The Sun
Wait… where am I?
Eileen? The girl who looked like a withered branch?
Consciousness poured into that frail body like a flood forced into a cracked vessel. It felt like cramming a star into a glass bottle.
Pain.
Not physical pain — not yet.
It was pressure on the soul. Crushing. Overwhelming.
At the same time, a pale blue semi-transparent interface unfolded in my mind. Its style resembled a low-budget mobile game UI.
Its contents were not amusing.
---
[System Panel]
Host: Li Wei (High-Dimensional Consciousness)
Current Vessel: Eileen (Mortal / Near Death)
Identity: Emperor's Psionic Replica / Subspace Living Beacon / Empire's Final (Backup) Hope
[Attributes]
Psionic Energy Reserve: ∞
(Source identical to the Golden Throne. Theoretically inexhaustible.)
Output Power: 0.0001%
(Limited by vessel integrity. Exceeding threshold will cause catastrophic collapse.)
Vessel Durability: 1% (Critical)
[Current Objectives]
Primary: Survive.
Emergency: Open your eyes. Do not let the rusted blade fall.
---
…You've got to be kidding me.
A 2K-era Cloud Hammer likes a female Emperor cosplay before bed, casually volunteers to be a Golden Throne battery — and transmigrates?
What kind of heretical logic is that?
Before I could finish processing the absurdity—
A nauseating, humid breath washed over my face.
My eyes forced themselves open.
A grotesque, bloated, one-eyed creature loomed above me. Its flesh sagged in layers of pus-filled decay. A rusted plague blade — corroded, pitted, dripping foul filth — was raised high.
A Plaguebearer of Nurgle.
Around us, human auxiliary troops fled in panic.
In the distance, a towering figure in auramite armor — a Custodian of the Adeptus Custodes — was locked in brutal combat with multiple warp-spawned horrors. Even he had not spared a glance for a dying mortal girl in the mud.
Death descended.
The daemon gurgled happily.
"Fresh… soul…"
The blade began to fall.
And within me—
Something stirred.
It was not fear.
It was anger.
Divine arrogance.
The kind of fury born when vermin presume to touch something sacred.
Consciousness fused completely with this dying body.
Vital signs — which had already flatlined — surged violently.
[System Notice: Color Palette Activated.]
[Warning: High-Dimensional Energy Release Initiated.]
[Carrier Integrity Compromised.]
Time did not stop physically.
It was suppressed.
The roar of bolters, the grind of chainswords, the buzzing plague flies — all crushed beneath an absolute conceptual pressure that did not tolerate noise.
The Plaguebearer froze.
In its milky eye bloomed something it had never known.
Fear.
Not fear of death.
Fear of Anathema.
The girl in the mud opened her eyes.
They were not human.
They were twin golden stars — cold, eternal, soul-scorching.
Her skeletal arm lifted.
The filthy bandages around her hand glowed from within, as though restraining a miniature sun.
Power surged through her veins — too vast for flesh, desperate for release.
"I" looked at the daemon.
At the plague host behind it.
At this corrupted battlefield on Iax — jewel of Ultramar, now desecrated by the Garden of Nurgle.
Her lips parted.
The voice that emerged was not a girl's.
It was a cathedral choir layered with billions of psychic echoes.
Calm.
Ancient.
Weary.
"Purify."
—
A sun rose over Iax.
Not metaphorically.
A golden psionic shockwave erupted outward from her body in a perfect expanding ring.
There was no explosion of fire.
No smoke.
No debris.
This was conceptual annihilation.
The Plaguebearer was erased before it could scream. Its warp-bound essence severed. Its material shell vaporized. Its reflection in the Immaterium burned out simultaneously.
Gone.
The wave expanded.
Ten meters.
Twenty.
One hundred.
Plaguebearers. Poxwalkers. Rot Flies carrying Plague Drones. Corrupted flora seeded from Nurgle's Garden.
They froze.
They collapsed.
They disintegrated.
Regeneration failed.
Warp tether severed.
Father Nurgle did not answer.
The light swept over the fleeing human auxiliaries.
They braced for death.
Instead—
Warmth.
Festering wounds sealed.
Lungs cleared of miasma.
Poison transmuted to clean air.
Faith ignited in their chests so violently it brought them to their knees.
The wave reached the golden-armored giant.
The Custodian halted mid-strike.
Without hesitation — even with enemies before him — he disengaged, turned, and knelt.
Auramite armor hummed, cracks knitting under golden resonance.
"…My Lord?"
The external vox of the Custodian trembled with awe.
"I" did not answer.
Or rather—
In this state, there was no concept of answering.
The girl rose from the mud.
Golden light flowed around her like liquid sunlight. Mud-stained flaxen hair became luminous strands.
Behind her head manifested a radiant psychic halo — not mechanical, but unmistakable — a sovereign aura reminiscent of the Emperor's own presence during the Great Crusade.
She hovered three feet above the ground.
Surveyed the battlefield.
The plague tide had broken.
In the distance, massive warp entities recoiled — a Daemon Prince of Nurgle among them — instinctively shrinking back from the presence they knew by a single title:
The Anathema.
The girl lifted one glowing hand.
"Enough."
The word became law.
Within a five-kilometer radius, corruption ignited.
Twisted trees seeded from Nurgle's Garden combusted in golden flame. Spore-sacs burst into nothingness. Profane altars disintegrated.
The miasmic sky tore open.
For the first time since the Plague War had ravaged Iax, starlight pierced through.
The battlefield fell silent.
Imperial and Chaos alike stared at the small figure radiating stellar brilliance.
She stood within the pillar of light like a descending god.
In the far distance, blue-armored giants — Ultramarines — advanced under a towering figure.
Deep within my consciousness, the office worker from Blue Star swallowed imaginary saliva.
[System Log:]
[Display Successful.]
"…I may have overdone it."
The vessel trembled.
Structural integrity was near collapse.
"But what's done is done."
The girl descended slowly.
Golden light dimmed but did not vanish.
Across the devastated battlefield stood the towering blue-armored Primarch — gene-forged son of the Emperor.
Roboute Guilliman.
Lord Commander of the Imperium.
Primarch of the Ultramarines.
Fresh from battling Mortarion in this very war.
He stared at the scene — calculating, disbelieving, yet unable to deny what he felt through the warp.
The psychic signature.
The authority.
The impossible familiarity.
I adjusted my expression carefully.
The first impression must be impeccable.
Looking at the Thirteenth Primarch — the son who had carried the Imperium through the nightmare of the Great Rift — I spoke in a calm, ancient tone tinged with faint amusement:
"Thirteenth Son… are you well?"