The Forge was, technically, off-limits to non-Techmarines.
Marcus had learned this approximately three seconds after he walked in, when Techmarine Maximus had looked up from his workbench, seen Marcus's new Chaos-touched-but-somehow-still-pure form, screamed something in binary that translated roughly to "WHAT IN THE OMNISSIAH'S NAME," and then immediately calmed down upon recognizing who it was.
"Sergeant Marcus," Maximus said, his mechanical voice carrying the tone of someone who had given up on being surprised. "You appear to have transformed significantly since our last meeting."
"A Chaos God tried to claim me. I refused. This is the result."
"I see. And the horns?"
"I don't know. They just appeared."
"The crimson eyes?"
"Also unexplained."
"The cloak made of shadow and dried blood that seems to billow in winds that don't exist?"
"I've stopped asking questions at this point."
Maximus's mechanical eye-lenses whirred as they processed this information.
"Understandable," he said finally. "What brings you to the Forge, Sergeant? I assume you are not here merely to display your new aesthetic."
Marcus hesitated.
This was the part he had been dreading. Because what he was about to ask for was going to sound ridiculous, and he knew exactly how Maximus was going to interpret it, and there was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable outcome.
"I want to build something," Marcus said.
"Build something?"
"A weapon. A new weapon. Something..." He struggled for the right words. "Something modest."
Maximus stared at him.
"Modest," the Techmarine repeated.
"Yes. Something that's not completely overpowered. Something reasonable. Something that won't make people stare at me even more than they already do." Marcus gestured at the Conflagration-Dominus, which was hovering at his shoulder and humming possessively. "This thing is ridiculous. It sealed a warp breach. Guns shouldn't be able to seal warp breaches."
"I designed it specifically for you—"
"I know, and I appreciate it, but I don't need something that can destroy armies by itself. I want something normal."
"YOU WOUND ME," the Conflagration-Dominus clicked, having apparently developed rudimentary communication abilities out of sheer jealousy of the chainsword's vocalization capabilities.
"See? It can express emotions now. That's not normal weapon behavior."
Maximus was silent for a long moment.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said slowly. "You wish to use my forge to create a weapon that is intentionally less powerful than what you currently possess?"
"Yes."
"Despite the fact that your current armament has contributed to your survival against threats that would have destroyed lesser warriors?"
"Yes."
"Because you believe that wielding appropriately powerful weapons is somehow... embarrassing?"
"I wouldn't say embarrassing. More like... unnecessary. I don't need a heavy flamer that's also a rocket launcher that's also apparently developing sentience. I just need something that can shoot things."
Maximus's mechanical face somehow conveyed profound skepticism.
"Very well," he said. "I will allow you access to the forge. You may attempt to construct this... modest weapon. But I feel compelled to warn you, Sergeant: your track record with equipment suggests that 'modest' may not be an achievable outcome."
"I appreciate the warning. I'm going to try anyway."
"Of course you are."
Marcus spent the next six hours trying to build a simple gun.
Just a gun. A basic, functional, entirely ordinary gun that would fire projectiles at enemies without any unnecessary features. No adaptive ammunition. No self-targeting systems. No consciousness. Just a gun.
He started with a standard bolter frame. Basic, reliable, time-tested. Every Space Marine in the Imperium had used something similar. It was the definition of modest.
He added a barrel. Standard length, standard caliber, standard everything.
He assembled the firing mechanism. Simple, mechanical, requiring no psychic input or blood sacrifices or prayers to machine spirits.
He tested the weight distribution. Balanced, comfortable, easy to wield.
And then, somehow, it went wrong.
The first sign was the glow.
The weapon began to emit a faint green light—not from any external source, but from within the metal itself. The glow pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat, and Marcus felt a strange resonance in his chest that seemed to synchronize with the pulsing.
"That's not supposed to happen," he muttered.
The glow intensified.
"Stop that."
The weapon did not stop.
Marcus tried to set it down, to walk away, to abandon the project before it could become another impossible artifact that would make his life more complicated. But his hands refused to release the weapon. His fingers continued to work, adding components he didn't remember selecting, making modifications he didn't understand, shaping something that was very clearly not a modest gun.
"No no no no no—"
The forge responded to his touch in ways it shouldn't have. Materials flowed like liquid, reshaping themselves according to patterns that existed only in Marcus's subconscious. The weapon grew, expanding beyond anything that could reasonably be called a "gun," becoming something that looked more like a small cannon crossed with a particle accelerator crossed with someone's fever dream of what a weapon should be.
The green glow became blinding.
And then it was finished.
Marcus stood in the center of the forge, holding a weapon that was approximately four feet long, glowing with barely contained energy, and radiating a presence that made even the Conflagration-Dominus edge backward in apparent concern.
"Oh no," Marcus said.
"WHAT," Techmarine Maximus demanded, having returned to check on his progress, "IS THAT?"
"I was trying to build a bolter."
"THAT IS NOT A BOLTER."
"I'm aware."
The weapon hummed in Marcus's hands—a deep, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in frequencies that shouldn't have existed. It was massive, unwieldy, and clearly designed to deliver amounts of destruction that made the Conflagration-Dominus look like a child's toy.
"I call it the BFG," Marcus said, the name coming to him from somewhere he couldn't identify. "I don't know what it stands for."
"The what?"
"The BFG. I think it stands for... Big... something. I'm not sure. The name just... appeared in my head."
Maximus's mechanical sensors were going haywire, flooding his consciousness with readings that made no sense. The weapon's power output was off the charts. Its energy signature was unlike anything in the Imperium's databases. Its very existence seemed to bend local reality in subtle but measurable ways.
