A tall, thin noble, emboldened and disheveled, pointed at Cyril as he scrambled up from the ground, his initial fear twisting into distorted, incredulous rage.
"Lord Galabad, I am Thrust, a Spire Hunter of House Robert! He applied powder and makeup to my late mistress who died unexpectedly last week! I remember his annoying, pretty little face! What is a mere mortician doing here, spouting nonsense to you, Lord Astartes?!
"And where did you steal that thing in your hand? That belongs to the Inquisition! You damned fraud!
"He must have brought this Chaos daemon in himself! My Lord, seize him at once!"
The temperature, which had just begun to settle, dropped to freezing.
Galabad turned in confusion, his eyepieces staring intently at Cyril, his halberd shifting into an attack stance.
Cyril did not even need to look at the Justicar to know his expression must be: Your Excellency? Care to explain? This mortal says he knows you?
Seeing the Astartes' halberd move, Thrust felt a surge of joy. With a smug, arrogant look, he already envisioned himself being rewarded and promoted after the Astartes executed Cyril. He stood tall and rigid, his neck and spine straight like a rooster awaiting slaughter.
In his mind, Cyril cursed the noble's ancestors back eighteen generations. What a fool. If I die, no one here will be left alive.
Yet instead of panicking, he let out a low chuckle.
"Heh... For the..."
Before he could finish, Galabad's halberd fell.
Slash.
Thrust's rigid head was sliced clean off. Liquid sprayed like a fountain, and his body stood bolt upright for two seconds before collapsing.
Fresh red blood splattered like a waterfall onto the faces of the surrounding nobles, choking their screams back into their throats.
"This?" What Cyril had been about to say was cut short by that swift strike, leaving him with only one word.
"Your Excellency need not explain. How can a mere Spire Hunter interfere with the Inquisition's affairs? According to wartime regulations, anyone who questions the authority of the Inquisition's operational guidelines is deemed a heretic.
"He was questioning the loyalty of an Inquisitor who serves the Emperor with all his heart. Since this piece of trash is of no further use to you, I have completed the execution on your behalf."
Galabad stood still, retracting his halberd. The blood on the weapon evaporated the moment it touched the disruption field.
"Very well. Galabad, you are indeed a man of understanding. The title of Exemplar is well within your reach." Cyril wiped a drop of blood from his cheek, his only flaw as a mortal, which now served as his greatest medal of honor.
Only at this moment did Cyril feel certain he had survived.
"However, Your Excellency, you are alone..." Though Grey Knights were powerful, their mission was to decapitate daemons. Once a Warp rift closed, they had to rush to the next burning sector immediately.
But leaving this Inquisitor here alone... He should check whether the Lord required assistance.
Cyril smiled, a smile that was profound and mysterious, even carrying a hint of the madness of the Warp.
"Alone?"
He walked slowly toward one of the fat men slumped on the floor.
That was the former governor's eldest son, the second-in-line heir.
This playboy, who usually had a gaze that could kill, now had silk pants soaked to a dark brown. The nauseating smell of ammonia was more pungent than Sump-waste.
Cyril came to a halt in front of the fat man.
The fat man struggled to lift his head, his face streaming with tears and snot. He looked at this "servant" whom he once considered too slow even to serve wine, who had now become a god of death holding power over life and death.
"M... My Lord..." the fat man trembled, his throat wheezing like a bellows.
Cyril reached out and, with his leather glove stained with dried black daemon blood, smeared it heavily across the fat man's cheek, slick with oily sweat and grease.
This smear was not just filth. It was the mark of power placed by the "Inquisition" hunter named Cyril upon a hound that had just rolled out of a mud pit.
"Answer me. Your name?"
"Valen... Valen Claudius."
"From this day forth, Valen, you are the Acting Governor of Antioch Hive City."
Valen's pupils shrank, followed by a surge of ecstasy that shot through his spine like an electric current.
Not dead? And he inherited his father's position?
"But."
Cyril's fingers suddenly tightened like eagle talons, firmly gripping the fat man's chin. His nails pierced the skin, sinking into the flesh.
System: Exchang for [Wrath of the Emperor (Sound and Light Edition)], cost 20 points. Project the God-Emperor's ferocious visage from the Golden Throne into his mind!
Time to test the newly unlocked Level 2 skill, an area-of-effect type.
In the fat man's eyes, the logic of reality collapsed.
Cyril's once handsome face swelled and distorted, elongating. His sockets no longer held human eyes, but two swirling Warp vortexes of golden psychic flame. Behind him stood a Golden Throne, beneath which countless souls seemed to tear at the veil of reality, letting out silent screams.
"You are my dog now."
Cyril's voice was no longer human speech, but a piercing, obscure sound that drilled directly into the brain, carrying the irresistible will of the God-Emperor, a mixture of divinity and diabolism that transcended mortality.
"I tell you to bite someone, you bite them."
"A reminder. I don't care who betrays me. I only hope the traitor can withstand my wrath..." Cyril pointed to the patch of smoking black ashes on the floor, the only trace left by the Daemon of Slaanesh.
"A traitor will end up worse than that. Understand?"
