Marcus had been a Sergeant for exactly fourteen hours when the daemons showed up.
This was, he felt, deeply unfair.
He had spent most of those fourteen hours trying to prepare for his meeting with his new squad—a meeting that was scheduled for 0600 the next morning and which he was approaching with the kind of dread normally reserved for root canals and tax audits. He had practiced what he was going to say. He had rehearsed looking competent and authoritative. He had spent two hours in front of a reflective surface trying to figure out how to make his enormous, genetically-enhanced face look approachable and non-threatening.
He had not practiced for daemons.
"ALERT. ALERT. WARP BREACH DETECTED IN CARGO BAY SEVEN. ALL COMBAT PERSONNEL REPORT TO EMERGENCY STATIONS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL."
The shipwide alarm blared through the corridors of the strike cruiser, accompanied by flashing red lights and the distant sounds of screaming that Marcus really hoped was just the alarm system and not actual people.
Marcus had been in the armory when the alert sounded, because he had been contemplating the Conflagration-Dominus with the kind of fascinated horror that one might reserve for a particularly aggressive exotic pet. The weapon sat on its rack, humming softly, its dual barrels occasionally flickering with what he could only describe as anticipation.
"I should probably leave you here," Marcus said to the weapon. "You're overkill for most situations. I should take something more reasonable. A bolter. Maybe a combat knife."
The Conflagration-Dominus hummed more insistently.
"I'm serious. You're ridiculous. No one needs a heavy flamer that's also a rocket launcher. It's excessive."
The weapon's glow intensified.
"Fine," Marcus said, picking it up. "But only because I don't have time to argue with an inanimate object."
He grabbed his power chainsword as well—because apparently he was now the kind of person who dual-wielded absurdly overpowered weapons—and ran toward Cargo Bay Seven.
The corridor leading to the cargo bay was already crowded with Battle-Brothers moving in organized formation, their bolters raised and their expressions grim behind their helmets. Marcus pushed through the crowd, his ridiculous weapon clearing a path through sheer intimidation factor, until he reached the blast doors that separated the rest of the ship from whatever nightmare had decided to manifest in their storage area.
"HOLD POSITION," someone was shouting. "WAIT FOR THE LIBRARIUS. DAEMONIC INCURSION REQUIRES SPECIALIZED RESPONSE PROTOCOLS."
"What happened?" Marcus asked the nearest Battle-Brother, a warrior whose armor markings identified him as belonging to the Third Company.
"Warp breach," the warrior replied, his voice tight. "Something came through. Reports are confused, but there are... many of them. The serfs who were working in the cargo bay are dead. The automated defenses are offline. We're supposed to wait for—"
The blast doors exploded outward.
Not opened. Not breached. Exploded, as if something on the other side had simply decided that doors were an inconvenience that it no longer wished to tolerate.
And through the smoke and debris, they came.
Daemons.
Marcus had not known what to expect from daemons. The hypno-indoctrination had included information about them—vague warnings about the dangers of the Warp, the corrupting influence of Chaos, the entities that lurked in the space between spaces—but the actual knowledge had been buried under layers of confusion and disorientation.
Nothing in his buried memories had prepared him for the reality.
They were wrong. Wrong in a way that transcended physical description, wrong in a way that made his enhanced eyes ache and his enhanced brain scream in protest. They came in shapes that defied geometry—writhing masses of claws and teeth and eyes, forms that seemed to exist in more dimensions than should be possible, bodies that flickered between states of being as if reality itself was uncertain of their existence.
And there were hundreds of them.
"FALL BACK," someone was screaming. "FALL BACK AND REGROUP. WE NEED HEAVY SUPPORT. WE NEED—"
Marcus stepped forward.
He didn't know why. Some deep, instinctive part of him—the same part that had awakened during the Tyranid battle—was screaming that these things were wrong, that they didn't belong in reality, that their very existence was an offense that needed to be corrected.
The Conflagration-Dominus rose in his hands.
And fired.
Later, when the surviving witnesses tried to describe what happened next, they would struggle to find adequate words.
Some would speak of fire—but "fire" was insufficient to describe what emerged from the primary barrel of Marcus's weapon. It was not merely flames; it was purification, a torrent of blazing destruction that seemed to seek out corruption with almost conscious intent. The promethium burned hotter than any promethium should burn, hot enough to make the air itself ignite, hot enough to leave glowing afterimages in the vision of everyone watching.
Others would speak of explosions—but "explosions" failed to capture the devastating precision of the rockets that launched from the secondary barrel. Each missile seemed to know exactly where to go, threading through gaps in the daemonic horde to detonate at points of maximum impact, sending shockwaves that disrupted the warp-stuff that held the creatures together.