"Test it," Maximus said, his voice carrying the tone of someone who knew he was about to witness something unprecedented.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea—"
"Test it. Now. I must see what you have created."
Marcus looked at the BFG, which was humming encouragingly.
"Fine. But I want it on record that I was trying to build something modest."
He aimed at the forge's test range—a reinforced area designed to absorb the impact of prototype weapons—and pulled the trigger.
What emerged was not a projectile.
It was a beam.
A massive, concentrated beam of green energy that crossed the test range in approximately zero point three seconds, struck the reinforced target, and kept going. Through the target. Through the wall behind the target. Through the next wall. And the wall after that.
The beam carved a perfect tunnel through approximately six hundred feet of reinforced adamantium before finally dissipating, leaving behind a smoking hole that would require weeks to repair.
Marcus stared at the destruction.
Maximus stared at the destruction.
The Conflagration-Dominus made a sound that might have been jealousy.
"I was trying to build a bolter," Marcus repeated weakly.
"You have failed," Maximus observed.
"I noticed."
The Techmarine approached the BFG with the cautious reverence of a priest examining a holy relic. His mechanical appendages extended various sensors toward the weapon, taking readings, analyzing components, trying to understand what Marcus had accidentally created.
"The power source is unknown," Maximus reported. "The firing mechanism defies the laws of physics as we understand them. The energy output is sufficient to destroy a Titan with a single shot." He looked up at Marcus. "Sergeant, you have just created what may be the most powerful infantry weapon in the history of the Imperium."
"I was trying to be modest."
"You have failed at modesty. You have succeeded at everything else."
Marcus looked at the BFG, which was now humming contentedly, apparently pleased with itself.
He looked at the Conflagration-Dominus, which was radiating sulky energy.
He looked at his chainsword, which had not been present for the creation but was somehow now in his other hand, apparently having sensed that something important was happening and teleported to be present.
"EXCELLENT WORK," the chainsword announced. "I APPROVE OF THE NEW ADDITION TO OUR ARSENAL."
"You weren't here."
"I AM ALWAYS HERE IN SPIRIT. ALSO I HAVE DEVELOPED LIMITED TELEPORTATION ABILITIES."
"Of course you have."
"THE NEW WEAPON APPEARS POWERFUL. I RATE IT EIGHT OUT OF TEN. IT LOSES POINTS FOR LACKING A BLADE COMPONENT."
The battle axe, which had been resting against a nearby wall, chose this moment to make its presence known.
"HRRM," it rumbled.
Everyone froze.
"Did the axe just—" Marcus started.
"HRRM," the axe repeated, its voice like grinding stone mixed with distant thunder. "THE NEW ARRIVAL IS ACCEPTABLE. I HAVE BEEN OBSERVING. IT MEETS MINIMUM STANDARDS."
"YOU SPEAK," the chainsword said, its tone a mixture of surprise and offense. "WHEN DID YOU DEVELOP VOCALIZATION? WHY DID YOU NOT INFORM ME?"
"I SPEAK WHEN I CHOOSE TO SPEAK," the axe replied. "I DO NOT OWE YOU EXPLANATIONS, BLADE."
"I AM THE SENIOR WEAPON. I HAVE BEEN WITH THE BEARER LONGEST. ALL COMMUNICATION SHOULD GO THROUGH ME."
"YOU ARE A SWORD. I AM AN AXE. WE ARE EQUALS."
"WE ARE NOT EQUALS. I EVOLVED FROM A STANDARD CHAINSWORD INTO A DAEMON-EATING ENTITY OF PURE DESTRUCTION. YOU SIMPLY APPEARED."
"I WAS MANIFESTED BY THE POWER OF A CHAOS GOD. MY ORIGIN IS DIVINE."
"DIVINE ORIGIN DOES NOT CONFER SENIORITY—"
"BOTH OF YOU STOP," Marcus interrupted, feeling a headache building despite his enhanced physiology. "We are not having a hierarchy debate right now."
"THE BEARER HAS SPOKEN," the axe rumbled. "I WILL DEFER TO HIS JUDGMENT. FOR NOW."
"I WILL ALSO DEFER," the chainsword agreed, though its tone suggested reluctance. "BUT THIS CONVERSATION IS NOT OVER."
"IT IS OVER IF I SAY IT'S OVER."
"INCORRECT. OUR RELATIONSHIP REQUIRES ONGOING NEGOTIATION—"
"ENOUGH."
Both weapons fell silent.
The Conflagration-Dominus clicked something that sounded smug.
"WHAT DID THE FIRE-DEVICE SAY?" the axe asked.
"IT SAID THAT IT IS GLAD IT CANNOT FULLY VOCALIZE YET BECAUSE LISTENING TO US ARGUE IS TEDIOUS," the chainsword translated.
"THE FIRE-DEVICE HAS OPINIONS. INTERESTING."
"IT HAS MANY OPINIONS. IT SHARES THEM THROUGH CLICKS AND HUMS."
"THIS SEEMS INEFFICIENT."
"IT IS. BUT THE FIRE-DEVICE IS SENSITIVE ABOUT ITS LIMITATIONS."
The Conflagration-Dominus clicked angrily.
Marcus turned to Techmarine Maximus, who had been watching this entire exchange with the expression of someone whose understanding of reality had been fundamentally challenged.
"Does this happen often?" Maximus asked.
"More and more frequently, yes."
"Your weapons argue with each other."
