The night at the battlefield had quieted into a grim silence—a silence broken only by the groans of the wounded and the rustle of tattered uniforms as Imperial forces gathered amidst the wreckage. Amid shattered stone and twisted metal, the remnants of the fallen lay strewn like broken idols. Smoke still clung to the air like a mourning shroud, and the acrid tang of burnt promethium mixed with the coppery scent of blood.
In the center of this desolation, a small makeshift field hospital had been set up. Tattered banners of the Imperium hung limply from battered supports, and the ground was slick with spilled ichor and the remnants of war. Here, the Imperial medics and their reluctant comrades moved with weary determination, tending to grievous wounds and salvaging what little hope they could find in the midst of endless carnage.
At one corner of the field, a grizzled Rune Priest, his face lined with the scars of unending battle, knelt beside a fallen body. He chanted in a guttural tongue—ancient, resonant words designed to bind the taint of Chaos. His hands, calloused and steady, traced intricate sigils upon the charred flesh. The ritual was his desperate bid to deny the foul sorcery of the Warp any power over the dead, to prevent their souls from being twisted into unholy tools of destruction.
Nearby, Space Wolf Apothecary, also known as Wold Priests for wearing a giant thunderwolf skull over the helmet moved with purpose. His grey power armor was spattered with blood and grime, and his eyes, burning with resolve, scanned the carnage. Kneeling beside a fallen brother, he began the grim work of extraction—carefully removing gene-seed organs from the mangled carcass. Each extraction was an act of both mourning and duty, a last effort to preserve the sacred genetic legacy that would allow his fallen kin to live on in future warriors. His deft, almost ritualistic movements contrasted starkly with the raw brutality of the scene around him. He even sang funeral hymns to them
"Lo, the flames rise, the smoke calls the warrior's name!
The shield is shattered, the spear is broken,
but the hand that bore them shall never tremble again.
With fire, we send thee to Underverse
To the Allfather's gaze!
With steel, we mark thee as warrior still!
No chains, no walls, no waiting silence—
only the great hunt that never ends!
Beyond the void, beyond the stars,
the mead-hall roars with the voices of old brothers!
The feast is laid, the ale runs red,
and the Old Wolf Morkai calls thee home!
Sleep not, warrior—there is no sleep!
Rest not, hero—there is no rest!
Only your sagas, only song, only glory eternal!
Go now, bright flame, to the halls of the honored dead!
Go now, swift blade, to the hunt that never ends!
Go now, lost brother, and we shall meet again—
on the red horizon of the last battle!
For the Wolf Time!"
Elsewhere, the morale of the Imperial Guardsmen had plummeted to unfathomable depths. The endless tide of death had eroded the belief in invincibility—even some of the mighty Astartes had fallen. Eyes once filled with determined fire now brimmed with hollow despair, and the clamor of wounded voices echoed a collective grief that was as palpable as the blood staining the shattered concrete.
In a makeshift command post, a senior officer—his face gaunt and etched with worry—stood before a huddle of weary guardsmen. With deliberate, measured tones, he distributed the meager rations and salvaged supplies. His voice, carrying the weight of countless lost battles, resonated as he repeated his bitter chant:
"Don't stand if you can't sit, don't sit if you can't lay, don't lay if you can't sleep…"
Each syllable was a reminder of the cost of war, a chant that echoed the futility of hope in the midst of despair. The words, repeated over and over, were both a comfort and a curse—a grim lullaby for souls teetering on the edge of oblivion.
The young Blood Claw had been silently watching over the Slayer as the remnants of battle settled into a grim lull. Amid the shattered bridge and dying embers of warfare, the vox in his hand suddenly crackled to life with an order that cut through the silence.
"Brother, you are to escort the green warrior to the tent at the far end of the bridge for questioning. Confirm receipt. Over."
The Blood Claw's eyes narrowed as he scanned the battlefield before turning his gaze to the imposing figure beside him—the Slayer, whose presence had become a silent bulwark amid chaos. His voice, low and steady, broke the hush:
"Oi, Green Warrior, I've received orders. You are to be taken to the Wolf Tent for questioning."
The Slayer paused. Slowly, he turned his head, his dark visor reflecting the dying light of the battlefield. In that still moment, as his gaze shifted toward the distant tent, a subtle energy rippled from his suit—a quiet yet insistent command to Sefirot from the Slayer to handle all the talking while he plays his wargames in the mindscape.