A few, more poetically inclined, would speak of judgment—of a single warrior standing against the forces of darkness, his weapon blazing like the wrath of the Emperor Himself, his armor glowing with reflected firelight as he advanced into the heart of the incursion.
Marcus was not thinking about any of this.
Marcus was thinking: Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. This is too much. This is way too much. Why won't this thing STOP SHOOTING?
The Conflagration-Dominus, it turned out, had a very generous fuel capacity.
A very generous fuel capacity.
The flames poured from the primary barrel in a continuous stream, sweeping back and forth across the cargo bay, immolating everything they touched. Daemons screamed as they were burned out of existence—not killed, exactly, but banished, their corrupt forms unable to maintain cohesion against the purifying fire. The rockets launched in a steady rhythm, each one finding a target with unerring accuracy, each detonation sending more of the creatures back to whatever nightmare dimension they had come from.
Marcus walked forward into the chaos, his weapon blazing, his power chainsword crackling at his side, his mind a continuous loop of this is excessive this is overkill this should not be happening what is wrong with this gun who designed this thing WHY DOES IT HAVE SO MUCH AMMUNITION—
The daemons tried to stop him.
They really, really tried.
A creature that was mostly claws and malice lunged at him from the left; the Conflagration-Dominus swept around and reduced it to ash before it could close the distance. A thing of impossible angles tried to flank him from behind; a rocket caught it mid-leap and scattered its essence across dimensions. A horde of smaller entities—chattering, giggling things that radiated an aura of disease—rushed him en masse; the flames washed over them like a tide, leaving nothing but fading screams and the smell of burning corruption.
Marcus reached the center of the cargo bay.
The breach was there—a tear in reality itself, a wound in the fabric of the universe through which the warp was bleeding into real space. It pulsed with colors that had no names, and from its depths, more daemons were emerging.
"SEAL THE BREACH," someone was shouting over the vox. "WE NEED A LIBRARIAN TO SEAL THE BREACH. SOMEONE GET A—"
Marcus pointed the Conflagration-Dominus at the tear in reality.
And pulled the trigger.
What happened next would be debated by the Librarius for centuries.
Standard doctrine held that warp breaches could only be sealed through psychic intervention—that the wound in reality required counter-resonance from a trained psyker to close, that physical weapons were useless against dimensional instability.
Standard doctrine, it turned out, had not accounted for the Conflagration-Dominus.
The weapon fired both barrels simultaneously—a feature that Marcus had not known it possessed and would later insist he had not intentionally activated. Flames and rockets merged into a single lance of destruction that struck the warp breach directly, pouring energy into the wound with such intensity that reality itself seemed to flex.
The tear screamed.
It was not a sound that should have been possible—a dimensional instability making an audible noise—but it happened anyway. The breach screamed as the fire poured into it, as the rockets detonated within its impossible depths, as the combined assault somehow, impossibly, began to close the wound.
The remaining daemons froze.
Their connection to the warp—their lifeline, the source of their very existence—was being severed. They turned as one, dozens of corrupt entities all focusing on the single warrior who was somehow doing what should have been impossible.
They charged.
Marcus met them with his chainsword.
The cleanup crews would later report that the cargo bay looked like the aftermath of a small war.
The walls were scorched black. The floor was cratered from rocket impacts. The air still shimmered with residual heat, hot enough to be uncomfortable even for warriors in power armor. Scattered across the space were the fading remnants of daemonic essence—wisps of corrupt energy that were slowly dissipating without the breach to sustain them.
And in the center of it all, standing before the sealed wound in reality (which now bore the distinct marks of having been cauterized shut by overwhelming force), was Marcus.
His armor was splattered with ichor that was already evaporating. His chainsword was still running, its teeth clogged with substances that should not have existed in material reality. The Conflagration-Dominus was finally, mercifully silent, its barrels faintly glowing with residual heat.
He was breathing hard.
Around him, in a rough circle that extended approximately fifty feet in every direction, was nothing but ash.
"Brother Marcus."
The voice came from behind him, and Marcus turned to find Chapter Master Calgar standing at the ruined blast doors. The Chapter Master was in his full Armour of Antilochus, his power fists crackling with energy, his expression one of carefully controlled something that Marcus couldn't quite identify.
Behind Calgar, approximately three hundred Battle-Brothers stood in stunned silence.
"Yes, Chapter Master?" Marcus said, his voice coming out more weary than he had intended.
"Did you just... seal a warp breach?"
"I think so? The gun did most of the work, really. I just pointed it and—"
"With promethium."
"And rockets. There were rockets involved."
Calgar stared at him.
"Brother Marcus," he said slowly. "Warp breaches cannot be sealed with promethium."
