"Well, this is..."
Rowan stared at Inquisitor Cybia, who was behaving with the utmost reverence, his brain momentarily short-circuiting as an entire galaxy of confusion washed over him.
Wait, wasn't it an established fact that Inquisitors were entirely comprised of lunatics?
How had her attitude flipped so drastically?
Was she genuinely not going to harbor even a shred of suspicion?
He had fully anticipated that upon regaining consciousness, a hardened Inquisitor like Cybia—observing the bizarre tableau before her and the series of glaring anomalies that had just occurred—would immediately classify Roan, a being of entirely unknown origin, as a latent heretic. He had practically braced himself for a quintessential display of traditional Imperial theater: violent internal conflict.
Do not think for a second that Inquisitors were above such things; the renowned Living Saint Celestine had personally experienced the sheer, unhinged insanity of these fanatics on more than one occasion.
Rowan had even prepared a contingency plan specifically for this scenario.
The process of transmuting another into an architect of reality established an absolute, hierarchical chain of command between the originator and the recipient.
After all, the ontological density now anchoring the recipient was merely a fractured extension of the original architect's power, a pure derivative of their dominion.
Just as the cultists and Chaos Astartes slaughtered by the Living Saint Lucia were recognized by the anomaly inhabiting Roan's soul as his own personal kills—their souls flawlessly devoured by him—if he wished to act against a newly transmuted architect, his dominion over reality could bypass all spatial obstruction, violently imposing its will upon them with absolute efficiency.
This was precisely the underlying confidence that allowed Rowan to transmute the Inquisitor without a sliver of hesitation.
But now...
Why did you surrender before I even did anything?
Grimdark is absolutely not supposed to work like this.jpg
Simultaneously perceiving the jarring contradiction between Cybia's station and her current behavior, Leonardo—whose own attitude toward Rowan had shifted entirely after witnessing the Emperor's divine manifestation—spoke up:
"Explain yourself, Inquisitor. Why do you refer to Lord Rowan as the 'hope of mankind and the Imperium'? And from whence did you acquire this knowledge?"
"As I stated previously, prior to boarding this cruiser, I received an omen directly from the Emperor."
Cybia immediately explained, "He revealed to me that a new hope would manifest upon this vessel, one capable of altering this rotting stagnation. And after witnessing you and your actions, I understand completely."
"For your very existence is a miracle that cannot be replicated."
"A miracle that cannot be replicated?"
Hearing this, Rowan was somewhat bewildered.
He was naturally aware of his unique status as an interloper from another universe, but how exactly had Cybia discerned this?
"Because you lack a shadow within the warp."
Cybia explained with absolute patience, "I can perceive the existence of your soul, yet it possesses absolutely zero connection to the immaterium. If one were to rely solely upon warp-sight, you would not even register as existing."
Hearing this absolute declaration from a master psyker sanctioned by the Inquisition, both Custodian Leonardo and Living Saint Lucia displayed expressions of profound bewilderment. They simultaneously turned their gaze toward Rowan, clearly never having anticipated that such an entity could exist within this universe.
The immaterium and the material universe were fundamentally inseparable, intrinsically bound together. Even Blanks—the Untouchables who violently suppressed psychic phenomena—possessed a warp reflection, albeit one resembling a suffocating black hole. If a being lacked a warp shadow entirely, were they not indistinguishable from a soulless corpse?
How could they possibly continue to function?
Rowan himself, however, was not the least bit surprised.
In this universe, every single soul was intrinsically linked to the immaterium, casting a reflection into the Sea of Souls.
But this fundamental law of physics simply did not apply to Rowan, who had never been birthed within this reality to begin with.
This status possessed both boons and detriments.
The detriment was that Rowan could never instinctively feel the tides of the warp like a psyker, nor could he channel the limitless, apocalyptic power of the immaterium.
As for the boon...
Rowan estimated that his inherent resistance to chaotic corruption was likely bordering on the absurd.
"Just moments ago, as I was drowning in psychic delirium, I faintly witnessed the Emperor's omen once more."
Cybia continued, "I firmly believe you are the one I have been searching for, the one capable of bringing restoration to this decaying Imperium."
Sensing a bizarre undertone in her words, Rowan paused. "Are you an Inquisitor of the Horusian faction?"
The Horusian faction was a radical offshoot within the Inquisition. They believed that the chaotic might wielded by the Arch-Traitor Warmaster Horus could be harnessed to forge divine avatars of the Emperor, leading mankind to greatness once more.
Just hearing their dogma made it blindingly obvious that they were an organization of pure, unadulterated lunatics.
"No! You cannot insult my honor in such a manner!"
Cybia frowned deeply, her expression instantly twisting into one of utter disgust, as if she had swallowed a fly. "I am a Puritan Inquisitor. Do not dare lump me together with those heretics."
"If you insist on applying a factional label... I personally believe the Anomolian Beholders possess certain merits. Though merely certain merits, I must stress."
She emphasized this point heavily.
Right then...
Rowan glanced at the three individuals surrounding him.
He had already deduced that this was the bodyguard detail the Emperor had specifically arranged for him, an architect of reality whose physical vessel was currently as fragile as a baseline mortal's.
A Living Saint, a black-robed Custodian who was also a former Blade Champion (a fact Rowan had only just learned), and an Alpha-class Psyker... This retinue could unequivocally be considered elite within the current state of the galaxy, more than sufficient to guarantee his survival.
After all, this was not the era following the opening of the Great Rift, where, prompted by the words, "The era of the Primarchs is over!", every single faction (even the T'au!) suddenly and unanimously unveiled Primarch-level combatants, clashing in apocalyptic warfare with armies of previously unimaginable scale.
A certain Golden Entity's profound desperation and frantic desire to finally clock out of His eternal shift were practically overflowing.
Rowan took a deep breath.
The burning gazes of the three individuals surrounding him generated a slight, phantom pressure.
They were all awaiting Rowan's proclamation, harboring absolute trust and hope in him, even though the youth standing before them appeared—aside from a few anomalous quirks—indistinguishable from a mortal.
Ten millennia of absolute faith and blind obedience toward the Emperor allowed them to implicitly trust His directives, though a sliver of doubt naturally lingered in their hearts.
Even if this man was indeed extraordinary, when compared to the Imperium of Man—an empire spanning nearly the entire galaxy, possessing a sheer, suffocating mass capable of inducing despair in both those who sought to save it and those who sought to destroy it—he still appeared entirely too insignificant.
"My name is Rowan. I am an architect of reality, and I stand bound by a covenant with the Emperor, for it was He who brought me to this place. From this moment forth, we shall move as one according to His will, embarking upon a radiant crusade."
Rowan spoke with absolute solemnity to the three individuals before him. "If you harbor any doubts regarding our current predicament or my own nature, I am more than willing to provide answers. Appropriate communication is highly beneficial for our ensuing operations."