Unlucky isekai? (Warhammer 40000)

The shuttles roared loudly as their engines touched down on the landing pad. With a hiss, the hatches opened, and the first members of the procession stepped onto Armageddon. 

The darkness inside the Thunderhawks parted, releasing the true angels of war from this grim and merciless universe. Dozens of Blood Angels, gleaming in red light, stepped forward in unison. 

The majestic, over two-meter-tall angels of the Emperor quickly formed a perimeter around the landing pad, creating an impenetrable cordon. Though their numbers were few, only a fool would dare approach them. The black voids where their eyes should be scanned the sea of humanity with deadly seriousness, searching for any signs of heresy. 

It didn't take long for the majority of the arrivals to disembark and form up, moving forward. As the first group marched, others smoothly exited the shuttles and joined the procession. This avoided the awkward standing around but also kept the main purpose of today's march hidden. 

Leading the march were the members of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Mutilated, covered in grotesque mechanical implants, they inspired both fear and awe—fear of their monstrous appearance and awe that these mechanical abominations fought on the side of humanity. 

Most of the Mechanicus clutched heavy energy halberds, their blades pointed proudly toward the sky as the steel legs of the tech-priests crunched the gravel beneath them. Among them were many Skitarii—emotionless, heavily cybernetically enhanced humans, the obedient infantry of the Adeptus Mechanicus. 

But, of course, it wasn't these robotic humans that drew the most attention, but the towering Castellans, robots that even dwarfed the tech-priests. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of these machines would give much to be as far away from them as possible. 

Devoid of reason and compassion, these massive golems are programmed to carry out any order given by their tech-priest. If the latter were to order the burning of a city and then suddenly die, the Castellan robot would continue to burn the city, killing friend and foe alike, until its energy reserves were depleted or it was destroyed. 

Their mindlessness was the only solution to prevent another uprising of the Iron Men, but even so, such machines were already teetering on the edge of high-order heresy. 

The Mechanicus were given the lead position due to their contributions to the fleet's technical support. The most dangerous and technologically advanced ships of the new Crusade were provided by this terrifying organization. 

Following the followers of the Machine God were the members of the Adepta Sororitas, or as they are also known, the Daughters of the Emperor. Women and girls who had chosen as their mission the eradication of heresy and the battle against the most fearsome enemies of the Imperium—daemons. 

Clad in heavy power armor and armed to the teeth, these women attracted the gazes and dreams of many Imperial Guardsmen. At least, until they got to know them better. 

The Sisters of Battle carried a variety of weapons, but each of them was a Celestian, the elite of the Sororitas. Each of these women had seen horrors that would break many grown men. But they endured and remained true to their ideals. Their combat skills were beyond doubt, and any doubts about their loyalty to the Emperor were met with certain death. 

However, as with the Mechanicus, it was their machines that drew the most attention—if such monstrous contraptions could even be called machines. 

Yes, we're talking about the Penitent Engines—walking war machines that carve through enemy lines, leaving death and carnage in their wake. The flamers mounted on their mechanical arms leave a trail of fiery destruction as they rumble toward their enemies, while their giant, razor-sharp buzz saws cut through armor, flesh, and bone with every frenzied swing. 

To pilot a Penitent Engine is to have committed a terrible crime, so heinous that punishments like imprisonment, exile, becoming an Arco-Flagellant, or even execution are considered too lenient. 

Many of the unfortunate souls condemned to pilot these machines were once members of the Ecclesiarchy—disgraced priests or Sisters of Battle who, through failure of duty or lack of faith, caused the deaths of their comrades. 

Countless wires and chemical injectors are implanted into the spines of the condemned pilots, and when they are not tearing through enemy ranks, sharp pains and images of guilt shoot through their brains, reminding them of their sins. 

Driven by the insane need of their pilots to atone, Penitent Engines charge at the nearest enemy in sight, ignoring any danger, knowing that only in death—theirs or their enemy's—can they finally earn forgiveness. 

On the armor of each of these machines hung the naked body of a woman, their backs mutilated by the wires that pierced them. In truth, these bodies were little more than decoys, as all vital organs were hidden deep within the machine, so destroying the remains would not grant the unfortunate souls the release they so desperately sought. 

But attention didn't linger long on the Penitent Engines, for the one they had all gathered to see finally emerged. 

Despite the hundreds of thousands of soldiers on the parade ground, this was only a small fraction of the forces gathered for the new Crusade. 

The regiments of the Imperial Guard do not have a strict, fixed size. Some number in the thousands, while others number in the millions. And yet, both are considered regiments. 

This is why a special commission was created to select those who would attend the welcoming ceremony. In the end, many of those who had been with the Saint from the beginning were chosen, as they had trained like madmen since his departure, achieving impressive results. 

However, even the old veterans numbered only a couple of hundred thousand, while the rest were newcomers. 

The Blood Angels, standing motionless, shifted, and some of them moved forward, while the rest formed a living corridor. 