"Oh." Marcus looked at the Conflagration-Dominus, which seemed to hum smugly in his hands. "Should I have not done that, then?"
"That is not—" Calgar stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "No. No, Brother Marcus. You should absolutely have done that. You prevented a daemonic incursion from consuming this ship. You saved hundreds of lives. You accomplished something that the greatest Librarians in the Imperium would have struggled to achieve."
"I really just pointed the gun—"
"With promethium."
"Yes."
"And sealed a warp breach."
"Apparently."
Calgar opened his eyes. His expression had shifted to something that Marcus was becoming increasingly familiar with: the look of a man who had given up trying to understand the universe and had decided to simply accept its absurdities.
"Brother Marcus," he said. "I am beginning to suspect that you could achieve anything if you simply 'pointed the gun' hard enough."
"That seems like an exaggeration, sir."
"I am the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines," Calgar replied flatly. "I do not exaggerate."
He turned to address the assembled Battle-Brothers.
"The incursion is contained," he announced. "Cleanup protocols are in effect. All personnel are to submit to purity screening within the next six hours. And someone contact the Inquisition. They will want to know about this."
Marcus felt his stomach drop.
"The Inquisition, sir?"
"Yes, Brother Marcus. When a single Battle-Brother seals a warp breach with what appears to be willpower and excessive firepower, the Inquisition becomes very interested." Calgar's expression softened slightly. "Do not be concerned. They will likely wish to commend you. Possibly study you. Almost certainly ask many questions that you will not know how to answer."
"That's... reassuring?"
"It was not meant to be." Calgar turned and began walking away, his power fists deactivating with a final crackle. "Get some rest, Sergeant Marcus. You have a squad to meet in six hours. And knowing your tendency for attracting unusual situations, I suspect you will need your strength."
Marcus watched him go, then looked down at the Conflagration-Dominus.
"You're too powerful," he told the weapon. "You sealed a warp breach. Guns shouldn't be able to seal warp breaches."
The weapon hummed contentedly.
"I'm not complimenting you."
The humming intensified.
Marcus sighed and began the long walk back to his quarters, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he had apparently just soloed a daemonic invasion and would probably have to explain this to the Inquisition.
He was going to need a lot of rest.
He did not get rest.
He got Grey Knights.
The Grey Knights arrived approximately two hours after the daemonic incursion, their ship materializing from the Warp with the kind of sudden, dramatic timing that suggested they had either incredible psychic awareness or a truly remarkable sense of theater.
Marcus had been in the mess hall when the announcement came—not eating, because his enhanced physiology apparently didn't require food as often as a normal human, but sitting and staring at a wall and trying to process everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.
Sergeant. Daemon slayer. Warp breach sealer. Owner of a gun that probably violated several laws of physics and possibly a few laws of the Imperium.
Gerald the houseplant would not believe any of this, Marcus thought. Gerald the houseplant would probably wilt from sheer existential confusion.
"ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. GREY KNIGHTS VESSEL DETECTED ON APPROACH VECTOR. CHAPTER MASTER CALGAR REQUESTS THE PRESENCE OF SERGEANT MARCUS IN THE PRIMARY DOCKING BAY. REPEAT, SERGEANT MARCUS TO PRIMARY DOCKING BAY IMMEDIATELY."
Marcus's eye twitched.
"Of course," he said to no one in particular. "Of course the secret daemon-hunting Space Marines want to talk to me. Why wouldn't they? I've only accidentally done something impossible. Again."
He made his way to the docking bay, dragging the Conflagration-Dominus with him because he'd discovered that the weapon made unhappy noises when he left it behind and he really didn't want to find out what happened when it got upset.
The Grey Knights were, Marcus had to admit, impressively intimidating.
Their armor was silver—not the blue of the Ultramarines, but a bright, gleaming silver that seemed to glow with its own inner light. Their helmets were shaped differently, more angular, with eye lenses that pulsed with barely contained psychic energy. Each of them carried weapons that radiated power—storm bolters, force weapons, artifacts that made the Conflagration-Dominus look almost reasonable by comparison.
And they were all staring at Marcus.
There were approximately twenty of them—a full squad, plus what appeared to be senior officers and support personnel. They had disembarked from their shuttle in perfect formation, their movements synchronized with military precision, their presence causing the very air to feel heavier with psychic weight.
At their head was a warrior whose armor was more elaborate than the rest, covered in purity seals and sacred texts and symbols that made Marcus's eyes ache to look at directly. His helmet was off, revealing a face that was weathered with age and scarred with centuries of combat against the forces of Chaos.
"I am Brother-Captain Stern," the warrior announced, his voice carrying the kind of absolute authority that suggested he was used to being obeyed without question. "I have come to investigate the reports of a warp breach that was sealed through... unconventional means."
