The news spread through the entire hive city of Perditia at terrifying speed, as if it had grown wings.
"A Living Saint has been born within the Helldiver Legion!"
"The Emperor has manifested His grace! His gaze is upon us!"
The gloom that had hovered over the city due to the spread of Nurgle's plague seemed to vanish completely in an instant, dispersed by this radiant news. Everyone boiled over with excitement, from grease-covered workers to Space Marines servicing their weapons.
When the Chimera armored vehicle carrying Muad'Dib turned onto the main avenue, the roadsides were packed with an endless sea of people. Waving anything they could lay their hands on, the crowd chanted the names of the Emperor and the Saint. That euphoria and pride in being blessed by the divine drove Perditia's overall morale to its absolute peak in a single moment. Every single person grew convinced that under the guidance of such a holy presence, the corruption of Nurgle would be purged entirely.
Standing on the roof of the armored vehicle, Muad'Dib wore what was once an ordinary flower garland around his neck, now emitting a soft, holy golden light. Instead of adopting the solemn, untouchable posture of a traditional saint, he looked like a young guy who had just won a ball game—face flushed red, excitedly waving to the surrounding populace without pause.
This feeling of being the center of attention felt even better than pulling ten SSRs in a row!
Midway through the convoy's progress, Muad'Dib's gaze suddenly locked onto a spot in the crowded throng.
He caught sight of the little girl. She was riding on her father's shoulders, craning her head from behind the crowd, her large eyes filled with admiration and delight.
Without hesitation, Muad'Dib patted the driver's hatch to signal a stop. Bending his knees slightly, he turned into a beam of golden light, vanishing from the roof in an instant.
'Whoosh!'
A second later, he stood firmly in front of the little girl.
The noisy crowd instantly fell silent. People held their breath, gazing reverently at this divine warrior.
Muad'Dib leaned down slightly, doing his best to avoid looking intimidatingly tall. Pointing to the glowing garland around his neck, he spoke gently to the stunned little girl: "If it weren't for you, and if it weren't for this garland you made me, I might have died on the battlefield long ago—let alone becoming some Living Saint. You saved me, and you saved everyone else."
At this point, he extended his hand with a smile and invited her: "Would you like to come up on the vehicle with me? We can go to the finish line together."
The little girl's eyes widened. She glanced at her father in disbelief, then back at Muad'Dib, asking timidly, "...May I?"
"Of course!" Muad'Dib answered with certainty.
Amid the envious cheers of the surrounding citizens, Muad'Dib scooped up the little girl and set her securely on his pauldron.
Back on the vehicle, the convoy resumed its advance. Sitting on the "Saint's" shoulder, the little girl seemed no longer afraid. She held onto the edge of Muad'Dib's helmet and asked loudly with curiosity: "Big brother, what happened to those bad guys—the ones who betrayed humanity?"
Muad'Dib burst into laughter and called back: "Don't worry! Every single one I saw is dead! Chopped into eighteen pieces by me—the kind you can't even piece back together! The rest of the traitors will meet the same end; not a single one gets away!"
Hearing this "gruesome" description, the little girl didn't show a shred of fear. Instead, as if hearing the funkiest joke, she giggled happily, her clear laughter sounding delightful amidst the cheering crowds.
The convoy finally reached the plaza in front of the command center.
Muad'Dib carefully set the little girl down, handing her back to her father. After adjusting his carapace armor, he jumped down from the vehicle.
Awaiting him were Robert, leader of the Helldivers, and the famous Captain of the Ultramarines 2nd Company, Cato Sicarius.
The normally proud Astartes captain looked at the mortal before him with no contempt, only gravity and respect.
Sicarius stepped forward, striking his breastplate with his right fist to produce a heavy 'clang'. He bowed his head slightly in greeting: "Congratulations, Holy Lord. The Emperor's light shines upon you—a supreme honor."
Muad'Dib sighed inwardly. Just a short while ago, he was a regular grunt eating dirt in a trench, ready to die at any moment. In the blink of an eye, even Sicarius—who was famously arrogant in the lore—was exchanging salutes with him. Life's ups and downs were truly thrilling.
He took a deep breath to calm his excitement. Choosing not to assume the posture of a holy saint, he hesitated for a moment, brought his feet together, straightened his back, and returned a crisp military salute—one unique to the Perditia Helldiver Legion.
"Greetings, Captain Sicarius. The honor is mine."
Seeing this salute, Sicarius paused slightly, the admiration in his eyes deepening. He realized that although the man had received the Emperor's blessing and gained power and status far beyond ordinary mortals, he clearly had no intention of casting aside his identity as a member of the Helldivers, nor had he forgotten his duty as a soldier.
Such humility and loyalty were praiseworthy even among the Astartes.
With the salutes concluded, Muad'Dib turned his head to look at Robert, who stood by with a subtle smile.
"I've heard so much about you, governor," Muad'Dib scratched his head,he was roleplaying as if the saint was meeting him the first time. His tone grew much more relaxed. "I used to see your name on the forums all the time. I've read every single one of your strategy guides."
Robert shrugged, adjusting his glasses with a grin: "Likewise. But starting today, the tables are turned—from now on, I'll be seeing your name on the front pages of the battle reports all the time, Saint Atreides, or do you prefer Kwisatz Haderach?"
