost more unsettling."
"Yes. It is."
The Common People
But the greatest reaction came not from the powerful, but from the powerless.
Across the Imperium, in the darkest hives and the most desperate war zones, people had been suffering for millennia. They had prayed to the Emperor for salvation, for hope, for any sign that their struggles mattered.
And now, for the first time in living memory, they had an answer.
Not a distant god on a golden throne.
Not a decree from faceless bureaucrats.
A person.
A person who admitted he was confused. Who said he didn't know what he was doing. Who fought beside common soldiers and called them equals.
A person who had been nobody, and had become everything.
On the hive world of Necromunda, in the depths of the underhive, a preacher stood before a gathering of the desperate.
"The Emperor has sent us a champion!" she proclaimed, holding up a crude pict-capture of Bartholomew's golden form. "Not a Space Marine, born to war! Not a Custodian, crafted for perfection! A man! An ordinary man, blessed beyond measure, raised up from nothing to stand at the Emperor's side!"
"He was a nobody!" someone called out. "Just like us!"
"Yes! He painted toys in his mother's basement! He argued about stories with strangers! He was nobody! And now he is the Knight-Commander of the Holy Knights, friend to the Emperor Himself!"
The crowd pressed closer, hungry for hope.
"If he can rise, so can we! If the Emperor lifted him, He can lift us! The Confusions of the Blessed tell us: 'I don't want to be important.' But importance found him anyway! Purpose found him! And purpose will find us too, if we have faith!"
"Faith!" the crowd chanted.
"Faith in the Emperor!"
"FAITH!"
"Faith in His Champion!"
"FAITH!"
"Faith in hope!"
"FAITH!"
And in the darkness of the underhive, something changed. Something kindled. Something that had been dying for centuries suddenly found fuel to burn again.
Hope.
The Jenkinsite religion exploded.
Not metaphorically. In terms of growth rate, it was practically a detonation.
Before the Holy Knights' formation, the Jenkinsites had numbered perhaps sixty million faithful—a significant but manageable cult.
Within a week of the announcement, that number had tripled.
Within a month, it had increased tenfold.
By the time two months had passed, the Jenkinsites numbered over three billion devoted followers, with more converting every day.
They built shrines on every world they could reach. They distributed copies of The Confusions of the Blessed by the millions. They trained missionaries and sent them to every corner of the Imperium.
And everywhere they went, they brought the same message:
Hope is not lost. The Emperor has not abandoned us. And His Champion walks among us, as confused and overwhelmed as we are, but fighting anyway.
The official Jenkinsite theology had evolved considerably since its founding.
The core texts remained the same—transcripts of Bartholomew's speeches, observations of his actions, quotes taken (mostly) in context—but the interpretation of those texts had become remarkably sophisticated.
"The Champion teaches us through his confusion," a senior Jenkinsite theologian wrote. "When he says 'I don't know what I'm doing,' he is not admitting weakness. He is demonstrating that certainty is not required for action. That faith is not about knowing, but about doing despite not knowing."
"When he says 'I'm just some guy,' he reminds us that divinity can manifest in anyone. That the Emperor's light can illuminate the most humble soul. That greatness is not born—it is bestowed."
"And when he says 'I hate this universe,' he acknowledges the suffering that we all endure, while still fighting to make it better. His hatred is not rejection—it is motivation. He hates the darkness, and so he brings light."
It was, Bartholomew reflected when he read these interpretations, simultaneously touching and horrifying.
"They're not wrong," Inquisitor Vorn observed. "Your confusion is inspiring. Your humility is remarkable. You do keep fighting despite having no idea what you're doing."
"But I'm not trying to be inspiring!"
"That's what makes it work. Trying to be inspiring is off-putting. Genuinely not understanding why people find you inspiring is extremely inspiring."
"That's a paradox!"
"Welcome to religion."
The symbol that came to represent the Jenkinsites was simple but powerful.
A golden circle—representing the halo that blazed behind Bartholomew's head.
Within the circle, two hands clasped together—representing unity, friendship, the connection between the divine and the mortal.
