Antioch Hive City,
Upper Nest "Paradise Garden," Banquet Hall.
"Cyril, where the hell are you? Come pour wine for the ladies and show off some of your special skills!"
Butler Moss was urging again. Having just finished touching up the makeup of the noble ladies, Cyril was now being summoned without a moment's rest. He really did not want to go and please those plump matrons.
Suppressing his inner irritation, Cyril wove through the forest of flesh, navigating between bodies piled with fat and jewels.
The pungent, chemical sweetness of Amasec mixed with the thick, greasy perfume clinging to the nobles, assaulting his sense of smell.
Before his transmigration, he had been Kuro, a second-rate magician from the 21st century. During a performance of "Vanishing Act," he opened the prop door only to appear inside a corpse locker belonging to the Lower Hive Black Hand Gang in Antioch.
He became a mortician who, in the eyes of the Black Hand Gang, had "returned from the dead." Thus, the utterly confused Kuro replaced the mortician Cyril and "resumed his old profession" under the chaotic authority of the Hive City's Black Hand Gang.
Every day, he faced corpses to mend: drug addicts with brains blown out by overdoses and gang enforcers still twitching after being skinned.
In this life, his former magic skills only served to deceive Lower Hive thugs into believing he was a devout follower blessed by the God-Emperor, thus avoiding being thrown into the reclamation furnace by gang boss Morozha on charges of Chaos corruption and turned into corpse starch.
However, cursed with a melancholic deadpan face that could make widowed noblewomen climax, he was promptly offered up by the Black Hand Gang to the Governor's butler, Moss, to serve as tonight's makeup artist and attendant.
"Damn this 40K universe. Human rights here are worth less than toilet paper. Damn Morozha, selling me out just like that. I'll have to swipe some valuables from the noblewomen at the banquet.
I must quickly gather enough money to buy a Black Ship ticket at the spaceport and leave this dangerous Hive City... ugh, jokes aside, it would be best to hide on a planet in Tau Empire territory. At least for mortals, the Tau Empire ranks high in the happiness index across the Warhammer universe."
He remembered that in the Warhammer world's storyline, the planet Antioch was eventually corrupted by Chaos. He just was not sure which stage of corruption it was at now.
"Praise the Governor! Praise the Emperor!"
In the center of the hall, the corpulent Governor Marcus raised his glass in a toast, while the surrounding upper-class nobles erupted in roars of praise.
Leaning against him was his recently returned youngest daughter, Cassandra. Her semi-transparent Regis silk miniskirt clung to her damp, peach-flushed body.
That young, alluring flesh exuded a feminine aura. Under the constant flattery of the surrounding young male nobles, her waist trembled uncontrollably.
Being a normal male, Cyril could not stop his gaze from sweeping over the girl's upper thighs. The fabric there was soaked with some unknown moisture, outlining a suggestive yet faintly unsettling crevice.
"Why does it feel like there's something moving under the Governor's daughter's skin? Like some alien creature is about to burst out."
While multitasking and being groped left and right by plump matrons as he performed his mind-reading act, Cyril's right eyelid twitched violently.
His intuition told him this was not lewd excitement. Something like an unknown organism seemed to be incubating and restructuring within the girl's body.
Well versed in the principle of staying away from anything unknown in the Warhammer universe, Cyril excused himself to use the restroom, grinding his heel as he swiftly escaped the matrons' siege.
He retreated silently, his fingertips digging into the small mortician's knife at his waist for a sense of security.
"Ah—!"
A shriek shattered eardrums. The hanging crystal chandeliers nearest to the Governor exploded one after another.
The girl's chest burst open from within, ribs piercing backward through the silk.
A blossoming bone orchid spewed violet light as a sweet, fishy psychic tide flooded into reality.
Flesh and blood screamed as they restructured. A three meter tall, four-armed monster dripping grease replaced the delicate form.
A Slaanesh Daemonette?! As a veteran Warhammer fan, judging by the psychic distortion warping the light, this was definitely a high-tier threat.
"Hmm? Real space? So dry. Let some blood moisten my skin." The androgynous face whispered like silk scraping against broken glass. With a casual swipe of its claws, Cassandra's father's head rolled off like an overripe watermelon.
Hot blood splashed onto the shattered crystal chandeliers, dyeing the light a blurred crimson.
Screams erupted.
Nobles scattered and fled.
The Daemonette swung its right-hand pink bone whip.
Crack! The dozen or so people nearest the exit were smashed to pieces. Some of their internal organs slid a meter before the rest of their bodies hit the ground.
Hell had descended.
Cyril did not move. He was too close to the monster and too far from the exit. Moving recklessly would only turn him into an appetizer.
Holding his breath, he pressed against the wall and backed away. After a few steps, his heel bumped into something stiff.
A black-robed corpse was curled in the shadows, a wound in its chest seemingly pierced by a sharp blade, its hand clutching a metal object tightly.
By the look of it, it was probably something valuable. The long-dreamed-of "ship ticket" was right here.
An opportunity. Take it amid the chaos and escape this dangerous place.
Cyril quickly crouched and forcibly pried open the tightly clenched fingers.
A heavy black iron badge fell into his palm.
A golden skull and double-headed eagle emblem, ferocious yet sacred. The central crimson enamel rose resembled dripping blood in the gloom.
The Inquisition's rosette.
A chill shot up to the crown of his head.
Was this unlucky fellow an Inquisitor? Could this be a sting operation gone wrong? Who killed him?
"There's another one here... a bitter little rat?"
A sticky, low whisper exploded beside his ear.
Having cleared its surroundings, the Daemonette turned. Its six compound eyes locked onto Cyril in the corner.