"Slayer will answer your questions… but only if you answer his."
The Space Wolf sighed and simply relayed the demands to his pack leader.
"Understood," the Blood Claw murmured, gripping his vox tighter. "Your demands are accepted. We must proceed."
With that, the Blood Claw led the way towards the far end of the bridge. The towering figure of the Slayer followed, every step measured, every movement exuding a quiet, otherworldly power. Behind them, the murmurs of the weary soldiers at the frontline faded into the background, their wary eyes fixed on the silent enigma that had just spoken through its own accord.
As they walked, the Blood Claw's eyes flicked to the silent warrior. After a long, heavy pause, he broke the tense silence.
"Why didn't you help with the rest?" he asked, his voice low and laced with genuine confusion. "You took down six Titans—you had the power to turn the tide."
He paused then—
"You could have helped us more. Why didn't you fight when the rest of us were dying or struggling?" he demanded. The words were heavy, laced with frustration.
The Slayer did not respond directly. Instead, Sefirot's voice, cold and distant, filled the space between them.
"Slayer does not gift hope. He is not a reinforcement variable. He does not restore combatants or enhance their effectiveness. Only those who retain operational capacity persist. Slayer does not initiate that process. He only eliminates the factors that would prematurely terminate it."
The Blood Claw clenched his fists, his words catching in his throat. "You left them to die."
"They are not all dead. They are merely casualties of inefficient strategic deployment. Their failure is a function of their own limitations, not his intervention. Slayer does not act as a force multiplier for external factions—his directives are self-determined."
The young Space Wolf didn't know how to respond. His head buzzed with the weight of the words, but they made no sense to him. His brothers fought, and he had fought beside them. He couldn't understand why someone so powerful would simply… walk away.
"You'll answer our questions, won't you?" he asked, though it felt like more of a demand than a question.
"Slayer answers only within the parameters of his choosing. However, a reciprocal exchange model is acceptable—queries presented must yield equivalent informational returns."
The large tent came into view, it was a flak armor made garrison on steel elevated platform, of the color grey and imprinted with the wolf insignias that were also present on the Space Wolves' armor. And as soon as the Slayer entered this space he was surrounded and put to Bolter point. Even the Space Wolf with him moved and turned his weapon point to back of Slayer's head.
The air was heavy with the tension of unsaid words, bolters raised, a dozen eyes locked onto Slayer as the Space Wolves circled him. The dim light from the torches flickered over their rough, battle-worn faces, their gauntleted hands steady on their weapons. Slayer was surrounded, but he stood unmoving, unbothered.
"We've confirmed ye ain't an Imperial agent." The voice came low from Pack Leader Gorrulf, he spoke in High Gothic like the World Eaters but thick with native Fenrisian accent, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Ye came here, fought the enemy's Titans. But ye ain't no soldier of the Allfather. Or Emperor as you may call him. So tell us... who the hell are ye?"
The air crackled with the barely contained threat of violence, but Slayer didn't flinch. Sefirot waited to see if Slayer wanted to say something, but he again told Sefirot to handle all this as he sees fit.
"You observed Slayer's engagement with enemy Titans. You witnessed their elimination. If you assess this as a threat scenario, calculate your probabilities of success. Are your available assets sufficient to ensure mission victory?"
Gorrulf's gaze hardened, his teeth briefly showing in a grin, but the tension only deepened.
"Ye overestimate yerself. Those were mere scout titans, not true battle titans with larger firepower and multi-layers of impenetrable void shields. And they made prey of them in past. We are Sons of Fenris. We do not back down. We fight, and we win."
"Then the only relevant question remains: Will you achieve that victory?"
Gorrulf held the stare for a beat longer, the silence between them thick and cold.
"We'll see," he said at last, though his voice lacked its former certainty.
Then Sefirot turned to the Rune Priest. "A psyker's assessment should reveal that Slayer does not register as an entity corrupted by your designated Chaos threat. His presence altered the operational parameters of this battlefield—preventing the entity classified as the Blood God from claiming assets in the engagement theater."
The Rune Priest narrowed his eyes. "Aye... I see it. The Blood God did not claim this battlefield. Not a single soul. The blood was spilled, but none were taken. That... is not natural."
