The Dangers Facing Mankind.
[IMPERIAL ARCHIVE // ACCESS LEVEL: EXTREMIS]
[FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 9 ]
[STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]
Recovered Testimony (Source: Unknown Inquisitor) Written after transfer to Ordo Hereticus.
The transfer order arrived without explanation. A single parchment, unsigned, bearing only the sigil of the Ordo Hereticus. No commendation. No justification. Not even the courtesy of a reprimand. Just a relocation, as one might reassign a malfunctioning servitor to a quieter corridor.
I had thought myself valued. Or at least necessary. Instead, I am shunted sideways into an Ordo that regards every deviation as treachery and every uncertainty as sin. They will not see a loyal servant in me. They will see a liability. A stain. A problem to be contained rather than trusted.
My superiors have abandoned me to them. My peers have not spoken a word in my defence. Their silence is a verdict more damning than any formal censure. They know something is wrong—perhaps they have known for longer than I have—and yet they choose distance over duty. Cowards, all of them, content to let the Hereticus pick my bones clean rather than confront the rot that festers in our own ranks.
And the Emperor… I have prayed for clarity, for even the faintest flicker of His light. Nothing. Not a whisper. Not a sign. I was taught that His gaze falls upon all loyal servants, guiding them through doubt. But I feel no guidance. Only the cold weight of being unseen. Unacknowledged. Unwanted.
The ledgers mock me. My seal, my hand, my authorisations—each one a quiet betrayal I apparently committed with perfect bureaucratic precision. If this transfer is meant to correct me, it is far too late. If it is meant to punish me, then let them at least have the courage to say so.
I am being moved like a piece on a board whose game I no longer understand. Perhaps I never did. Perhaps I was merely convenient until I became inconvenient.
Still, I will continue. Not out of faith—faith has grown thin and bitter—but because someone must drag the truth into the open. If the Hereticus wishes to judge me, let them do so with full knowledge of what they allowed to fester.
Let this entry stand as testament: I was loyal. Even when loyalty was rewarded with exile.
Original document reportedly copied and circulated across multiple hive‑levels by means unknown. All confirmed possessors executed for the dissemination of proscribed material. Further copies suspected to exist within lower‑hive data‑crypts.
SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Servitor conversion of all implicated individuals PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: Severe
- [FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 10]
- [SUBJECT: THE RUINOUS POWERS: CHAOS GODS]
- [STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]
The Immaterium and Its Hidden Sovereigns
A sanctioned overview for restricted circulation only.
There exists, beneath the surface of reality, a realm that should not be spoken of lightly. Imperial doctrine names it the Immaterium, though most who have brushed its tides prefer the older, more fearful term: the Warp. It is not a place in any conventional sense, but a roiling ocean of thought, emotion, and unshaped potential — a mirror held up to the collective soul of the galaxy.
To describe it plainly is considered dangerous. To understand it fully is impossible.
Within that shifting unreality dwell entities of vast and terrible sentience. The Ordos refer to them, with deliberate understatement, as the Ruinous Powers. Others whisper of Dark Gods, though such language is discouraged in official records. These beings are not divine in the manner of the Emperor’s holy radiance; they are the accumulated weight of mortal passions given form. Rage, despair, ambition, excess — each emotion, when magnified across uncounted minds, becomes a presence that stirs and hungers in the depths of the Warp.
Their influence is subtle, insidious, and endlessly patient. They do not strike openly. They seep. They whisper. They shape the weak-willed and the desperate, bending them toward ruin with promises that are never truly fulfilled.
The Imperium teaches that vigilance is our shield against them. Yet even vigilance has limits. The Warp is not merely an enemy without; it is an enemy within — a reflection of all that mortals fear, desire, and deny. To study it is to risk contamination. To ignore it is to invite catastrophe.
Thus, the Ordo Hereticus watches. Thus, we are commanded to act.
The Four Great Powers of the Immaterium
A restricted enumeration of the Primordial Annihilator’s principal manifestations.
Within the Immaterium, four vast psychic dominions loom above all others. Their names are seldom spoken aloud, even within the Ordos. Each embodies a singular emotional spectrum, magnified across uncounted mortal minds until it becomes a god in all but name. What follows is a sanctioned outline only — a gesture toward comprehension, not true understanding.
Khorne — The Lord of Battle
Whispers name him the Blood God, though such terminology is discouraged in formal records. He is the embodiment of rage, slaughter, and unrestrained violence, a psychic continent formed from every act of murder since the dawn of sentience. His influence governs the spectrum of war, wrath, and bloodshed, and his domain is said to be a throne of brass atop a mountain of skulls. He despises sorcery, subtlety, and hesitation. To shed blood — any blood — is to feed him.