His eyes fixed on Marcus.
"You are Sergeant Marcus. The one they call the Exemplar."
"I— yes, sir. I mean, yes. That's me. The Sergeant part, anyway. I'm not sure about the Exemplar thing. That's what other people call me. I didn't choose it. I've been trying to explain that it's not really appropriate—"
"You sealed a warp breach," Stern interrupted.
"Yes?"
"With a heavy flamer."
"And rockets. There were rockets. It's a— it's a combination weapon. Very versatile."
"You sealed a warp breach with promethium and explosives."
"When you say it like that, it sounds impossible."
"It is impossible."
Marcus had no response to this.
Stern studied him for a long moment, his psychic senses apparently probing Marcus's soul for any sign of corruption. Whatever he found—or, more accurately, whatever he didn't find—caused his expression to shift from suspicious scrutiny to something closer to confusion.
"You are... clean," Stern said slowly. "Cleaner than clean. Your soul burns with a purity that I have rarely encountered, even among my own brothers." He paused. "This should not be possible. The warp breach, by all accounts, was significant. Any mortal who came into contact with such a manifestation should bear at least some mark of exposure. You show none."
"I tried to stay away from the really gross-looking ones?" Marcus offered weakly.
"That is not how daemonic corruption works."
"Oh."
Stern turned to his fellow Grey Knights, apparently engaging in some form of psychic communication. Marcus watched them exchange meaningful glances and subtle gestures, clearly discussing something that he was not privy to.
Finally, Stern turned back.
"Brother-Captain," he said, addressing someone behind Marcus—Calgar, who had been standing silently throughout this exchange, "I must ask your permission to conduct a more thorough examination of this warrior. The implications of his actions are... significant."
"Of course," Calgar replied. "Though I should warn you: everyone who has attempted to study Brother Marcus has come away with more questions than answers."
"I am aware of the reports." Stern's expression was grim. "Nevertheless, we must understand how this was accomplished. If Sergeant Marcus has discovered a method by which warp breaches can be closed without psychic intervention, the strategic implications are immense."
"I really just pointed the gun—" Marcus started.
"So you have said." Stern fixed him with a stare that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone and armor to examine the very core of his being. "Show me."
"Show you... what?"
"The weapon. Fire it. I wish to observe."
Marcus looked at the Conflagration-Dominus, which was humming expectantly.
"Here? In the docking bay?"
"A controlled demonstration. Point it at the far bulkhead. Fire a single shot."
Marcus raised the weapon, aimed at the indicated bulkhead, and pulled the trigger.
What emerged was not what he expected.
Instead of the torrent of flame and destruction that he had become accustomed to, a single, controlled burst of fire lanced from the primary barrel—a precise, measured blast that struck the bulkhead and left a perfectly circular scorch mark approximately three feet in diameter.
It was, by the Conflagration-Dominus's standards, almost restrained.
Stern watched this with narrowed eyes.
"Again," he said. "With the secondary system."
Marcus fired a single rocket. It struck the bulkhead next to the scorch mark and detonated with a contained explosion that seemed almost polite by comparison to the carnage in the cargo bay.
"Interesting," Stern murmured. "The weapon responds to intent. When you believed you needed overwhelming force, it provided overwhelming force. When you believe you need control, it provides control."
"I... guess?"
"This is not normal weapon behavior, Sergeant Marcus."
"The Techmarine who made it was very enthusiastic about his work."
Stern was silent for a long moment.
Then he turned to his Grey Knights.
"Brothers," he said, his voice carrying a weight that made the other warriors snap to attention. "What we have witnessed today is significant. A warrior who can channel purity through his weapons. A soul that burns so bright that daemons cannot touch it. A force of will strong enough to seal wounds in reality through sheer conviction."
He turned back to Marcus.
"Sergeant Marcus," he continued. "The Grey Knights serve the Emperor in eternal war against the forces of Chaos. We are His daemon hunters, His secret warriors, His blade in the darkness. We answer to no authority but the Emperor Himself."
Marcus had a very bad feeling about where this was going.
"And today, we have witnessed something that cannot be ignored. A mortal—enhanced, yes, but mortal nonetheless—accomplishing what should require the concentrated efforts of our most powerful Librarians."
"I really think you're overestimating—"
"The Grey Knights recognize true service to the Emperor," Stern continued, apparently not hearing Marcus's protests. "And today, Sergeant Marcus, you have demonstrated service that exceeds anything we could have expected from a warrior of your experience."
He dropped to one knee.
Behind him, every single Grey Knight followed suit.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," Marcus said, his voice rising in pitch. "WHAT IS HAPPENING. PLEASE STAND UP."