Hearing the titles, Muad'Dib shuddered all over as if his tail had been stepped on, waving his hands frantically with a pained expression: "No, no, no, man! Let me stick to my handle—just call me Muad'Dib. Hearing that 'Saint' prefix makes me cringe so hard; it's way too dramatic."
The three passed through heavy blast doors into the strategic command room. Stepping inside and looking at the dense cluster of red dots on the holographic sandtable, Muad'Dib's excitement over his newly gained power flared up again. Rubbing the power sword at his waist—which had transformed completely—he looked at Robert with impatience: "Robert, when do we strike?
I feel amazing right now, full of endless energy. Seriously, I feel like I could charge straight into their main camp, fight Typhus for three hundred rounds, and take his head without a problem!"
Hearing this, Sicarius raised an eyebrow, seemingly wanting to voice a warning about Typhus's strength. But seeing the almost tangible golden radiance around Muad'Dib, he swallowed his words.
Robert shook his head, walking up to the sandtable and resting both hands on the edge.
"No, Muad'Dib. The plan has changed," Robert looked up. "Originally, in our simulations, the best outcome was to hold our defensive lines, barely push back the Plague Fleet, and keep Perditia from falling. If the goal was simply achieving that strategic objective, combining your current power with Captain Sicarius for a counteroffensive would indeed guarantee success."
At this point, his voice turned sharp and icy, imbued with unprecedented lethal intent: "But now that you have emerged, and now that the Emperor has given us this trump card, I've changed my mind. Simply 'repelling' them no longer satisfies me, and it lets these traitors off too easily."
He extended a finger and jabbed heavily at the skull icon representing Typhus on the sandtable.
"I want to kill Typhus."
Both Muad'Dib and Sicarius froze.
"I want to put an end to this cancer of Nurgle, hang his head from the hive spire, and show every piece of Chaos filth in the galaxy looking at this place—this is the price for invading Perditia!"
Robert turned around to face the two, his tone steady and resolute: "Typhus is no fool; he's a ten-thousand-year-old monster. If we launch a grand counteroffensive right now, the moment he senses danger, he might sever his own tail to save himself or pull back completely. That would cost us our chance to solve this problem once and for all."
"To slay a Chosen of his caliber, we must make absolute, airtight preparations."
He drew a circle on the sandtable marking their current defensive line, then suddenly pulled his hand inward.
"So, despite our power surging, I don't plan to launch an immediate counterattack. Instead, I plan to pull our defensive lines back even further."
"Pull back?" Muad'Dib asked, puzzled. "We're this strong now, and we're still pulling back?"
"Yes—feign weakness to draw the enemy in," Robert explained. "We need to pull our fist back, as tight as possible. Subsequent reinforcements are pouring in continuously. We need time for this power to accumulate to its critical point."
Robert clenched his fist and swung it through the air: "When Typhus believes we are at the end of our rope and commits his full force... when our strength has gathered enough power... we will launch this maximally compressed fist. We must ensure a guaranteed kill on Typhus, leaving him no chance to flee back into the Warp!"
No one expected that after sending out a distress signal to the entire galaxy, the first force to tear through the Warp's dark clouds and descend upon Perditia would actually be the Ordo Malleus.
Furthermore, the Inquisitor leading them was an "old acquaintance" of the Helldiver.
At the heavily guarded spaceport docking bay, Lord Inquisitor Herbert Hernambod strode out under the escort of a full honor guard. He and Robert, who stepped forward to meet him, exchanged a solemn Aquila salute.
Time was a ruthless blade. Compared to two hundred years ago when the Perditia Helldiver Legion was first born, Herbert now looked noticeably older. His skin clung to his skeletal frame like withered bark, and his face and exposed neck were carved with metal ports from life-extension surgeries and gnarly scars from emergency procedures.
Half of his body seemed to rely on cybernetics to function. Yet his eyes alone had not grown cloudy with physical decay; instead, they were sharper than before, like a pair of freshly quenched daggers capable of easily piercing through human deceit.
After concluding the salute, Herbert's sharp gaze lingered on Robert for a moment, his tone carrying a trace of thinly veiled wonder: "You seem to have barely aged since two hundred years ago—if my memory serves me right, you look at most a decade or so older."
For ordinary mortals, two hundred years was enough time for several generations to pass, yet the planetary governor before him seemed forgotten by time itself.
"By the Emperor's grace, the Helldivers are immortal," Robert replied with an unruffled smile, laughing it off smoothly. "I didn't expect you, an Inquisitor who deals with demons year in and year out, to live this long either."
Seeing his probe yield no result, Herbert merely gave him a deep look and dropped the subject.
If this had been in the past—even a day ago—his professional instincts as an Inquisitor would have flared up wildly. He would have used every means available to investigate whether Chaos forces were at play behind Robert's bizarre youthfulness.
In the logic of the Inquisition, loyalty was absolute; anything less was absolute disloyalty. Others might think, 'How could the Helldivers side with Chaos when they throw themselves into fire and water for the Emperor with such single-minded devotion?'
