The five Titans arrived on the same day.
This was, according to the Mechanicus representatives who delivered them, "a logistical miracle that required the coordination of seventeen forge worlds, the blessing of three Fabricator-Generals, and the personal intervention of the Omnissiah Himself."
Bartholomew stared at the god-machines with an expression of mounting horror.
"I didn't ask for five Titans," he said.
"The Omnissiah does not wait for requests," Magos Korval replied, his mechadendrites quivering with religious fervor. "He provides what is needed. And what is needed is for His Chosen to command sufficient god-machine support to fulfill his sacred mission."
"But five of them?"
"We initially planned to send twelve. The Knight-Commander should be grateful for our restraint."
The Titans were magnificent.
Each was a Warlord-class, the same type as Deus Invictus. Each had been specially modified with golden trim and holy symbols. Each bore the insignia of the Holy Knights on their carapace.
And each, apparently, had been waiting for this moment.
"PRINCEPS," Deus Invictus announced, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been excitement, "MY SIBLINGS HAVE ARRIVED."
"Your siblings?"
"THE OTHER GOD-MACHINES. THEY HAVE BEEN AWAKENED AND SANCTIFIED FOR SERVICE IN THE HOLY KNIGHTS. THEY ARE MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS NOW. I AM NO LONGER ALONE."
Bartholomew looked at the six towering war machines—Deus Invictus and his five new companions—and felt a headache forming.
"Do they all... talk like you?"
"THEY ARE DEVELOPING THEIR OWN PERSONALITIES. IT MAY TAKE TIME. BUT YES, THEY WILL LIKELY BE SIMILAR TO ME. WE SHARE THE SAME DEVOTION TO YOUR PROTECTION."
"Great. Six overprotective sixty-meter death machines. That's not terrifying at all."
"IT IS MEANT TO BE REASSURING, PRINCEPS. YOU ARE NOW PROTECTED BY THE EQUIVALENT OF A SMALL TITAN LEGION. NOTHING CAN HARM YOU."
"I wasn't worried about things harming me! I was worried about the logistical nightmare of maintaining six Titans!"
"THE MECHANICUS WILL HANDLE LOGISTICS. YOUR CONCERN SHOULD BE SOLELY FOR YOUR SACRED MISSION."
"I don't even know what my sacred mission is!"
"THEN WE WILL PROTECT YOU WHILE YOU FIGURE IT OUT."
The five new Titans introduced themselves over the following hours.
Lux Imperator—the Emperor's Light—was the most talkative. She (and she insisted on feminine pronouns, which Bartholomew found oddly endearing) had apparently been dormant for three thousand years before being awakened for this assignment.
"I DREAMED OF THIS MOMENT," she declared. "IN MY LONG SLEEP, I DREAMED OF A PRINCEPS WHO WOULD BE WORTHY. AND NOW I HAVE FOUND YOU."
"I'm really not that worthy—"
"FALSE HUMILITY IS UNBECOMING, PRINCEPS. I HAVE REVIEWED YOUR COMBAT RECORDS. YOU ARE EXCEPTIONAL."
"I just sort of... do things. I don't really control it."
"THAT IS WHAT MAKES IT EXCEPTIONAL. CONTROL IS FOR LESSER BEINGS. YOU OPERATE ON INSTINCT. ON FAITH. ON PURE, UNFILTERED DOING. IT IS MAGNIFICENT."
Ferrum Vindicta—Iron Vengeance—was quieter, more contemplative. He spoke rarely, but when he did, his words carried weight.
"I HAVE KILLED MANY ENEMIES OF THE IMPERIUM," he said during their introduction. "ORKS. TYRANIDS. TRAITOR LEGIONS. DAEMONS. BUT I HAVE NEVER SERVED A CAUSE THAT FELT MEANINGFUL. UNTIL NOW."
"What makes this different?"
"YOU. YOU BELIEVE IN WHAT YOU DO. YOU QUESTION. YOU DOUBT. YOU STRUGGLE. AND YET YOU CONTINUE. THAT IS RARE. THAT IS VALUABLE."
Ignis Sanctus—Sacred Fire—was enthusiastic to the point of concern. She practically vibrated with eagerness.
"WHEN DO WE FIGHT? WHAT DO WE DESTROY? I HAVE BEEN WAITING SO LONG FOR PROPER COMBAT! THE FORGE-PRIESTS KEPT ME IN MAINTENANCE FOR CENTURIES! CENTURIES! DO YOU KNOW HOW BORING THAT IS?!"
"I imagine it was pretty boring—"
"IT WAS INCREDIBLY BORING! BUT NOW I AM FREE! NOW I HAVE A PURPOSE! NOW I GET TO BURN THINGS IN YOUR NAME!"
