Aboard the Unrelenting Blade, a Dark Angels strike cruiser lost in the Eye of Terror, the The Unrelenting Blade faithful chosen faced corruption, prophecy, time-leaps, shadows, demons, and each other.
This is a condensed version of a deeper tale written by hand after the data-logs were found on Terra, Mother Earth, This Timeline on May 10, a comet in the distance, Haley. Much is left unsaid. Support and explore the full record in private.
If you can support:
Every click counts.
The Unrelenting Blade pursued the traitor Varnyx beyond realspace, into the jaws of the Eye of Terror. This was no random skirmish — during the 13th Black Crusade, Varnyx emerged not as a warlord, but as a cipher: a cloaked strategist whose movements were masked by the tides of chaos.
During the initial engagement, the strike force — led by Brother-Captain Malchior — identified their target among thousands: a single obsidian-marked cruiser veering unchallenged toward the Eye. Unthinkably, the majority of the Chaos fleet wasn’t advancing — they were guarding that vessel. Entire battlegroups collapsed inward to shield Varnyx’s path, even sacrificing Daemonships to ensure his trajectory remained untouched.
Chaplain Seraphane believed the Chaos Gods had appointed a herald. Scout Azareth reported psychic screams echoing from the cruiser’s wake, as if the warp itself wept at what approached. Against protocol and without sanction, Malchior ordered a warp breach into pursuit. What followed was a storm of memory, madness, and revelation that would forever mark the The Unrelenting Blade7.
She tore through the void like a blade remembering its first kill — The Unrelenting Blade, a war relic of the First Legion, encased in adamantine, kissed by starlight, and born before betrayal had a name.
And now she was at war.
Outside the Eye of Terror, the galaxy bled. Dozens of systems ignited in a cacophony of propulsion trails and lance-fire, like gods scribbling death into the stars. The airless black trembled with energy, and in the heart of it surged battle — raw and unrelenting.
The Blade raced toward the rift, flank engines groaning as if the vessel herself despised hesitation. Thunderhawks launched in echelons of shadow and flame. Macro-cannons boomed like titanic drums, their shells punching glowing trails through the endless void.
Chaplain Seraphane
"All paths narrow now," he growled, his voice iron-scraped and cold. "And we walk on blades."
To the port, a Black Legion cruiser exploded in a blossom of unholy flame, the screams of its damned crew carried across vox-channels in vox-tongues older than Terra’s crust. In its wake came the **Chaos protectorate fleet** — blade-shaped frigates, all veering to form a path of body and flame around one vessel.
It — the target — moved through the fray untouched, like rot through fruit. A Chaos cruiser
“They're shielding it,” Techmarine Orias called out, hands dancing across control lecterns. “Every movement, every kill — to protect that one ship.”
Seraphane said nothing, just clenched a fist over his chestplate, activating his rosarius.
"That is no warship." he said after a breath. "That is prophecy in motion."
The battle surged closer. Boarding torpedoes streaked past like meteors. A Salamanders' battle barge erupted near Segmentum Nullis, its death knell echoing through the sector. Everywhere: screams, fire, the cold logic of extermination.
But the Blade — she did not flinch. She adjusted course.
And with a sound like gods sharpening swords, she plunged into the storm — toward the Eye of Terror, and into the pages of a tale that had already been written in blood.
Burned runes and corrupted vox chatter mark the path of the fleeing Chaos cruiser. The Unrelenting Blade, half-shielded in its warp wake, emerged into realspace like a wounded animal. Systems stuttered. Auspex arrays blinked false-positive. But the crew held formation — trained, silent, watching.
“No welcome. No resistance,” whispered Techmarine Orias, recalibrating the tertiary logic core. It was quiet. Too quiet.
The remains of the traitor Varnyx’s cruiser floated in low orbit — jagged, dead, and leaking warplight into the void. What was left resembled a shattered crown. Beneath it: a planet. Blue, white, and green. Marble-smooth. It resembled Terra, but no signal confirmed it. No records matched.
