The tension of the war tent hung thick as Sefirot's explanation lingered in the air. The Space Wolves stood motionless, their gazes fixed on the Doom Slayer, who remained like a towering statue, unmoving and inscrutable.
Gorrulf's mind raced, the complex words of the Sefirot stretching his Fenrisian patience thin. Rune Priest Varrik narrowed his eyes, attempting to piece together the Slayer's unnatural presence with the explanation that had just been laid out. The cold air of the tent seemed to grow colder as they all realized they were no longer dealing with something of this world. What they were facing was far beyond their understanding.
"The Serpahim or Angel Intelligence category, this is the one applicable to this instance, is a class of intelligence that transcends the Machine Spirit of Immaterium, Artificial Intelligence of material codecraft and Daemon Engines of Chaos. It is neither bound to the whims of the Warp, nor the limitations of simple programmatic function. It is an entity of its own, existing not merely as an amalgamation of technology and spirit, but as a living, thinking force. An intelligence created by a framework that is not your own, one that exists beyond your concept of time, matter, and even your gods."
"Ye speak in riddles, metal-spirit," Gorrulf growled, his voice thick with suspicion. "You... This... Slayer... It doesn't belong here. None of this makes sense."
"Neither does Chaos or even you who channel immaterium's powers into the material realm, Wolf Priest. If your objection to Slayer is the fact that he comes from another reality, remember — your very souls are results from interactions of two intersecting semi-independent realities: The matterium and immaterium, the reality and unreality," Sefirot's voice responded coldly. "You must also keep in mind that Chaos will not tolerate anomalies like Slayer. You have seen it in the field—the way he defies the laws that bind even chaos gods. This is a threat that will not go unnoticed. They will come for him. And also will come for you."
"Aye, and that's exactly why I don't trust it," Gorrulf spat. "This thing could be a trick—another trickster daemon or worse. We've seen enough of them. When I was few decades younger I was ploughing this heavenly pair of tits and she turned out to be a DAEMONETTE midway... but by Allfather's blessings I had my chainsword close by."
Few Blood Claws laughed and one said, "Yeah... seathed inside her."
Gorrulf snapped at them. "Did I tell you to speak, welp?!"
"Somethings may even get past my senses. I don't specialize in being a seer. I don't fully trust it now either," Varrik muttered, eyes narrowing. "Whatever this 'Slayer' is, it doesn't care for the Warp, nor for the reality. We need to be cautious."
"It is not about trust," Sefirot's voice came again, unwavering. "It is about survival. He is beyond your comprehension. You cannot control him, nor cage him. But fortunately for you. You aren't his target and your enemies are. If you are wise, you will accept his role on his independent role in this battlefield and learn to adapt."
"Learn to adapt?" Gorrulf's voice was a growl. "This 'thing' has no place with us. I'm no fool. It's a threat, no matter what"
"We don't know enough to risk it," Varrik added, his tone darker. "You may think it's an ally, but what if it's another tool of the enemy? Another chaos trick? We'll not be so easily fooled."
Gorrulf's grip on his bolter tightened, his voice a low growl. "Jarl Grimnar needs to hear of this. We ain't trusting any of it until he gives the word."
Varrik nodded, though his gaze remained fixed on the Slayer. "Aye. This could be a trick, and we'd be fools to take it at face value."
"The Slayer's actions speak for themselves. You will see the truth of it in time. But trust or no, it doesn't matter to Slayer."
Gorrulf's eyes narrowed. "Ye think we trust this... thing? It's beyond our reckoning, metal-spirit. If ye think we'll let it roam free without hearing from Jarl Grimnar, ye're wrong."
"Very well. Your Jarl will hear the truth, as will all others. But remember, it is not the Slayer who answers to you. It is you who must answer to him."
Varrik exhaled, rubbing his temple as if warding off an oncoming headache. "We send word now. No decisions until the Jarl speaks. If this is more than a fight, we need to know."