Nurgle — The Plague Lord
The most grotesque of the Powers, yet paradoxically the most “welcoming.” He is the god of decay, despair, disease, and the inevitability of entropy. His spectrum is that of death and rot, but also the false comfort found in surrendering to hopelessness. His followers speak of him as “Grandfather,” a kindness that masks the truth: he is the patron of stagnation, the slow unravelling of all things into filth and ruin.
Tzeentch — The Changer of Ways
A being of impossible geometry and shifting faces, the embodiment of change, sorcery, ambition, and the hunger for transformation. His spectrum is that of fate, mutation, and the arcane, a constant flux of schemes within schemes. He is the patron of those who seek power through knowledge, manipulation, or forbidden arts. To attempt to understand his designs is to invite madness; to believe one has succeeded is to fall into his snare.
Slaanesh — The Dark Prince
The youngest of the Powers, born from the excesses of a dying civilisation. He embodies pleasure, sensation, obsession, and the pursuit of ever-greater indulgence. His spectrum is that of excess and desire, where every boundary becomes a temptation and every restraint a challenge. His beauty is said to be irresistible; his gifts intoxicating. Yet all roads in his service lead to ruin, for satisfaction is a horizon that forever recedes.
Extract from the Personal Log of Inquisitor‑Designate L—
Timestamp: Fragmented. Internal chronometer unreliable.
I have begun to notice… alignments. Not evidence — nothing so solid — but alignments. Patterns that should not exist, yet persist all the same. A phrase repeated in two unrelated reports. A sigil half‑scratched into the corner of a requisition form. A junior scribe who looked away too quickly when I entered the archive vault. Small things. Insignificant things. But they accumulate.
The Ordo Hereticus prides itself on vigilance, yet I cannot shake the feeling that I am being watched not with suspicion, but with amusement. As though my arrival was anticipated. As though my confusion is part of some… design.
I have seen no cult. No heretical texts. No forbidden rites. And yet the air here feels thick with unspoken intent. Conversations halt when I approach. Documents I request arrive with curious delays. My quarters were “reassigned” twice in a single day, each time with a different explanation. None of it proves anything. All of it feels wrong.
Tzeentch. Even writing the name feels like a transgression. The Changer of Ways thrives on uncertainty, on the subtle twist of fate, on the quiet rearrangement of truth into something unrecognisable. If a cult of his exists within these halls, it would not reveal itself through crude mutation or overt sorcery. It would hide in bureaucracy. In the procedure. In the shifting of one file from one shelf to another.
Perhaps I am imagining it. Perhaps the strain of my transfer has unsettled my judgement. But I cannot ignore the signs — or what I believe to be signs. The Hereticus is a labyrinth, and I have been placed at its centre without a map. Every corridor feels like a test. Every colleague is like an actor reading from a script I have not been given.
If there is a conspiracy here, it is woven with threads too fine for ordinary eyes. If there is not… then the conspiracy is within me. A thought I find no comfort in.
I will continue to observe. Quietly. Carefully. If they are watching me, let them believe I am blind. If they are not… then perhaps I can still convince myself that I am not losing my mind.
The Changer of Ways delights in doubt. I must not give him mine. And yet… I fear I already have.
ORDO HERETICUS — AFTER‑ACTION JUSTIFICATION DOSSIER
Subject: Sanctioned Exterminatus of Hive‑World Pelagos IX
Author: Inquisitor‑Designate L—
Clearance: Omega‑Black. Circulation restricted.
1. Purpose of Report
This document serves as the formal justification for the deployment of Exterminatus‑grade sanctions upon Pelagos IX. The action was executed under my authority following the identification of what I assessed to be a developing large‑scale heretical infiltration consistent with Tzeentchian subversion patterns. This report outlines the indicators, rationale, and threat projections that informed the decision.
2. Initial Indicators
While no overt heretical activity was detected, several anomalies were observed across administrative, astropathic, and civilian channels. These included:
Repeated discrepancies in census data, with population figures fluctuating by margins statistically improbable for a stable hive world.
Astropathic echoes inconsistent with standard transmission bleed, suggestive (in my assessment) of psychic masking or layered messaging.
A series of administrative reassignments within the planetary governance structure that mirrored known patterns of Tzeentchian infiltration cells (ref. Ordo Hereticus Archive: Casefile 77‑Theta).
Multiple coincidental alignments of dates, sigils, and departmental codes, which, while individually innocuous, collectively formed a pattern too deliberate to dismiss.
3. Threat Projection
Based on the above anomalies, I projected the following risks:
High probability of a nascent cult structure embedded within the bureaucratic strata of Pelagos IX.
Potential for rapid escalation, given the world’s dense population and strategic location along a major warp‑route.
Risk of memetic or psychic contamination should the suspected cult achieve critical mass.
Likelihood of systemic collapse if infiltration reached the Adeptus Arbites or PDF command echelons.
