UNKNOWN LOCATION
A massive rift tore itself open in the fabric of reality, wide and jagged like a fresh scar on the world. From its churning depths stumbled a towering humanoid figure clad in radiant gold armour, his gait unsteady, as though he were dazed.
But the disorientation was fleeting.
With the precision of a seasoned warrior, he recovered almost instantly. His head turned slowly as he surveyed his surroundings—a barren expanse of desert stretching endlessly in every direction. Dunes rolled like waves upon a dead sea, the sun overhead an unforgiving eye, scorching the sands below.
Bending down, he picked up the ornate spear that had fallen beside him, its haft marked with sacred inscriptions and signs of battle. Then he removed his helm—a majestic piece now scarred by a claw mark that had raked across its side.
What was revealed beneath the helm was a face carved from stone and violence—strong, square-jawed, weathered by countless wars. Faint scars traced the years across his skin. His hair, styled in a defiant punk crest, added an edge of menace to his already imposing form. His eyes, deep brown and glinting with suppressed fury, absorbed the alien terrain with a calm, wary intensity.
His expression shifted—confusion crept into his hardened features. He turned slowly, scanning the desert, his body tensing as if in search of something vital—something lost.
"Atrius… where have they taken you?" he muttered, his voice a low thunder of concern.
The wind's dry breath was his only answer.
Without hesitation, he donned his helm once more. A moment later, he was off—sprinting with an inhuman pace. His golden form blurred across the dunes, trailing a wake of disturbed sand and kinetic fury.
Something had caught his attention.
The scent of blood.
UNKNOWN LOCATION – THE IMMATERIUM
This realm was… wrong.
A place of corruption and hunger. Emotion lived here—not metaphorically, but literally. Lust, rage, despair, madness—all twisted into the ever-shifting landscape. Shapes coalesced and evaporated in the blink of an eye. Time stumbled over itself, and space bent like molten iron.
This was the Immaterium.
The Warp.
Not every region of it was filled with daemons, but that brought no safety. The Warp itself was alive—and its will was cruel.
And then—a light.
It flared like a comet through the void, cutting through the currents of unreality. Too fast to follow, too pure to belong. Wherever it passed, the fabric of the Warp screamed. Rifts opened and collapsed in its wake, and its very presence warped the minds of those connected to the psychic realm.
In the Materium, across countless worlds, psykers wailed. Some fell into madness, consumed by violent hunger. Others descended into depravity and ecstasy, bodies writhing in uncontrollable pleasure. A few were gifted—or cursed—with knowledge of forgotten aeons, their minds split open by truths never meant to be spoken. Some became prophets of decay, heralds of rot.
Cults rose in its wake like weeds after rain.
Time meant nothing here—a moment could span centuries in the mortal realm.
And then—
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound of space itself being torn apart reverberated across the Warp.
Until finally… silence.
The light vanished.
And for a rare moment, the Warp held its breath.
UNKNOWN WORLD – DESERT REGION
The desert was unforgiving—an endless sea of sand, heat, and death. To a mortal, it would take years to cross, if they even survived.
But through it all, a golden blur streaked across the landscape, swift and unrelenting. The sun above gleamed off the polished plates of his war-plate, creating a radiant blaze that rivaled the daystar itself.
He came to a halt upon a sandstone outcrop, the dust from his run catching up to him in a lingering cloud. The land before him dipped into a jagged valley carved by time and wind.
He peered down into it.
Below, a woman ran—desperate, blood-streaked, fast. Her skin was dark and sun-kissed, her frame lean and strong. She wore crude hides, wrapped hastily around her form. Blood smeared her hands and lips, trickling from her chin. Around her neck swung a necklace of animal teeth.
Behind her came a dozen or more men—hulking, primal. Their skin was painted in ash, their bodies clad in stitched animal pelts, heavy and sweltering beneath the desert heat. Yet they showed no sign of discomfort. They ran with wild fury, shouting in broken, guttural tongues—grunts, snarls, and clicks. Their clubs, jagged and stained, dripped with old blood.
The woman screamed. A shrill, soul-ripping cry.
The golden warrior observed it all in silence.
" A primitive world… possibly uncharted," he said aloud, calm and curious. His gaze shifted again.
The scent of blood was stronger elsewhere—far beyond the valley, perhaps miles away. Whatever occurred there, it called to him with greater purpose than this display of tribal violence.
Still... he lingered.
The woman's flight was impressive. Either she had outpaced her pursuers through endurance, or had a head start long enough to matter. Either way, it spoke of her will to survive.
He turned from the ridge and prepared to sprint once more.
Thud. Thud… thud. Thud.
His stride faltered.
He turned back, slowly, gaze falling once more on the chase below.