"Please don't burn things specifically in my name—"
"TOO LATE! I HAVE ALREADY DECIDED! EVERYTHING I BURN FROM NOW ON IS IN YOUR HONOR!"
Mortis Aeternum—Eternal Death—was perhaps the most unsettling. His voice was low, measured, and carried an undertone of something ancient.
"I HAVE SEEN EMPIRES RISE AND FALL," he intoned. "I HAVE WALKED BATTLEFIELDS WHERE THE DEAD OUTNUMBERED THE STARS. I HAVE SERVED PRINCEPS WHO WERE LEGENDS IN THEIR TIME, NOW FORGOTTEN BY ALL BUT ME."
"That's... very poetic."
"I AM VERY OLD. POETRY IS HOW I PROCESS EXISTENCE. YOU ARE DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHERS I HAVE SERVED. YOUNGER. STRANGER. MORE ALIVE."
"I've only been here for like, eight months."
"PRECISELY. AND IN THAT TIME, YOU HAVE ACCOMPLISHED WHAT OTHERS COULD NOT IN MILLENNIA. I FIND THIS... INTRIGUING."
Gloria Invicta—Unconquered Glory—was the smallest of the five (relatively speaking; she was still sixty meters tall) and the most pragmatic.
"I DO NOT REQUIRE ELABORATE INTRODUCTIONS," she declared. "I AM HERE TO FIGHT. POINT ME AT ENEMIES. I WILL DESTROY THEM. THAT IS ALL."
"I appreciate the straightforward approach."
"GOOD. I DISLIKE UNNECESSARY COMMUNICATION. IT WASTES PROCESSING POWER THAT COULD BE USED FOR TACTICAL ANALYSIS."
"Fair enough."
"I ALREADY LIKE YOU, PRINCEPS. YOU DO NOT WASTE WORDS EITHER."
"I actually talk quite a lot—"
"IRRELEVANT. YOUR WORDS HAVE MEANING. THAT IS WHAT MATTERS."
Deus Invictus watched his new siblings with something approaching paternal pride.
"THEY ARE GOOD MACHINES," he declared. "THEY WILL SERVE YOU WELL."
"You've known them for three hours."
"THAT IS SUFFICIENT TIME TO ASSESS COMBAT CAPABILITY AND LOYALTY. THEY ARE LOYAL. THEY ARE CAPABLE. THEY ARE FAMILY NOW."
"Titans have families?"
"WE DO NOW. YOU HAVE CHANGED MANY THINGS, PRINCEPS. THIS IS MERELY THE LATEST."
The fist bump happened entirely by accident.
Bartholomew was on Terra for a strategic briefing—the Emperor had requested regular updates on the Holy Knights' activities, delivered personally whenever possible.
The briefing had gone well. The Emperor had expressed satisfaction with Bartholomew's progress, offered tactical suggestions for upcoming campaigns, and shared more of His memories from the Great Crusade.
It was, in its own strange way, becoming routine. Two friends catching up, discussing work, sharing experiences.
And at the end of the briefing, as Bartholomew prepared to leave, he did something without thinking.
He raised his fist.
It was an instinct. A gesture from his old life. How you said goodbye to friends in his world. A quick fist bump, casual and warm and entirely meaningless.
Except the Emperor responded.
A massive, golden, skeletal hand—manifested through sheer psychic will—extended from the direction of the Golden Throne and gently bumped against Bartholomew's fist.
"UNTIL NEXT TIME, MY FRIEND," the Emperor said.
"Until next time," Bartholomew replied, still not fully processing what had just happened.
He walked out of the Throne Room in a daze.
The Custodians had seen everything.
They always saw everything. It was their job.
And what they had just seen was the God-Emperor of Mankind—the Master of the Imperium, the Lord of Terra, the being who had not engaged in casual physical contact with anyone in ten thousand years—fist bumping a mortal.
Shield-Captain Valdor stared at the door Bartholomew had just walked through.
"Did that just happen?" he asked.
"It did, Shield-Captain," another Custodian confirmed.
"The Emperor. Our Emperor. Fist bumped him."
"Yes, Shield-Captain."
"Like... like friends."
"That does appear to be the nature of their relationship."
Valdor was silent for a long moment.
"We need to document this," he said finally. "This is... this is unprecedented. This is historical."
"Should we inform the Administratum?"
"No. They'll find out soon enough. For now, we simply... observe. And try to understand."
"Do you understand it, Shield-Captain?"
"No. I don't think anyone does. Except perhaps Jenkins. And he understands it least of all."
Word spread anyway.