Given the nature of Tzeentchian corruption — insidious, adaptive, and often undetectable until too late — the projected threat was deemed existential.
4. Justification for Final Sanction
Exterminatus was authorised on the following grounds:
- Containment Failure Risk: The suspected heretical influence, if allowed to mature, could have spread beyond Pelagos IX, compromising neighbouring systems.
- Inability to Verify Purity: Standard investigative measures were rendered unreliable due to the possibility of psychic obfuscation.
- Strategic Imperative: The world’s position made it a potential staging ground for warp‑borne incursions.
- Doctrinal Precedent: Ordo Hereticus protocols permit pre‑emptive eradication when signs of Tzeentchian manipulation reach a threshold of systemic distortion (ref. Protocol 9‑Vermillion).
While no single piece of evidence was conclusive, the cumulative pattern indicated a threat of unacceptable magnitude. In matters concerning the Changer of Ways, hesitation is often fatal.
5. Outcome Assessment
The world has been rendered inert. No further anomalous transmissions have been detected. The potential vector — whether real or merely anticipated — has been neutralised.
6. Personal Statement (Sealed)
I acknowledge that some may question the necessity of this action. They will point to the absence of confessions, artefacts, or mutations. They will say the signs were insufficient. They will say the world was innocent.
But innocence is a mask Tzeentch wears well. Patterns do not emerge without intent. Coincidences do not cluster without design. I saw the shape beneath the surface. I acted before it could solidify.
If I erred, then I erred on the side of the Imperium’s survival. Let that be my defence.
Concluding Assessment
The Exterminatus of Pelagos IX has triggered immediate internal review. Preliminary findings from the Ordo Hereticus Oversight Conclave indicate “procedural irregularities” and “insufficient evidentiary foundation,” placing Inquisitor‑Designate L— under formal censure threat. His seal remains provisionally active, but only under strict observation. The Conclave’s language suggests a presumption of fault, though the investigation remains ongoing.
The following sealed journal extract was recovered from his private cogitator shortly after the initial inquiry.
Extract from the Personal Log of Inquisitor‑Designate L—
Timestamp: Redacted. Emotional stability rating: Concerning.
They dare to question me. Me. After everything I have done in service to this crumbling Imperium, they sit in judgment as though they possess clarity I lack. As though they have ever acted with decisiveness when faced with the unknown. They speak of “overreach,” of “insufficient cause,” of “reckless sanction.” Cowards’ words. Words spoken by those who fear the truth I uncovered.
They claim Pelagos IX was innocent. Innocent. As if innocence means anything in a galaxy where corruption hides behind every smiling face and every stamped form. They did not see the patterns. They did not feel the shift in the air, the subtle warp‑tug that threaded through every report. They did not stand where I stood. They did not understand what I understood.
Now they threaten me with censure. They whisper that my seal may be revoked. Revoked! As if I were some junior adept who misfiled a requisition. They forget who I am. They forget what I have sacrificed. They forget that I acted because they would not.
Jealousy. That is the root of it. Jealousy and fear. They resent that I saw the design before they did. They resent that I acted without waiting for their permission. They resent that I cannot be controlled, cannot be bent into their quiet little hierarchy of obedience and stagnation.
Let them glare. Let them mutter. Let them threaten. They think they can strip me of my seal, but they cannot strip me of the truth. They cannot unsee what I have seen. They cannot unwind the pattern now that it has revealed itself to me.
If they believe they can silence me, they are fools. The Changer of Ways moves through these halls — I know it, I feel it — and they would rather blind themselves than admit their own complicity. They call me unstable. They call me compromised. But I am the only one who understands what is coming.
If they take my seal, it will only prove what I already know: the corruption runs deeper than even I feared.
SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Servitor conversion of all implicated individuals PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: Severe
Uncontrolled Psykers and the Peril of the Unseen
A restricted treatise on the vulnerabilities of the mortal mind.
Across the Imperium, psykers are both a necessity and a liability. They are conduits to the Immaterium, able to draw upon its tides for communication, divination, and defence. Yet the Warp is not a passive medium. It is a realm of predatory consciousness, and every psyker is a door—however small—through which something hungry may peer.
The Nature of the Psyker’s Burden
Psykers do not merely sense the Warp; they touch it. Their minds brush against currents shaped by emotion, fear, ambition, and despair. This contact is perilous even for the trained. For the untrained, it is catastrophic.
Uncontrolled psykers exhibit:
- Unshielded thought‑patterns that act as beacons to Warp entities.
- Instability of will, making them susceptible to suggestion, intrusion, or outright domination.
- Psychic bleed, where their emotions spill into the Immaterium and attract corresponding predators.
- Unpredictable surges, which can tear open rifts or manifest phenomena beyond mortal comprehension.