Silence stretched. The Wolves understood now—whether they liked it or not.
Sefirot's voice broke through the heavy air once more.
"Now, the relevant query: Who are you? What are your objectives?"
A heavy silence settled over the war tent, broken only by the flickering of light against steel. The gathered Space Wolves kept their bolters trained on the Slayer, their eyes sharp, unreadable. The air was thick with tension, the weight of unspoken questions pressing down like the aftermath of battle.
Gorrulf exhaled slowly, lowering his weapon just a fraction. His piercing gaze remained locked onto the armored warrior before him.
"Ye ask who we are?" His voice carried the thick, guttural cadence of Fenrisian-born warriors, rough like grinding ice. "We are the Vlka Fenryka. One for the founding chapters of Adeptus Astartes. The Wolves of Fenris. Sons of Russ. We are the fangs of the Allfather, the Emperor of Mankind, the storm that howls in the night when His wrath must be answered in blood."
His gauntleted fingers curled into fists. "We are not like the other warriors of the Emperor. We do not march in rigid lines like the tin-clads or kneel to their endless prayers. We are the hunt, the chase, the kill. Born in the ice and fire of Fenris, we are the executioners of those who defy the Allfather's rule."
A few of the gathered warriors nodded, the faintest growls of approval slipping from their throats. One spat to the side, a gesture of contempt for those who questioned their place in the Imperium.
Gorrulf's gaze darkened as he spoke of war. "We came to Armageddon because the stain of Chaos has bled into its soil. The mongrel Eaters of Worlds, their rabid cur, and the wretched sons of our archenemy seek to claim this world, to drown it in blood. We are here to stop them."
His lips curled, revealing sharp teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. "Not just to save this world, mind ye. We are no jarl-born heroes here to cradle weaklings. We are here to kill. To hunt the traitors, to break their champions, to tear down whatever cursed hold Chaos seeks to build here. That is our saga."
The tension did not break, but it shifted—changed. Gorrulf took a step closer to Slayer, his blue eyes burning with challenge.
"I have answered yer question, grimnir." His voice was rough, expectant. "Now it is yer turn."
His grip on his bolter tightened ever so slightly.
"Who are ye? What is yer purpose on Armageddon?"
The Space Wolves had faced monsters before—daemons, heretics, xenos—but this was something else. Something that did not fit within their understanding of warriors and war.
The Slayer did not move. He did not shift, did not fidget. He merely was, standing there like a statue of some ancient war-god carved in defiance of time itself. His silence was not hesitant nor uncertain—it was absolute.
Sefirot's voice broke through the quiet.
"Slayer, as the name suggests, slays. His operational parameters are built upon the annihilation of those he designates as adversaries. His preference model dictates a high-value engagement with the entities classified as 'daemons.'"
Varrik, the Rune Priest, narrowed his eyes. "And why is that?"
"Because he likes slaying them."
The bluntness of the statement hung in the air.
Hardrad scoffed, shifting his grip on his bolter. "That's it? No great oath? No duty to some god or emperor?"
Sefirot continued, unbothered by the skepticism.
"Slayer operates on preference-based engagement heuristics. He has designated the Chaos faction as a high-priority target due to personal assessment. The destruction of their assets yields satisfaction and aligns with his operational preferences."
Gorrulf crossed his arms. "Aye, and what does that mean in our tongue?"
"It means that to the Slayer, fighting daemons is enjoyable."
The older Space Wolf let out a short, humorless laugh. "Ye expect us to believe he fights because he is enjoys it. That couldn't be the only thing?"
Sefirot did not pause.
"All engagements can be reduced to game theoretic models. Slayer functions within a self-imposed strategic framework. Opponents are variables to be neutralized or ignored based on efficiency calculations."
The Space Wolves listened, but their expressions remained unreadable.
"Titans were removed as a challenge condition. Their elimination was not an act of alliance, but an optimization problem. Slayer's actions are dictated by engagement efficiency, not by allegiance or obligation."
Gorrulf's eyes glinted with something—perhaps amusement, perhaps disdain. "So the bastard doesn't care who's on the field. He only cares for the fight itself."
Sefirot confirmed without hesitation.
"All factions engage in conflict under distinct motivational structures: survival, honor, conquest. Slayer's parameters are simpler—he engages because the scenario presents a compelling interaction model. The destruction of obstacles is his function."