"Proceed as you will. The outcome will be the same, regardless of your doubts."
Gorrulf exchanged a glance with Varrik before turning away, already reaching for the vox. The hunt was no longer what it once was. Now, they faced the unknown.
The war tent's heavy atmosphere lingered as Gorrulf voxed his report to Jarl Grimnar. His voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the wariness that laced it. The Rune Priest Varrik stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression grim as he listened.
Sefirot, meanwhile, withdrew. His awareness slipped from the physical world, retreating into the mindscape of the Doom Slayer.
Inside, the mindscape was vast and stormy—an endless battlefield, frozen in time. At its center, however, was a strange sight: a massive stone war table, covered in miniature representations of battles long fought. Tiny models of daemons, cultists, and even titanic war machines littered the surface, arranged in formations of carnage and destruction. And seated at the table, meticulously moving the pieces with practiced precision, was the Doom Slayer himself.
Sefirot observed in silence before finally speaking.
[ The wolves react as expected, Slayer. Wariness, suspicion. They will not act, not yet. But they do not trust you. ]
Sefirot observed the arrangement. The board was not structured according to any traditional military doctrine, nor was it an abstract exercise in grand strategy. It was something else—an emergent system of violence, driven by simple but absolute rules. The Slayer did not simulate command structures or chains of logistics. There were no lines of retreat, no considerations of supply. There was only force, and its inevitable resolution.
["The Space Wolves remain unconvinced."] Sefirot stated. ["They will report their findings to this Jarl Grimnar. Your presence does not fit into their existing models of reality. To them, you are an anomaly, and anomalies are threats until proven otherwise."]
The Slayer did not acknowledge him. He picked up a sculpted representation of a Chaos Champion and, without hesitation, crushed it between his fingers.
Sefirot processed the action before continuing.
["I must confirm. Am I representing you correctly in these negotiations? Is my approach satisfactory to you?"]
The Slayer reached for another figurine—a Fenrisian wolf, its carved teeth bared in eternal defiance. He rolled it between his fingers, examining it, considering it. Then, without a word, he placed it aside, away from the battlefield. Unengaged. Separate.
With his other hand, he continued moving the pieces of war.
Sefirot recognized the implicit message. The Wolves were not currently within the system of conflict. They had yet to be classified as either opposition or ally.
["Then you hold no particular position regarding them. They are an external variable, one you do not currently factor them into your calculations. And if they get in your way you will destroy them all the same.]
The Slayer neither confirmed nor denied. His hands remained occupied with his game.
["And you entrust all external negotiations to me?"]
The Slayer reached for a single figure, a small, unadorned warrior. Himself. He placed it on the very edge of the board, away from the carnage, away from both friend and foe. He made no move to engage.
Then, slowly, he extended a gauntleted hand toward Sefirot and waved it outward, a single gesture of dismissal.
It was clear.
["You leave it to me. And you consider your time better spent elsewhere."]
The Slayer picked up another piece. A new battlefield. A new enemy. He had already moved on.
Sefirot processed the exchange, mapping it against a broad theoretical framework. To the Space Wolves, if they were anything like the ancient nords, the galaxy was a narrative—heroes, sagas, gods, giants and fate. To the wider Imperium, it was an empire—law, dominion, structure, and hierarchy. To the common guardsmen it was endless horrors and survival. Even Chaos, in its own way, followed a system—power, submission, endless struggle, and ascension.
But the Slayer was none of these things.
He was not an actor in a grand story. He was not a piece in an empire's game. He did not fight for gods, for purpose, for reward. His system was singular and self-contained. An input—violence. A process—annihilation. An output—silence.
Sefirot cross-referenced this against an ancient historical record from the long-forgotten past of mankind. The ancient Greek philosopher known as Heraclitus of Ephesus, was observed by older men to spend many of his days playing knucklebones with children at the temple of Artemis. When questioned why he an esteemed philosopher wasted time with children's game in such a way, his answer was simple:
"Why, villains, do you marvel? Is it not better to do this than to engage in your politics?"