But in the eyes of a paranoid Inquisitor, nothing was impossible in this galaxy. The more flawless, loyal, and incredible you appeared, the greater the threat you posed when you turned, and the deeper the conspiracy you hid!
However, as for now—
Herbert's gaze swept past Robert, landing on Muad'Dib, who was standing to the side casually kicking small stones out of boredom.
The withered flower garland around the warrior's neck emitted a soft, pure golden light. That divine aura, which made Herbert's very soul tremble, was a display of the Emperor's power that could never be forged.
Witnessing this scene, all suspicion in Herbert's mind evaporated completely. Or rather, any questioning of the Helldivers' loyalty had become utterly meaningless in this instant.
You suspect a force guarded by a Living Saint of being heretical? Are you questioning the judgment of the God-Emperor Himself?
Herbert withdrew his gaze, inwardly marveling at the unpredictability of fate. At the same time, he recalled his unfortunate colleagues who had been dispatched to investigate the case of the "Helldiver murdering an Inquisitor."
He felt those colleagues were truly lucky that the Helldiver members suspected of murder had already fallen in previous battles. Had those suspects still been alive, those Inquisitors would be stuck in a terribly awkward spot right now—after all, trying to arrest a Living Saint's comrade under his very nose was a scorching potato even for the Ordo Malleus.
After brief pleasantries, Herbert's expression turned serious, rapidly steering the conversation toward the main topic: "We can reminisce later. The battle situation must be dire right now, yes? Before landing, I read the battle reports from the past month carefully. Logically speaking, the birth of a Living Saint should be enough to immensely boost morale and even trigger a backlash in the Warp. Why, then, is the front line still retreating?"
On the map, the blue zone representing the human defense line was being steadily squeezed by that nauseating green, appearing to be in grave peril.
Robert walked over to the map and calmly laid out his plan to Herbert: "This is not a defeat; it is an accumulation of power. We are proactively pulling back our line to feign weakness, concentrating all our strength in the core sector. Once the full wave of incoming reinforcements arrives, we will no longer be defending. Instead, like a spring compressed to its absolute limit, we will suddenly explode—our goal isn't just to drive them back, but to kill Typhus once and for all."
"Kill Typhus once and for all?"
Hearing this, a sharp glint burst forth from Herbert's aged, sharp eyes.
If this plan truly succeeded—if they could end that notorious Chaos Lord right here—Herbert's heart beat wildly for a few moments. He felt as though he could see his chance at promotion to Grand Inquisitor.
Of course, this wasn't out of personal greed for power. It was simply that... if he could step up higher and command more resources and authority, he could serve the Holy Emperor better and eradicate heresy far more efficiently, could he not?
It was a total win-win.
"A bold plan—extremely ambitious, and very much in line with your Helldiver style of dropping nukes at the slightest disagreement."
Herbert nodded in approval, a subtle, mysterious smile spreading across his face: "Since you possess such daring, I'll share a piece of good news with you as well. Before arriving here, I used my authority to notify a very special Astartes Chapter. They are already en route and will arrive shortly."
He lowered his voice, a hint of awe bleeding into his tone: "Those warriors are specialists in dealing with demons—the sharpest daemon-hunting blade in the Empire."
"Under normal circumstances, I would never summon them unless driven to absolute desperation. After all, their very existence is taboo, and they have even purged allied forces after a battle. But upon learning that you have a Living Saint, and that your opponent is Typhus, I immediately dispatched a signal with the highest encryption level. Typhus's rotting head is alluring enough to draw them here, and they'll be bringing the chapter's most elite warriors."
Herbert originally intended to keep him guessing for a moment, savoring the feeling of Robert pressing him with curious questions. Unexpectedly, Robert merely pondered for a brief second before blurting out a name: "The Grey Knights?"
"?"
The mysterious smile on Herbert's face froze instantly, leaving him completely bewildered: "How do you know about the Grey Knights? That is top secret within the Inquisition! Not even high-ranking officers of the Astra Militarum are supposed to know of their existence!"
Robert blinked, pointing upward with a completely innocent expression: "A revelation from the Emperor. Right, Muad'Dib?"
Suddenly put on the spot, Muad'Dib, who had been zoning out, snapped to attention and started spouting nonsense with a straight face: "Uh... yes! Just a moment ago, a golden light flashed, and I knew a group of big guys in silver armor was coming. Praise the Emperor."
Looking at the two of them, Herbert's lips twitched slightly. In the end, he could only let out a helpless sigh: "Fine... if it's a revelation from the Emperor, there's nothing more to say."
He gave up on pursuing the security violation—after all, trying to talk non-disclosure protocols with a Living Saint was asking to look foolish.
"You guessed correctly: it is the Grey Knights. And according to their reply, the force arriving this time is extraordinary. The Supreme Paladin of the 1st Brotherhood's Hall of Champions, Coyle Tempus, will personally lead the strike force. Accompanying him will be a Paladin Ancient, a Venerable Dreadnought, and ten fully equipped Paladins."
At this point, Herbert asked probingly: "Since you received a revelation, did the Emperor's vision include an explanation of the Grey Knights' force organization? Do you realize what this signifies?"
