Joe rubbed his forehead, his thoughts jumbled. "So… let me get this straight. You're saying you're going to die, and I'll take over your body. And you're teaching me now so I can carry on in your place? Serve your Emperor or whatever?"
"Exactly."
"But no matter what happens, you're saying it's a bad deal for me? Whether I stay trapped or end up serving your Emperor, it's all unfortunate?"
"It's not just an Emperor as you imagine him," Kayvaan said firmly. "Not some mortal ruler sitting on a throne. The Emperor of Mankind is humanity's savior, our leader, our prophet. His power surpasses all gods. Without Him, humanity would have been extinguished long ago. It is because of the God-Emperor that humanity still survives in this galaxy teeming with horrors."
Joe shrugged, unconvinced. "Alright, your Emperor then. I get it. But back to my question: why would serving Him be just as unlucky as being trapped?"
"This is no easy task," Kayvaan said with a weary but prideful smile etched on his face. "If you venture out in the future, you'll understand. As an Adeptus Astartes—a Space Marine—we are powerful, perfect, and granted eternal purpose, but such gifts come with unimaginable sacrifices."
Joe froze, momentarily caught off guard, before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Are you serious? Why should I follow your orders like some puppet?"
Kayvaan's smile vanished, replaced by a chilling calmness. "Because you're an outsider. You need to understand that with a mere thought, I could make you disappear in unimaginable agony." With that, he snapped his fingers. Instantly, Joe crumpled to the ground, his body convulsing as excruciating pain tore through him.
"I can make you feel torment beyond your wildest nightmares," Kayvaan said coldly, watching Joe writhe. "So, it would be wise to learn respect and obedience. Now, get up. You've already squandered a thousand years; there's no time left to waste! Your first task is to read every book in this hall."
____________
Meanwhile time also passed outside,
"How could this happen?" Alen's voice trembled as he stared in disbelief at the ceramite coffin before him. His captain, the one he had revered above all, now lay within it—a shadow of his former self. Anger surged through him, burning hot in his chest, but he forced himself to remain calm. "I need an explanation—one that makes sense. Otherwise..."
The servitor standing nearby trembled visibly, its mechanical arm twitching at its side. "I-I don't know either. This is... unprecedented. The captain shouldn't have changed after being placed in the sanctum, but... Please wait a moment. This might have happened during the Great Betrayal or shortly thereafter. I'll need to check the records."
Before the servitor could move, an elderly man stepped out from the shadows of the hall. "No need, Corida. You're not authorized to access those records," the man said, his voice steady but firm. He waved a dismissive hand, and Corida quickly retreated. The old man approached Alen, bowing slightly as a sign of respect. "Lord Alen, I am Eustace, Librarian of the Sanctum of the Honored Dead. I oversee everything here. How may I assist you?"
Alen's gaze remained fixed on the coffin. "I want to know what happened to the person lying inside. How did he end up like this?"
Eustace glanced briefly at the identification sigil engraved on the ceramite coffin. "May I ask your connection to the captain in question?"
Alen didn't hesitate. "He was my captain. He always will be."
Understanding dawned on the Librarian's face. He let his gaze drift to the chest of Alen's armor, adorned with medals that gleamed in the hall's soft light: the Imperial Laurel, the Crux Terminatus, and the Mark of the Emperor's Wrath. Each one represented extraordinary feats—victories against insurmountable odds, triumphs in legendary battles, and countless foes vanquished. It was no wonder the servitor had quaked in the presence of such a figure.
"If your captain could see what you've become, he would be proud," Eustace said softly. "But I must ask you to temper your anger and lower your voice. This is the Sanctum of the Honored Dead, after all."
Alen nodded, fully aware of the solemnity and unyielding rules that governed this sanctified space. The Sanctum of the Honored Dead was no ordinary hall—it was a sacred reliquary of the Chapter's most revered heroes, those who had given everything in service to the Emperor. These were warriors who had slain xenos lords, turned the tide of impossible battles, or laid down their lives in acts of supreme sacrifice.