And beneath the hands, a single word in High Gothic:
SPES.
Hope.
The symbol appeared everywhere. On banners and badges, on armor and architecture, tattooed on skin and carved into stone.
Children drew it in the dirt. Soldiers painted it on their tanks. Dying men traced it in their own blood, a final declaration of faith.
And every time he saw it, Bartholomew felt the weight of it pressing against his chest.
I'm just some guy, he wanted to scream. I'm nobody. I'm nothing.
But nobody believed him anymore.
And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to not believe it himself.
The Tyranids
Hive Fleet Leviathan was having problems.
Not the usual problems—resource scarcity, genetic degradation, unexpected resistance from prey species. Those were manageable. Those were expected.
This problem was new.
The Hive Mind—the vast, ancient intelligence that coordinated quadrillions of organisms across thousands of light-years—was experiencing something it had rarely encountered in its billions of years of existence.
Fear.
The memories of Kalixus had propagated through the synaptic network with unprecedented speed. Every Tyranid organism now carried the genetic imprint of what had happened there.
The burning figure.
The impossible power.
The wrongness that had made even the Hive Queen falter.
And with those memories came an instruction, hardwired into the very DNA of the species:
AVOID.
The first sign of this new behavior appeared in the Corvus Subsector, where a splinter fleet had been preparing to consume an agri-world.
Bio-ships were in position. Mycetic spores were loaded. The ground assault was moments from beginning.
And then the fleet's synapse creatures detected something.
A psychic signature. Faint but distinct. A signature that matched the one burned into every Tyranid's genetic memory.
Him.
The fleet... hesitated.
For the first time in recorded history, a Tyranid assault force hesitated.
"What are they doing?" an Imperial Navy officer asked, watching the augury displays in confusion. "They've stopped. They're just... sitting there."
"Unknown, sir. They seem to be... waiting?"
"Tyranids don't wait. Tyranids don't stop."
"These ones are, sir."
The fleet waited for seventeen hours.
Then, without warning, it turned and left.
Not retreated—left. Abandoning the system entirely, moving at maximum speed in the opposite direction from the psychic signature they had detected.
"Did we just win?" the officer asked.
"I... I think so, sir?"
"Without firing a shot?"
"It would appear so."
"How is that possible?"
The tactical officer pulled up the data on the psychic signature the Tyranids had detected.
"Sir, there's a Holy Knights patrol in the next system over. Led by... by Knight-Commander Jenkins himself."
"Jenkins? The Emperor's Champion?"
"Yes, sir."
The officer sat in stunned silence.
"The Tyranids ran away because Jenkins was nearby?"
"It would seem so, sir."
"That's... that's not how anything works."
"No, sir. But it appears to be working anyway."
Word spread quickly.
In system after system, the pattern repeated. Tyranid fleets that encountered any sign of Bartholomew's presence—his ships, his soldiers, even just rumors of his approach—would alter course to avoid engagement.
The Hive Mind had made a calculation.
Bartholomew Jenkins was not prey. He was not a threat to be overcome. He was something other. Something that disrupted the patterns, that defied the predictions, that hurt in ways the Hive Mind could not counter.
Better to avoid him entirely. Better to find easier prey. Better to let this strange, burning impossibility exist unmolested, while the Great Devourer focused on targets that made sense.
"I have a question," Bartholomew said, reading the tactical reports.
"Yes, Knight-Commander?" Captain Maximillan replied.
"Am I... am I a Tyranid repellent now?"
"It would appear so."
"How does that work? I'm not even doing anything! I'm just existing!"
"Your existence seems to be sufficient."
"That's ridiculous!"
"And yet, factually accurate. The Tyranid avoidance zone around your current position extends approximately four light-years in all directions."
"FOUR LIGHT-YEARS?!"
"Yes. Any Tyranid organism that enters that radius immediately begins moving away. They're not even attacking our ships. They're just... leaving."
Bartholomew stared at the tactical display, which showed a bubble of empty space surrounding his fleet, with Tyranid forces carefully skirting around it.