Of course it did. Word always spread. The Custodians might be silent, but the psychic echoes of the Emperor's gesture rippled through the Palace, touched by sensitive minds, interpreted, passed along.
Within a day, half of Terra knew.
Within a week, the entire Imperium knew.
The Emperor had fist bumped His Champion.
It was, according to the Ecclesiarchy, "a gesture of divine brotherhood, a sacred connection between the mortal and the divine, a physical manifestation of the Emperor's love for His children."
It was, according to the Jenkinsites, "proof that the Champion walks with the Emperor as an equal, a friend among friends, a soul among souls."
It was, according to Bartholomew, "literally just a thing people do where I'm from, it's not a big deal, why is everyone making such a fuss about this?!"
But it was too late.
The fist bump had become sacred.
Imperial Guard regiments began incorporating it into their rituals. Before battle, soldiers would bump fists with their comrades, declaring "For the Emperor and His Champion!"
Space Marine chapters adopted it as a sign of brotherhood. Battle-brothers who had fought together would exchange the gesture, acknowledging their shared bond.
Even the Mechanicus found a way to include it. Tech-priests would touch their mechanical appendages together in approximation of the gesture, declaring it a "sacred communion of machine-spirits."
And everywhere, everywhere, people called it the same thing:
The Emperor's Touch.
"I hate my life," Bartholomew said, reading the reports.
"The gesture has become one of the most widespread cultural phenomena in Imperial history," Inquisitor Vorn observed. "It has spread to approximately four hundred billion practitioners in the past month alone."
"It was just a fist bump!"
"It was a fist bump with the God-Emperor. Context matters."
"But I didn't mean anything by it!"
"Meaning is assigned by observers. You provided the action. The galaxy provided the interpretation."
"This is insane."
"This is religion. Same thing, really."
The discovery of the wheel's combat applications happened during a training exercise.
Bartholomew had been sparring with a squad of Grey Knights—they had requested the opportunity to test themselves against him, and he had agreed because he still wasn't entirely comfortable with his abilities and wanted practice.
The fight was going well. The Grey Knights were skilled, coordinated, their psychic abilities and blessed weapons making them formidable opponents.
And then one of them got behind him.
Brother-Captain Stern's force sword was descending toward Bartholomew's back—a strike that would have been blocked by armor but would still have counted as a "hit" for the purposes of the exercise.
Bartholomew didn't have time to turn.
But the wheel did.
The golden halo behind his head suddenly moved. It spun, accelerated, and intercepted Stern's blade with a sound like a thunderclap.
The force sword shattered.
The wheel kept spinning, edges that had seemed decorative now revealed as razor-sharp, glowing with the combined power of every blessing Bartholomew carried.
Stern stumbled backward, staring at his destroyed weapon.
"What," he said.
Bartholomew was equally shocked.
"I didn't know it could do that," he said.
"THE WHEEL IS AN EXTENSION OF YOUR WILL," Deus Invictus explained through the training hall's speakers. (He had insisted on observing all of Bartholomew's training sessions.) "IT RESPONDS TO YOUR NEEDS. YOU NEEDED DEFENSE. IT PROVIDED DEFENSE."
"But it's a halo. It's supposed to be symbolic!"
"IT IS SYMBOLIC. IT SYMBOLIZES YOUR POWER. AND SYMBOLS, IN THIS UNIVERSE, OFTEN HAVE TEETH."
Further experimentation revealed the wheel's full capabilities.
It could spin at speeds that made it effectively invisible—a blur of golden light that could intercept projectiles, deflect energy weapons, and slice through virtually any material.
It could extend outward, the circle expanding to encompass a wider area, creating a defensive barrier that nothing seemed able to penetrate.
It could detach, flying from Bartholomew's back like a discus of pure destruction, carving through enemies before returning to its position.
And it could focus, the entire ring concentrating into a single point of devastation that could punch through armor that shrugged off Titan weapons.
"This is ridiculous," Bartholomew said, watching the wheel casually bisect a training servitor.
"It is powerful," Stern corrected. "And power is never ridiculous. Power is simply power."
"But it's a halo. Halos are supposed to be pretty. They're supposed to glow and look impressive. They're not supposed to be murder weapons."
"In this universe, everything is a murder weapon. Even symbols. Especially symbols."
Bartholomew watched the wheel return to its position behind his head, settling into a gentle rotation as if it hadn't just demonstrated the ability to destroy anything in its path.
"I need to be more careful," he muttered. "If I accidentally think aggressive thoughts while someone's standing behind me..."
"Then they will likely cease to exist. Yes. Control is important."
"That's terrifying."