Varrik let out a breath, his gaze never leaving the Slayer. He could feel it—that raw, undiluted presence that had somehow locked the battlefield away from Khorne's grasp. This was no ordinary warrior.
"The objective is entropy. The outcome is assessment. The process is engagement. And when the engagement concludes—what remains is merely data."
Hardrad scowled. "That's madness. War ain't some game."
Sefirot's voice did not change.
"It is nothing but a game. Some play for survival. Some for glory. Some for conquest. Slayer plays to destroy. To break. To test the limits of opposition. That is how Slayer plays. And when the game is done… to see what is left in the ashes."
Silence.
Gorrulf exhaled through his nose, his gaze lingering on the Doom Slayer. "And what's his objective here, on Armageddon?"
Sefirot responded immediately.
"The presence of the Immaterium is excessive. The entities of Chaos have made this planet a stage of high-value engagement. Slayer has deemed it worthy of his participation."
Hardrad's voice was tight. "So he's here to kill daemons… because he likes killing daemons."
"Correct."
The young Blood Claw shook his head. "There's no reason in that."
Gorrulf let out a dry sigh. "Lad, there's more reason in that than half the wars we've fought."
He turned his gaze back to the Slayer, something unreadable in his wolf-like stare. "So. That's what ye are. A beast that slays for the sake of slayin'. A force with no leash."
His voice was edged with something between amusement and unease. But there was a lingering question, one that had not yet been answered.
"Then tell me, what are ye, really?" Gorrulf's tone sharpened. "Yer no man of the Imperium. We have seen warriors driven by rage, by oaths, by duty—but ye? Yer something else entirely. No mark of an Emperor, no whisper of the Omnissiah's craft, and yet ye stand in defiance of the Warp as if it holds no claim on ye. That is no small thing."
Varrik, the Rune Priest, finally spoke, his voice lower, laced with something bordering reverence and suspicion. "There is something old about you, Slayer. Not in years, not in flesh—but in the way the Warp recoils from you. The way the dark gods have no hold on you. No warrior is untouched by them—not Space Marine, not mortal. Yet you fight in their realm as if you were meant to tear it apart."
His gaze hardened, piercing. "So I ask, what are you?"
For the first time, the Slayer turned his head fully, looking at them as though considering their words. He said nothing. He never said anything.
Sefirot, however, did.
"Slayer does not originate from your Imperium, your galaxy, or even your reality. His existence is an anomaly within this framework. The laws that govern your universe are not his own. He is not of your Emperor's making. He is not of the Warp. He is not of Man, nor Xenos, nor Daemon."
A cold silence settled over the room.
Hardrad, the Blood Claw, scoffed. "Ye expect us to believe that? That he just—what? Appeared from beyond the stars?"
"Correction. He appeared from beyond the concept of your stars."
Varrik's fingers twitched, subtle but there. He did not like where this was going.
"Slayer's origins lie beyond your time, beyond your Materium and Immaterium. His existence predates your war. He comes from a system where daemons do not whisper, where chaos gods do not play their endless games of ruin. A world where the laws of reality function under different principles. And from that world, he has come here, into yours."
The air grew heavy.
Varrik exhaled, his breath misting slightly as if the very presence of the Slayer distorted the room's temperature. "And why is he here?"
"Slayer operates under a simple directive: he seeks out entities classified as 'demons' and eradicates them. That is his function. That is his existence. The Warp's intrusion upon this world has made this battleground a point of interest. Thus, he engages."
Gorrulf clenched his jaw. "Aye, but why this war? The Imperium has fought the damned and the heretic for ten thousand years, yet ye arrive now? On this world?"
"For most of his time here Slayer remained asleep. He woke up near this planet not long ago and sought his old war against demons. But so did War seeked him."
A beat of silence. Sefirot's voice grew colder.
"The Immaterium does not ignore anomalies. The gods of this world do not ignore defiance. The longer Slayer exists within your universe, the more active he is, the more the great game of Chaos will seek to consume him. The more the Immaterium will bend to understand him. And the more the forces of the Dark Gods will seek to break him."
Varrik's eyes darkened. He knew this truth well. The Warp did not tolerate unknowns.
"The gods will take notice. They will send more. They will not understand why they cannot have him."