"I've become a bug spray," he said. "A very large, very confused bug spray."
"The Administratum is already discussing deploying you to key strategic locations purely for your deterrent effect. They're calling it 'Operation Lighthouse.'"
"Because I'm a beacon?"
"Because Tyranids apparently avoid you like ships avoid rocks."
"This is insane."
"This is Tuesday for you."
The Orks
The Ork reaction to the Holy Knights was, predictably, more chaotic.
Orks did not have a centralized command structure. They did not share genetic memories like Tyranids or receive psychic communications like the Imperium. Information spread through the greenskin race the old-fashioned way: through storytelling, boasting, and hitting each other until a consensus emerged.
The stories about Bartholomew had been spreading since Goraxia Prime.
The human who had confused Grimsnaga Facepuncha.
The fighter who had broken the WAAAGH.
The weird one who talked too much and asked strange questions.
And now, the stories were getting stranger.
"SO LET ME GET DIS STRAIGHT," Warboss Gorguts Skullkrusha said, scratching his head with a finger the size of a human arm. "DA HUMIE KILLED A TITAN?"
"A DAEMON TITAN, BOSS," his Nob confirmed. "WIF ANUVVER TITAN. DAT HE'D NEVER DRIVEN BEFORE."
"AN' DEN HE KILLED A TYRANID QUEEN?"
"WIF A SWORD. AN' FIRE. LOTSA FIRE."
"AN' DEN HE FOUGHT ONE OF DEM PRIMARKY FINGS?"
"AN' DIDN'T LOSE, BOSS. DA LION, DEY CALLED HIM. ONE OF DA 'ARDEST HUMIES EVER. AN' DA WEIRD HUMIE MATCHED HIM."
Gorguts was silent for a long moment, which was unusual for an Ork. Orks were not known for contemplative silence.
"DAT'S... DAT'S A LOT OF KRUMPIN'," he said finally.
"YEAH, BOSS."
"AN' HE'S JUST A REGULAR HUMIE? NOT A SPACE MARINE?"
"NOT ORIGINALLY, BOSS. BUT DERE'S NUFFIN' REGULAR ABOUT HIM NOW."
Gorguts considered this.
"I FINK," he said slowly, "WE NEED TA TALK TO DA BOYZ ABOUT DIS."
The Great Debate of WAAAGH Gorguts lasted seventeen hours and resulted in four hundred and thirty-seven deaths.
This was considered a remarkably civil discussion by Ork standards.
The central question was simple: What should they do about the weird humie?
One faction—led by Boss Grimfang (no relation to the Grimfang who had been killed on Maleficius VII)—argued for immediate attack.
"HE'S JUST A HUMIE! WE'Z BIGGER! WE'Z GREENER! WE'Z GONNA KRUMP HIM!"
Another faction—led by Weirdboy Zagrat, who had been having disturbing visions—argued for caution.
"DA WEIRD HUMIE AIN'T NORMAL! I CAN SEE IT! HE'S GOT... HE'S GOT FINGS AROUND HIM! WEIRD FINGS! SCARY FINGS!"
A third faction—led by Mekboy Grubnuts—suggested an entirely different approach.
"WOT IF WE DON'T FIGHT HIM? WOT IF WE JUST... WATCH? SEE WOT HE DOES? HE'S ALWAYS DOIN' SUMFIN' INTERESTIN'!"
This suggestion was met with shocked silence.
"WATCH?" Grimfang sputtered. "JUST WATCH? DAT'S NOT ORKY!"
"MAYBE IT'S A NEW KIND OF ORKY," Grubnuts countered. "LIKE... LIKE SNEAKY ORKY. BUT MORE PATIENT."
"DAT'S JUST BEIN' A GROT!"
"NO IT AIN'T! GROTS WATCH BECAUSE DEY'Z SCARED! WE'D BE WATCHIN' BECAUSE WE'Z... WE'Z CURIOUS!"
The concept of Orky curiosity was so novel that it took three hours of fighting just to establish whether it was heresy against Gork and Mork or an acceptable evolution of greenskin philosophy.
