Chapter 2: For the Emperor of Mankind
If you were handed a bolter with only two rounds, who would you choose to shoot?
Magnus the Red, that damned sorcerer? Mortarion, the pallid reaper? Or Perturabo, the bitter architect of siege and spite?
Why is Erebus not on the list?
Because I am Erebus.
A joke. A cruel one. Not the sort that inspires laughter—only a hollow, sinking sadness.
Erebus never imagined that the joke of damnation would one day turn its gaze upon him. He did not laugh. He felt only a dull ache, a sense that something had gone terribly wrong.
The table came up in his hands and smashed down, pulping the old priest's skull in a wet explosion of bone and blood. Before the body had even fallen, Erebus seized a brass candlestick, its flame still burning, and drove it straight into the forehead of a rushing cultist.
There was no retreat left.
For these wretches of the Covenant, it was either him or death.
"For the Emperor of Mankind!"
The words tore from Erebus' throat as if spoken by another voice entirely. He felt possessed, as though some golden phantom had wrapped itself around his spine and forced his limbs to move. His fist—heavy, relentless—crashed into a priest's eye socket. The man's vision vanished into blackness as he was lifted bodily from the ground.
"You damned heretics!"
"I judge you in the name of the Emperor!"
Erebus moved like an executioner from some ancient myth. Each swing of his blade sent another body crashing to the stone floor. The Covenant priests fell one by one, broken, bleeding, screaming.
They could not understand why Erebus fought with such ferocity.
Truth be told—neither could he.
If pressed for an answer, he could only think of that golden figure in his mind. Silent. Watching.
Just then, a servant burst through the chapel doors, panic carved deep into his face.
"Disaster! The Word Bearers—Lorgar Aurelian is attacking! The city—"
The smell of blood hit him first.
He saw Erebus dragging the ruined corpse of a Covenant priest across the floor, hunting the last survivors like a predator among prey.
The servant did not scream.
He turned and fled, slamming the doors behind him.
Later, he would swear loyalty to the Reformists. Anyone with eyes could see that the Old Faith had lost its mind. Rituals, blood, madness—this was no path to survival.
Better not to be dragged into it.
Why the sadness?
Because Erebus knew the truth of the Covenant Church.
They worshipped the Four Ruinous Powers—those vast and malignant intelligences lurking within the Warp. Beings of rot, excess, rage, and deceit.
In the language of the Imperium, this was heresy.
But this was not the 41st Millennium.
This was the Great Crusade's twilight.
And the Primarch of the Word Bearers was on the march.
The Old Faith was about to be purged.
If he surrendered, perhaps he could live.
But events moved too quickly. Far too quickly.
Erebus—once a scholar, a man of reason—had never expected Lorgar to act with such reckless speed. What madness had seized the Primarch? Revelation? Vision? Or is the slow poison of the Warp finally bearing fruit?
There had been no time to prepare.
Surrender or death.
Erebus chose surrender.
He ate dry bread in silence, the sort issued to penitents and ascetics. He longed for water, but the figures kneeling before him shattered that simple thought.
They stared.
Watched.
Whispered.
Like spectators at some grotesque exhibit.
"Have you seen enough?"
His voice was calm, almost gentle.
The response was ecstatic shouting.
Chants. Praise. Madness.
Since a Covenant priest had discovered the strange changes in his body—his strength, his endurance—Erebus had been dragged here. More priests arrived by the hour, gawking and worshipping.
They knelt before him now, exalting the Four Powers.
Erebus said nothing.
Of all the figures associated with Chaos, none was more despised than Erebus. Looking at these Word Bearer cultists, he finally understood why. This was not faith—it was infection.
He raised a hand.
Silence fell instantly.
Dozens of eyes locked onto him.
Uncomfortable—but manageable.
He cleared his throat.
He had a plan.
If one must fight a charlatan, then one must use a charlatan's tools.
"Followers of the gods," he said solemnly. "I bring grave news. A new god has been born. I have been sent to deliver you."
Confusion rippled through the chamber.
"A new god?" "Which one?"
Erebus slammed the table.
The thick wood exploded apart, reduced to splinters. Fear silenced every voice.
"The Emperor of Mankind!" he thundered. "The one true god of humanity! He has already shown His miracles. His arrival is inevitable!"
He preached with fervor—but something was wrong.
Suspicion crept into their gazes.
Memory stirred.
This was the schism.
The Old Faith against Lorgar.
And Erebus—this body—belonged to the Old Faith.
"Heresy!" a priest screamed, rising with scepter in hand.
Erebus stood slowly.
"Lorgar is wrong," he said evenly. "But so are we. A true god does not demand belief. And tell me—have the gods ever blessed you? Ever answered you?"
"I was chosen," Erebus continued. "Yet I rejected their gifts. To serve by one's own strength—that is true devotion."
"If you reject this truth, …"
He lifted the broken table.
"Then come. Let us settle it."
The old priest trembled.
"Destroy him!"
The priests surged forward, weapons raised.
Erebus no longer wondered about bolter fire.
He only wondered how many of them he could kill before they dragged him down.