In the 42nd Millennium, where hope flickers dimly like the dying stars, the galaxy bleeds.
The Imperium of Man, torn by the Cicatrix Maledictum, has become a realm of fragmented faith, endless war, and silent desperation. Even with the return of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman, the tides of Chaos, xenos threats, and ancient horrors rise endlessly. The light of the Astronomican dims, and even the most zealous believe the end is nearer than the Ecclesiarchy dares admit.
And yet, in the dead void between systems—a new force stirs.
Not a daemon. Not a xenos. Not a lost son of the Emperor.
A King.
***
The silence of the warp-broken region was ruptured as a gate of divine radiance tore open reality. An obsidian throne emerged first—floating above ruined marble, shrouded in crimson banners and flickering golden runes. And on it sat a man, one leg draped over the throne's arm, his posture relaxed but dangerous, like a lion forced into slumber by boredom.
His eyes glowed with divine flame, pupils burning like miniature suns. His long black hair swept behind his royal armor, etched with ancient scriptures in a language no machine spirit could translate. At his side lay a colossal greatsword—its blade sealed in golden chains humming with sacred power.
He exhaled slowly.
"…This place reeks of corruption. Demons. And something worse."
The man's name was Leonhart Valtherion, the Knight King, slayer of gods, conqueror of the Abyss, and the last ruler of the fallen Holy Empire of Calradia in his native world.
A world he had saved—and buried—with divine fire and ruthless judgment.
But salvation comes at a cost. When the war was won and the gods silent, a final gift—or curse—was given. A Divine Summoning, opening a door not to peace, but to another war. A greater one.
His god had spoken only once before the light faded:
"The next battlefield awaits. Take my name into the stars, and carve thrones upon corpses. They have forgotten the divine. Remind them."
And so he returned. Not to his empire. Not to rest.
But to this shattered galaxy—where even gods could die.
***
A nearby world—Valetis Minor—was under siege.
The forces of Chaos rained down upon its remaining bastions, World Eaters and cultists slaughtering the last Guard regiments holding the outer lines. Screams echoed through vox channels. Imperial citizens, faithless and mad, turned to warp-pacts for salvation. And above, the skies split.
Leonhart stood alone on the battlefield, wind howling through ash-choked air, his throne behind him, sword now unsheathed.
The World Eaters saw him. Laughed. Charged.
"Another corpse for Khorne!"
Leonhart raised a single hand.
"Kneel."
The air pulsed. Space itself shuddered. Divine Authority, not born from the Warp, not fueled by fear or sacrifice—but pure sovereignty—descended like judgment.
The leading Berzerker's legs crumpled beneath him, armor cracking. He screamed—not in pain, but confusion, rage, powerlessness. One by one, the rest slowed, then fell to their knees, their wills no longer their own.
Leonhart stepped forward.
"Beasts. Filth. You parade around wearing the blood of honor, yet know nothing of it. You mock gods with your madness. Allow me to show you the difference between corruption… and divinity."
He raised his blade. Golden fire danced across its edge.
"O Law that binds the soul, O Light that tempers steel—by the name of the Divine Throne, I cast judgment upon the unworthy." [Divine Authority: Executioner of the Unholy]
With a single arc of his sword, a wave of cleansing flame surged forth—incinerating cultists, boiling corrupted ceramite, and burning sigils of Chaos from existence. The Warp screamed as daemons were banished without ritual, without wards—only will.
From behind him, a portal opened—his Dungeon Gate.
A massive stone structure, engraved with thousands of conquered names, shimmered into reality. The air grew thick with otherworldly mana—foreign to the Imperium, alien even to psykers.
A voice echoed from within the gate. Familiar. Feminine. Dutiful.
"My king. The seventh floor units are ready. Shall I deploy the War Maidens of Frost?"
Leonhart smirked. "No. Start with the Reaper Division. Let the monsters learn fear again."
From the gate emerged armored knights in black-silver plate, eyes glowing with red divine energy, each carrying halberds infused with soulfire. Behind them, chained beasts—once demons—now bound by glyphs and spiritual collars, snarled, waiting to be unleashed.
Atop the battlefield, a Valkyrie pilot saw it all—frozen in mid-mission.
"…What in the Emperor's name…?"
***
On Terra, within the dark chamber beneath the Golden Throne, a thousand psykers screamed at once. Their souls withered from a single echo:
A New God Has Entered the Galaxy.
***
Inquisitor Selena Kael of the Ordo Hereticus sat in stunned silence inside her drop-pod, watching the battle recording sent from Valetis. Her Astartes escort had no words. The footage showed the impossible.
An army summoned from a dungeon that shouldn't exist.
A man who used faith as a weapon—not of the Emperor, but of someone else.
And worse—Chaos fled from him.
Selena narrowed her eyes.
"Deploy Exterminatus protocols. If this man's faith is not aligned with the Emperor's Light, then he is a greater threat than any Daemon Prince."
***
Somewhere deep within the Eye of Terror, Tzeentch stirred. His thousand eyes twitched. His smile faltered.
"A divine force… independent of the Warp?"
He hissed. "Unacceptable."
***
And so, in the 42nd Millennium, as the stars cried and reality bent, a new player entered the game.
Not a servant of Chaos.
Not a lapdog of the Imperium.
Not a silent watcher like the Eldar or the Necrons.
But a King.
And where he walked, Gods would kneel, or be broken.