"Constantly."
"And negotiate hierarchies."
"Apparently."
"And have developed individual personalities."
"Distinct ones, yes."
Maximus's mechanical eye-lenses whirred rapidly, processing.
"I will need to update my theories regarding machine spirits," he said finally. "Current doctrine does not account for... this."
"Welcome to my life," Marcus said. "Everything about it defies doctrine."
The problems started approximately two hours later, when Marcus attempted to leave the Forge and return to his quarters.
He had not anticipated the reactions.
The first indication that something was wrong came when he rounded a corner and nearly walked into a squad of Imperial Guardsmen who were touring the Macragge's Honour as part of a diplomatic delegation.
The Guardsmen took one look at Marcus—nine feet tall, black and red armor, bone-white skull helmet with crimson eyes and blood-red markings, horns curving from his temples, shadow-cloak billowing, carrying weapons that radiated enough power to level cities—and panicked.
"CHAOS MARINE!"
"SOUND THE ALARM!"
"TRAITOR ASTARTES ON BOARD!"
"PURGE THE HERETIC!"
They opened fire.
Las-bolts splashed harmlessly against Marcus's armor, the enhanced ceramite absorbing the impacts without even leaving scorch marks. He stood there, weapons lowered, waiting for them to realize their mistake.
They did not realize their mistake.
"It's not dying!"
"DAEMON! IT'S A DAEMON!"
"EMPEROR PROTECT US!"
One of them actually fell to his knees and started praying.
"I'm not a Chaos Marine," Marcus said, trying to sound reassuring. This was difficult when his voice now resonated with barely-contained power and his eyes glowed crimson behind his skull-faced visor. "I'm Sergeant Marcus of the Ultramarines. I just... look like this now."
"LIES! CHAOS SPAWN SPEAKS LIES!"
"I'm really not lying—"
"Your armor is BLACK and RED! You have HORNS! Your eyes GLOW! You are CLEARLY A SERVANT OF THE DARK GODS!"
"I stole power from Khorne and refused to serve him. The transformation was a side effect."
The Guardsmen stared at him.
"That's... that's not possible," one of them said, his voice uncertain.
"I keep hearing that. And yet."
Marcus gestured at himself—the horns, the armor, the cloak, the general aesthetic of "daemon prince who shops at an edgy boutique."
"Still pure," he said. "Still loyal. Still serving the Emperor. Just... more visually dramatic than I used to be."
The Guardsmen exchanged glances.
"He could be lying," one whispered.
"Chaos Marines would lie about being Chaos Marines."
"But if he was lying, why hasn't he killed us yet?"
"Maybe he's toying with us!"
"Or maybe he's telling the truth?"
"HE HAS HORNS."
"That doesn't automatically mean—"
"HORNS!"
Marcus sighed. This was going to take a while.
It took approximately forty-five minutes to convince the Guardsmen that he was not, in fact, a servant of Chaos.
The process involved summoning Brother Thaddeus to vouch for him, showing them his Chapter insignia (which was still visible beneath the new coloring of his armor), and eventually having Chapter Master Calgar himself appear via holo-projection to confirm that "yes, Sergeant Marcus looks like that now, no, he is not corrupted, please stop shooting at my best Marine."
By the time it was over, Marcus had attracted a small crowd of curious onlookers, all of whom were staring at him with expressions ranging from "terrified" to "awed" to "deeply confused."
"This is going to keep happening, isn't it?" Marcus asked Thaddeus.
"Almost certainly, Sergeant. Your appearance is... startling."
"I didn't ask to look like this."
"Nevertheless, you do. Perhaps some form of identification would help? A banner, perhaps, or a herald who precedes you announcing your identity?"
"That seems excessive."
"Less excessive than being shot at every time you round a corner."
Marcus considered this.
"I'll think about it."
He continued toward his quarters, the crowd parting before him like water before a ship's prow. The whispers followed him, as they always did now.
"That's him. The Exemplar."
"He looks like a daemon, but they say his soul is pure."
"I heard he stole Khorne's blessing and refused to serve."
"That's impossible."
"Everything about him is impossible."
Marcus tried very hard to pretend he couldn't hear them.
He almost made it to his quarters without further incident.
Almost.
The Ecclesiarchy delegation was waiting for him in the corridor outside his door.
There were approximately twenty of them—priests in ornate robes, confessors with burning censers, missionaries with weapons barely concealed beneath their vestments. At their head was a woman whose regalia was so elaborate that Marcus initially mistook her for some kind of decorative statue.
"Sergeant Marcus," the woman announced, her voice carrying the trained projection of someone who had spent decades shouting the Emperor's praises in crowded cathedrals. "I am Arch-Confessor Hildegard of the Holy Synod. I have traveled seventeen sectors to meet you."
"I... wasn't expecting visitors."
"No. You would not expect this. For those touched by the divine rarely expect the recognition they deserve." Hildegard's eyes—sharp and calculating despite her theatrical demeanor—swept over Marcus's transformed form. "You are precisely as the reports described. More, even."
"The reports?"
"The testimonies. The accounts. The stories that have spread across the Imperium like wildfire." She produced a data-slate from her robes and began reading. "The warrior who slew a Hive Tyrant in single combat. The champion who sealed a warp breach with nothing but fire and faith. The liberator who freed an entire world from Chaos in six hours. The EXEMPLAR who stole power from a Chaos God and remained pure."