The Imperium would rage. The Space Wolves would question. The bureaucrats and inquisitors would demand explanations, justifications, orders, and constraints. They would try to impose their systems, their rules, their control.
But none of it mattered. The Slayer had already made his decision. And it was to play his own game.
Outside this scene, at the bridge, weight of exhaustion hung over the Guardsmen like a leaden shroud. Some slumped against their gear, half-awake, while others muttered quiet prayers or simply stared at nothing. Trooper Vek sat with his back against a supply crate, his uniform still caked with the filth of war. His fingers twitched idly over his lasgun, the only thing grounding him in reality after what he had seen.
Then, the sound of armored boots. Heavy, purposeful. Not a commissar. Not an officer. Something else.
A hulking figure loomed over them—a Space Wolf. Not one of the elder warriors, but a Blood Claw. His wolf-pelt cloak barely stirred as he stood surveying the group, his predatory gaze sweeping across them until it locked onto Vek. Eight fool tall — towering over the tired guardsman.
"You are Trooper Vek?" the Astartes asked.
Vek straightened, swallowing his fatigue. "Yes, my lord Astartes."
The Blood Claw studied him for a moment, then spoke again. "I am to hear your account. Tell me what you saw of the one called Slayer."
He took a slow, measured breath. "We were on a sabotage mission. Deep in enemy-held territory. Orders were to reach a hidden armory cache before the heretics did, rig it to blow, and retreat before we were overwhelmed." He rubbed at his temple, as if that could clear the memories. "We barely made it. The heretics were already on our trail when we reached the site. We knew we wouldn't hold long."
Vek hesitated. His mind was still a battlefield—gunfire, screaming, and then him. That thing that fought beside them. That thing.
He took a slow breath. "We were holding the line when the heretics hit us. A brutal push—heavy fire, close combat. We were losing." His grip on his lasgun tightened. "Then… he arrived."
The Blood Claw's expression did not change. "Slayer."
Vek nodded. "Came from nowhere. No sound. No footsteps. Just two standard lasguns in his hands, both firing, both hitting their marks. He didn't miss. Not once." Vek's voice grew quieter, his mind replaying the unnatural precision of the shots. "It was like watching an Astartes. Or something worse."
Some of the surrounding Guardsmen stirred, shifting uneasily.
Vek licked his cracked lips. "Then something else came. An Astartes, but wrong. Massive. Twisted. Red armor, two metal horns from its helmet. It looked… like you, my lord. But corrupt. It rammed a war machine straight into the Slayer."
"A World Eaters Khorne Berzerker," the Blood Claw growled.
"I-I don't know, my lord," Vek murmured. "It crushed him. Or so we thought. Our sergeant pulled us back into the bunker—we had our orders. There was an enemy cache to destroy before the heretics could claim it. We had no time to look back."
"And yet, Slayer returned."
Vek let out a slow breath. "Walked in like nothing had happened. Said he'd killed a thousand of them. Their commander too." He hesitated. "We couldn't confirm it. We were already moving through the tunnels. But… he spoke as if it was fact."
The Blood Claw's gaze darkened.
Vek looked down at his hands. "Then the order came. The Titans. We were told to move against them." The words were bitter, even now. "We were just men, my lord. Against Titans."
A ripple of unease passed through the other Guardsmen.
"But Slayer didn't hesitate," Vek continued. "He walked out of a transport, pulled a Baneblade off its rig with his hands, and charged into the fight. Alone." He exhaled. "By the time we got to the bridge, the Titans were gone. Some said Slayer did it. I don't know if it was true. But if it was…"
He trailed off, shaking his head.
The Blood Claw regarded him for a long moment. Then, without another word, he turned and left.
Vek watched him go, exhaustion pulling at his bones. He didn't know what the happening in bigger picture and it's politics. He only knew one thing. If the Emperor willed it, he prayed never to stand against that thing in battle.