The remains of these heroes lay interred in stasis sarcophagi, their surfaces adorned with purity seals, etched litanies, and the sigils of their Chapter. The walls of the hall stretched into shadowed infinity, each recess containing a crypt illuminated by the dim glow of flickering votive candles. Some sarcophagi bore the honored Crux Terminatus, signifying those who had once donned Terminator armor. Others were marked with laurels of champions or the battle honors of campaigns long past.
For these heroes, death was inevitable—whether from insurmountable wounds or mortal injuries sustained in battle—but their loss was too great for the Imperium to bear. Their talents, their wisdom, and even their genetic legacy were treasures the Imperium could not afford to lose. Thus, the Sanctum of the Honored Dead was established. These sarcophagi weren't mere resting places; they were advanced stasis chambers connected to a colossal temporal stabilizer. Time flowed so slowly for the occupants that they were nearly frozen in an eternal slumber. The hope was that one day, when the Imperium's technology advanced far enough, these heroes could be revived and restored.
Eustace pulled out a data-slate, its surface lighting up with glowing text and symbols. He scanned the information carefully before speaking again. "You have the right to know about your captain's condition. However, I must warn you that this involves highly classified information. It is one of the Imperium's most closely guarded secrets. I trust you understand the importance of discretion."
Alen's expression hardened. "I understand."
"Good." Eustace tapped the data-slate, bringing up a specific document. He held it out toward Alen. "Take a look here—pay close attention to this seal."
Alen's gaze followed Eustace's pointing finger, and his jaw dropped instantly. He stood frozen, his mouth agape for what felt like an eternity. This battle-hardened hero, who had once stood unshaken against hundreds of Chaos Space Marines, now wore an expression he had not shown in thousands of years—pure, unfiltered astonishment.
The sight left Alen speechless.
The Librarian waited patiently, allowing Alen a moment to collect himself. Once Alen regained some composure, the Librarian continued, his tone grave yet steady. "What you see before you is a seal of the Emperor's Will, placed by the hand of the Emperor Himself. Your captain, the revered Kayvaan Shrike, was personally examined by His Omniscient Majesty. It was His divine revelation that your captain's wounds were not merely physical but were inflicted by a curse of the most sinister kind."
"A curse?" Alen's voice trembled slightly as the word sent a chill through him. He struggled to process what he had just heard. "I-I don't understand. I was with my captain on the battlefield during that campaign. Afterward, they told me he was gravely injured, but no one ever mentioned a curse."
"That's because such knowledge was classified," Eustace explained, his tone patient yet firm. "The information had a strict time lock. Fifty years ago, you wouldn't have had the clearance to know about this. But times have changed." As he spoke, Eustace tapped the panel in his hand. The ceramite sarcophagus in front of them began to rise slowly, its shimmering surface shifting and transforming until it became transparent like reinforced adamantium glass. Inside, Captain Kayvaan Shrike's body was now fully visible, displayed in unsettling clarity.
"Look closely," Eustace said, gesturing toward the body. "Since his remains were entrusted to the Sanctum of the Honored Dead, some changes have occurred. However, one thing remains consistent—there are no visible external injuries on his body. What felled Captain Shrike was neither blood loss nor terminal disease. Not an ordinary attack either. In fact, the scars from his many battles, the ones that once adorned his body, are fading away. What you see now is a body so smooth and unblemished, it could belong to an idle noble rather than a warrior of countless battles. And perhaps most troubling of all, his body has been… shrinking over the past millennium."
"Shrinking?" Alen echoed in disbelief. The word sounded absurd, but looking at the figure in the transparent sarcophagus, he had to admit it was an apt description.
Kayvaan Shrike had once been an imposing figure, standing at over 2.9 meters tall in his power armor. This giant-like stature was standard among the Adeptus Astartes, where even the smallest initiates towered over ordinary humans. Space Marines were more than just soldiers—they were living weapons, engineered for war. Each Marine underwent brutal genetic enhancements and numerous surgeries. Their bones became as hard as steel; they were equipped with multi-lobed hearts for greater stamina and redundant organs to ensure survival. Beneath their skin lay a subdermal carapace tougher than adamantium plate.