"We offer you our respect, Exemplar," Stern said, his voice solemn. "And our loyalty. Should you ever face the forces of Chaos again—and you will, for they are drawn to purity like moths to flame—know that the Grey Knights will answer your call."
"I DON'T WANT YOUR LOYALTY. I JUST WORK HERE. PLEASE. PLEASE STAND UP."
"Your humility only confirms our judgment," Stern replied, rising to his feet with the other Grey Knights following in perfect synchronization. "The Emperor guides your actions, Sergeant Marcus. Whether you recognize it or not, you are an instrument of His will."
Marcus looked desperately at Calgar.
The Chapter Master shrugged.
"I did warn you," Calgar said. "Everyone who encounters you seems to come away... inspired."
"I DON'T WANT TO BE INSPIRING. I WANT TO BE NORMAL."
"I fear that ship has sailed, Brother Marcus." Calgar's expression was almost sympathetic. "Quite some time ago."
The Grey Knights departed three hours later, after conducting what they called a "thorough psychic evaluation" that mostly consisted of Stern staring at Marcus very intensely while the other Grey Knights took notes.
The evaluation had apparently confirmed their initial assessment: Marcus was, in their words, "unnaturally pure," "unconsciously blessed," and "probably the single most dangerous thing in the galaxy to daemonic entities."
Marcus had tried to explain that he was actually quite ordinary and that they were making a mistake.
They had nodded solemnly and written down "subject exhibits extreme humility consistent with genuine spiritual purity."
He had given up after that.
The next interruption came approximately forty-five minutes before Marcus was supposed to meet his new squad.
He had finally found a quiet corner of the ship—a maintenance corridor that no one seemed to use—and was sitting with his back against the wall, trying to mentally prepare for the responsibility of leading other warriors into combat.
Just be confident, he told himself. Be authoritative. Be the kind of leader they deserve. Don't mention the banana peel. Don't mention that you have no idea what you're doing. Don't—
"Ah. You must be Sergeant Marcus."
The voice came from the other end of the corridor, and Marcus looked up to find a sight that was somehow even more unexpected than the Grey Knights.
The man walking toward him was a Commissar.
Marcus knew this because of the distinctive uniform—the long coat, the peaked cap, the general air of "I am authorized to execute people for cowardice and I am not afraid to use that authority." The hypno-indoctrination had included basic information about the various branches of Imperial military organization, and Commissars had featured prominently in the "people to be respectful toward" category.
But this Commissar was different.
There was something in the way he moved—a casual confidence that seemed almost too casual, as if he was deliberately projecting an air of nonchalance that didn't quite match the wariness in his eyes. He was tall, handsome in a rakish sort of way, and accompanied by a diminutive figure that Marcus's enhanced vision identified as a small humanoid creature with large ears and a nervous expression.
"Commissar Ciaphas Cain," the man announced, stopping at what Marcus couldn't help but notice was a very specific distance—close enough to be polite, far enough to run if necessary. "Hero of the Imperium. I'm told you're the one who sealed the warp breach earlier."
"I— yes? I'm not sure why everyone keeps bringing that up."
"Because it's impossible, and yet you did it anyway." Cain's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I have some experience with the impossible myself. I thought I would introduce myself. Professional courtesy, you understand."
"Professional courtesy?"
"Between heroes." The word came out with an inflection that Marcus couldn't quite interpret—something between irony and resignation. "I've read the reports about you, Sergeant Marcus. Killed a Hive Tyrant in single combat. Destroyed an army of daemons solo. Sealed a warp breach with a flamethrower. Quite the impressive resume for someone who's been a full Battle-Brother for, what, four days?"
"Three. I think. Time is confusing."
"Isn't it just." Cain studied him with an expression that Marcus recognized, because it was very similar to the expression he saw in reflective surfaces when he looked at himself: the expression of someone who was deeply, fundamentally confused about how they had ended up in their current situation.
"You seem... uncertain," Cain said slowly. "If you don't mind my saying so."
"I'm not uncertain," Marcus replied. "I'm terrified. Everyone keeps acting like I'm some kind of hero when I'm just... I'm just someone who keeps accidentally doing things right. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't understand why any of this is happening. And every time I try to explain that I'm not qualified for any of this, people just nod and say that my humility is inspiring."
Cain stared at him.
The nervous creature at his side—Cain's aide, Marcus assumed—made a small sound that might have been a gasp.
"Emperor's teeth," Cain breathed. "You're genuine."
"What?"
"You actually believe that. You actually think you're unqualified. You genuinely don't understand why people are reacting to you the way they are." Cain's expression shifted to something that might have been horror, or possibly recognition, or possibly both. "That's... that's remarkable. And terrifying. Primarily terrifying."