"Yes, yes, the revelation the Emperor gave me is the 7+ version—quite detailed, actually," Robert chuckled inwardly, thinking to himself that not only did he know the force organization, but he also had their tabletop rules and painting guides memorized by heart.
He extended his hand, grasping Herbert's withered cybernetic hand once more, and said with complete sincerity: "Herbert, you truly are Perditia's eternal friend... With this force added to ours, our chances of leaving Typhus here forever just grew one step stronger."
Inside the strategic command room, although the grand blueprint for the future counteroffensive was enough to make one's blood boil, that was still a matter for the future. The muffled roar of artillery fire beyond the windows and the flashing red alarms on the holographic sandtable mercilessly reminded everyone of the present truth: right now, they were still in a grueling defensive phase.
Dreaming of the future was certainly thrilling, but in the end, one had to keep their feet planted firmly on the ground.
Herbert Hernambod did not indulge in the joy of these grand future prospects for long. As an experienced Daemonhunter Inquisitor who had fought across countless worlds corrupted by Chaos, he knew all too well that details determined victory or defeat.
Taking the thick summary report on Perditia's current situation handed to him by Robert, he flipped through it with rapid precision. The cybernetic eye in his socket spun rapidly, scanning line after line of data. Suddenly, his movements stopped, and his brows furrowed tightly, as though he had spotted something unbelievable.
Looking up, he slapped the report heavily onto the table and raised a critical question: "Robert, are the figures in this report correct? Why are there so few cathedrals on your planet? In fact... embarrassingly few?"
In a galaxy flooded with war and faith, for a hive world to have such a sparse number of cathedrals was an absurdly glaring oversight in Herbert's eyes.
Robert frowned slightly and explained: "This has been our development strategy all along. Previously, we funneled the vast majority of our energy, resources, and manpower into industrial construction and infrastructure development. That is the key reason why, even after shipping out most of our stored equipment to assist other sectors, Perditia can still sustain such high-intensity war consumption. We need factories and assembly lines, not stone buildings that do nothing but chant scriptures."
"That will not do—absolutely not!" Herbert interrupted sharply, his tone turning severe. "This is a war against Chaos, specifically against Nurgle's plague! Physical defenses are important, yes, but spiritual defenses are equally indispensable. Devout faith in the Emperor is the crucial barrier against Nurgle's corruption and the mind's plague. Without a large number of cathedrals as anchors of faith, and without priests to guide the people's will, the factory workers in the rear—living under constant, high-pressure conditions—will break sooner or later. Once a large-scale plague or rebellion erupts in the rear, the front lines will collapse in an instant no matter how fortified they are!"
He pointed to Muad'Dib nearby: "A Living Saint can indeed cleanse the plague, but he is not a firefighter, nor can he split himself in two to guard the rear indefinitely. At least during the decisive battle against Typhus, he will be the critical force determining victory or defeat. He must be at the absolute front line, not handling messes in the rear caused by a lack of faith."
Robert fell silent for a moment, then raised his head, looking straight at Herbert with a resolute gaze, speaking without hesitation: "Since you put it that way, I'll be direct as well. I don't want the Ecclesiarchy to have excessive influence on Perditia."
Herbert raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue.
"I have a terrible impression of those bloated cardinals who care for nothing but lining their own pockets, contributing nothing to production while actively weighing it down. In my vision, Perditia should consist solely of hardworking laborers and duty-bound soldiers, with every single resource spent where it counts most. Even if religious facilities are necessary, I don't want them organizing endless, meaningless religious rituals and mandatory tithes. I will not have my workers' efficiency compromised, nor their living standards degraded, by red tape and pointless dogma."
Robert's words were calm, yet his distaste for the Ecclesiarchy's bloated bureaucracy was entirely undisguised. Had he spoken these words before any other Inquisitor, he would likely have been branded with "disrespect toward the Ministorum" or even "heretical thought" on the spot. However, Herbert and Robert were old acquaintances, and Herbert himself was a pragmatist.
Rather than taking offense, Herbert sank into deep thought. He paced back and forth across the room, his cybernetic limb tapping out a rhythmic beat against the metal floorboards.
Strengthening spiritual defense while simultaneously avoiding the Ecclesiarchy's corruption and bloat... was indeed a tough nut to crack.
Suddenly, he halted, his eyes lighting up as if catching the tail end of an epiphany: "Your demand is somewhat demanding—bordering on 'treasonous,' even—but it isn't without a solution."
Turning around to face Robert, he offered a subtle, knowing smile: "If we strip away those convoluted web of self-interests and eliminate those bloated cardinal councils, retaining only the purest faith, the most fanatical loyalty, and an iron will to fight to the death for the Emperor... I can think of a perfect organization: the Adepta Sororitas."
"The Sisters of Battle?" Robert's eyes shifted.
"Precisely," Herbert said, his excitement mounting as he spoke. "They are the armed force of the Ecclesiarchy, but they are nothing like those wealth-hoarding cardinals. They possess the purest faith. Not only can they construct chapels, preach doctrine, and soothe the populace, but more importantly, they are elite warriors themselves! They can be stationed in industrial zones or fight valiantly on the front lines. They serve as beacons of faith and as defense forces capable of putting down any heresy or riots that might arise. Furthermore, they typically lead austere, ascetic lives, so they won't impose an economic burden on your workers."