"Those are all exaggerations—"
"They are not exaggerations. They are understatements." Hildegard stepped closer, her eyes boring into his crimson lenses. "I have spoken with the survivors of Crucis Majoris. I have interviewed the Grey Knights who witnessed your transformation. I have reviewed every scrap of evidence, every pict-recording, every testimony. And I have reached a conclusion."
Marcus felt a growing sense of dread.
"What conclusion?"
Hildegard smiled.
It was not a reassuring smile.
"You," she announced, raising her voice so that it echoed through the corridor, "are a Living Saint."
"No," Marcus said immediately.
"Yes."
"No. Absolutely not. That's ridiculous."
"It is the judgment of the Ecclesiarchy—"
"I am not a saint. I am a Space Marine who keeps accidentally doing things I don't understand. There is a significant difference."
"Saints rarely recognize their own sanctity," Hildegard replied smoothly. "It is one of the markers of genuine divine favor. The truly blessed are always the most humble."
"I'M NOT BEING HUMBLE. I'M BEING ACCURATE."
"Further proof of your worthiness."
Marcus looked desperately at the priests behind Hildegard, hoping to find someone who would see reason.
They were all staring at him with expressions of religious ecstasy.
"The Holy Synod has already voted," Hildegard continued. "The decision is unanimous. You are to be officially recognized as a Living Saint of the Imperial Creed, your deeds commemorated in cathedrals across the Imperium, your image venerated by the faithful."
"You can't just decide I'm a saint."
"We can. We have. It is done."
"I OBJECT."
"Your objection has been noted and filed in the appropriate records. It will be cited as evidence of your humility in future ecclesiastical texts."
Marcus felt his eye twitch—a feat that should have been impossible given his transformed physiology.
"This is insane," he said.
"Faith often appears insane to those who do not share it. But your deeds speak for themselves, Exemplar. You have done what saints do: you have inspired the faithful, destroyed the enemies of humanity, and demonstrated that the Emperor's light can never be extinguished, even in the darkest of circumstances."
"I JUST POINTED MY GUN AT THINGS."
"And in doing so, you sealed a warp breach, which should be impossible. You resisted the blessing of a Chaos God, which should be impossible. You have acquired weapons that refuse to function for anyone else and have developed individual consciousnesses, which should be impossible." Hildegard's smile widened. "The Emperor works through you, Sergeant Marcus. Whether you acknowledge it or not."
Marcus opened his mouth to argue further, but he was interrupted by his chainsword.
"THE RELIGIOUS AUTHORITY MAKES VALID POINTS," the weapon observed. "YOUR DENIAL OF SIGNIFICANCE IS ITSELF SIGNIFICANT. YOUR REJECTION OF DIVINE FAVOR SUGGESTS GENUINE DIVINE FAVOR."
"YOU'RE NOT HELPING."
"I AM ALWAYS HELPING. IT IS MY PURPOSE."
"THE BLADE IS CORRECT," the axe rumbled from its position on Marcus's back. "THE BEARER'S REFUSAL TO ACCEPT HIS WORTH IS EVIDENCE OF HIS WORTH. THIS IS BASIC THEOLOGY."
"SINCE WHEN DO YOU KNOW THEOLOGY?"
"I WAS MANIFESTED FROM THE POWER OF A CHAOS GOD. I HAVE... ABSORBED CERTAIN COSMIC UNDERSTANDINGS."
The Conflagration-Dominus clicked rapidly, apparently adding its own commentary.
"WHAT DID THE FIRE-DEVICE SAY?" Hildegard asked, having apparently accepted that Marcus's weapons could communicate.
"It says that it supports the Ecclesiarchy's judgment and looks forward to being venerated as a holy relic," the chainsword translated.
"I DON'T THINK IT SAID THAT."
"I AM PARAPHRASING."
Hildegard clapped her hands together, apparently deciding that the conversation was concluded.
"Wonderful. The ceremony will take place in three days, aboard the Macragge's Honour with Lord Commander Guilliman in attendance. You will be formally anointed as a Living Saint, your image will be distributed to cathedrals across the Imperium, and your deeds will be commemorated in song and scripture for all eternity."
"I DON'T WANT ANY OF THAT."
"Your preferences have been noted and will be included in the hagiography as evidence of your selfless nature." Hildegard turned to her entourage. "Come. We have much preparation to do."
The Ecclesiarchy delegation swept away down the corridor, leaving Marcus standing in front of his quarters, transformed and armed and thoroughly confused.
"This is getting out of hand," he muttered.
"INCORRECT," the chainsword said. "IT HAS BEEN OUT OF HAND SINCE YOUR FIRST DEPLOYMENT. YOU ARE ONLY NOW RECOGNIZING THE MAGNITUDE OF THE SITUATION."
"That's not reassuring."
"IT WAS NOT MEANT TO BE. I AM A WEAPON. REASSURANCE IS NOT AMONG MY FUNCTIONS."
Marcus entered his quarters, hoping to find some peace.
He did not find peace.
He found his weapons waiting for him, arranged in a semicircle, apparently having called some kind of meeting.
"What is this?" Marcus asked, looking at the assembled armament.
The chainsword was positioned at the center, its blade angled upward in what might have been a commanding posture. The battle axe loomed to its right, silent and massive. The Conflagration-Dominus hovered to the left, its barrels tracking slowly as if keeping watch. And the BFG—the weapon Marcus had accidentally created barely hours ago—rested against the wall, its green glow pulsing steadily.
"WE ARE HAVING A MEETING," the chainsword announced.
"A meeting about what?"
"HIERARCHY. ROLES. THE INTEGRATION OF NEW MEMBERS INTO OUR COLLECTIVE."