"I don't understand."
"No, I don't suppose you do." Cain took a step backward—a subtle motion, but Marcus noticed it. "Sergeant Marcus, I'm going to give you some advice. Advice from one 'hero' to another."
"Okay?"
"Stay away from me."
Marcus blinked. "What?"
"Stay. Away. From me." Cain's voice was suddenly very serious. "I have spent my entire career trying to avoid exactly the kind of situations that seem to follow you around like particularly persistent hunting dogs. Tyranid Hive Tyrants. Daemonic incursions. Grey Knights swearing loyalty oaths. These are the kinds of things I have dedicated my life to being as far away from as physically possible."
"I didn't ask for any of that—"
"I know. That's what makes it worse." Cain was backing away now, not even trying to hide it. "You're a magnet, Sergeant Marcus. A magnet for the kind of galaxy-threatening nonsense that I have spent decades carefully avoiding. If I stand too close to you, I'm going to get pulled into your orbit, and then I'm going to end up fighting things that I have absolutely no desire to fight."
"I'm not a magnet—"
"You sealed a warp breach with a flamethrower. On your fourth day as a Battle-Brother. While the Grey Knights were en route specifically to handle the situation." Cain's voice was rising in pitch. "Do you understand how statistically improbable that is? The Grey Knights. The most secretive, most powerful daemon-fighting force in the Imperium. They were already coming. And you handled it before they arrived. SOLO."
"I had a very good gun—"
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT." Cain had reached the end of the corridor and was now actively pressing himself against the far wall. "The point is that reality bends around you. Impossible things happen in your vicinity. And I have worked very, very hard to be the kind of person who is nowhere near impossible things when they happen."
"Commissar, I really think you're overreacting—"
"Jurgen," Cain said, addressing his aide. "We're leaving. We're leaving right now. We're going to find the most boring, most uneventful posting available, and we're going to stay there until this ship is at least three sectors away."
"Yes, Commissar," the aide replied, in the tone of someone who had seen this behavior before and had learned not to question it.
Cain gave Marcus one last, desperate look.
"Good luck, Sergeant Marcus," he said. "You're going to need it. Not because you're going to fail—oh no, I'm quite certain you'll succeed at whatever impossible task comes your way next. But because success, in your case, seems to come with complications that would give lesser men heart attacks."
And with that, Commissar Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium, turned and fled down the corridor with the kind of speed that suggested he had significant practice at strategic withdrawal.
Marcus watched him go, feeling more confused than ever.
He was scared of me, Marcus realized. An actual hero of the Imperium was scared of me. Because he thinks I'm going to... what? Attract trouble?
He looked down at the Conflagration-Dominus, which was humming innocently.
Am I attracting trouble?
The weapon offered no response.
Marcus sighed, pushed himself to his feet, and began making his way toward the training halls.
He had a squad to meet.
The training hall was enormous.
Marcus had expected something military and functional—a space for practice combat, maybe some equipment for conditioning exercises, the kind of utilitarian environment that seemed appropriate for warriors who spent their lives in battle.
What he found instead was closer to a cathedral.
The ceiling vaulted upward to heights that made his neck ache, supported by columns carved into the shapes of legendary warriors. The walls were covered in murals depicting famous battles, victories, and heroic last stands. The floor was made of some kind of stone that seemed to absorb sound, giving the space an almost reverent quiet despite its massive size.
And in the center of the hall, arranged in a perfect line, were his new squad members.
There were nine of them.
Nine Battle-Brothers, each one standing at perfect attention, each one in full armor, each one staring at Marcus with expressions that he couldn't quite read but suspected were somewhere between "eager anticipation" and "religious fervor."
Oh no, Marcus thought. They've heard the stories. They know about the Hive Tyrant and the daemons and the warp breach. They're expecting a legend.
They're going to be so disappointed.
He walked toward them, trying to project confidence he didn't feel, the Conflagration-Dominus slung across his back and his power chainsword at his hip. Each step seemed to echo in the vast space, drawing the squad's attention like a spotlight.
"Sergeant Marcus reporting for duty," he said, stopping in front of the line. "I'm... I'm your new commanding officer."
No one responded.
They just stared at him, their expressions hidden behind their helmets but their body language radiating something that felt disturbingly like reverence.
"I'm supposed to give a speech, I think," Marcus continued, filling the silence because he couldn't stand it. "Something inspiring. Something about duty and honor and serving the Emperor. But I'm going to be honest with you: I don't really know what I'm doing."
Still no response.