Vek sat where he was, barely breathing. His hands, still wrapped around his lasgun, trembled slightly. He wasn't cold. He wasn't even tired—not in the way a man should be after battle. No, this was something deeper. A hollowing out. A breaking apart.
His mouth was dry, his tongue like parchment. His chest felt tight, like something had clamped around his ribs and refused to let go. He couldn't move. He should move. Should get up, find more ammo, check his gear, do something.
But he just sat there.
The sounds of the around him blurred—distant voices, the clanking of weapons being cleaned, the crackling of a fire somewhere behind him. They all faded into a low, indistinct hum, like the world was slipping away.
He had fought before. He had seen men die before. But this? This was different.
Vek felt his pulse spike. His breathing hitched. A weight sat on his chest, pressing him down. He couldn't seem to fill his lungs. His fingers twitched. He blinked rapidly, but his vision was tunneling, darkening at the edges.
He clenched his jaw. Not now. Not here.
His breath came faster, shallower. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the world. His body was frozen, but his mind was spiraling, racing through every moment, every second of that hellish fight. His squadmates' screams. The heretics' roars. The blood. The rage.
The Rage...
He squeezed his eyes shut. He was going to break. Right here. Right now. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Then— A shadow fell over him.
A hand touched his shoulder, firm but gentle. A flask of water was pressed into his grasp.
"Drink."
The voice was soft. Steady. Human.
Vek forced himself to look up.
"You look like you could use a sip."
She stood against the backdrop of the smog-choked night sky, where streaks of violet, orange, and sickly green bled together in an eerie, horrifying aurora from ongoing warp storm. Her face was streaked with grime and sweat, her short, dark hair matted with dirt. But beneath it all, there was something… calm about her. Something real.
She wasn't afraid. Not in the way he was.
"The name is Juno by the way."
Vek swallowed, his throat burning. His fingers tightened around the flask. He hadn't even realized how badly his hands were shaking until now. He lifted it to his lips and drank. The water was stale, warm—but it was water.
For the first time in hours, maybe longer, the world didn't feel like it was closing in on him.
He exhaled. Long. Slow.
The pressure in his chest didn't disappear. But for now, it loosened. Just a little.
But the war tent was thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of uncertain allegiances. The Blood Claw stood at attention, his armor still marked with the dust of the battlefield. His voice was rough, hoarse from exhaustion, but his words were clear.
"It matches," he confirmed, his Fenrisian accent thick. "The Trooper's account lines up with what the metal-spirit said. Slayer came out of nowhere, killed a host of heretics with precision that ain't human. Then the Red Butchers—their war machine rammed him into the ground. The troopers thought he was dead, left him. Then he reappeared, claiming he killed a thousand of them. None of them saw the fight, but by the time they reached the bridge, the Titans were already destroyed."
Silence followed.
The gathered Space Wolves exchanged looks, their expressions unreadable beneath their helmets. The weight of the unknown pressed against them—every instinct in their bodies screamed that this thing was unnatural. But the reports matched. The facts were undeniable.
Slayer, for his part, said nothing.
With deliberate ease, he turned away from them, moving toward the edge of the tent. Bolters shifted in response, tracking him, fingers tightening on triggers. But the Slayer didn't so much as glance at them. He simply sat, settling himself against the cold ground with a patience that contrasted the storm of emotions around him.
Sefirot's voice cut through the tension, its tone smooth and clinical.
["Slayer does not acknowledge the presence of others unless they actively engage him. You may lower your weapons. He is not concerned with you."]
The Wolves didn't lower their bolters. Not yet.
Then, Gorrulf's vox-link crackled to life.
He lifted a gauntleted hand to his ear, the connection stabilizing. The voice that followed was unmistakable—gravel-thick and tempered by centuries of war.
"Gorrulf."
Gorrulf's stance straightened instinctively.
"I am en route."