"Perditia will provide them with full, unreserved support," Robert decided on the spot without a second thought. "Whether it's top-tier power armor, bolters, or picking quality candidates, we will give them a green light across the board—as much as they need, as long as they set out to help us right now."
It was a flawless solution: it patched the weakness in spiritual defense, added an elite defensive force, and avoided any risk of political infiltration by the Ecclesiarchy.
Looking at Robert's expression—resembling a capitalist who had just stumbled upon cheap, high-quality labor—Herbert couldn't help but laugh out loud: "Rest assured, my friend! I doubt any Order of Sororitas would turn down the chance to garrison the homeworld of a Living Saint! To them, it is an absolute, supreme honor. They might even fight among themselves just to secure a spot here!"
With business out of the way, the atmosphere in the command room relaxed somewhat. Herbert and Robert turned their heads simultaneously, locking their gazes on Muad'Dib, who was boredom-counting the rivets on the ceiling.
Their gazes—resembling someone admiring a priceless treasure or inspecting a top star about to take the stage—made Muad'Dib shudder violently. His hair stood on end as an ominous premonition welled up inside him.
"Uh... sirs, any orders?" Muad'Dib asked cautiously, the golden garland around his neck flickering alongside his nervousness.
Robert flashed the warm, gentle smile of a "wicked capitalist": "Muad'Dib, my boy, you're going to be very busy real soon. Once those heavy reinforcements—the Sisters of Battle and the Grey Knights—arrive, you'll be serving as the primary reception liaison to welcome them."
"Me?" Muad'Dib pointed at his own nose, completely bewildered. "I'm going to welcome them? I'm just a regular grunt! Sure, a glowing grunt now... but what do I know about diplomatic etiquette? Besides, for legendary forces like the Grey Knights, is it really appropriate for me to go?"
"No, you are no regular grunt. You are a Living Saint, a walking miracle of the Emperor," Robert corrected him, his tone turning serious. "In their eyes, you are the manifestation of the Emperor's will. Having you receive them will be ten thousand times more effective than if I went, or if Herbert went."
Herbert stroked his chin beside them, nodding in emphatic agreement: "Not only must you go, but you must go in grand style. It would be best if every word you say, every gesture you make, and every look in your eyes were planned to perfection."
The old Inquisitor's eyes gleamed with calculating light, as if constructing a grand religious tableau in his mind: "You must understand, both the Grey Knights and the Sisters of Battle are the ultimate embodiment of faith. To them, will dictates power, and faith sets the ceiling. If your 'performance' can ignite their morale and fanatical faith to the absolute maximum, their combat effectiveness on the battlefield will scale exponentially."
Muad'Dib listened in stunned silence, feeling the weight on his shoulders suddenly grow as heavy as a mountain.
Herbert seemed to recall something and asked abruptly: "By the way, can you fly?"
"Huh?" Muad'Dib blinked.
"Apologies, I mean no offense, and I know it sounds a bit silly," Herbert gestured. "It's just that in the vast majority of religious texts and artwork, Living Saints descend from the heavens on radiant wings. If you can flap a pair of golden psionic wings and slowly descend from the clouds before them amidst holy hymns... trust me, the effect will be mind-blowing. Those Sisters might weep tears of joy on the spot."
Muad'Dib scratched his head, feeling the surging, seemingly boundless golden power within him: "Now that you mention it, I haven't actually tried. But... in theory, I should be able to fly. That power seems to shape itself according to my will... Should I go test it out right now?"
As he spoke, he tentatively channeled the warp power within him. The air behind his back began to warp slightly, with faint specks of golden light gathering together.
"Go on, hit the training grounds and practice hard. Don't go falling out of the sky when the time comes; that'd be an embarrassing stage accident," Robert waved his hand, dismissing him like an actor heading to rehearsal. "As for the specific lines and movement script... I'll gather the staff and propaganda officers to map out the best, most awe-inspiring script for you. When the time comes, just perform according to the script, and I guarantee you'll look more... ahem, more divine than the Emperor's Chosen himself."
Looking at the two figures who were already heatedly debating "which holy hymn would make the best entrance BGM," Muad'Dib let out a helpless sigh, turned, and walked out the door.
Life wasn't easy; even a Saint had to sigh. For Perditia, if he had to fly, then fly he would.
Today, the landing plaza of Perditia's main hive city had been completely cleared. The mountains of military supplies that originally littered the area had been moved overnight, replaced by orderly lined honor guards and pre-positioned, high-power vox-arrays.
As a Thunderhawk gunship bearing the insignia of the Adepta Sororitas broke through the clouds, the roar of its engines echoed across the sky. The moment the lander's hatch slammed onto the ground with a hiss from its hydraulic struts, an unprecedented, magnificent movement flooded the entire plaza through the vox-arrays.
It was the "BGM" Robert had meticulously selected: 'Conquest of Paradise'.
The choral voices of women sounded as if arriving from ancient ages, accompanying a gradually swelling symphony to build a desolate, tragic, yet immensely holy sense of epic grandeur. This musical style was starkly different from the sharp, almost grating Gothic hymns customary to the Imperial Creed; it was heavier, striking directly at the depths of one's soul.