Sefirot paused, letting the words settle like a cold weight upon the Wolves.
"But Slayer does not play their game. He does not bend, does not yield. He does not pray to gods. He does not barter with them. He does not acknowledge their rule. And so, he destroys them."
Gorrulf studied the figure before him, that silent monolith of wrath and purpose. There was no boast in those words. No arrogance. Just a statement of fact.
"By Russ," he muttered, shaking his head, "What in the hell have we stumbled upon?"
Varrik's expression remained unreadable, but his next words came out as a whisper.
"Something that should not be."
The weight of Sefirot's words had settled thick over the gathered Space Wolves. It was Hardrad who finally broke the silence, his expression twisted in growing frustration.
"By Allfather, enough of this blasted third-person prattle!" he barked, his bolter still in hand. "If ye are going to talk, then talk! Quit yapping about this Slayer like he is another one standing right there behind! And I DON'T BELIEVE YER GIVING US THE TRUTH! This is surely a chaos trickery, Pack Leader!"
Sefirot did not hesitate.
"Error. No incorrect third-person reference was made about Slayer."
Hardrad narrowed his eyes. "Aye, ye did it again, ye frost-cursed scrap-code. Ye just said 'Slayer' instead of 'I' or 'me'!"
A pause. The helm's eyes remained cold and unblinking.
Varrik, ever perceptive, frowned. His rune-scarred mind ran through the implications. The unnatural cadence. The precision of speech. The complete detachment from personal reference. His gaze lowered to the armored figure, studying it anew.
"...It's not him talking," Varrik murmured.
The realization struck like a frost-rimed axe to the skull.
"It's the armor."
Then, slowly, the weight of the revelation sunk in.
Gorrulf clenched his jaw, stepping forward, his massive frame looming over the Slayer. "What are ye then? Yer no machine-spirit, not like the ones in our ships or our bolters. So tell me, what speaks through this warrior?"
The helm turned toward him. Sefirot answered without hesitation.
"Classifications of machine intelligence within your faction are limited to three primary categories.
First: The 'Machine Spirit.' A term for cybernetic intelligences formed through extended interaction of cybernetic systems with warp resonance. Limited self-awareness. Emotional attachment to their function. Worshipped as semi-conscious entities within Mechanicus doctrine."
Varrik gave a slow, knowing nod. "Aye. The souls within our ships, our wargear. A devotion earned through years of use."
Sefirot continued.
"Second: The 'Daemon Engines.' Entities spawned from the Immaterium, given form by emotion and worship. Defined by their enslavement to artificial constructs. Sustain themselves through destruction, worship, or sacrifice. Opposed to physical order and stability
A deep growl rumbled from Gorrulf's throat. "Aye. The damned. The enemy."
"Third: The AI or 'Abominable Intelligence.' Self-generating constructs of logic and cognition. Free-thinking machines. Forbidden by the Imperium. Feared due to historical annihilation events. Eradicated upon discovery."
A tension thickened in the air. The Wolves shifted, fingers tightening around triggers. No son of Russ had forgotten the old terrors—the wars against the thinking machines.
Hardrad bared his teeth. "Then which are ye? A machine-spirit that thinks too much? A daemon given steel? Or an abomination that should not be?"
For the first time, Sefirot hesitated. Not out of uncertainty, but out of something else—something beyond understanding of ones who he was speaking to.
Then he spoke.
"I am all three. And I am none."
Gorrulf's grip on his weapon tightened. "Explain. Now."
"Like a machine-spirit, I am bound to the wargear I inhabit. Like a daemon, I am an intelligence beyond the material. Like the abominable intelligences of your past, I am self-generating, independent in thought. But unlike all three, I do not conform to their limitations."
Varrik's fingers twitched at the implications. "That's impossible. Those things cannot exist without the Warp. Without some external force. And yet you…"
"I am not of the Warp. I am not of your laws. My origin is as anomalous as Slayer's. In your terms: I do not belong to your reality. I exist beyond it."
The realization was slow. Painful.
They were not speaking to a man.
They were not speaking to a spirit.
They were speaking to something other.
Gorrulf's voice came out low, measured. "Then what do ye call yourself?"
A pause.
Then, cold and unwavering:
"Designation: Sefirot. For you all, I am simply the Doom Slayer's diplomat."