A wave seemed to pass through the sea of humanity as the first glint of gold appeared on the massive screens. 

To be honest, thousands of cameras were broadcasting this moment in real time, and billions of Armageddon's citizens were glued to their screens, watching every movement within the elite Aquila. 

Fortunately, they didn't have to wait much longer. 

The first to emerge were white wings, like a giant umbrella, hiding the figure of the man as he stepped out. Those who had seen the Saint before his journey to Terra widened their eyes in disbelief. 

With a mighty flap, the wings spread and folded behind his back as Saint Stanislav stood tall, calmly surveying the gathered crowd. Around him stood the Blood Angels, but they were spaced far enough apart that the Saint could still be seen behind them. 

For a few seconds, the soldiers stared in awed silence at the living Saint, until the dam of their forced calm broke, and they erupted into cheers, raising their hands in the air. 

Officers immediately began shouting and trying to restore order, but it was no easy task. 

The air itself seemed to groan under the weight of human joy. 

Tears of genuine happiness streamed down the faces of many men and women—for them, seeing the Saint was akin to achieving the purpose of their lives, after which they could lay down and die. 

The level of madness was so intense that many people simply dropped dead, their hearts unable to handle the overwhelming joy. 

And such a powerful, directed psychic wave could not go unanswered. 

The Saint's body, already glowing with a faint golden hue, began to shine brighter, driving the people even further into ecstasy. 

Stan's feet left the ground as he floated slightly upward, his wings bursting into pure, golden flame. They grew significantly, covering the width of the road and obscuring the sky for the Blood Angels. 

The strength and brightness of the fiery wings were such that white tendrils of pure energy radiated outward in all directions. Some of these tendrils were so long that they even touched the soldiers. But instead of burning and mutilating bodies, each touch healed scars and diseases, improving their well-being. 

The floating Saint finally managed to control the pressure bearing down on him and moved forward. Behind him, representatives of the most renowned Imperial Guard regiments marched in step, each proudly carrying their banner, showing everyone who they were and what they were famous for. 

Due to the size of the parade ground, the march took a long time, but for those gathered, it felt like mere minutes, so powerful was the moment. 

When the procession reached two-thirds of the way, the seemingly unremarkable fabric-covered mounds in the distance began to move. The tarps slid away like water, revealing the indestructible metal beneath. 

Engines roared and servos whirred as the hidden giants rose to their full height. 

The Saint stopped to fully appreciate the new force that had decided to join him. 

In addition to the regular regiments and adventurers, two other forces had chosen to join the Crusade: a house of Imperial Knights and a maniple of Titans. 

The former were smaller versions of Titans, humanoid walking robots of immense combat power. Unlike their larger counterparts, Imperial Knights could be piloted by a single individual. However, they were technologically and firepower-wise inferior to full-fledged Titans. 

The latter, however… Imperial Titans were the embodiment and pinnacle of the Imperium's ground forces. Unstoppable, equipped with powerful void shields, these war machines were capable of destroying entire cities. 

Even the smallest Imperial Titan stood fourteen meters tall, let alone the tallest, like the Emperor-class Titan. 

Hidden until now in specially equipped shafts, they were now being raised to the surface, standing at full height, allowing everyone to fully appreciate their majesty. 

And, say what you will, even Ordyntsev was impressed by the majestic menace of these machines. Besides the Knights, almost the entire Titan lineup was present, from Warhounds to Warlords. The only one missing was the Emperor-class Titan, as each of those machines was a true rarity. 

There were even a couple of Reavers, no longer produced machines that had been replaced by Warlords. 

Finally, all the Titans and Knights stood at full height. A deep, resonant hum spread for kilometers, silencing everyone. This was the Titans' way of giving a "voice." 

But their display wasn't over yet. 

The Titans that carried energy cannons raised their barrels skyward. 

"Flares!"—with a crack, energy beams pierced the gray sky, shooting into the blackness of space. 

After the volley, the Titans stood at attention, and the Saint, amidst the unending applause, moved to the end of the parade ground. He still had to meet his loyal comrades. 

*****

A black sphere, absorbing all light, hung in the void of space at the very edge of the galaxy. The arriving Tyranid fleet chose to bypass this place in a wide arc, not wanting to attract the attention of whoever was inside this solitary "prison." 

Once, the galaxy had its own gods. They swam among the stars, devouring them and absorbing all the accumulated energy. 

There were no forces or means capable of matching their power and knowledge. 

Beings of pure energy, their understanding of the universe's laws was so vast that it was hard to comprehend. Space and time itself bent to their whims. 

But those times were long gone. 

Consumed by their own pride and thirst for power, deceived by one of their own, they turned their weapons against each other in a brutal war, the ferocity of which was so great that even the memory of those terrible events was erased. 

Once, the Laughing God tricked the Outsider into devouring his brothers, and the eternal struggle between the C'tan for power was the key to the deception's success. 