The Great Wolf; the Chapter Master of the Space Wolves Chapter; High King of Fenris — Jarl Logan Grimnar, was coming. That alone was enough to make the tension in the tent coil tighter. But Grimnar wasn't done.
"There is more. The fallen hive—Khorne's spawn are moving from its ruins, a horde of them converging toward your location."
Gorrulf's eyes narrowed. That wasn't right.
First, the enemy's Warhound Titans had abandoned their battles earlier than expected, leaving other engagements unfinished. Now, a full-scale Khornate force was moving toward them, as if drawn by something.
"This is no coincidence, Gorrulf. Either the enemy is shifting tactics, or something is calling them to your position."
The Great Wolf's voice was grim.
"Hold the line. I will be there soon."
The vox clicked off, leaving the war tent in weighted silence.
Gorrulf turned, his gaze landing on the Slayer. The motionless figure remained where he sat, utterly unfazed.
The Blood Claw shifted uncomfortably. "Something's wrong," he muttered. "The enemy's movements ain't right."
Gorrulf exhaled sharply. No, they weren't.
And whatever the cause, it was here. Right in front of them.
The Space Wolves moved quickly. Gorrulf and the others left a Long Fang and a few Blood Claws to watch over Slayer, their eyes never leaving him, bolters ever ready. The rest dispersed into the growing chaos of preparation, rallying the Guardsmen, reinforcing positions, and preparing for the coming storm.
Slayer did not move.
Within his mindscape, the war table shifted. The grim, war-scarred representation of the battlefield adapted in real-time, every flicker of movement outside reflecting here in miniature. The bridge, the trenches, the defenders scrambling to their positions—all laid out before him like a great game of conquest.
He gestured.
Sefirot, standing beside him in this constructed space, responded.
["I will process all available data sources."]
The table shifted again, the details sharpening as Sefirot gathered information with inhuman efficiency. The Space Wolves' plan was clear now.
Instead of holding the bridge directly, they had chosen to let the enemy advance. Small, hidden ambush groups on both sides of the bridge, which should a role for the arriving reinforcements, would strike at retreating forces and cut supply lines, ensuring there was no way back. The bulk of the attackers would be funneled onto the bridge itself. Then, at the precise moment, the structure would be collapsed—stranding and isolating the survivors, leaving them easy prey for the Imperials.
A sound strategy. One of the most effective devised by human minds.
But it had flaws.
Slayer's gauntleted fingers tapped against the table as he examined the terrain. This was no winter battlefield, where snow and ice turned the land into an impassable quagmire. This was a wasteland. Open, dry, and hot. The enemy is too war drunk to be thinking of retreating easily. If the enemy saw through the trap—or used war strategy and battle tactics that simply didn't care about retreat—then the Wolves would have sacrificed positioning for nothing.
A pyrrhic victory at best, Sefirot remarked.
Beyond the mindscape, reality pressed on. The first glow of the oncoming horde shimmered over the horizon.
The Guardsmen, using magnified optics, caught their first true glimpse of the advancing foe. The sight turned stomachs and set hearts racing.
A vast tide of screaming, howling madness stretched as far as the eye could see. The red glow of infernal engines stained the smog-choked sky, their monstrous forms silhouetted against the hellish backdrop. Walking heretical monuments, towering effigies to Khorne, loomed over the masses of mutants, cultists, and berserk Astartes of the World Eaters.
A storm of blood and iron was coming.
Slayer, seated within the war tent, examined it all in his mindscape.
The plan would not hold. Not as it was.
He gestured once more.
["You seek an alternative?"]
A nod.
Another gesture.
["You wish to know if I can fully integrate into or control the Imperial communications?"]
Another nod.
Sefirot's response was instant.
["Yes. I can replicate any signal, any vocal style, and any command with absolute precision."]
Slayer's grin widened beneath his helmet. He looked at the scene of miniatures. He knew it for exactly what it was. Table Top Miniature Wargame.