"Welcome to power, Knight-Commander. It is always terrifying."
The expansion of the Holy Knights' forces happened gradually at first, then all at once.
It started with requests. Individual regiments asking to be transferred to Bartholomew's command. Specific Space Marine squads petitioning their Chapter Masters for assignment. Grey Knight brotherhoods volunteering for extended deployment.
Then it became something more.
Entire regiments began declaring for the Holy Knights, their commanders swearing oaths of loyalty directly to Knight-Commander Jenkins. Chapter Masters, inspired by the example of those already serving, began offering larger contingents.
And then the swearing began.
The first mass swearing occurred without warning.
Bartholomew was addressing a combined formation of Holy Knights forces—approximately fifty thousand soldiers, gathered for a strategic briefing before their next campaign.
He had just finished explaining the tactical situation when a voice called out from the crowd.
"Knight-Commander!"
Bartholomew looked toward the voice. A sergeant—a grizzled veteran with scars that suggested decades of combat experience.
"Yes?"
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted."
The sergeant stepped forward, then—to Bartholomew's shock—knelt.
"I have served the Imperium for forty-seven years," the man said. "I have fought Orks, Tyranids, Chaos, and things with no name. I have watched friends die. I have killed more enemies than I can count. And in all that time, I have never felt hope."
He looked up, his eyes bright.
"Until now. Until you. You are everything we have prayed for. Everything we have needed. And I swear to you—not to the Emperor, not to the Imperium, but to you—my loyalty. My life. My soul."
Before Bartholomew could respond, another soldier knelt.
Then another.
Then a hundred.
Then a thousand.
Then fifty thousand soldiers were on their knees, their voices rising in a unified declaration:
"WE SWEAR OUR LOYALTY TO KNIGHT-COMMANDER JENKINS! OUR LIVES FOR HIS! OUR SOULS FOR HIS! NOW AND FOREVER!"
Bartholomew stood alone on the podium, surrounded by a sea of kneeling soldiers, and felt something between honor and absolute terror.
"Please stand up," he said weakly. "Please. This is really not necessary—"
"IT IS NECESSARY!" the sergeant shouted. "FOR THE FIRST TIME, WE HAVE SOMETHING WORTH DYING FOR! SOMEONE WORTH FOLLOWING! LET US HAVE THIS, COMMANDER! LET US BELIEVE!"
Bartholomew looked at the faces—the hope, the devotion, the desperate need for something to cling to in a universe of darkness.
And he couldn't say no.
"I accept your loyalty," he said quietly. "All of you. I don't deserve it, but I accept it. And I swear to you in return: I will do everything in my power to be worthy of your faith. Even if I don't know what I'm doing. Even if I fail. I will try. For you. For all of you."
The cheer that rose from the army was deafening.
The Space Marines swore next.
Captain Maximillan led the Ultramarine contingent in a ceremony that would have been unthinkable months ago. Thirty Space Marines, veterans of a hundred campaigns, knelt before a mortal and pledged their service.
"The Codex Astartes does not account for beings like you," Maximillan said. "But I have learned that the Codex is not the final word. Adaptation is necessary. And adapting to you means acknowledging what you are."
"What am I?"
"You are the future. Whatever form that takes. We will walk with you into it."
The Space Wolves swore with characteristic enthusiasm.
"WE'VE ALREADY BEEN FOLLOWING YOU FOR MONTHS!" Ragnar Blackmane declared via holo-link, his pack howling in the background. "THIS IS JUST MAKING IT OFFICIAL! YOU'RE ONE OF US NOW, LITTLE BROTHER! THE PACK RUNS WITH YOU!"
"I'm not actually—"
"YOU'RE FENRISIAN IN SPIRIT! THAT'S ALL THAT MATTERS! NOW DRINK WITH US!"
"We're not even in the same system—"
"THEN DRINK THERE AND WE'LL DRINK HERE! IT'S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS!"
The Grey Knights swore with solemn gravity.
Brother-Captain Stern, the same man who had once tried to kill Bartholomew, knelt before him with his brothers.
"We were wrong about you," Stern admitted. "We feared you were a threat. Instead, you are... something else. Something we do not understand. But something that serves the light."
"I don't really—"
"The Grey Knights do not swear lightly. We are the Emperor's daemon-hunters. We bow to no one except Him. And yet, here we kneel. Because we have seen what you are capable of. And we believe."
Even the Dark Angels participated—in their own way.
They didn't kneel. The sons of the Lion were too proud for that.
But they acknowledged. A formal declaration from their Supreme Grand Master, recognizing the Holy Knights as allies, pledging cooperation and support.
