"What on earth is going on?!"
Countless question marks floated above Greyfax's head.
The scene before her completely overturned everything she had ever known.
Countless devout followers spend a lifetime of asceticism, dedication, and even sacrifice, yet not even a single glimpse from the Emperor is guaranteed.
But now, so many people were being blessed at once that she almost felt like the Emperor's blessings were being handed out on every street corner. It was absurd.
Moreover, according to previous reports, these people had been deeply corrupted by Chaos, their bodies had undergone irreversible mutations, and they were to be executed without question.
Yet now, looking at the excited crew and soldiers, it was clear they were all normal.
"Inquisitor, ma'am, all of this… is the miracle of that lord. He saved those innocent souls."
The commissar in charge of executions hurried to Greyfax's side, pointing to Datch, who was still busy in the crowd.
His voice trembled uncontrollably; his earlier grief replaced by awe and fanaticism.
Greyfax followed his gaze and saw the nameless Astartes swinging a gleaming golden hammer, performing a unique treatment for the corrupted.
The shining golden hammer rose and fell with precise accuracy, striking each mutant soldier or crew member's abnormal parts.
Clang–clang–! The crisp sound rang out, each strike accompanied by gentle golden light, washing away every trace of filth left by the Warp.
Those corrupted were restored to their healthiest state.
"My… my claws are gone! Even… even my old stomach problems are cured!"
A sailor, freshly healed, shouted in excitement.
He repeatedly stroked his now smooth arm, then pressed his stomach in disbelief, his face full of joy.
He'd thought that once corrupted by Chaos, he'd be executed and sent off to report to the Emperor on the Golden Throne.
Who could have imagined there was a turnaround like this?
Not only did he escape death, but his longstanding ailments were also cured!
Greyfax looked at the crowd, lost in joy and gratitude.
And at the nameless Astartes, utterly absorbed in his own world, ignoring everything else—just focused on hammering away at the corrupted.
A sense of powerlessness rose within her. This universe was becoming so strange it felt unfamiliar.
Who exactly was this nameless Astartes?
His methods and abilities were beyond comprehension. To call him a god would not be an exaggeration!
This event was far beyond the Inquisition's doctrine and standard procedures. Greyfax dared not decide on her own.
She immediately contacted Primarch Guilliman and Living Saint Celestine, reporting everything that had happened aboard the Pride of Hera and requesting instructions.
"Let him be," Celestine's voice was ethereal and calm, as if she had foreseen everything, "I have received the Emperor's enlightenment. That mysterious angel… he may do whatever he wishes. His actions themselves are the Emperor's will."
Guilliman fell silent for a moment.
The Primarch's mind raced, weighing the pros and cons, and the potential risks.
After a moment, he made the decision best suited to their current interests.
"Everything he's done so far has never let us down. Since those healed soldiers have been preliminarily confirmed free of corruption, mentally stable, and even healthier than before, let's just let this go for now."
"Understood." Greyfax, after ending the communication, amended her original orders.
All those healed would continue to serve the Emperor.
The Pride of Hera incident was like a boulder thrown into a still lake, causing a sensation throughout the entire pilgrimage fleet.
Ecclesiarch priests, as if injected with a stimulant, used ship communications, handed out pamphlets, and organized rallies, tirelessly preaching to all crew and soldiers.
"Behold, the miracle of the Pride of Hera is the manifestation of the Emperor's supreme power! He has sent this mysterious angel among us, to protect and guide us to holy Terra!"
"Faith and devotion are our greatest weapons! The Emperor never abandons his loyal children! So long as this angel is with us, this great crusade is destined for victory!"
Roused by the priests, ordinary soldiers, crew, and lower tech-priests were filled with excitement, chanting praises to the Emperor and the Omnissiah.
The rebirth of the corrupted meant that even if they were later tainted in the most terrifying Warp battles, they no longer had to fear "purification."
That strange Emperor's angel would pull them back from the abyss of corruption with his miraculous golden hammer, granting them new life.
This hope greatly boosted fleet morale, even dispelling some of the inherent oppression of Warp travel.
The crisis on the Pride of Hera, thanks to Datch's intervention, ended in a way no one could have expected.
After healing all the corrupted, Datch slipped away before anyone could thank him, hopping and skipping down the corridors.
He'd gained plenty of experience, points, and reputation—truly a huge profit for him.
The soldiers and crew didn't know Datch's thoughts; seeing him leave without looking back after healing, they regarded the Emperor's angel as humble, uninterested in fame, and revered and admired him even more.
Some even suggested building a statue of the nameless Astartes beside the Emperor.
After the necessary rest, the fleet regrouped and set out once more for the long journey to Terra.
The Warp was still churning and stormy, but with newfound hope and determination, the expeditionary fleet pressed bravely ahead.
However, hope could not entirely dispel the shadows of reality.
After the attack on the Pride of Hera, the fleet was on edge, nerves stretched taut.
The omnipresent whispers and threats of the Warp kept everyone anxious.
And as days passed with no sign of the enemy, that tension slowly fermented into restlessness.
The pilgrim fleet maintained the highest alert—engines low, weapons primed, everyone waiting for a sudden assault from who-knows-where.
Soldiers drilled and patrolled day and night. Sentries stared at sensor screens, never daring to relax.
…
Day after day, nothing happened.
This ever-tightening string soon began to take a toll on the fleet's mental and physical health.
Even the iron-willed Astartes showed faint signs of irritability.
For the many mortal soldiers, servants, and sailors, the mounting psychological pressure soon led to symptoms—nausea, diarrhea, distracted minds, declining cognition. Strange illnesses broke out; the infirmary overflowed.
Only Datch remained his carefree, unruly self.
Wherever he went, he couldn't sit still—knocking over neatly stacked supply crates, smashing corridor lights just because.
Sometimes, Datch would hide in secret corners with crew, playing bizarre card games.
The tense atmosphere seemed to have no effect on this nameless angel.
But just as the endless stress was dragging the fleet into the depths of exhaustion, the real crisis struck like a coiled viper.
And its speed and precision surpassed everyone's expectations.
…
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