Chương 16: Suspicion
Among these landmarks stood the Cathedral of the Emperor's Ascension, a beacon of faith and history. Even the Imperium's wealthiest and most corrupt nobles saw value in bringing their children to its hallowed halls. For many, it was not just a visit but an opportunity to instill values and a proper outlook on life. Some Imperial schools even made trips to the Cathedral a regular activity, allowing children to hear firsthand the heroic tales and legends of a time long past.
The Cathedral's outer sanctum was a towering Gothic marvel. Its black walls bore countless carvings depicting heroic sacrifices made for the Imperium. Pilgrims and tourists patiently waited in long queues, guided by attendants who led them through the various exhibits. At every significant stop, priests and servitors recounted the stories of legendary battles and the brave souls who fought them.
It had been 9,000 years since the hero Kayvaan fell to a dark curse on the battlefield. In those millennia, the Imperium had weathered countless storms under the Emperor's eternal vigilance. There had been dark periods when humanity teetered on the brink of annihilation, but through faith and unyielding will, the Imperium endured. Today, though the galaxy was never truly free from conflict, Terra enjoyed a rare moment of relative peace, and its citizens cherished the hard-won stability.
The Sanctum of the Honored Dead, once exclusively a resting place for fallen heroes, had evolved. While its inner sanctum still housed the remains of those legendary figures, access was strictly limited. Visitors instead marveled at the rebuilt outer sanctum, a grand and majestic structure designed for public admiration and education.
Then, on an otherwise ordinary day, the cathedral was interrupted by a strange and ancient sound—the ringing of a bell. Its deep, majestic tone reverberated through the hall, cutting through the chatter of the crowds. What made it extraordinary was that it wasn't amplified by any technology; the bell's power seemed to come from its sheer resonance.
Pilgrims froze, startled, their eyes darting around to locate the source of the sound. Even the attendants tasked with guiding the visitors were left bewildered. None of them knew why the bell had been rung.
Amid the confusion, the high priest suddenly burst onto the scene. His appearance was disheveled—he wore a simple robe, his ornate miter clutched awkwardly under one arm, and his bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he sprinted toward the inner sanctum. His frantic, almost undignified dash drew gasps and puzzled murmurs from the crowd.
Inside the inner sanctum, chaos reigned. Some priests panicked, while others were visibly flushed with excitement. The bishop, normally a figure of calm authority, looked uncharacteristically energized. Everyone knew what the bell signified: the "Awakening Bell" had been rung.
The Awakening Bell only tolled under extraordinary circumstances, marking the return of a hero long thought lost to history. For those interred in the Sanctum's coffins, emerging again was akin to a miracle. In the Hall's 9,000-year history, the bell had only rung three times, each occasion marking the resurrection of a legend or their final passing.
The bishop, aware of the magnitude of the moment, knelt in the special auditorium. He prayed fervently, his words praising the Emperor and the miracle unfolding before him. To hear the bell during his tenure was an unimaginable blessing.
Ancient machinery groaned to life, and soon a stasis sarcophagus was transported into the auditorium by mechanical arms. The bishop rose from his prayer, his hands trembling slightly as he removed an ancient golden key from around his neck. With reverence, he handed it to a servitor. The automaton bowed deeply, then carefully inserted the key into the sarcophagus's lock, ensuring every movement was precise and gentle.
As the lid of the sarcophagus slid open, the figure of a young man was revealed. He appeared no older than eighteen, his face calm and serene, but when his eyes fluttered open, they held a depth of weariness that spoke of untold years and battles.
The bishop stepped forward, his voice steady despite his emotions. "I am Armandius, bishop of the Cathedral. I have been your servant during your slumber. Welcome back, great one."
The man who emerged from the sarcophagus was not the original Kayvaan Shrike, but a traveler through time—Joe. When his mentor vanished, the essence of Joe, the traveler, ceased to exist. Now, only Joe, who had inherited Kayvaan's name and legacy, remained. He vowed to honor that name, carrying its weight forward into this world.
This was only the beginning—the very first step of a new journey. Kayvaan Shrike stepped out of the sarcophagus, his movements unsteady. His bare foot landed on the cold, smooth floor with a sharp "pop." A servitor approached hastily, offering support, but Kayvaan waved them off, his hand firm.
"I am Kayvaan, captain of the Raven Guard," he declared, his voice strong despite his weakened state. "I don't need anyone's help to walk. Get out of the way."
Joe's awakening set an ancient system into motion, one originally designed by the Sanctum to handle those returning from prolonged stasis. The first protocol was a complete isolation procedure. A massive, inflatable plastic enclosure sealed Joe away from the outside world. Medical equipment and mechanical assistants flooded into the room, setting up a sterile environment.
The examinations began almost immediately. Nine thousand years had passed, and the top priority was ensuring Joe wasn't carrying ancient pathogens. Despite the advanced medical systems of this era, bacteria and diseases still existed—tiny, invisible threats lurking in the air. Fortunately, the Imperium's disease prevention protocols were thorough. Every ancient sleeper and alien visitor underwent the same rigorous scrutiny.
Joe, however, warranted extra caution. Not only was he a relic of an ancient past, but he had also suffered a dreadful curse. No one could be sure what horrors might still linger in his body, remnants of his old life.
For a week, Joe endured relentless tests—blood extractions, scans, and mental evaluations. Medical staff surrounded him, monitoring his every move. By the end of the week, the scene shifted. Two clergymen arrived, dismissing the medical personnel and removing the inflatable isolation chamber. The high-tech machinery disappeared, transforming the room back into a grand auditorium. Yet, the atmosphere was different.
Joe sat alone in a simple chair before a long table. Two clergymen faced him from across the table, their austere expressions framed by the Imperium's aquila and the sigil of the Ecclesiarchy displayed behind them. Their questions came rapidly, probing into every corner of his past. Their words carried suspicion, as if they doubted his every answer. Again and again, they questioned his faith and loyalty to the Emperor.
Frustration boiled over. Slamming his hand on the table, Joe snarled, "What is this? I understood the medical tests—ensuring I didn't bring some ancient plague with me. I even tolerated your mental and intelligence exams to check for brain damage after so long. But this? This feels like an interrogation! Are you treating me as an enemy?"
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