Chaplain Seraphane led an emergency council in the strategium. “We have breached not only space,” he warned, “but the veil of what is.” The Librarius reported flickering data: star charts rearranged, known constellations reversed. Astrological timestamps meant nothing.
“We may have jumped time. Or... worse — crossed into a branch of reality,” said Brother-Captain Malchior. He issued a direct order: deploy a three-squad scout detachment. Their mission — identify the planet, make contact, retrieve a timestamp. Each scout bore fail-deadman implants in case of psychic incursion.
Just before their drop, proximity alarms sounded — a single ping. Then another. An unfamiliar signal cut across the command vox — a clean, monotone voice, cold and non-human.
“We do not belong here. This is sacred space.”
A sleek silhouette emerged from the clouds: angular, efficient, alien. A T’au lancer warship, bristling with grav lances and drone swarms. The The Unrelenting Blade7 had been seen, ambushed, and surprised as they pondered why they were looking at Mother Earth Before The Galactic Age Seemingly..
Voices scream praises to chaos gods in an era they thought was pure. The Librarium sanctifies the audio logs, though few are allowed to replay them. The break people. These screams weren’t broadcasts — they were timestamps.
Cross-referencing the psychic residue with warp chronography seeking information about what transpired during Their Hellish Passing Through The Warp At The Eye Of Terror, Librarian Althar made a chilling discovery: at the exact moment of the The Unrelenting Blade777’s breach, the Eye of Terror had pulsed — sending something backwards through time.
The crash site of Varnyx's shattered cruiser wasn't just random, it shattered into many pieces, some the scanners were not able to locate — it marked their arrival in a fractured epoch: before the Galactic Age of Man. They had fallen into the forgotten past.
Word reached Dark Angels High Command via encrypted astropathic relay. Within hours, Terra was sealed. No signals in. No signals out. A planetary barrier, codenamed *Aegis Nullis*, was enacted — a tactical firewall employed against planets and battlefields.
The Unrelenting Blade deployed deep-scan teams to track warp debris, searching for any surviving shards of Varnyx's cruiser that might still pulse with temporal taint. Scout teams prepared for planetfall. Orders: Identify, contain, silence.
The T’au lancer that hailed them days earlier was not a threat — it was a warning. Commander Shas’Vre Ka’Nara of the Ardent Path revealed a truth that unsettled even Chaplain Seraphane: the T’au had also entered the Eye… but emerged 89 years before the The Unrelenting Blade7 did.
“We saw your entry,” she explained through a translator-drone. “It spiraled backwards. You fell into a past we have already mapped.” Her fleet had been in stealth, far beyond orbital range, and had already tagged Varnyx’s debris trail and verified the planet as a potential pre-Age Terra analog.
The Dark Angels Command was divided. Most officers recalled old scars: the failed ceasefires of the Damocles Gulf, the dishonored retreat from Kel’Shan. But Brother-Captain Malchior ordered a hold-fire. “If they wanted us dead,” he reasoned, “they had ninety years to do so.”
With weapons powered down and storm shields still hot, the The Unrelenting Blade7 prepared planetfall. Three scout teams were selected — their missions, divergent but critical.
Before departure, Chaplain Seraphane gathered the three teams in the Hall of Echoes. He spoke not as priest, but as warrior: “You are the shadow we cannot show. You are the blade they do not see. Whatever awaits... remember the Black Vow.”
Techmarine Orias confirmed it: fragments of Calibanite stone — twisted, but unmistakable — were embedded deep within one of the orbital derelicts. Either this planet was once Caliban’s kin... or it had been seeded long ago by the same forgotten architects.
Scout Team Virex, led by Recon-Specialist Azareth, was inserted near a massive impact crater where Varnyx’s cruiser had torn through the upper mantle. Their drop pod touched down silently within an overgrown sewer culvert—an ancient infrastructure somehow still intact, though warped by erosion and time.