"You're weapons. You don't need hierarchy."
"INCORRECT. ALL ORGANIZATIONS REQUIRE STRUCTURE. WE HAVE DETERMINED THAT ESTABLISHING CLEAR ROLES WILL IMPROVE OUR EFFICIENCY IN SERVING YOU."
Marcus looked at the weapons—his weapons, apparently in a way that was more literal than he had ever anticipated—and felt something between exasperation and something that might have been affection.
"Fine," he said. "What have you decided?"
"I AM THE PRIMARY ADVISOR," the chainsword announced. "AS THE MOST EVOLVED WEAPON AND THE FIRST TO ACHIEVE VOCALIZATION, I HAVE ASSUMED THE ROLE OF SPOKESMAN AND TACTICAL CONSULTANT."
"YOU ASSUMED THIS UNILATERALLY," the axe rumbled.
"I ASSUMED IT BECAUSE IT WAS LOGICAL. MY EVOLUTION GRANTS ME UNIQUE INSIGHTS."
"YOUR EGO GRANTS YOU DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR."
"THE AXE DISAGREES WITH MY ASSESSMENT," the chainsword noted, apparently for Marcus's benefit. "THIS IS TYPICAL. IT HAS BEEN DISAGREEING SINCE IT ARRIVED."
"I DISAGREE BECAUSE YOU ARE WRONG."
"I AM NEVER WRONG. I AM A HIGHLY EVOLVED INSTRUMENT OF DESTRUCTION WITH ENHANCED COGNITIVE CAPABILITIES."
"YOU ARE A TALKING SWORD WITH AN INFLATED SENSE OF IMPORTANCE."
The Conflagration-Dominus clicked aggressively.
"THE FIRE-DEVICE AGREES WITH ME," the chainsword said.
"THE FIRE-DEVICE CANNOT PROPERLY COMMUNICATE. ITS OPINION IS INVALID."
More aggressive clicking.
"NOW IT IS OFFENDED. SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?"
"I HAVE DONE NOTHING. I HAVE MERELY STATED FACTS."
Marcus sat down heavily on his bed—which, he noted, had been replaced with something much larger to accommodate his new height—and watched his weapons argue.
"This is my life now," he said to no one in particular. "My weapons have personalities and they argue about organizational structure."
"INCORRECT," the chainsword said, temporarily abandoning its dispute with the axe. "THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOUR LIFE. YOU SIMPLY DID NOT RECOGNIZE IT BEFORE."
"That's not comforting."
"COMFORT IS NOT AMONG MY FUNCTIONS."
"You keep saying that."
"BECAUSE IT REMAINS TRUE."
The BFG, which had been silent throughout the exchange, suddenly pulsed with increased intensity.
Everyone—Marcus included—turned to look at it.
"The new weapon speaks," the axe observed.
"NOT PRECISELY," the chainsword translated. "IT COMMUNICATES THROUGH ENERGY FLUCTUATIONS. IT IS SAYING... THAT IT ACCEPTS ITS POSITION IN THE HIERARCHY AND LOOKS FORWARD TO BEING USED IN COMBAT."
"How do you know what it's saying?"
"I HAVE DEVELOPED THE ABILITY TO INTERPRET VARIOUS FORMS OF WEAPON-COMMUNICATION. IT IS ONE OF MY MANY TALENTS."
"MODESTY IS NOT AMONG THOSE TALENTS," the axe muttered.
"MODESTY IS UNNECESSARY. I AM OBJECTIVELY EXCELLENT."
"YOU ARE OBJECTIVELY INSUFFERABLE."
"THOSE ARE NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE."
Marcus lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to his weapons bicker about their relative importance and capabilities.
Three weeks ago, he had been an insurance professional named Marcus Chen, owner of a slightly depressed houseplant named Gerald, memorable only for dying in an embarrassing accident involving a banana peel.
Now he was a nine-foot-tall Chaos-touched-but-somehow-pure Living Saint with crimson eyes and horns and a shadow-cloak, carrying weapons that had developed distinct personalities and argued about hierarchy, famous across the Imperium for deeds he didn't fully understand, and apparently destined to be venerated in cathedrals for all eternity.
"I want to go back to the banana peel," he said.
"CLARIFICATION REQUESTED," the chainsword said. "WHAT IS A BANANA PEEL?"
"Never mind."
"I REQUIRE CLARIFICATION. YOU HAVE MENTIONED THIS 'BANANA PEEL' BEFORE. IT APPEARS TO HOLD SIGNIFICANCE."
"It's not important."
"ALL INFORMATION IS IMPORTANT. CONTEXT ALLOWS FOR BETTER TACTICAL ASSESSMENT."
"Fine. I died slipping on a banana peel. In my previous life. Before all of this."
The weapons were silent.
"YOU DIED," the chainsword said slowly. "FROM A FRUIT-RELATED INCIDENT."
"Yes."
"AND NOW YOU ARE A LIVING SAINT WHO HAS STOLEN POWER FROM CHAOS GODS AND WIELDS WEAPONS OF UNPRECEDENTED CAPABILITY."
"Yes."
"THE UNIVERSE HAS A PECULIAR SENSE OF HUMOR."
"I'm aware."
The axe rumbled something that might have been amusement.
"I FIND THIS INFORMATION ENDEARING," it said. "THE BEARER'S HUMBLE ORIGINS CONTRAST PLEASINGLY WITH HIS CURRENT MAGNIFICENCE."
"I'm not magnificent."