Eventually, Warboss Gorguts rendered his verdict.
"WE'Z GONNA DO ALL OF IT," he declared.
"ALL OF IT, BOSS?"
"YEAH. SOME BOYZ ATTACK. SOME BOYZ WATCH. SOME BOYZ WAIT. AN' WE SEE WOT HAPPENS."
"DAT'S... DAT'S ACTUALLY PRETTY KUNNIN', BOSS."
"COURSE IT IS. I'Z DA WARBOSS. I'Z ALWAYS KUNNIN'."
The result of this strategic diversity was that Ork warbands across the galaxy began responding to Bartholomew in wildly inconsistent ways.
Some attacked immediately, eager to test themselves against the legendary fighter.
They died, usually within minutes of engaging.
Some lurked at the edges of battlefields, watching, observing, taking notes in crude pictographic scrawls that they would later argue about for hours.
And some—strangest of all—began following the Holy Knights' fleet at a distance.
Not attacking. Not engaging. Just... following. Like fans trailing a celebrity, waiting to see what would happen next.
"We have Orks shadowing us," Inquisitor Vorn reported, her voice carrying a note of disbelief. "Approximately three hundred Ork vessels, maintaining a consistent distance of two light-years."
"Are they attacking?" Bartholomew asked.
"No. They're just... there. Watching. Some of them have painted crude pictures of you on their hulls."
"Pictures of me?"
"Apparently you've become something of a celebrity among certain Ork communities. They call you 'Da Weird Git Wot Won't Die.'"
"That's... that's actually a pretty accurate description."
"It is. And it's also completely unprecedented. Orks don't have fans. Orks have enemies and potential victims. They don't follow people around hoping to see interesting things happen."
"Well, they do now."
"Yes. They do now. Because of you."
Bartholomew looked at the tactical display, at the cluster of red dots that represented three hundred Ork vessels, patiently waiting to see what he would do next.
"I think I broke the Orks," he said.
"You break everything," Vorn replied. "That's your power."
The Daemons
If the Tyranid response to Bartholomew was fear, and the Ork response was confusion, the daemonic response was something else entirely.
Absolute avoidance.
It had started during the Maleficius VII campaign, when lesser daemons began retreating from his presence without orders. It had intensified after he killed the Herald of Tzeentch, demonstrating that his anti-daemon capabilities were not limited to intimidation.
But the formation of the Holy Knights—and the Emperor's direct, personal blessing—had elevated the response to something approaching religious terror.
In the Warp, the daemons discussed the situation in their own chaotic fashion.
"THE MARKED ONE HAS BEEN ELEVATED FURTHER," a Bloodletter hissed. "THE ANATHEMA'S LIGHT BURNS IN HIM NOW, STRONGER THAN BEFORE."
"WE CANNOT APPROACH HIM," a Daemonette wailed. "EVEN LOOKING AT HIM HURTS. HIS PRESENCE IS LIKE ACID ON OUR ESSENCE."
"BUT OUR MASTERS HAVE BLESSED HIM AS WELL," a Horror of Tzeentch pointed out, its multiple faces speaking in overlapping tones. "HE CARRIES THEIR MARKS. THEIR POWER. HOW CAN HE BE BOTH?"
"HE IS AN ANOMALY," a Plaguebearer gurgled. "A PARADOX. A THING THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST."
"AND YET HE DOES."
The daemons fell into uncomfortable silence.
"WHAT DO WE DO?" the Bloodletter asked finally.
"WE AVOID HIM," the Daemonette said. "WE STAY FAR, FAR AWAY. WE DO NOT ENGAGE. WE DO NOT CHALLENGE. WE DO NOT EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE."
"BUT IF HE COMES TO US—"
"THEN WE RUN. WE RUN FASTER THAN WE HAVE EVER RUN. BECAUSE TO FACE HIM IS TO CEASE EXISTING."
"THAT IS COWARDICE."
"THAT IS SURVIVAL. AND SURVIVAL IS THE FIRST INSTINCT OF ALL BEINGS, EVEN US."