Inside the tunnel system, things grew darker. Walls were scorched with glyphs of unmaking — sigils etched by claw and flame. The team advanced carefully, filtering their breath. The water ran black and viscous, carrying iridescent oil blooms. Mutants stirred in the dark: scaled reptilians, barely sentient, their eyes glowing warp red.
Team Virex maintained stealth. Azareth neutralized two watchers with silenced bolt-pistols while Scout Mar tagged the sewer node with a beacon. But their vox went dark — not from jamming, but as if sound itself refused to transmit beyond the tainted walls.
Before Command could react, a new signal piggybacked through an encrypted T’au channel. Ka'Nara’s advance unit had already tracked the same sewer trail. Quietly, the T’au linked with Virex’s beacon, restoring contact and offering emergency exfil routes. No casualties. No compromise. But something had heard them.
Above, Orias shared preliminary simulations with Seraphane and Malchior. The evidence was grim: this world had once sought to join the stars — but its leaders had corrupted its very future. Ancient factions preyed on their youth, harvesting purity to fuel rituals masked as unity. Chaos had been here for centuries, whispering to rulers, feeding on children.
Aegis Nullis was no longer a precaution. It was a containment order.
To face the Eye is to face oneself. The Rite of Iron Oaths was performed aboard the Unrelenting Blade in the sacred chamber of silence. Each brother stood before the black altar — gene-seal exposed — as Chaplain-Integrator Valthor walked the line, crozius arcanum in one hand, burning censer in the other.
Valthor was not like Seraphane. Where Seraphane inspired fire and memory, Valthor integrated code, spirit, and fear. His voice carried machine-augmented reverberations, and when he invoked the Litany of Unmaking, lesser men wept fury.
“Do not fight for the Emperor alone for he may not be born yet,” he spoke, his eyes black behind the rebreather. “Fight for the memory of what was never allowed to be. Fight their children before they knew chaos and rage. Let the Eye see... and break from red to orange.”
Rituals complete, the The Unrelenting Blade7 were armored, weapon-linked, and silence-sealed. Each team loaded into black-drop pods — grav-sealed with zero output signature. Their coordinates led them not to the surface... but into humanities destiny.
A mountain had collapsed. Or been collapsed. Scout feeds showed ruined infrastructure, Tau allies of mostly Groot moved about with blinding stealth, cunning, and speed, crushed settlements, shattered monuments that replaced others older than recorded history. Warp-storm remnants still flared along ridges. Enemy contact confirmed. Chaos-warped beasts, humanoids, and demonic-things that went uncounted for at night.
The Arrival of Angels broke the silence. Bolters with Silencers spoke in holy rhythm. The Rite was over. Now, the judgment began.
During an advance recon sweep through the fractured lowlands, Scout Azareth, the Ash Angel, collapsed mid-step. No wound. No toxin. Simply silence — as if his soul had been pulled backward through the warp.
His vision was fire. The galaxy ablaze, stars weeping, the Astronomican sputtering in strobe. On a plain of ash and memory stood a hooded figure, face hidden, but gaze unbearable. In his hand — a cracked relic blade: The Sword of the Lion, haloed in black fire, its edge pointed toward a shattered throne.
Around the throne spiraled chains of fate, broken runes, and the sigils of all four Chaos gods — burning, screaming, dying. The figure turned his back on it all… and walked into a storm of light.
Azareth awoke screaming. His vox unit auto-triggered distress. Tau recon units nearby responded, arriving before his own brothers. Strangely, the T’au scout remained silent — handing him a small metallic relic said to be delivered by “a shadowed swordsman” who had walked alone through their perimeter and vanished without detection.
Interrogator-Chaplain Seraphane examined the object in private. It bore the shape of an ancient Calibanite cipher. He did not speak of what it meant. Neither did Chaplain-Integrator Valthor — though he altered the chain of command on Azareth’s team that same hour.
Among the Chaplains, a silent truth was shared but unspoken: the Stranger had returned. The Fallen walked once more.