It licked blood. Its pincers clicked. Its waist swayed as if on a catwalk, each step leaving corrosive footprints.
The surrounding space began to collapse like melting wax as Slaaneshi psychic energy encroached.
Cyril felt his sanity peeling away like paint stripped by strong acid.
Why did he feel a bit lightheaded, and why was his lower body starting to swell?
This was bad. Chaos corruption from Slaanesh. Was this where he would meet his end?
Was there any way to save himself?
Who could save him from the claws of the Slaanesh Daemonette?
It was that man.
Although he was a 21st century materialist youth, at this point, with no other options, he could only turn to the God-Emperor for help, praying for the Emperor's protection.
Great and merciful Emperor, Immortal Great Emperor, Holy Emperor, Scourge of Chaos. Any blessing, protection, possession, or rebirth ability would do.
To my Emperor, I hereby swear:
As a glorious believer of the God-Emperor,
I am irreconcilably opposed to Chaos,
As witnessed by my wisdom, morality, and honor,
I shall offer you my loyalty,
Until death, my soul belongs to the immortal God-Emperor.
Why... why does this Daemonette look a bit... appetizing?
Can't hold on anymore, Old Man Emperor!
Even just an ability to intimidate this damn Daemonette would be good. I beg you, show your power!
The Emperor of Mankind!
The Galaxy's Worst Dad!!
The "Big E"!!!
Jimmy Space!!!!
Ah...
Ugh, f#*$$%.
The rosette in his hand was growing slightly warm.
[Warning: Host detected in extreme despair.]
[Detected host possesses a high-level Imperial authority token (unauthenticated).]
[God-Emperor Mask System forcibly activating.]
[Newcomer's Grand Gift Pack: Psychic Pressure Special Effect (pure visual/audio version), short duration. Activate?]
At that moment,
Boom!
The dome shattered. A pillar of teleport light, carrying the scorched scent of ozone, pierced through reality.
Five suits of silver-grey Terminator power armor crashed to the ground, their combat boots embedding deeply into the hall's central marble floor.
Was Old Man Emperor really this awesome? A system ability plus a Space Marine strike team on the way?
There was real hope now. Cyril breathed a sigh of relief.
The next second,
Five still-humming Nemesis force halberds and five gaping Storm Bolter muzzles methodically locked onto all living beings present, including him.
No kneeling, and certainly no loyalty.
Only the grey, silent stillness of death and killing intent.
"Ninth Brotherhood Terminator Squad Galabad in position. Strong heretical signal at the center. Purification protocol initiated." The lead Justicar, Galabad, declared resolutely, red light flashing in his visor as the tactical auspex analyzed the Daemonette and Cyril's biometrics.
"Long-range high-threat target: Slaanesh Daemonette. Close-range suspicious target: one mortal male. Holding an Inquisition rosette..."
Galabad's gun muzzle did not lower an inch. Instead, it rose slightly, aiming directly at the space between Cyril's eyebrows. "Alert. Target shows no psychic signature. Assessment: extremely high probability of being a thief or disguised daemon."
"Galabad Squad, prepare for execution."
Click.
The five bolt rounds chambering sounded precisely like the tolling of a death bell.
Cyril's heart stopped.
These maniacs. These tin cans with muscles but no brains.
The script is wrong. Isn't holding a police badge supposed to mean you're a cop?
In 40K, holding a badge gets you shot first as a robber?
[Warning! Detected lethal hostile intent lock!]
Damn it! System!
Activate [Holy Terra Psychic Projection (Identity Authentication Version)] for me! Hack into their comms channel. Crank the intimidation factor to the max. Make them think I'm a high-ranking Terra official on an incognito inspection!
"How dare you!"
0.01 seconds before the triggers were pulled, Cyril roared.
He did not retreat. Instead, he stepped forward, pressing his forehead against the scorching barrel of Galabad's gun.
At this moment, he bet everything he had, including his life.
Hum!
The system's special effects activated at full power.
Not ordinary light, but a gaze from the depths of the soul, a projection of the divine sight of the God upon the Golden Throne, descended upon the hall.
Behind Cyril, a massive golden double-headed eagle emblem tore through the void and materialized.
One eye of the emblem shed tears of blood, the other burned with galaxy-consuming fury.
A high-level psychic pressure that did not belong to Cyril but was simulated by the system to feel convincingly real, laced with ancient Gothic binary code, violently invaded the Grey Knights' comms channel.
"Justicar Galabad. Who gave you the audacity to point your weapon at the Grand Inquisitor of the Holy Ordos of the Emperor's Inquisition?!"
This furious shout carried the special effect of [Litanies of Truth: Soul Shock].
Galabad trembled violently as he received the highest authority command, his systems overloading in reverse.
The readings in his tactical visor went haywire with errors. The mortal before him was no longer a mortal, but a Warp black hole cloaked in human skin. That pressure even reminded him of the Supreme Grand Master on Titan.
Only a monster who had sold his soul to the Emperor and carried out Exterminatus on countless worlds could possess such bloody pressure.
Clang.
The massive power armor finally dropped to one knee under instinctive awe, cracking the floor tiles.
"Detected... sacred psychic encoding... authority confirmed: Top Secret."
Galabad's voice shifted from indifference to surprise and obedience, a genetic imprint of absolute servitude to Imperial authority. "Forgive my blindness, my lord!"
Cold sweat had already soaked through Cyril's underwear, but his face remained indifferent, as if looking at rubbish.
He reached out, his leather glove lightly tapping the scorching barrel of the killing machine before him, producing crisp sounds.
"You were too slow."