The practical effect of this consensus was remarkable.
Wherever Bartholomew went, daemon activity dropped to near zero.
Worlds that had been plagued by minor incursions suddenly found themselves cleansed of supernatural threat. Chaos cults that had operated in secret for generations suddenly found their summoning rituals failing, their daemonic patrons refusing to answer.
The Warp itself seemed to bend around him, not in hostility, but in avoidance.
"I'm getting reports from seventeen different systems," Inquisitor Vorn said, reviewing the data. "Daemon activity has decreased by an average of ninety-three percent in every sector you've passed through."
"And I haven't even fought any daemons recently."
"You don't have to. Your presence alone is sufficient. The daemons sense you, and they... leave."
"So I'm a daemon repellent now too?"
"In addition to being a Tyranid repellent, yes. You're apparently multi-purpose."
"This is ridiculous."
"It's effective. The Ordo Malleus is discussing whether to use you as a mobile purification system. Just fly you around daemon-infested space and let your presence do the work."
"I'm not a cleaning product!"
"You are to daemons."
Even Greater Daemons were not immune.
A Lord of Change that had been terrorizing the Segmentum Obscurus for three thousand years—an entity of such power that it had required multiple Grey Knight brotherhoods to contain—suddenly abandoned its territory and retreated deeper into the Warp.
When interrogated (through complex ritual that cost the lives of seventeen psykers), the daemon's response was simple:
"THE IMPOSSIBLE ONE IS COMING. WE MUST NOT BE HERE WHEN HE ARRIVES."
"The Impossible One?" the Grey Knights asked.
"JENKINS. THE PARADOX. THE ONE WHO SHOULD NOT BE. WE WILL NOT FACE HIM. WE CANNOT FACE HIM."
"Why not?"
"BECAUSE HE IS EVERYTHING AT ONCE. ANATHEMA AND BLESSED. MORTAL AND TRANSCENDENT. CHAOS AND ORDER. TO FIGHT HIM IS TO FIGHT OURSELVES. AND WE CANNOT WIN A WAR AGAINST OUR OWN NATURE."
The Grey Knights had no response to that.
Neither did anyone else.
Bartholomew read the reports in his quarters, the weight of them pressing against his consciousness.
He was a symbol now. A beacon of hope for billions. A deterrent against multiple species. An impossibility that was reshaping the galaxy simply by existing.
And he still felt like a confused guy who had accidentally stumbled into something much too big for him.
You are handling this well, the Warp-voice observed.
"I'm not handling it at all. I'm just... sitting here. Reading. Trying not to have a panic attack."
That is handling it. Many beings would have collapsed under the weight of what you carry. You continue to function.
"'Continue to function' is a very low bar."
In this universe, it is the only bar that matters.
Bartholomew set down the data-slate and stared at the ceiling.
"What happens now?" he asked.
Now? Now you continue to be what you are. A symbol. A hope. A paradox.
"That's not very helpful."
It is not meant to be helpful. It is meant to be true.
"Truth isn't always useful."
No. But it is always true. And in a universe of lies and manipulations, truth has value beyond measure.
Bartholomew closed his eyes.
Outside, billions prayed to his image.
Tyranids fled from his shadow.
Orks followed in his wake.
Daemons hid from his light.
And he was still just a guy who had once tripped over his cat and died from it.
The irony was not lost on him.
But maybe, just maybe, that was okay.
Maybe being a symbol didn't mean losing who he was.
Maybe he could be the hope that the galaxy needed and the confused idiot who didn't understand how any of this was happening.
Maybe that was the point.
"I'm still going to complain about this," he muttered.
Of course you are, the Warp-voice agreed. That is part of what makes you who you are.
And despite everything, Bartholomew smiled.
Because in the grim darkness of the far future, there was finally hope.
And hope, it turned out, looked a lot like a confused man in golden armor who kept insisting he had no idea what he was doing.
The galaxy had never had a more unlikely savior.
Or a more effective one.
[END OF CHAPTER FOURTEEN]