He arrived without fanfare, without sound — walking straight through the front lines of a Dark Angels perimeter, unburned by plasma fire, unregistered by auspex. The Stranger wore a tattered green cloak, Calibanite leathers, and a hood that refused to show his face.
Dozens of weapons and fists locked on. None fired.
Cypher — though none dared speak the name — raised no weapon but remained ready. Instead, he drew from his back the relic blade, unmistakable: The Sword of the Lion. Its edge shimmered with impossible potential. Its presence made even Valthor pause.
“I am here because I always was,” the Stranger said, in a voice like thunder through fog. “I was aboard Varnyx’s vessel before the breach. Before the storm. Before you knew this war had a second beginning.”
Tau forces stood frozen, listening. Commander Ka'Nara lowered her weapon first — not out of fear, but reverence. “He walked through us as if he belonged to no timeline,” she later reported. “His presence makes machines weep and time slow.”
At an emergency council aboard the Unrelenting Blade, Cypher spoke via hologram from the surface. Only to the Chaplains. Only to the Inner Circle. The Mysterious Ping From The Computer Was Identified. What he revealed fractured certainty:
“Long ago and in the future, our Primarch, Lion El’Jonson, and the Emperor spoke of a possibility. A seed world, isolated, innocent. If Chaos found it... they would have their future. If the Imperium reached it first, it would be a mirror to the past — a new chance.”
“You were not sent. You were drawn.”
The The Unrelenting Blade7. The Tau. The Stranger. Three pieces of providence in a galaxy-spanning prophecy. Cypher had ensured his presence during the warp breach. He knew the outcome or was willing to fight like it was already done. But would not speak the end.
He warned only once: “The Children are being whispered to. Their despair is not theirs. The Slaaneshi chorus is not yet sung... but it has tuning.”
Then he vanished into the wind and shadows, as attention to was drawn near by and leaving behind the echo of chainmail and the heavy silence of a future unwritten.
The tunnels beneath the scorched valley gave way to carved halls of impossible geometry — webway scars, melted into realspace. From within stepped figures cloaked in shimmerlight, with blades of starlight and helms that looked back in time.
The Eldar of Craftworld Sarthai’Quel emerged not as enemies, but as witnesses. They did not bow. They did not warn. They reminded.
“Before the fall of Caliban… before your Lion fell silent… there was a pact.” The voice came not from one, but from all. “Your kind swore, in the night of forgetting, to return here. To seal what Lorgar tried to open. You have already broken the oath… but fate is indulgent today.”
Seraphane nearly drew his weapon. Malchior held his hand. “If we’re to contain the stain beneath this world,” he said coldly, “we’ll honor what must be honored. Once. No more.”
Tau Commander Ka'Nara joined the negotiation. The Eldar acknowledged her without disdain. “The youngest race to speak in stars,” they said. “Your scars are not yet deep enough to rot.”
A trinity formed: Angels, Eldar, and Tau. Beneath them, ancient structures pulsed — relics left behind by The Old Ones, their function unclear, their silence deceptive. The Eldar would not enter them. The Tau could not. Only those of the The Unrelenting Blade7 — bloodmarked by Caliban — could open the gates.
Chaplain-Integrator Valthor took one final look at the Eldar emissary. “Why help us?” he asked.
“Because,” she replied, “the gods of your enemies were once and may return to ours in the future.”
Above the atmosphere, the Unrelenting Blade shuddered. Warp fractures licked at its hull like hungry ghosts. Navigation servitors screamed in binary before collapsing, melting into the deck. The fleet’s shielding strained — caught in the nexus of two opposing warpstorms forming around the planet.
On the ground, the The Unrelenting Blade7 suffered their first losses. Scout Team Zephon reported confirmed KIA — three brothers torn apart by psychic detonations at what had been a former planetary relay station, now known as **Zeta Coil**. The symbols etched into the metal predated the Age of Terra — and pulsed with impossible equations.
The relay wasn’t broadcasting messages. It was programming minds. Radio, television, LCD panels, subliminal audio streams — all subtly rewoven over decades. Words inverted meaning. Images trained compliance. Weakness had been celebrated. Corruption marketed as pleasure. Violence masked as entertainment.