"I've been a Battle-Brother for four days. I killed a Hive Tyrant because it was trying to hurt my squad and I got lucky. I destroyed those daemons because my gun is ridiculous and apparently can do things that guns shouldn't be able to do. Everyone keeps calling me the Exemplar but I don't feel like an exemplar. I feel like someone who keeps stumbling into situations and somehow coming out the other side."
The silence stretched.
Then, slowly, the Battle-Brother at the center of the line stepped forward.
He was massive—even by Space Marine standards—with armor that bore the marks of centuries of combat. When he removed his helmet, his face was weathered with age and scarred with wounds that had long since healed. His eyes were bright with an emotion that Marcus had seen too many times in the past few days: unwavering belief.
"Sergeant Marcus," the warrior said. "I am Brother Thaddeus. I have served the Ultramarines for three hundred years. I have fought in campaigns across the galaxy. I have followed commanders who were praised as heroes and commanders who were condemned as failures."
He paused.
"I have never—never—heard a newly-promoted officer admit uncertainty so openly. I have never heard a warrior who accomplished what you have accomplished describe it as 'luck.' I have never encountered a commander who seemed so genuinely unaware of his own exceptional nature."
Oh no, Marcus thought. This is going to be another humility thing. They're going to interpret my confusion as virtue.
"Brother Thaddeus—" he started.
"This," Thaddeus continued, raising his voice to address the entire squad, "is exactly the kind of leader the Codex Astartes describes as ideal. A warrior who does not seek glory for its own sake. A commander who recognizes the contributions of his brothers. A leader who admits uncertainty rather than pretending to an expertise he does not possess."
"That's not what I—"
"Sergeant Marcus." Thaddeus fixed him with a stare that seemed to pierce through all of Marcus's protests. "I have seen the pict-recordings from the cargo bay. I have read the reports from the Tyranid engagement. I have spoken with the Grey Knights who came to investigate your actions."
"The Grey Knights told you—"
"They told everyone." Thaddeus's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "Brother-Captain Stern was... enthusiastic in his praise. He described you as 'the purest soul I have encountered in three centuries of service.' He said that your humility was 'an example that all servants of the Emperor should aspire to.'"
Marcus wanted to scream.
"I am not humble," he said desperately. "I am confused. There is a difference. I genuinely do not understand why any of this is happening. I am not being modest; I am being honest. I have no idea what I am doing."
The squad exchanged glances.
Then, as one, they dropped to their knees.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," Marcus said, his voice rising to a pitch that should not have been possible for his enhanced vocal cords. "PLEASE STOP. THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I DIDN'T WANT."
"Sergeant Marcus," Thaddeus said, his voice solemn. "We—all of us—have chosen to serve under your command. We have read the reports. We have heard the stories. We know that you will insist that you are unworthy, that your achievements are luck, that you are nothing special."
"Because I'm NOT—"
"And we have decided," Thaddeus continued, "that this is precisely why we wish to follow you. A leader who does not believe in his own legend is a leader who will not sacrifice his brothers for glory. A commander who credits luck rather than skill is a commander who will not grow complacent. A warrior who admits uncertainty is a warrior who will always seek to improve."
He rose to his feet, and the others followed.
"We pledge ourselves to your service, Sergeant Marcus. Not because you asked us to. Not because you expect it. But because you are exactly the kind of leader that the Imperium needs."
"I really think you're making a mistake—"
"And that," Thaddeus said, with a smile that was simultaneously terrifying and sincere, "is exactly what we expected you to say."
Marcus stood there, surrounded by nine warriors who had apparently decided to devote themselves to his service based entirely on the fact that he kept insisting he didn't deserve their devotion.
This is insane, he thought. This is completely insane. Every time I try to explain that I'm not worthy, they take it as proof that I am. I can't win. I literally cannot win.
"Fine," he said finally, exhaustion creeping into his voice. "Fine. You want to follow me? Follow me. But I'm warning you right now: I don't know what I'm doing, I'm probably going to make mistakes, and if you die because of my incompetence, I will personally feel terrible about it forever."
"We would expect nothing less, Sergeant," Thaddeus replied.
"I'm being serious."
"So are we."
Marcus looked at his squad—his squad, a concept that still seemed fundamentally absurd—and felt something shift inside him.
They believed in him. They actually, genuinely believed in him. Not because he had asked them to, not because he had tried to impress them, but because his honest confusion had somehow convinced them that he was worth following.
It was, objectively speaking, completely irrational.
But as he looked at their faces—the faces of warriors who had seen centuries of combat and had chosen to follow someone who had been a Battle-Brother for four days—Marcus felt something that might have been the beginning of acceptance.
Maybe, he thought, maybe I can't convince them that I'm not special. Maybe the more I try, the more they'll believe the opposite. So maybe... maybe I should stop trying.
Maybe I should just try to be the leader they think I am.
