Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

Kayvaan often visualized this grim regression, likening it to Earth in the 21st century suddenly losing access to oil. The entire industrial framework would collapse overnight, dragging civilization into chaos. The Imperium's policy for such worlds was simple: neglect them. The official stance was framed as preserving the "natural state" of these societies, but the truth was far less noble. Assisting these worlds into the space age was a costly, arduous process with little return on investment. Neither the Imperium nor private entities had any incentive to intervene.

Only the church maintained a presence in these forgotten places. The Ecclesiarchy's zeal for the God-Emperor knew no bounds, and their missionaries preached His word wherever they could, regardless of profit. Even on worlds where stone axes were still a novelty, one could find followers of the Emperor's faith.

Kayvaan counted himself fortunate in this regard. In the past three weeks, he'd learned that two of the three habitable planets in the Eridanus system had long been converted to the worship of the God-Emperor. Missionaries had spread the faith there centuries ago, establishing a stable foundation. "So, does that mean the entire Holy See here answers to us?" Kayvaan asked.

Pastor Marius shook his head. "Not entirely. Only the upper echelons of the church—cardinals and the pope—understand the larger picture. The rest are just devout locals, blissfully ignorant of the world beyond their own skies. They don't even know if the ground beneath their feet is flat or round."

"Didn't our church enlighten them on such matters?"

"Why would we?" Marius replied with a shrug. "To them, it doesn't matter. Whether the ground is flat or round, or whether the stars shine or fade, it changes nothing in their daily lives. As long as their faith is pure and unshaken, they are content. For the church, the spirit and soul take precedence over knowledge. Ignorance can be a form of happiness, and unless it's necessary, we avoid disrupting their way of life."

Kayvaan smirked. "Fair enough. But I wonder—if we flew a battleship over their heads, what would they think?"

Marius chuckled. "They'd likely see it as a sign from the heavens. The arrival of a divine messenger requires no explanation; they'd create their own. Do you intend to try it?"

"No, no," Kayvaan replied with a wave of his hand. "It's tempting to scare the natives, but I'd rather avoid unnecessary attention. Fuel's expensive, and entering an atmosphere isn't exactly efficient."

Marius nodded. "Understood. Once we arrive, I'll coordinate with the local priests. They'll handle the groundwork for us."

"That should suffice. We'll gather the intelligence we need locally. The rest is up to us."

"May I ask," Marius ventured cautiously, "why have you brought us here?"

Kayvaan shrugged. "Just checking on my territory. That's part of it, anyway. The real reason is recruitment."

"For the Templars?" Marius frowned. "If that's the case, shouldn't we proceed more deliberately?"

"Oh? What do you think?"

"I believe we should establish a framework—a system that ensures these planets can consistently supply us with new recruits," Marius suggested.

Kayvaan nodded in agreement. "Exactly. But achieving that goal will depend heavily on the behavior and culture of the indigenous populations. Right now, we know very little about them. That's why I've decided to go down and see for myself. Care to join me?"

"It would be my honor," Marius replied with a smile.

***

The voice in George III's mind felt like a miracle. Kneeling before the towering statue of the God-Emperor, he trembled with excitement. Surely, his prayers had been answered. He believed he had heard the Emperor's words directly. This misunderstanding, however, deeply irritated the entity he was communicating with. It took considerable effort before their conversation returned to rationality, and George III finally grasped the truth.

The connection went back to Pope George I, who had made provisions before his passing. These beings were not figments of divine intervention—they were envoys of the Emperor from the stars, sent from the same world as George I himself.

George III's imagination soared. He pictured a celestial city among the clouds, with golden gates and white marble streets. Angels would emerge, radiant with divine light, their wings gleaming as they descended to the mortal realm.

The following morning, the Sanctaris's thirty-eight bells rang out in unison, their chimes echoing through the holy city. It was a momentous occasion. The Knights of the Holy Shield donned their ceremonial armor and mounted white horses, accompanying George III and his cardinals to a hill just outside the city. It was here, the Pope claimed, that angels would descend. What would these angels look like?

Though trained to maintain composure, the knights couldn't help but speculate. Whispers spread among their ranks. "They'll be beautiful women with radiant white wings."

"No, no," another interjected, "they'll be bearded warriors wielding flaming swords, here to smite evil."

"Wrong again," argued a third. "They'll have long, flowing robes, seven-star swords, and ride majestic white cranes."

"White cranes? What nonsense is this?"

As the crowd awaited the arrival of divine messengers, excitement reached a fever pitch. Many envisioned a descent amidst glorious petals and heavenly music.

Then, a flash lit up the sky. At first, it was no more than a glimmer—a star suddenly visible in the daylight. But with so many eyes fixed on the heavens, the flash quickly caught everyone's attention. The light grew brighter. A fiery object streaked across the sky, trailing flames.

'A comet?' Whispers of doubt rippled through the crowd. This was no angelic arrival. A comet was an ominous sign. Panic began to set in as the fireball hurtled closer. The object grew larger, first the size of a speck, then a nail, then a ball of flame the size of a basketball. Its roar filled the air, a rumbling crescendo that shook the nerves of even the bravest knights.

One knight broke rank, turning and bolting in fear. Others, though trained for battle, were paralyzed. Their legs trembled, and some could barely move. Just when it seemed the fiery object would crash directly into the gathered crowd, it suddenly shifted course. Jets of flame burst from its base, halting its descent for a brief moment. Suspended mid-air, it adjusted its trajectory slightly before resuming its descent, now controlled.

With a thunderous impact, the object struck the ground, shaking the hill and leaving a smoking crater. Silence fell over the crowd. The fiery "comet" had landed, its arrival nothing short of divine in the eyes of those watching. To the medieval onlookers, this could only mean one thing: the messenger of the God-Emperor had arrived. But its descent was unlike anything they had imagined. The "angel" had not glided gracefully from the heavens, but instead crashed with all the violence of a meteor.

The crowd stood frozen, a mix of knights, popes, cardinals, and high-ranking officials, all unable to move. Heads tilted upward, their gazes locked on the hill before them. When the earth's tremors finally ceased and the smoke began to dissipate, they caught sight of something extraordinary.