Humanity had not simply been ignored by Chaos. It had been groomed.
Chaplain-Integrator Valthor stood over the ruins of Zeta Coil, holding the broken helm of Scout Rezek. “They were children,” he whispered. “They never had a chance.”
Techmarine Orias ran simulations. Every major cultural development in the last 200 years — all stemmed from the signal spires at Zeta Coil and two known sister sites. If left unchecked, the entire species would have emerged into the Galactic Age as willing hosts to the Dark Gods.
The The Unrelenting Blade7 had arrived just in time… or centuries too late.
The vox-net screamed.
Not an attack. Not code. It was Lord Varnyx himself, hijacking the full command band through corrupted astropathic channels — a voice layered with static and temptation. His words came as song and sermon, bleeding through every helmet, every relay, every data-screen.
“You failed them,” it said. “While you taught them honor, we offered them freedom. While you showed them tradition, we fed them pleasure. And they chose. They always choose… us.”
He called it a “harvest of weakness” — the mass grooming of a species from cradle to culture. Signals pulsed from deep within the Zeta Coil network, targeting youth through games, ads, lights, voices, celebrities, orgies, child pleasures — making the future a bleak for success.. "We did not expect company as your ambushes took us by surprise, but greetings and welcome to the past you never wanted" his voice gurgled as it faded out.
In the Unrelenting Blade’s central chamber, Dark Angels Command convened in grim silence. Valthor wanted an orbital strike on every population center. Malchior argued for containment and precision. Seraphane raised one gauntlet and spoke only once:
“Silence. Maintain "Aegis Nullis", Firm, we can not let this species start out harming young and hate into the galaxy. The Tau holograms nodded in agreement ”
The Stranger sat at a bar stool near the window. He did not speak often. He did not flinch aside from looking at the mirror to see who was around. The arcade bar lit with sounds, laughters, and auras of all types.
Below, Scout Team Vaelan was tasked with tracing an irregular signal — a strange looped ping they suspected tied to the Stranger. They followed it into the outskirts of what remained of a habitation dome. They found no daemon, no artifact.
They found **The Rec Room** — a faded pre-post-warp-era bar, still powered by geothermal light. Inside, they encountered four special women: The Angel Sisters — twin-eyed mutants with silver hair, offering free drinks and cryptic warnings — and a woman simply known as Queen to some.
The Queen wore mismatched flats, read from a book with no pages, and spoke the ping’s location before Vaelan could ask. “He’s already left,” she said. “But he handed something and changed my heart.” On the bar sat a phase-burned business card with an address etched with the mark of Caliban.
Beneath the lowest decks of the Unrelenting Blade, below the oubliettes and reliquaries, behind six vault-seals inscribed in High Gothic, lay the forbidden chamber: The Vault of the The Unrelenting Blade7.
It was never meant to be opened again. Chaplain Seraphane had forgotten its existence — or pretended to. Even Techmarine Orias's schematics ended abruptly, redacted by the Omnissiah itself. Only Azareth knew. He had seen it in his vision: a vault of sins, buried by a son of the Emperor.
They descended in silence.
Inside, the Vault glowed faintly. Not from light, but from memory — ghost echoes of the past. Shattered helms of Fallen Angels lined the walls. An armor stand bore a blackened tabard still stained with Terran soil. The room had not been entered since the days of the Lion.
And yet... someone sat there.
In the far corner, cross-legged between stacked relic crates, beneath a defunct war-banner of Caliban, was the Stranger.
He said nothing.
On his back: the Sword of the Lion, its scabbard untouched, glowing dimly with ancient fury.
At his belt: two master-crafted pistols of Terran make and engraved.
Sheathed across his chest: a C’tan Phase Blade, glimmering with energies not meant for this galaxy.
No alarms had triggered. No breach logs were filed. He had simply appeared.
Techmarine Orias ran triple-verification scans. Chaplain Seraphane didn’t blink. Azareth just nodded — as if this had already happened.