Even Canoness Cassandra of the Order of the Silver Shroud—a veteran leader who had seen much of the galaxy and listened to hymns in countless grand cathedrals across other sectors—could not help but be visibly moved.
Clad in silver-white power armor draped with black robes, holding a bolter and a chainsword, she felt the solemnity contained within this unfamiliar music the instant her boot stepped out of the hatch. It was as though an invisible army were taking this melody as their signal, launching a death-defying charge against an invincible enemy until they conquered death and conquered paradise itself.
"What a holy melody..." Cassandra murmured in admiration, as the Sisters of Battle behind her assumed solemn expressions.
Just as the music reached its crescendo, a pure golden light suddenly flared in the sky.
There were no exaggerated golden wings like Herbert had suggested, nor were there holo-projections of cherubs fluttering across the sky. Muad'Dib simply drifted down, clad in his carapace armor bathed in pale gold light from warp energy, his entire form enveloped in a soft yet dazzling radiance as he floated in midair—defying physical laws—before descending slowly.
He had tried it for a long time at the training grounds and ultimately decided to cut the wing concept.
First, he realized he could fly freely just by channeling warp energy, making a pair of materialized wings completely redundant—not to mention the sheer fatigue of having to actively control their flapping frequency. Second, while having wings looked cool, in the mutation-riddled universe of Warhammer, showing any trait slightly non-human made one susceptible to suspicions of genetic mutation or Warp corruption. Even Sanguinius himself had suffered great distress over his giant angel wings; Muad'Dib figured he'd pass on that burden.
Drifting down directly like this was far more secure, appearing both profoundly enigmatic and indisputably "pure."
Despite the absence of wings, the moment Muad'Dib appeared, every Sister of Battle present felt a tremor from the depths of their soul. That was pure divine power of the Emperor, an unadulterated warp radiance whose warm and commanding presence could never be mistaken.
This was a Living Saint! A vessel of the Emperor's will!
"Praise the Emperor! Praise His messenger!"
Fervent tears instantly welled up in Canoness Cassandra's eyes. Leading by example, she dropped to one knee, her metal knee armor hitting the ground with a dull thud. Immediately afterward, the dozens of fully armed Sisters of Battle behind her knelt in unison, their movements as crisp and synchronized as a falling row of dominoes.
Maintaining his slow, imposing descent, Muad'Dib subtly observed this group of "big sisters."
He clicked his tongue inwardly. Though these Sisters were women, every single one of them stood over six feet tall. Even through their thick power armor, the explosive power in their movements made it clear that beneath those plates lay not soft frames, but iron muscles forged through a thousand trials.
'Formidable. One punch from them could probably turn an ordinary heretic into direct mush.'
Muad'Dib's feet finally touched down lightly, the golden light retracting into his body and leaving only a soft halo around the garland. Looking at the ground full of kneeling, power-armored warrior women, he took a deep breath and spoke in a steady voice according to Robert's "script": "Rise!"
His voice, bolstered by warp energy, reached everyone's ears with unmistakable clarity, carrying an undeniable force.
"Before becoming a so-called Living Saint, I was merely an ordinary soldier, pulling the trigger against the enemies of humanity from muddy trenches. After becoming a Living Saint, I remain the same. I have done nothing beyond my duty; I am merely fulfilling a soldier's obligation. I am undeserving of anyone kneeling before me—only humanity itself is worthy of your knees."
These words were humble and pragmatic, yet aligned perfectly with Perditia's simple values of "soldier and worker as one." Even Herbert, standing to the side, applauded silently in his heart.
Hearing this, the reverence in the eyes of the Sisters of Battle burned even brighter. Compared to those high-and-mighty cardinals who enjoyed offerings, this Living Saint—who still viewed himself as a regular soldier despite possessing divine power—fit their definition of "holiness" far better.
Amid a clatter of grinding metal, the Sisters stood up in unison.
Cassandra stepped forward, gripping her bolter with both hands as she looked at Muad'Dib with a fanatical expression, calling out loudly: "We obey your teachings, Saint! As do we!"
She took a deep breath, her voice growing impassioned and sacred: "As you wish, we shall remain humble, faithful, sincere, kind, merciful, and noble—"
At this point, her expression suddenly turned fierce, her previously benevolent gaze instantly replaced by endless killing intent as she ground out the final words through her teeth: "—and we shall grind every enemy of the Emperor to dust, burn them to ashes, and let their souls wail in fire until eternal destruction!!"
Muad'Dib watched the instant shift on this big sister's face—looking as though she were ready to tear someone apart and eat them raw—and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
'Yep, that's Warhammer-style 'kindness and mercy.' Checks out.'
Seeing Canoness Cassandra's fanatical posture, looking ready to rip demons apart for the Emperor at a moment's notice, the tiny figure who had handed him the garland in the ruins came to Muad'Dib's mind.
The two images overlapped in a strange way at this moment—two sides of purity and violence, the most extreme contrast in this cruel universe, yet both born from the exact same desire for survival and light.
Through an unexpected impulse, Muad'Dib couldn't help but sigh softly: "If she were to join you, she would surely become an excellent Sister of Battle."