These warriors were built to endure the harshest conditions in the galaxy. Yet now, his old captain—the most formidable fighter of the Raven Guard, Master of Shadows, and a legend in close combat—was reduced to this frail state. Kayvaan Shrike's once-scarred body, a testament to his countless victories, had become eerily smooth. It was like the canvas of his life had been wiped clean, his glorious scars replaced by an unsettling perfection. "He's barely two meters tall now," Alen whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The transformation was both disturbing and heartbreaking.
Eustace nodded gravely and began recounting the events. "During the Horus Heresy, Warmaster Horus succumbed to the temptations of the Chaos Gods and betrayed the Emperor. The four dark gods—Slaanesh, Khorne, Tzeentch, and Nurgle—bestowed their blessings and power upon him. Among these blessings were two devastating curses: one was a lethal curse aimed at Sanguinius, the Emperor's most noble and beloved son. As long as Sanguinius stood, the Emperor's rule was unshakable. The second was a powerful curse intended for the Emperor Himself.
"But fate did not favor Horus as much as he had hoped. At the most critical moment, your captain, Lord Kayvaan Shrike, stepped forward and shielded Sanguinius with his own body. The curse from Slaanesh, which was supposed to strike Sanguinius, was deflected. We all know what followed.
"Now that you understand this, you should recognize the magnitude of your captain's sacrifice. The survival of the Emperor—and humanity itself—rests heavily on what he endured. Without him, the outcome of the Heresy could have been very different."
Alen was stunned. Of course, he knew the rest of the story. At the rebellion's climax, the Emperor and Sanguinius had stormed Horus's flagship, the Vengeful Spirit. Sanguinius confronted Horus first but was struck down in a brutal battle, his perfect form broken by the Warmaster's overwhelming might. The Emperor, in turn, engaged Horus and ultimately emerged victorious, though at a great cost. Severely wounded, the Emperor had been confined to the Golden Throne ever since—a life-support system that kept Him alive but unable to fully recover.
To this day, the Emperor remains bound to the Golden Throne, His undying will sustaining the Imperium at the cost of His own mortal shell. His state is a paradox—too vital to the survival of humanity to lose, yet too broken to truly live. For the faithful, He is the God-Emperor, a divine beacon; for others, He is a reminder of the Imperium's endless sacrifice. Even in deathless stasis, His light guides the galaxy, much like the relics of ancient saints enshrined in the Sanctum Sanctorum, revered yet forever entombed.
Alen's heart ached at the thought. "If my captain hadn't stepped in, Sanguinius might have survived the curse, but the Emperor might not have. And with Horus standing before him, there's no telling how the battle would have ended."
"But why," Alen hesitated, struggling to find the words, "why didn't my captain succumb to the curse like Sanguinius did? He wasn't… twisted, or broken, or—"
"You're asking why he didn't meet the same fate," Eustace interrupted, his tone calm but grave. "Sanguinius was tortured to death by Khorne's rage, yet your captain lies here peacefully. Is that what you're wondering?"
"Yes," Alen admitted awkwardly. "It's just… it was a curse from an evil god. Even if my captain was incredibly strong, Sanguinius was the best of us, and even he couldn't endure Khorne's curse. How did my captain survive Slaanesh's?"
Eustace sighed. "The curses came from different Chaos Gods, each with their own nature. Khorne is the god of violence and slaughter, and his power manifests as unrelenting pain and rage. Even Sanguinius, with all his strength, could not withstand it. Slaanesh, however, is the god of excess and corruption. Slaanesh's methods are more insidious, more subtle. Your captain didn't fall immediately, but make no mistake—he's not safe.
"Slaanesh's curse transformed Lord Kayvaan Shrike's body into a prison and his soul into its captive. The curse slowly weakens his physical form and corrodes his spirit. Even the stasis field preserving him cannot stop this process. One day, Lord Kayvaan will either awaken briefly, only to succumb, or he will quietly pass away. Either way, the warrior he was will be no more."
Alen's fists clenched, his voice trembling with anger. "That's despicable!" He could barely contain his rage. "Warriors like my captain—like all of us—aren't afraid to die in battle. We welcome it. To die in combat, giving everything for the Emperor, is the ultimate honor. But to waste away in a sarcophagus, unable to fight… that's a fate worse than death. It's a mockery of everything we stand for!"
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