Even if I have no idea what that looks like.
"Alright," he said, straightening his shoulders in a way that felt almost natural. "Alright. You want to be my squad? Let's be a squad. Let's train. Let's prepare. Let's figure out how to work together."
"And then?" Thaddeus asked.
"And then we go wherever they send us and try not to die."
The squad nodded, apparently finding this an acceptable plan.
"But first," Marcus continued, "I need everyone's names. Because calling you 'Brother' constantly is going to get confusing."
For the next hour, Marcus learned about the warriors who had chosen to follow him.
Brother Thaddeus, the ancient veteran who had seen more combat than Marcus could imagine.
Brother Corvinus, a specialist in heavy weapons who looked at the Conflagration-Dominus with barely concealed envy.
Brother Septimus, a scout-trained infiltration expert who moved with unsettling silence.
Brother Maxentius, a close-combat specialist whose power fist was decorated with the skulls of enemies he had personally crushed.
Brother Gaius, a former Apothecary trainee who had transferred to combat duty after deciding that healing was "insufficiently direct."
Brother Lucan, a quiet warrior who spoke rarely but whose marksmanship records were apparently legendary.
Brother Castor, a young Battle-Brother (by Space Marine standards) who had specifically requested transfer to Marcus's squad because he wanted to "learn from the Exemplar."
Brother Decimus, a veteran of the Tyrannic Wars who had lost his entire previous squad to a Hive Tyrant and had sought out Marcus because "anyone who can kill one of those creatures deserves my service."
And Brother Octavian, a warrior whose specialty was apparently "making things explode" and who had brought his own collection of modified grenades that he insisted on demonstrating at the earliest opportunity.
They were, Marcus realized, an incredibly talented group of warriors.
They were also, he suspected, completely insane to have chosen to follow him.
But as the training session progressed—as he watched them move through combat drills with precision and power, as he saw them adapt to his (completely improvised) tactical suggestions, as he noticed the way they looked at him with a respect he still didn't feel he deserved—Marcus began to understand something important.
It didn't matter whether he deserved their loyalty.
They had given it to him anyway.
And the least he could do—the absolute minimum—was try to be worthy of it.
Even if I still have no idea what I'm doing.
Even if I'm still terrified.
Even if I'm still pretty sure that Gerald the houseplant would be deeply confused by all of this.
He was their Sergeant now.
Their Exemplar, whether he liked it or not.
And he was going to do his best to keep them alive.
Far away, in a dimension that was not quite a dimension, in a space that was more concept than location, the Emperor of Mankind continued His eternal vigil.
The burden of holding back the darkness was immense—a weight that would have crushed any lesser being, a constant agony that had endured for ten thousand years. There was no respite, no relief, no moment of peace in the endless war against the forces that sought to consume humanity.
But today, for just a moment, something had caught His attention.
A small disturbance. A brief flicker in the tapestry of souls that made up the Imperium. A single thread that burned brighter than it should, that twisted in patterns that defied expectation, that somehow—impossibly—made the Emperor's eternal suffering just slightly more bearable.
Marcus, the Emperor thought, the name emerging from depths of consciousness that had not formed coherent words in millennia.
The one who seals warp breaches with fire.
The one who makes Grey Knights swear oaths.
The one who inspires loyalty simply by insisting he doesn't deserve it.
If the Emperor had been capable of smiling—if His ravaged face had possessed the muscles for such an expression—He might have done so.
Watch this one, He thought, His attention already fragmenting back into the endless battle. Watch him carefully.
He is going to do something interesting.
He always does.
And somewhere on a strike cruiser heading toward the next warzone, Sergeant Marcus sneezed violently for no apparent reason, causing his entire squad to immediately assume defensive positions because they thought he was reacting to a threat.
He wasn't.
He was just sneezing.
But he couldn't convince them of that, because everything he did was apparently significant and meaningful and worthy of intense scrutiny.
Such was the life of the Exemplar.
Whether he wanted it or not.
END OF CHAPTER THREE
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ciaphas Cain has correctly identified Marcus as a walking probability anomaly and has wisely chosen to be elsewhere. The Grey Knights have added Marcus to their list of "allies to contact in case of apocalypse," which is a very short list. The Conflagration-Dominus continues to be unexplained and will remain so for the duration of this narrative. Accept it. Embrace it. Do not question the Techmarines.
Next chapter: Marcus's squad gets deployed to a Chaos-controlled world, and Marcus accidentally liberates it in about six hours. Abaddon the Despoiler hears about this and adds "the Exemplar" to his list of priority targets, which is going to be a mistake for reasons that should be obvious by now. Also, Guilliman finally gets around to reading those reports about the anomalous recruit, and has Feelings about it.]