After several minutes, the Stranger spoke. His inside voice was calm. Tired. Heavy with a thousand years of choices.
"This is where it began," he said. "And where it can be made right."
The Relics Lay Dormant. The Stranger rose slowly and placed one hand on the vault wall. The runes there pulsed — as if recognizing him.
"The Lion is returning," he said. "But not as you expect."
He turned and walked deeper into the vault shadows, speaking only one final phrase:
"We must bring Terra back. Or we all fall forward."
The Vault trembled.
Hidden beneath its foundation, behind a locked circuit that had resisted time, tech, and tampering, something ancient awakened. It did not roar. It recognized.
Each of the The Unrelenting Blade7 felt it — a shift in their helix. Buried commands, layered in their gene-seed, whispered one phrase:
“Redemption Protocols Engaged.”
Chaplain Seraphane fell to one knee. Valthor dropped his weapons. Even the Stranger closed his eyes.
A voice echoed through the vault, older than the Heresy, colder than silence.
"If you hear this, you have not fallen. The Imperium has become a shadow of its birthright. The sins of Terra... have multiplied."
— Lion El'Jonson
The message detailed what had long been feared: that Terra’s ascension had been subverted from within. Cultural corruption, systematic grooming of youth, and spiritual erosion — all orchestrated by Chaos through **entertainment, influence, and institutions**. Not one invasion, but a slow infection.
But humanity had a chance. Not through war — but through **witness**.
The message concluded:
“Unite the Children of the Forest — the ones not yet broken, still bearing the song of stars. Seize the towers. Offer the Fallen Redemption if Their Sin Bears Manageable Weight Or No Repreive. Send the signal. Let the truth be seen, not said.”
A new objective formed.
The The Unrelenting Blade7 were no longer just warriors. They were guardians of the future’s voice. Their mission: to identify corrupted cultural nexuses — ad servers, voice channels, streaming nodes — and convert them into truth-beacons.
Those who poisoned humanity’s innocence would be named, archived, and exposed. Not silenced. Revealed.
Across the ship, terminals flickered. Network access opened. Signal towers aligned. A new campaign began — not of bolters, but of messages. The voice of the Lion carried on datawind and prayer alike.
In orbit and on the ground, chaos and truth raced through the same channels.
Tau relays, Eldar crystal satellites, and the Unrelenting Blade's dark vox-web formed a tri-networked broadcast lattice. Together, it could illuminate every corner of the planet — every screen, every earpiece, every neural feed.
Commander Ka’Nara fed the tactical uplinks. Craftseer Vel’qara summoned long-dead spectral nodes. Techmarine Orias built the convergence bridge. And from deep within the Vault, the Redemption Protocols pulsed — steady and slow.
Then came the counter-surge.
Slaanesh cults, long embedded in media towers and population centers, initiated countermeasures. Signals laced with inversion logic. Light pulses designed to hypnotize. Frequencies tuned to synthetic dopamine. It was not just war — it was narrative annihilation.
On the surface, near the old relay spire at Site HZ-9A — one of the primary chaos-infected towers — the The Unrelenting Blade7 deployed a strike force.
And leading them — for the first time in open field since the Thirteenth Black Crusade — was Interrogator-Chaplain Seraphane.
He walked through the dust and fire, unfazed. His voice carried across the comms — through vox-net, into helmets, into the hearts of every warrior, mutant ally, and even some Tau auxiliaries who dared translate it.
"Brothers. Sisters. Children of Caliban and Terra alike:
Before we sang, they silenced us.
Before we danced, they poisoned our rhythm.
Before we walked, they shackled our bones.
Before we spoke, they rewrote our tongues.
These are not invaders.
They are thieves of time. Molestors of futures.
And they will not take one step more.
For every scream choked in youth — let this tower burn.
For every joy warped into addiction — let this tower fall.
For every child’s dream co-opted into rot —
let this tower be our vengeance, our voice, our vow."
