"Why is this happening?" the heretical priest roared, slamming his fists against the table. "It shouldn't be like this! This isn't how it was supposed to go!"
From the time he was young, his psychic abilities had marked him as an outcast. It was only thanks to his parents' sacrifices that he had escaped being taken by the Black Ships, fleeing to the lower hive.
Amidst the constant fear and torment caused by his psychic visions, he had found solace in the embrace of the Grandfather. The eternal compassion of the great deity promised an escape from suffering. For seven years, seven months, and seven days, he had planned to spread the Grandfather's benevolence to all. Yet now, his plans were unraveling.
Those wretched mutants—those aberrant Gene Stealers—had laid waste to six of his carefully constructed strongholds, reducing his forces to shambles.
How could they scream of loyalty to the Emperor, while spilling blood in his name? Did they not know how the Imperium regarded their kind? Did they not understand they were abominations in the Emperor's eyes?
"No, I can still fix this!" The priest's voice trembled as he clenched his fists. His wide, bloodshot eyes darted around the room. "We'll conduct a grand sacrifice! A ritual so powerful it will open a portal to the Immaterium! Through it, we shall summon the Grandfather's true might!"
Yes. Yes! That was the only way now. Although most of his strongholds had fallen, he still had hundreds of devout followers willing to give their lives for this holy endeavor.
"Send word," he commanded, his voice regaining a shred of confidence. "Summon every—"
"You won't summon anything."
A cold, low voice interrupted him, slicing through the dimly lit room. The sound echoed ominously, each repetition carrying an undertone of menace.
The priest froze, his breath caught in his throat. His followers, scattered around the room, immediately raised their weapons. Bolts of fire lit up the corridor beyond, the roar of their guns reverberating through the air.
From the flickering light of the muzzle flashes, a purple figure darted forward—graceful, deadly, and impossibly swift.
"You damned xenos!" the priest hissed, backing away as he gritted his teeth. "Why hasn't the Arbites or the Inquisition dealt with you freaks yet?!"
But Kiya had no intention of answering him.
Each bullet missed its mark as she danced through the barrage with terrifying precision. In a single leap, she closed the distance to her prey. Two of the heretical guards fell in an instant, their heads severed cleanly from their bodies.
"For the Emperor!" Kiya cried out in exhilaration, her voice ringing with both reverence and bloodlust.
The remaining guards dropped their firearms, switching to melee weapons—rusted swords gifted by their blasphemous masters, scavenged bone blades, and crude clubs.
But it was no use. To Kiya, their strikes were pitifully slow and clumsy. She weaved through their ranks like a shadow, her bone blades cutting through flesh with graceful efficiency. Blood splattered across the walls in an almost artistic spray, a morbid testament to her skill.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
She reveled in the slaughter, her instincts taking over. Thought and strategy melted away, replaced by the primal rhythm of combat. Each fallen enemy was a step closer to the divine purpose she had been born for.
When the last of the guards crumpled to the ground, Kiya stood in the center of the carnage, her body trembling with adrenaline.
"Skulls for the Golden Throne!" she roared triumphantly, a macabre grin splitting her face.
Eight hundred and eighty-seven. That was the number of lives she had taken during this mission. Only one remained.
The priest.
With a predator's grin, Kiya licked the blood from her lips and stalked forward.
---
The priest ran, his ragged breaths echoing through the narrow corridors. His wounded arm hung limp at his side, a reminder of how close he had come to death already.
"You can't run from me, heretic!" Kiya's voice carried over the sound of his labored breathing. Her steps were silent, yet he could feel her drawing closer with every passing moment.
Fear clawed at his heart. He wasn't a warrior; he was a priest, a scholar of forbidden knowledge. And yet, he knew he couldn't escape.
Think! Use your powers!
Snarling, he stopped abruptly and spun around. Stretching his remaining hand toward Kiya, he channeled the Immaterium's power. A crackling bolt of warp lightning erupted from his fingertips, aimed directly at his pursuer.
But Kiya sidestepped it with ease. Her genetically enhanced reflexes allowed her to predict the trajectory with precision. Lowering her body to the ground, she surged forward like a panther, bone blades glinting in the dim light.
The priest screamed, pouring every ounce of his psychic energy into a desperate assault. The air around him crackled and warped as he unleashed a storm of power—lightning, psychic blasts, and chaotic waves of energy.
It wasn't enough.
Kiya pushed through the storm, her body battered and bleeding but undeterred. Her eyes glowed with feral determination, her grin never faltering.
The priest fell back, his powers sputtering. "No… no! Stay back, you monster!"
"Your skull will adorn the Golden Throne, heretic," Kiya hissed, her voice dripping with malice.
With one final lunge, she closed the distance. Her bone blade gleamed as it sliced cleanly through the priest's neck. His head rolled to the ground, blood pooling beneath it.
"Eight hundred and eighty-eight," Kiya muttered, lifting the severed head with satisfaction.
The mission was complete.
---
Elsewhere, Gene Stealers swarmed through the heretics' remaining strongholds. Entire communities of plague-bearers were eradicated, their tainted existence purged in the name of the Emperor.
Thus, the plague and the heretical uprising came to an end, leaving only blood and ashes in their wake.