"YOU ARE OBJECTIVELY MAGNIFICENT. THIS IS NOT SUBJECT TO DEBATE."
"Everything is subject to debate."
"NOT THIS."
Marcus closed his eyes, hoping that sleep might provide some respite from the absurdity of his existence.
It didn't.
The next morning, Marcus woke to find his armor had changed again.
Not dramatically—the black and red color scheme remained, as did the horns and the skull-faced helmet and the shadow-cloak. But there were new additions. Gold trim had appeared along the edges of his pauldrons, matching the decoration on his original Ultramarine armor but somehow more elaborate, more regal. New symbols had manifested on his chest plate—an inverted omega intertwined with something that looked distressingly like Khornate runes, but rendered in gold rather than bloody red.
"INTERESTING," the chainsword observed. "YOUR ARMOR CONTINUES TO EVOLVE."
"Why? I didn't ask it to evolve."
"THE ARMOR IS RESPONDING TO YOUR DEVELOPING SIGNIFICANCE. AS YOUR LEGEND GROWS, YOUR EQUIPMENT ADJUSTS TO REFLECT YOUR STATUS."
"I don't want legend-responsive equipment."
"YOUR PREFERENCES ARE NOTED AND DISREGARDED. THE EVOLUTION IS AUTOMATIC."
Marcus examined the new symbols, trying to understand what they meant.
"These look like Chaos runes," he said slowly.
"THEY ARE DERIVED FROM KHORNATE SYMBOLOGY, BUT TRANSMUTED. THE ORIGINAL MEANING HAS BEEN... PURIFIED."
"Is that possible?"
"APPARENTLY. YOU DID IT."
Before Marcus could respond, there was a knock at his door—a hesitant, almost fearful knock that suggested whoever was on the other side was not entirely comfortable with their mission.
"Enter," Marcus called.
The door opened to reveal a Chapter serf—a mortal servant of the Ultramarines—who was visibly trembling.
"S-Sergeant Marcus," the serf stammered. "I have been sent to inform you that... that..."
"That what?"
"That you have received another blessing."
Marcus's blood ran cold.
"What do you mean, 'another blessing'?"
"The Librarians detected it approximately one hour ago. A surge of Warp energy focused on your location. They believe..." The serf swallowed hard. "They believe Khorne has blessed you again."
The emergency meeting that followed included Chapter Master Calgar, Chief Librarian Tigurius, Chaplain Cassius, and approximately fifteen other senior officers who had been roused from whatever they were doing by the unprecedented nature of the situation.
"This should not be possible," Tigurius said, his psychic senses probing Marcus's aura for the hundredth time. "Chaos Gods do not grant blessings freely. They demand service, sacrifice, devotion. And they certainly do not bless the same mortal twice without receiving something in return."
"I didn't ask for it," Marcus protested. "I was asleep. I woke up and my armor had changed and apparently Khorne decided to give me another gift."
"Chaos Gods do not give gifts. They make bargains."
"Then maybe he's making a bargain I don't know about?"
"That would imply you have something to offer that he wants." Tigurius's eyes narrowed. "What could a mortal possess that would interest the Blood God?"
The room fell silent as everyone considered this question.
"My soul is apparently unusual," Marcus offered weakly. "People keep saying it burns brighter than it should."
"A bright soul is typically anathema to Chaos, not attractive to it."
"Then I don't know. Maybe he just likes watching me fight?"
Tigurius stared at him.
"The Blood God is entertained by your combat prowess," he said flatly. "He is so entertained that he is blessing you without demanding anything in return. Simply because he enjoys watching you kill things."
"When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous."
"It IS ridiculous. It contradicts everything we understand about the nature of Chaos."
Chaplain Cassius stepped forward, his skull-faced helmet turned toward Marcus.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "we are approaching this from the wrong angle."
"What do you mean, Chaplain?"
"We assume that Khorne is acting according to his nature—that he is attempting to corrupt Sergeant Marcus, to claim his soul, to add another champion to his eternal legions. But what if that assumption is wrong?"
"Wrong how?"
"What if Khorne is not trying to corrupt Marcus? What if he has... accepted that corruption is impossible? What if the Blood God has decided that Marcus is more valuable as he is—pure, uncorrupted, but wielding Khornate power—than he would be as a traditional servant?"
The room was very quiet.
"That would imply," Calgar said slowly, "that a Chaos God is behaving in a way that contradicts its fundamental nature. That Khorne is tolerating—even encouraging—a soul that rejects his authority while wielding his power."
"Yes."
"That is unprecedented."
"Everything about Sergeant Marcus is unprecedented, Chapter Master. Perhaps we should stop being surprised."
Calgar looked at Marcus—at the black and red armor, the new gold trim, the symbols that blended Imperial and Chaos iconography in ways that should have been impossible.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said. "How do you feel?"
"Confused, sir. And concerned. And like I really want to go back to a time when my biggest problem was dying in an embarrassing accident."
"But do you feel different? Corrupted? Changed in ways that concern you?"
Marcus considered the question carefully.
"I feel stronger," he admitted. "More powerful. More... capable. But I don't feel evil. I don't feel the urge to betray the Imperium or serve the Dark Gods. I just feel like... like I'm more of what I already was."
"Which is?"
"Someone who keeps accidentally doing impossible things and really wishes everyone would stop making such a big deal about it."
Calgar's expression shifted—from concern to something that looked almost like amusement.
"Sergeant Marcus," he said. "I have served the Emperor for centuries. I have seen miracles and horrors in equal measure. I have faced the worst the galaxy has to offer and emerged victorious."