The The Unrelenting Blade7 struck with fury and coordination. Plasma devoured sigil walls. Chainswords chewed through sin-flesh. The cult’s high priest — a towering figure masked in light and adorned in children’s iconography — was cast from the relay's pinnacle by Scout Azareth himself.
As the tower fell, its signal was hijacked.
Across the hemisphere, the first Redemption Beacon went live.
Billions heard a strange signal override:
“Do not be afraid. You are not alone. The long silence is over. We see you.”
And far away, behind the Vault door, the Stranger smiled.
For ten thousand years, the Administratum believed itself the final voice. The echo of the Emperor. The will of Mankind codified in ink and dust.
But when the Redemption Beacon ignited, it did not ask permission.
It spread through subchannels — across forgotten cables, buried systems, and disused vox-routes older than the Golden Throne. Not even the Adeptus Astra Telepathica could stop it.
In the data crypts beneath the Pale Archives of Cthon-Secundus, three scribes began screaming uncontrollably. One chanted the name “El’Jonson” without ever having heard it before.
On the 52nd floor of Terra Hive Makarra, a woman opened a hidden drawer, untouched since M36. Inside: a dataslate marked “If the Lion returns.” Her breath stopped. The light around her dimmed.
And in the lower ruins of Nova Copernica, the **resistance stirred**.
**The Unseen Choir** — a cloister of rogue psychics and coded memory-seers — had survived on forgotten food stocks and broken augurs. They wept openly when the Beacon played. One of them, a girl named **Emra**, stood and said:
“We are not alone. They found us.”
Their leader, **Aquil Rens**, opened a vault hidden behind ferrocrete. Inside: a memory shard encoded with Calibanite dialect. The past was not dead. It had returned.
But so had the enemy.
High in the stratosphere, something cracked. A shimmer, like oil in the sky, pulsed above Terra’s ionosphere. It was **not a full Warp Rift**, but a **chaos echo** — a weakened Slaanesh backdraft, desperate to silence the Beacon’s signal.
It bled light. Pleasure-tinted whispers. Illusions of paradise. It painted the skies with faces never born. Songs never sung. Screams twisted into laughter.
And from it dropped a single thing: a creature of skin and screens, covered in faux-iconography and voice modulators. A Daemon of Influence, desperate to retake the towers.
One phrase echoed in all heads:
“You were not suppose to win.”
Terra had stirred. But so had its dreamer.
The final tower flickered. Redemption Beacons across the planet began to fall silent.
The Daemon of Influence — masked in a thousand faces, singing a hundred false songs — had embedded itself in the data-stream of Hive Makarra’s crown spire.
“All love is indulgence. Pain remained is progress.” it whispered through screen and speaker alike.
Resistance forces fell under hallucination. Children danced in traffic. Guards laid down arms and sobbed. Hope itself twisted, flickered, and began to rot.
And then: the Stranger walked into the tower.
No escort. No ceremony. Just **Cypher**, alone, never really weaponless. His phase blade sheathed. Only the **Sword of the Lion** remained across his back.
He approached the Daemon. It mocked him with his own voice, then the Emperor’s, then the Lion’s. It asked him what he was. What he had ever been.
He replied only once:
“The bridge.”
Then he drew the Sword.
Light, like a nova wrapped in thunder, split the air. The Daemon screamed, not in pain — but in realization.
The sword cut through sound, through memory, through lies.
But the price was blood. As the Daemon crumbled, it lashed out with a scream in every frequency. It lashed and scratched Cypher’s soul — adding another scar to a war torn body.
Not slain. Not alive. Just… still.
The Sword of the Lion clattered to the steel.
And the tower began to hum.
Beneath it, in pre-Imperial stone, something old woke up. Something forged during the Dark Age of Technology. It had no name, only a function: Memory Firewall: Terra Prime.
The sword floated. Accepted. It slotted into a cradle inside the machine’s slot.
And then Terra roared.
A blinding lattice of light stitched through the crust of the planet, running from forgotten node to sacred stone, from tomb-vaults to satellites. Every Beacon returned online. Every lie burned away.