"I understand! I understand! I am a dog! I am your most loyal dog! Woof!" Valen kowtowed frantically, the sound of his forehead hitting the floor heavy and rapid. Blood dripped onto the marble, but he did not dare show the slightest sign of pain.
[System Prompt: Detected Imperial mortal unit, Governor Valen Claudius, experiencing a collapse-level emotional surge.]
[Deception value +5.]
A loss of 15 (20-5). It seemed deceiving mortal units also granted deception value, but far less than deceiving Grey Knights. Even with an emotional collapse, it was only 5 points. Though small, it was still something.
Cyril straightened up, pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his hands with disgust, and turned to look at Galabad.
"You see, I am not alone.
"In this Hive City, as long as there is fear, I have an army of thousands."
"As you wish, Your Excellency. This method of torturing heretics... is indeed stylish and breathtaking."
Could this Lord be a Xanthite? Feeling uneasy, Galabad remained silent for a moment, then struck his breastplate heavily, producing a loud metallic clang.
"In that case, there is a plague purification mission on Typhos on our schedule. We shall return to the strike cruiser first."
The Grey Knights could not stay long. This place was full of mortal eyes. Staying a second longer risked exposing the Chapter's secrets.
"Go then." Cyril waved his hand with a weary look that said he was busy and could not be bothered.
"May the Emperor's light always shine upon you."
As Galabad contacted the fleet for extraction, a screech of teleportation tore through the air. Five silver-grey figures disintegrated in a flash of blinding blue light and vanished.
Dead silence returned to the hall.
Leaving only severed limbs, a group of terrified nobles, and a standing "Inquisitor."
Once he confirmed the Grey Knights were completely gone, Cyril's spine, which had been as straight as a pine, slumped slightly. Cold sweat had long since soaked his undershirt, and half his legs no longer felt like his own, muscles spasming uncontrollably.
But he had to hold on.
The play was not over yet.
"I am Inquisitor Cyril of the Ordo Malleus, dispatched by the Imperial Inquisition to Antioch."
He turned and walked step by step toward the dais, plopping down into the throne still stained with the warm blood of the former governor.
Much better. Finally I can sit down.
He crossed his legs, toying with the rosette that symbolized supreme power. The dim red light reflected on his pale face, making him look exceptionally eerie.
The nobles scrambled up trembling, keeping their heads low, not daring to breathe loudly.
"Governor Valen, clean up the scene.
"Seal off all information.
"Announce to the public that your father, Governor Marcus, and your sister, Cassandra, died of a sudden... genetic sequence collapse.
"As for that monster..." Cyril paused, mocking softly, "it was a previously unseen xenos assassin.
"If anyone dares to utter a single word about what happened here tonight..."
Cyril snapped his fingers.
The system's special effects activated. The remaining lumen lamps in the hall shattered instantly, and darkness closed in like the maw of a giant beast, leaving only the faint red glow from the rosette in his hand, like a single eye from hell.
"I will personally crawl into their dreams and have a word with them."
"As you command, Lord Inquisitor!" everyone shouted in unison, their voices filled with absolute submission to power and ultimate fear of the unknown.
Cyril leaned back against the chair, looking at these powerful figures who, just a moment ago, had viewed him as mere grass but were now worshiping him.
This was the taste of power.
This was the ultimate thrill.
But he was also well aware that he was not sitting on a throne, but on a powder keg about to explode.
The body of the real Inquisitor still needed to be dealt with.
The priority was to figure out exactly where he was on the timeline. The shadow cult behind the summoning of Valjes was still watching from the dark.
The Adeptus Mechanicus, the Ecclesiarchy, the Adeptus Arbites. These factions would surely swarm in like sharks smelling blood.
Although the man who recognized him was dead, as long as Cyril remained on this planet, the Sword of Damocles, those who once knew his roots, would always hang over his head.
He was a Level 0 mage who could not even produce a spark of true psychic fire, playing the most difficult game of Werewolf in this Warhammer 40K universe where high-level bosses were everywhere and mortals were like ants.
[System Prompt: Main quest triggered.]
[Quest Name: The Masked Inquisitor.]
[Quest Objective: Establish absolute ruling authority in Antioch Hive City and successfully pass the upcoming routine inspection of the Inquisition's Black Judgement Seat.]
[Quest Reward: Rose Seed]
Cyril looked at the pulsing blood-red text on his retina, a mad curve tugging at the corner of his lips.
True psychic power? In other words, as long as I act well enough, I can turn lies into reality?
"Now that's what I call a reward."
Cyril, who usually only allowed himself half a cigarette, pulled out a whole low-quality cigarette from his coat and lit it using the heat of the rosette. The system had already bypassed the gene-lock. He exhaled a cloud of smoke.
The pungent smoke flooded his lungs, taking away some of the trembling.
The lowly mortician was dead. In his place stood His Excellency Cyril Francis, Inquisitor of the Imperial Inquisition.
Come on then, Warhammer 40K.
Let's see if you have more lunatics, or if I have better tricks.
Cyril blew a smoke ring, his eyes more greedy than a daemon's.
Behind the swirling smoke, the system countdown ticked silently: 30 days until the arrival of the real Inquisition Black Ship.