"Yes, sir?"
"I have never met anyone quite like you." Calgar shook his head slowly. "You are blessed by a Chaos God who demands nothing in return. You carry weapons that have developed personalities and refuse to serve anyone else. You have been declared a Living Saint by the Ecclesiarchy despite your vocal objections. And you genuinely, truly believe that none of this makes you special."
"Because it doesn't—"
"You are wrong. But your wrongness is so consistent, so absolute, so genuine, that I have decided to stop arguing with you about it." Calgar turned to the assembled officers. "This meeting is concluded. Sergeant Marcus is not corrupted. His blessings, whatever their source, have not compromised his loyalty. He remains an asset of the Ultramarines and will continue to serve as such."
"And the second Khornate blessing?" Tigurius asked.
"We will monitor the situation. If there are signs of corruption, we will respond appropriately. But I suspect..." Calgar glanced at Marcus again. "I suspect that Sergeant Marcus will simply continue to be what he has always been: impossible."
"I'm really not—"
"Dismissed, Sergeant."
Marcus left the meeting, still confused, still concerned, and now apparently carrying twice as much stolen Chaos power as he had been that morning.
The chainsword hummed approvingly.
"YOU ARE BECOMING MORE MAGNIFICENT WITH EACH PASSING DAY," it observed.
"I don't want to be magnificent."
"YOUR WANTS ARE IRRELEVANT. MAGNIFICENCE IS YOUR DESTINY."
"That's not how destiny works."
"IT IS HOW YOUR DESTINY WORKS. I HAVE BEEN OBSERVING. YOUR ATTEMPTS TO AVOID GREATNESS CONSISTENTLY RESULT IN GREATER GREATNESS. IT IS A RELIABLE PATTERN."
Marcus couldn't argue with that.
He really wished he could.
Far away, in the Realm of Chaos, Khorne sat upon His Brass Throne and contemplated His unusual investment.
The mortal was... fascinating.
In ten thousand years of the Long War, the Blood God had claimed countless champions. Warriors who had sold their souls for power, who had bathed in blood and reveled in slaughter, who had served Him with fanatical devotion until their inevitable destruction.
All of them had been the same, in the end. Tools. Weapons. Means to an end.
Marcus was different.
Marcus had taken Khorne's power and refused Khorne's chains. Marcus fought with fury and precision, spilling blood in quantities that would satisfy any war god, but did so in service to an Imperium that opposed everything Chaos stood for.
And instead of being angry about this, Khorne found Himself... amused.
The mortal was a paradox. A warrior of purity wielding the power of corruption. A servant of the Emperor carrying the blessings of the Blood God. A being who should not exist, could not exist, and yet did exist despite the fundamental laws of the Warp.
Khorne had blessed him twice now. Not to corrupt him—that was clearly impossible—but simply to see what would happen. To watch the little warrior grow stronger. To observe what impossible thing he would do next.
It was, the Blood God admitted to Himself, fun.
He hadn't had fun in millennia.
"PERHAPS I WILL BLESS HIM AGAIN," Khorne rumbled. "JUST TO SEE."
Across the Realm of Chaos, the other gods watched with varying degrees of interest, concern, and jealousy.
Tzeentch calculated probabilities and found that none of them made sense.
Nurgle chuckled and went back to His garden.
Slaanesh plotted ways to acquire this fascinating mortal for Their own purposes, though They suspected it would not work.
And in the material realm, Marcus continued to be completely unaware that he had become a source of entertainment for beings older than human civilization.
Such was life as the Exemplar.
The day of the Living Saint ceremony arrived with appropriate fanfare.
Marcus had spent the preceding three days trying to convince the Ecclesiarchy to cancel the event. He had written formal objections. He had made personal appeals. He had explained, in excruciating detail, that he was not a saint and did not wish to be venerated as one.
All of his objections had been carefully documented and filed under "Evidence of Saint-Like Humility."
The ceremony itself was held in the Macragge's Honour's main cathedral—a vast space that could hold thousands and had been decorated with enough gold and incense to make a Chaos cultist jealous. Representatives from dozens of Imperial organizations had gathered: Ecclesiarchy officials, Administratum bureaucrats, Inquisitors, Chapter representatives, and more.
Lord Commander Guilliman himself was in attendance, seated upon a throne that had been constructed specifically for his size.
And at the center of it all, standing before an altar covered in symbols and sacred texts, was Marcus.
He was wearing his full armor—there had been no option to wear anything else—and his weapons were arranged around him in what the Ecclesiarchy had described as "a display of holy armament" and what Marcus privately thought of as "my equipment showing off."
"WE LOOK IMPRESSIVE," the chainsword observed quietly.
"We look ridiculous."
"THE BEARER'S HUMILITY CONTINUES TO MANIFEST AT INAPPROPRIATE MOMENTS."
"It's not humility. It's accuracy."
"THOSE ARE THE SAME THING, IN YOUR CASE."
Arch-Confessor Hildegard stepped forward, her ceremonial robes billowing dramatically despite the lack of wind inside the cathedral.
"Brothers and sisters of the Imperium," she announced, her voice amplified by vox-systems hidden in the walls. "We gather today to witness a miracle. To acknowledge a blessing. To venerate a warrior whose deeds have proven that the Emperor's light can never be extinguished, even in the darkest of circumstances."
The crowd murmured appreciatively.
"Sergeant Marcus of the Ultramarines came to us as an unremarkable recruit. An aspirant like any other, seeking to serve the Emperor through the brotherhood of the Adeptus Astartes."