The moment the words left his mouth, Muad'Dib realized he had accidentally blurted out his inner thoughts. He had only meant it casually—after all, that little girl possessed a innocence and courage rare in this hopeless world, qualities that, with proper training, would certainly meet the Sisters of Battle's exceptionally high standards for spiritual purity.
However, he had clearly underestimated his weight in the minds of these fanatical believers.
Hearing his words, Canoness Cassandra, who had been immersed in her hatred for heretics, trembled violently and snapped her head up, her sharp eyes bursting with unbelievable brilliance. A personal recommendation from a Living Saint? What a supreme honor! It meant the chosen individual possessed potential recognized by the Saint himself!
Cassandra immediately took half a step forward, asking in an urgent and respectful tone: "Which sister is so fortunate as to gain your favor, Holy Saint? Please tell us her name. If she is still suffering in the mortal realm, the Sisterhood will immediately dispatch people to bring her to the sanctuary and spare no effort to forge her into the Emperor's sharpest blade!"
Several nearby Sisters of Battle perked up as well, envy and curiosity tangling in their minds. To be named by a Living Saint was practically booking a future seat among legends.
Seeing their posture—looking as if they were about to set off to claim a holy relic—Muad'Dib knew he couldn't laugh this off as a joke anymore. He decided to go along with it, lightly touching the garland around his neck.
His expression softened, and he offered a gentle smile: "She is not a sister yet, nor even a warrior. She is just a very innocent little girl."
"A little girl?" Cassandra froze for a moment, but the fanaticism in her eyes only grew stronger.
"A pure soul bestowed by the Emperor!"
"Indeed, pure." Muad'Dib pointed to the garland around his neck. "You may be curious about my power. Truth be told, this garland around my neck is the source of my power. And she is the one who gave it to me. The moment she placed that innocence and blessing into my hands, I swore to defend Perditia."
Hearing these words, the Sisters of Battle present gasped in unison.
The way they looked at the garland shifted instantly; no longer viewing it as an ordinary decoration, they gazed upon it as a supreme holy relic. And in their minds, the little girl who had given it was elevated from a "lucky child" to an "inspirer of the Saint's divine power," or even a "chosen vessel of the divine."
"So that's how it is..." Cassandra muttered to herself, her eyes brimming with emotion. "A pure, flawless soul awakened the Saint's great power. This is a miracle, an arrangement of the Emperor! That child... she was destined for the Adepta Sororitas!"
Watching the little girl being led away by the Sisters of Battle, her face beaming with excitement, Muad'Dib let out a long sigh of relief.
That child possessed a pure soul, and under the protection of those big sisters who literally engraved "mercy" onto their chainswords, her future might be filled with blood and fire, but she was clearly embracing it with joy.
"Alright, personal matters are sorted. Time to get down to business."
Muad'Dib turned around, his body enveloped in golden warp energy. Like a reverse meteor, he shot across the sky toward the distant battlefront at breakneck speed.
As the distance from the hive city grew, the landscape below underwent a earth-shattering shift. If the core district of the hive city had felt tense yet retained tidy streets, orderly conduct, and even grand statues atop fortified ramparts, the front line now unfolding before Muad'Dib's eyes was nothing short of hell made real.
The earth was plowed to pieces by heavy shellfire, its original permafrost turned upside down and churned with blood, corpses, and Nurgle's signature rotting slime into a nauseating black-green morass. Thick, yellow-green poisonous fog hung heavily in the air, reducing visibility to a minimum; every breath felt like swallowing a mouthful of barbed, concentrated acid.
'Buzz—' A few grotesquely warped Chaos fighters, dripping with pustules and sharp spikes, burst out from the toxic haze, screaming as they lunged at Muad'Dib, who presented an unmistakable airborne target.
"Flies."
Muad'Dib didn't even bother slowing down, merely flicking a hand casually. A few beams of golden warp energy swept across like sharp swords. Before the Chaos fighters could even attempt a evasive maneuver, they detonated mid-air into a series of brilliant fireballs, their wreckage trailing black smoke as they plunged into the mud below.
With the airborne distraction cleared, Muad'Dib dropped his altitude, hovering over a trench sector where a fierce engagement was in full swing.
Stationed here were none other than the players of the Helldiver Legion.
At this moment, these usually hyperactive players were not in great shape. Nurgle's plagues were all-pervading; even if the players rarely suffered permanent mutation unless they outright died, the continuous health bleed, gasping for breath after moving two paces, blurred vision, and periodic bouts of nausea left them in absolute misery.
If the enemy suffered the same debuffs it wouldn't be so bad, but the fact that 'only' they had to deal with it was immensely frustrating!
"This damned toxic fog—my system status panel shows my body in red non-stop! (Like the health system in 'Tarkov')" inside a trench, a player swore under his breath while reloading his lasgun's power pack.
Just then, the gloom overhead suddenly parted.
Hovering in mid-air, Muad'Dib deliberately dialled his internal warp power up to maximum, generously showering it down upon the field.
In an instant, warm, dazzling golden light cascaded down like a waterfall, piercing straight through the thick toxic fog and enveloping the entire defense sector.
A miracle occurred.