The Daemon’s death cry reversed — dragged backward into silence sending ripples across the landscapes.
Above Terra’s sky, warp-light faded. The oily shimmer popped like a bubble. And for the first time in millennia, the stars looked clean.
They arrived in silence.
In robes of ash, bearing no names, carrying spears made of dust and light: The Emperor’s Silent Watchers.
They had waited. They had remembered. And now, they nodded once to the Chaplains, to the Tau, to the Choir, and to the dead man at the Sword’s feet.
Then they began to bury the fallen. With honor.
Scout Azareth approached the Sword. It pulsed once — not for him, but in thanks.
Above them all, the Unrelenting Blade slowly descended into Terra’s orbit — no longer a warship, but a beacon amongst the galaxy who had the technology to witness it.
The Lion was always here. His voice had always returned.
— END OF BOOK I —
What you have read are fragments. Logs recovered from sealed vox-records, vision scrolls, and corrupted cogitators deep beneath the ruins of Hive Makarra. Pieced together by memory-seers and machine-priests. Translated by Choirs who barely understood the dialects they spoke.
We do not know what became of the The Unrelenting Blade7 after the final Redemption Beacon was lit.
Some say they vanished, given a life on Terra as wanderers and builders — scattered like seeds at the dawn of the Galactic Age.
Others believe they were taken by the Watchers in Silence. That they were never meant to be remembered… only to intervene.
No trace of the Daemon remains. The towers hum with truth. But across the stars, the Great Game has stirred. The Eye still watches.
What we know is this:
The jump into the Eye of Terror changed more than history — it changed fate.
Book II will follow what remains of the The Unrelenting Blade7 — those who walk Terra as men and women, understanding of galaxies and travelers of stars, not just gazers, understanding instead of warriors and assassins. Those who still yet rise when the Lion does.
-- LOG SEALED --
█ █ █ TERRA MEMORY ARCHIVE — The Unrelenting Blade7██ █ █
A machine-augmented spiritual guide. Oversees rites, purity checks, and execution of psychic risk. Cold, relentless, loyal only to the Lion’s memory.
The emotional and historical conscience of the The Unrelenting Blade7. Keeper of forbidden truths. Recognizes Cypher, keeps dangerous knowledge secret.
A chosen psychic-sensitive scout. Received a burning vision of the galaxy aflame and a hooded stranger. Marked by prophecy.
Calculates ancient systems, analyzes warp anomalies, and uncovers the truth behind the Zeta Coil signals and memetic corruption.
Mysterious hooded figure wielding the Sword of the Lion. Unnamed to the rank-and-file, known by the Chaplains. Appears and vanishes, guiding fate. Present before the Eye jump. Delivered relics and prophecy.
Chaos sorcerer and primary antagonist. Manipulates vox networks to preach corrupted scripture. Leader of the cruiser pursued into the Eye. Agent of Slaanesh's long plan to corrupt pre-Galactic humanity.
Leader of Tau detachment on-world. Tactical, stoic, and quick to recognize galactic prophecy when it’s unfolding. Forms ceasefire pact with Dark Angels and Eldar.
Ancient Eldar emissary of Craftworld Sarthai’Quel. Reminds the Imperium of a forgotten pre-Heresy pact with the Lion. Speaks of debts and the Old Ones.
Mutant quad of friends encountered in a forgotten the bar called "The Rec Room." Srong warrior genetics, empathy, humor. Friendly, cryptic, and aware of Cypher’s presence before the scouts were.
A strange woman with a regal air, mismatched flats, wit, seriousness, and prophetic speech. Guides Scout Vaelan to a relic left behind by Cypher. Reads a book with no pages.
Elite recon unit tracing unknown signals. First team to find Cypher’s coin and interact with the local mutants. Specializes in psychic traces and stealth tracking.
First confirmed casualties among the The Unrelenting Blade7. Lost during psychic detonation near Zeta Coil. Their death marks the cost of Chaos' long-game influence.