But the Outsider, to his misfortune, was too successful. He devoured so many of his brothers that his mind shattered under the weight of their essences. 

The Outsider went mad and chose exile at the edge of the galaxy, trying to regain some semblance of sanity. He traveled to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, where he found a desolate planet orbiting a lonely star. 

There, he was caught by Cegorach, who imprisoned the mightiest of the C'tan in a Dyson sphere. But the Eldar god miscalculated. Yes, the sphere was powerful, but not against the Outsider, who wielded the combined might of his devoured brothers. 

Fortunately for the galaxy, the Outsider had chosen exile himself, and the sphere orbiting him and his star did not hinder him. 

In fact, he was the only C'tan whose essence had not been shattered into shards. Moreover, his power had only grown since then. 

However, anyone with psychic abilities would notice strange warp fluctuations around the Outsider's prison. Part of the warp storm following Tzeentch's death had reached here. 

And though nothing had happened yet, that didn't mean it would stay that way. 

*****

The last few months had been the best for the Emperor in the past ten thousand years. 

For starters, the mind-crushing pressure from the four Chaos Gods had been reduced to three. And though each had grown stronger, grabbing parts of Tzeentch's domain, it was still better. 

Even if they had fully compensated for the loss, the Emperor would still have come out ahead, as waging war against Tzeentch had been pure torment. 

Most of the painful blows from the Four had come from the Changer of Ways. 

Ironically, the Emperor still entertained the possibility that all of this was just an elaborate plan by Tzeentch, who had faked his own death. With enemies like the Great Manipulator, one could never be sure of anything. 

The second piece of good news was the beginning of the process of unifying his fractured psyche. For too long, the Emperor had teetered on the edge of reality and madness. 

And if before he couldn't afford such a thing, after his conversations with his new Saint, the Emperor had finally found a new path. 

Yes, the process was far from complete, but the Emperor was hopeful of finishing it soon. 

Suddenly, the Emperor felt something strange. 

Attacks on his golden shield were commonplace, but rarely did he feel something like this. It was as if someone was knocking gently, trying to be as quiet as possible so that only the Emperor would hear. 

The Master of Mankind carefully examined the psychic signature of the visitor, then sent a pulse of approval—he recognized who had come to talk. 

For the conversation, the Emperor created a limited, shielded channel through which he could strike freely, while the guest was almost defenseless. Nevertheless, his interlocutor immediately accepted the invitation. 

In the golden space, the figure of a tall, graceful Eldar woman appeared. Opposite her, a towering giant in heavy golden armor materialized. 

- I am pleased to greet the Master of Mankind, - Isha politely inclined her head. Like all Eldar, this gesture carried a dozen meanings, which the Emperor easily read. 

- And I am pleased to see you, Isha the Healer, - the ruler of the Imperium responded with a polite nod. - But you are mistaken. I am no longer the Master of Mankind. That name was left behind tens of thousands of years ago. Now, call me the Emperor. 

- I understand, - Isha smiled. - None of us are what we once were. I have many important topics to discuss and one crucial proposal. Where would you like me to begin? 

- Life has taught me that it's often best to start with the latter. 

- Then here is my proposal, - Isha formally folded her hands on her chest, arranging her palms in a sign of peace. - The life of your son in exchange for… "cleaning the house." And yes, we will help you get into the "house." 

- "Cleaning the house," - the Emperor repeated slowly. - And why have you decided to take this step? After all, you can't choose your relatives. 

- Because the "cleaning" will help one of my brothers, let's say, wake up. 

- Hmm, very well, - the Emperor agreed after a moment of thought. 

- Then, - Isha extended her hand, putting on an innocent expression. - I believe this is how you humans seal agreements. 

- It's pleasant to see such knowledge of our traditions, - the Emperor smiled for the first time, then spoke a phrase in Eldar that no human throat could properly pronounce, causing Isha to blush slightly. - Lle naa vanima. 

- Lle naa belegohtar, - Isha bid farewell, quickly retreating. - Namaarie. 

Alone once more, the Emperor allowed his human form to dissolve, becoming once again a chaotic stream of disjointed images. After all, he couldn't appear before the Eldar goddess in such a state, so he had to pretend to be his former self. 

- Now, where is my Saint? Knowing him, he'll be very pleased with what I'm about to give him. 

Note from translator

Guys, I saw someone asking why sometimes they are called Ordynets, sometimes Stas, and sometimes Stanislav. Well, Ordynets is the last name, Stanislav is the first name, and Stas is a short form of Stanislav.

In general, Russian full names consist of three parts: LAST NAME, FIRST NAME, and PATRONYMIC.What is a Patronymic? It's the father's name. So, for example, if your name is Christian Bale, in Russian your full name would be something like Christian Davidovich Bale. That's how it works if anyone was curious.

Also I want to inform you that today you have a new challenge to open +3 chapters at once you need to write 5 more reviews new