Wherever the golden light touched, those nauseating yellow-green poisonous fumes melted away as quickly as snow under boiling water. The air grew instantly crisp and clean, even carrying a subtle scent reminiscent of fresh sun-baked laundry.
Inside the trenches, the players felt a sudden wave of warmth wash over them, sweeping away that bone-deep, festering ache instantly. The body status icons on their system panels began turning green—and even gold—at a pace visible to the naked eye. Even their heads, foggy from hours of non-stop fighting, cleared up completely, as if they had just enjoyed ten full hours of sleep followed by a can of Red Bull.
Every single plague DEBUFF—completely cleansed!
A dead silence fell over the position first, followed immediately by an explosion of deafening cheers.
"Woohoo! We're flying high! Today it's finally our trench's turn to get pocket-healed!"
"Holy crap, refreshed and energized! My man is insane! What a massive AOE heal!"
A heavy weapons guy leaped out from behind cover, slinging a heavy bolter over his shoulder, throwing a huge thumb-up at Muad'Dib in the sky and roaring: "Hit us with more, Saint bro! I can take it! It hits hard!"
Going even further, a few players who were fully hyped up started making all sorts of wild noise: "Power! Continuous power is surging through me! I feel like I could tear a Great Unclean One apart with my bare hands right now!"
"Ah! Ah! That's the stuff! Blast a little more of that golden light onto me!"
"Heal me! Quick, pocket-heal me! I can still charge!"
Listening to the terrible lines coming from this bundle of weirdos down below, Muad'Dib—flying in the sky—couldn't help the corner of his mouth from twitching, though he couldn't hide the smile in his eyes.
In stark contrast to them was the Nurgle army advancing on the position.
The moment those shambling Plague Zombies and cackling Nurglings came into contact with the golden light, it was as if they had been doused in concentrated acid. The rotting flesh on their bodies began to smoke violently, emitting loud 'sizzling' sounds as their movements ground to a crawl. Some of the frailer zombies even disintegrated entirely under the holy light, collapsing into pools of foul pus.
"This feeling... really isn't half bad."
Watching the players below whose morale had shot through the roof as they launched counter-charges with wild roars, along with the monsters wailing in the golden light, Muad'Dib smiled slightly and waved his hand once more, showering down an even more dazzling brilliance.
---
On the other side of the battlefield, atop a temporary command dais constructed from corpses and rusted scrap metal, Typhus—First Captain of the Death Guard and Chosen of Nurgle—stared intently through a filth-encrusted observation lens at the figure glowing like a miniature sun in the distant sky.
Even across miles of toxic fog, that golden light stung his eyes—long accustomed to darkness and rot—with a dull ache.
"Damned lapdog of the Corpse-Emperor..."
Typhus's ruined Terminator armor, looking as if flies might burst from its gaps at any moment, gave off a deep, mechanical hum—a sign of his extreme anger and anxiety.
A few days ago, when the Helldiver Legion suddenly unleashed a warp surge powerful enough to shake the Immaterium, and one of their number was confirmed to be a "Living Saint," Typhus had indeed been thoroughly startled. As a Chaos Space Marine who had lived for ten thousand years, he knew all too well what a true Living Saint represented: a direct projection of the Emperor's will, a strategic-class weapon capable of turning the tide of battle single-handedly.
At that moment, the battle-tested Plague Lord had even considered calling a full retreat. After all, going head-to-head with a Living Saint at full strength served no purpose other than adding a few subpar fertilizers to Grandfather Nurgle's garden.
However, over the next few days, the way the situation developed left him bewildered.
The newly born Living Saint hadn't, like the legendary Celestine, charged straight into his flagship with a flaming broadsword to decapitate him, nor had he summoned an invincible angelic host to sweep the battlefield. On the contrary, the mortal army known as the "Helldiver" actually began pulling back their defense lines.
And as for that Living Saint, aside from making an appearance to hack a few Space Marines to death at his birth, he hadn't personally taken the field again since.
"Furthermore..." Typhus narrowed his eyes, watching that distant figure continuously shower golden light onto the troops below, making those mortal ants bellow like they were on stimulants while his own low-level cannon fodder fell in swathes.
"This style of fighting... is far too passive."
In Typhus's understanding, a Living Saint ought to be a storm of destruction, a wildfire that incinerated everything in its path. Yet the guy in front of him looked for all the world like a oversized... mobile totem pole? Or some kind of high-powered psionic amplifier?
'Could it be that this so-called Living Saint is just all show and no substance?'
A bold hypothesis took shape within his rotting, yet still cunning mind.
Perhaps this mortal hadn't fully inherited the Emperor's true power? Or perhaps his capabilities were strictly limited to wide-area aura buffs and purifications, while lacking direct, one-on-one destructive combat prowess?
If that were the case...
Typhus tightened his grip on the Manreaper in his hand. The uncounted vengeful spirits bound to the scythe let out piercing wails, as if hungering for fresh flesh and blood.
If he slunk back in defeat without so much as testing the waters, not only would he lose all face before the other Chaos Lords, but it would also be a supreme disrespect to Grandfather Nurgle. He had come here with the grand vision of spreading the gospel of plague, only to be scared off before even taking a proper hive city—it was an absolute humiliation.
'Perhaps... I could give it a shot.'