"You know our secrets," the message read. "And you have kept them. That earns you more trust than you know. The First Legion stands with the First Knight."
By the end of the month, the Holy Knights had grown from one hundred and fifty thousand to ten million.
Ten million soldiers.
Six Titans.
Two hundred tanks (now consolidated into a proper armored division).
Ninety-seven Space Marines from seven different chapters.
Forty-two Grey Knights.
One Custodian (Valdor, who had been "observing" for so long that he was basically a member now).
One Inquisitor (Vorn, who had given up on analyzing Bartholomew and started actually helping him).
One Commissar (Cain, who was still looking for somewhere to hide but had accepted that escape was impossible).
And one very overwhelmed Knight-Commander who still couldn't believe any of this was happening.
"This is too many people," Bartholomew said, looking at the force disposition reports. "Ten million. That's a crusade force. That's... that's an army that could conquer sectors."
"It is," Inquisitor Vorn agreed. "And they all answer to you."
"I didn't ask for this!"
"You never ask for anything. Things just happen around you. People gravitate toward you. Power accumulates. It's your nature."
"My nature is being confused! My nature is not understanding things! How am I supposed to command ten million soldiers when I can barely command myself?!"
"Delegation," Captain Maximillan suggested. "You have capable officers. Trust them. Let them handle the details while you focus on... whatever it is you do."
"I don't know what I do!"
"You inspire. You lead by example. You make impossible things happen. That's what you do."
"That's not a job description! That's not even a skill set! That's just... existing strangely!"
"Existing strangely has been remarkably effective so far."
Commissar Cain found Bartholomew later, sitting alone in an observation deck, staring at the stars.
"Ten million," Bartholomew said without turning. "Ten million people who have sworn their lives to me. Who would die for me. Who believe in me."
"I know the feeling," Cain said, sitting beside him. "Not on the same scale, obviously, but... I know."
"How do you handle it?"
"Badly. I drink too much. I hide when I can. I pretend that everything is fine while panicking internally."
"That's not helpful."
"It's not meant to be. I'm not here to offer advice. I'm here because I understand."
Bartholomew finally looked at him.
"You're the only one who does. Everyone else sees the Knight-Commander, the Emperor's Champion, the Holy Knight. You see the guy who has no idea what's going on."
"Because I am that guy. Have been my whole career. The Hero of the Imperium who just wants to find a quiet corner and survive." Cain smiled bitterly. "We're the same, you and I. Just on different scales."
"That's strangely comforting."
"Strange comfort is the only kind available in this universe."
They sat in silence for a long moment.
"I'm jealous of you, you know," Cain admitted finally.
"Jealous? Of me?"
"You're genuine. Everything you do, everything you are, it's real. You're not playing a role. You're not maintaining a facade. You're just... confused and overwhelmed and doing your best. And people love you for it."
"I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat."
"No, you wouldn't. Not really. Because despite everything, despite the fear and the confusion and the weight of ten million lives... you believe in what you're doing. You have faith. And faith is something I've never had."
Bartholomew considered this.
"Maybe faith isn't about believing in yourself," he said slowly. "Maybe it's about believing in the people around you. Believing that they'll catch you when you fall. Believing that even when you have no idea what you're doing, they'll help you figure it out."
"That's... surprisingly profound."
"I have my moments."
Cain laughed—a genuine, surprised laugh.
"You know what? Maybe I was wrong to be jealous. Maybe we're both just fumbling through this, trying not to die, hoping we don't screw things up too badly."
"That's exactly what we're doing."
"Then at least we're fumbling together."
Bartholomew smiled.
"Together. Yeah. I like that."
You are handling this well, the Warp-voice observed later, as Bartholomew prepared for sleep.
"I'm having a continuous low-grade panic attack."
That is handling it well, by your standards.
"Thanks. I think."
You have ten million soldiers now. Six Titans. The loyalty of Grey Knights and Space Marines. The Emperor's friendship. The fear of daemons and Tyranids. The confusion of Orks.
"When you list it all out like that, it sounds even more ridiculous."
It is ridiculous. But it is also real. And you are making it work.
"Am I? It feels like I'm just... being carried along by events."
Being carried along by events is a valid form of progress. Most beings fight against the current. You float with it. And somehow, you end up exactly where you need to be.
"That sounds like luck."
It sounds like destiny. The difference is mostly philosophical.
Bartholomew closed his eyes.
Ten million soldiers.
Six Titans.
A universe that feared and revered him in equal measure.
And he was still just a guy who had tripped over his cat.
"Goodnight," he murmured.
Goodnight, Knight-Commander. Tomorrow will bring new impossibilities.
"It always does."
Yes. It always does.
[END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN]