Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

Read 15 Chapters ahead on Patreon https://Patreon.com/rez540

-----

Deep within the dungeon of the Fortress of the Judgment Hall, forbidden relics are locked away—artifacts too dangerous to be allowed to circulate within the Imperium.

The judge retrieves these accursed objects from various planets, storing them under heavy guard within the fortress, ensuring they remain beyond the reach of mortals.

Only the most devout priests of the Emperor are entrusted with the role of caretakers.

Led by Eisenhorn, Guilliman descended into the depths of the Inquisition's fortress.

The air was deathly cold, sending involuntary shivers through the body. Unnatural whispers echoed through the corridors, thick with malice so tangible it stung the skin.

Every wall, ceiling, and marble floor bore sacred inscriptions—prayers meant to ward off the corruption of Chaos. Shrines dedicated to the Emperor were scattered throughout the dungeon, with incense burners placed before winged silver skulls, their steady plumes of smoke adding to the solemnity of the place.

Exiled priests—men who once served the Ecclesiarchy—stood in the shadows, chanting ceaseless hymns in praise of the Emperor.

They had sacrificed everything. Once, they were devoted servants of the Imperial Cult, but now, they had chosen exile and damnation to serve a higher cause. For the love of humanity, they had taken it upon themselves to learn the unholy secrets of Chaos—not to wield its power, but to understand it, to protect the Imperium's soul from its corrupting grasp. They had become the wardens of the forbidden, standing vigil over horrors that could never be allowed to escape into the world.

Between each cluster of exiled priests stood Shield Captains—warriors clad in golden masks, gripping scepters infused with the Emperor's might.

They were unwavering believers, capable of channeling the Emperor's power to repel daemons and shield themselves from corruption. Their scepters could unleash force field attacks and bolster their faith, ensuring that no whisper of Chaos could take root in their souls.

Guilliman walked deeper into the dungeon, Eisenhorn guiding him forward.

"My lord… are we truly going through with this?" Eisenhorn's voice carried a rare hesitation. Respect remained in his tone, but beneath it lurked fear.

The Primarch's plan was madness. No sane mind would even conceive of using daemons to extract intelligence from the warp.

Yet the being before him had not only imagined it—he had already set it into motion with terrifying resolve.

In mere moments, the Lord of Ultramar had swayed him, convincing him to assist in this madness.

"These creatures are deceitful beyond measure," Guilliman said, his voice calm but firm. "If we continue to fight them with conventional methods, we only embolden them. Every invasion they launch against us brings devastation beyond imagining, and our only response is to drive them back—never to strike at them in return."

"Their arrogance is limitless. If they succeed in tempting mortals, they reap flesh and souls in great harvests. And if they fail? They suffer nothing."

"This cannot be allowed to continue."

His expression darkened.

"Daemons fear my father," he said. "Not because he banished them, but because he killed them. Truly killed them."

"This universe is built on a cruel foundation, Eisenhorn. Only those willing to embrace necessary evils can safeguard their people. We must teach these creatures that to harm humanity is no longer a trivial game—that their existence is not beyond consequence. We will answer them with vengeance. With destruction. With true annihilation."

Eisenhorn knew how dangerous this plan was.

If it were ever revealed, even a Primarch would not be above scrutiny.

The Imperium would need a safeguard—an expendable scapegoat to ensure stability.

That was his role.

He understood that from the beginning.

He did not protest, nor did he fear it. He had never been a man destined to be remembered. If this was how he met his end, then so be it.

A heretic? A traitor to the Imperium? The enemy of mankind?

It no longer mattered.

Because if this worked… if Guilliman's plan succeeded… it would change everything.

Humanity would step into the warp itself, no longer just resisting, but retaliating. The battle against Chaos would no longer be fought only in defense—it would become a war of conquest.

Their footsteps echoed through the dungeon corridors, the flickering light of servo-skulls illuminating the path ahead.

Candles, perched atop the hovering skulls, burned with an eerie glow. These were no ordinary flames. They were crafted from the rendered fat of the most devout Imperial martyrs—burning with a purity that could banish illusions, dispel warp-born trickery, and weaken the influence of the forbidden relics stored within the depths of the fortress.

Chaos always sought to corrupt—whispering lies, weaving illusions, gnawing at the resolve of those who stood against it.

But these candles… they denied the shadows their grasp.

With their light to guide them, Guilliman studied the vaults of the Inquisition with silent intrigue.

The walls were lined with niches, each holding a small coffin of sanctified gold, inscribed with intricate runes of suppression.

Each rune was unique—crafted specifically to contain whatever lay trapped within.

Further inside, towering bookshelves stretched into the gloom, stacked with records of horrors unspeakable—grimoires penned by cultists, alien texts inscribed in tongues unknown, the musings of those who had strayed too close to the abyss.

Some books bore the mark of the Gothic script. Others had origins that could no longer be traced.

Some were written by fools—blind to the doom they had sealed upon themselves the moment their quills touched parchment.

They had thought themselves visionaries, scholars, geniuses. They had never realized they were merely tools of dark gods—pawns moved by hands unseen.

They had met their ends in fire and steel, their bodies incinerated, their names erased.

Yet their works remained, locked away in this place of silence and shadow.

Guilliman followed Eisenhorn deeper still.

At the very heart of the dungeon, a creature hung suspended in the air—a daemonhost, its body twisted by the power of the warp.

Two horns protruded from its skull. Its tail writhed like a living thing. Most of its fur had fallen away, leaving behind sickly, bare flesh.

Its eyes burned with malice.

Sacred chains bound it in place, runes seared into the metal ensuring that its prison remained inescapable.

Sensing their arrival, the creature stirred. Its yellowed eyes snapped open, brimming with loathing.

"Eisenhorn," it spat. "You miserable, deceitful wretch. I thought you would have died by now."

The voice dripped with venom.

"You are the finest liar I have ever known. Even among the mortals I have bargained with, none have deceived as masterfully as you."

"I saved you. I served you. I pulled you from the jaws of death more times than I can count. And in return, you have done nothing but betray me—tricking me, using me, imprisoning me."

It sneered.

"One day, I will escape. And when I do, I will hunt you down. Your soul will be mine, Eisenhorn. I will make certain you suffer an eternity in bondage."

The hatred in its voice was boundless.

It ignored Guilliman entirely, its loathing focused solely on the man beside him.

Guilliman, however, found the display almost amusing.

A daemon so thoroughly deceived and broken that it seethed like a spurned lover.

"Judge," he said, glancing at Eisenhorn, "how long has this one been imprisoned?"

"Three years," Eisenhorn answered.

"Has he been purified?"

"No." The judge's gaze was cold. "He says he will have his revenge."

The daemon hissed.

Guilliman smirked.

"Poor thing," he mused. "It sounds as though you've truly wounded his heart."

Then, at last, the daemon seemed to take notice of him.

Its expression twisted in sudden, visceral terror.

"No… impossible!" it shrieked.

"How can the son of the Anathema be standing here?!"