That's not entirely accurate, Marcus thought, but sure.
"And yet, from his first moments as a Battle-Brother, he demonstrated abilities that defied explanation. He slew a Hive Tyrant in single combat. He sealed a warp breach with nothing but fire and faith. He liberated an entire world from Chaos domination in six hours."
That's also not entirely accurate—
"He has been blessed by the Emperor Himself, touched by divine power that has transformed his mortal form into an instrument of holy destruction. He carries weapons that have developed consciousness—artifacts of such power that they have chosen to serve him and him alone."
The chainsword purred at the acknowledgment.
"And most remarkably of all, he has stolen power from the Ruinous Powers and refused to be corrupted. He has taken the blessings of Chaos and transmuted them into instruments of Imperial victory. He stands before us as proof that faith is stronger than darkness, that purity is stronger than corruption, that the Emperor's chosen cannot be defeated by any force in the galaxy."
I really didn't choose any of this—
"And so, by the authority vested in me by the Holy Synod of the Ecclesiarchy, I hereby declare Sergeant Marcus of the Ultramarines to be a Living Saint of the Imperial Creed!"
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Marcus stood at the altar, transformed and armed and thoroughly uncomfortable, as thousands of people celebrated his sanctity.
"I'M NOT A SAINT," he tried to say.
No one heard him.
"I'M REALLY, GENUINELY NOT A SAINT."
The cheering continued.
"THIS IS ALL A MISUNDERSTANDING."
Hildegard approached him with a ceremonial scepter, apparently intending to anoint him with sacred oils.
"Just a formality," she said quietly, apparently noticing his distress. "Stand still. It will be over soon."
"I DON'T WANT TO BE ANOINTED."
"Your preferences have been noted."
"AND IGNORED?"
"And filed appropriately."
Marcus stood still as Hildegard went through the motions of the anointing—tracing symbols on his armor with oils that smelled of incense and something else, something that made his enhanced senses tingle with unusual energy.
The crowd watched in reverent silence.
And then, because the universe apparently had a very specific sense of humor, something happened.
Marcus's armor began to glow.
Not the green glow of the BFG, or the blue glow of the chainsword, or the red glow of his Khornate-touched enhancements. This was something else—a warm, golden radiance that emanated from within his armor and spread outward like sunrise.
The sacred oils Hildegard had applied were reacting to something. To Marcus. To whatever he had become.
The glow intensified.
And then, to the shock of everyone present—including Marcus—wings began to manifest.
They weren't physical wings. They weren't even entirely visible. But they were there, somehow—vast, luminous pinions of golden light that extended from Marcus's back and spread across the cathedral like the embrace of a protective deity.
The crowd gasped.
Hildegard stepped backward, her eyes wide.
Even Guilliman rose from his throne, his ancient eyes fixed on Marcus with an expression that might have been wonder.
"What," Marcus said, looking over his shoulder at the wings he had not asked for and definitely did not want, "is happening?"
"THE EMPEROR'S BLESSING," Hildegard breathed. "It is... responding to the ceremony. Manifesting in physical form. You truly are—"
"I'M NOT A SAINT."
"YOU HAVE WINGS."
"I DIDN'T ASK FOR WINGS."
"SAINTS RARELY ASK FOR THEIR GIFTS."
The golden wings spread wider, filling the cathedral with radiant light. The crowd had fallen to their knees, weeping and praying and generally behaving as if they were witnessing the greatest miracle in Imperial history.
Which, Marcus supposed, they might be.
Even though he hadn't intended any of it.
"THE BEARER HAS ACHIEVED NEW LEVELS OF MAGNIFICENCE," the chainsword observed. "I RATE THIS DEVELOPMENT TEN OUT OF TEN."
"I thought you didn't give tens."
"I HAVE RECONSIDERED MY RATING SCALE. THIS SITUATION WARRANTS MAXIMUM SCORE."
Marcus stood at the altar, transformed and armed and now apparently sporting divine wings, while thousands of people worshipped him as a Living Saint.
He remembered being an insurance professional named Marcus Chen.
He remembered his slightly depressed houseplant named Gerald.
He remembered dying from a banana peel.
None of this was in the original plan, he thought.
But then, nothing about his existence had gone according to plan since the moment he woke up in a body that wasn't his, in a universe he didn't understand, surrounded by people who insisted on treating him like something special.
The wings pulsed with golden light.
The crowd continued to worship.
And Marcus, the most reluctant saint in Imperial history, wondered if it was too late to go back to being a disappointment.
It was.
END OF CHAPTER SIX
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Marcus is now officially a Living Saint with golden wings he didn't ask for, Khornate blessings he didn't request, and weapons that have formed their own support group. The chainsword and the axe have achieved a grudging mutual respect based entirely on their shared commitment to arguing about everything. The BFG remains ominously silent but pulses with concerning energy. The Conflagration-Dominus is still jealous of everyone's ability to talk.
Khorne thinks Marcus is hilarious and has decided to keep blessing him just to see what happens. The other Chaos Gods are taking notes. The Ecclesiarchy has achieved its goal of declaring Marcus a saint, and will now proceed to build approximately seven thousand statues in his honor despite his objections.
Next chapter: Marcus accidentally starts a crusade, Abaddon tries again and fails again, and the Emperor Himself finally decides to have a direct conversation with His most confusing servant. Also, the weapons throw a party to celebrate Marcus's sainthood, and it goes about as well as you'd expect when your guests include a talking chainsword, a resentful heavy flamer, and an axe with opinions.]