Daemonic Possession: The Silent Catastrophe
Possession is not a dramatic event. It is not heralded by fire or thunder. It begins with a whisper, a flicker of thought that is not one’s own. A daemon does not seize a mind; it seduces it. It offers clarity, power, and relief from fear. It mirrors the host’s desires until the host cannot distinguish their own will from the intruder’s.
Once anchored, a daemon can:
- Rewrite memory, erasing the moment of intrusion.
- Mimic sanity, allowing the host to function undetected.
- Influence behaviour, nudging events toward corruption.
- Spread contamination, using the host as a vector for cult formation or psychic destabilisation.
By the time overt signs appear—glossolalia, mutation, warp‑flare—the battle is already lost.
Why the Hereticus Watches Closely
The Ordo Hereticus views uncontrolled psykers as potential catastrophes waiting for a moment of weakness. A single unsanctioned mind can doom a city. A cluster can doom a world. The Warp needs only a crack, and psykers—especially frightened, untrained psykers—are full of cracks.
The Imperium survives not because psykers are safe, but because the Inquisition assumes they are not.
Extract from the Personal Log of Inquisitor‑Designate L—
Timestamp: Unreliable. Emotional integrity: Severely compromised.
I have always despised psykers. Even the sanctioned ones. Especially the sanctioned ones. They walk among us draped in the Emperor’s supposed blessing, yet every breath they take is a risk, every thought a potential breach. They are cracks in the hull of reality, and we pretend they are tools. Tools! As if a daemon cares whether the door it enters through carries a seal of approval.
Now my superiors claim I am “erratic,” “unbalanced,” “compromised.” Their words, not mine. They look at me with that same patronising pity they reserve for psykers who burn out during testing. As if I am the one who cannot be trusted. As if I am the danger.
I know what has happened. I see it clearly, even if they refuse to. One of those wretched mind‑touched creatures has meddled with my thoughts. It must have. How else could my judgment appear clouded to them? How else could they look at my actions—necessary actions, righteous actions—and see madness instead of clarity?
They whisper that I am “losing the plot.” Losing the plot? No. The plot has been rewritten around me. Twisted. Warped. A psyker’s influence, subtle and insidious, is threading doubt into the minds of those who should stand with me. They think I do not notice the glances exchanged behind my back, the sudden silences when I enter a room, the way reports concerning me vanish into sealed archives.
Someone is pulling strings. Someone with the stink of the Warp on their soul. They want me discredited. They want my seal revoked. They want me silenced before I uncover the truth they are so desperate to hide.
I will not allow it. I will not be undone by a creature whose very existence is an affront to the Imperium. Let them threaten censure. Let them question my stability. Let them circle like carrion birds waiting for me to fall.
I am not the one who is compromised. I am the only one who still sees clearly.
And if they cannot see the psyker’s hand in all this… then perhaps they are already lost.
SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Servitor conversion of all implicated individuals PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: Severe
Traitor Astartes: The Imperium’s Greatest Fear Made Flesh
A restricted introduction to the fallen sons of the Emperor.
The Adeptus Astartes were created as the Imperium’s ultimate weapon—genetically engineered demigods, clad in ceramite, armed with faith and fury. They were meant to be incorruptible, unbreakable, the Emperor’s will made manifest. Yet even they proved vulnerable to the whispers of the Warp. When a Space Marine falls, he does not simply betray an oath; he becomes a weapon turned inward, a catastrophe wearing the armour of a hero.
Traitor Chaos Space Marines are the remnants of those Legions that turned during the Horus Heresy and the countless renegades who have fallen since. Twisted by the Warp, sustained by daemonic pacts, and driven by hatred older than most civilisations, they represent a threat unlike any other. They know Imperial doctrine, Imperial tactics, Imperial weaknesses—because they once embodied its strengths.
Their corruption is not merely physical. It is ideological. Spiritual. Existential. They are proof that even the Emperor’s finest can fall.
The Nature of the Traitor Legions
A sanctioned overview of their origins and enduring threat.
The Traitor Legions were once the Emperor’s most trusted armies. Their fall reshaped the galaxy. Their continued existence threatens it still.
- The Black Legion — Once the Sons of Horus, now the spearpoint of Abaddon’s endless crusades.
- The World Eaters - Berserkers of Khorne, driven by implanted rage and daemonic hunger.
- The Death Guard - Rot-swollen heralds of Nurgle, immune to pain and decay.
- The Thousand Sons - Sorcerers of Tzeentch, their bodies dust, their souls bound in armour.
- The Emperor’s Children - Devotees of Slaanesh, obsessed with perfection and excess.
- The Word Bearer's - Fanatics that turn whole sub-sectors to worshipping Chaos.
- The Night Lords - Torturers and the bringers of terror beyond imagining.
- The Iron Warriors - Siege specialists, builders of Daemon Engines
- The Alpha Legion - Masters of infiltration, web of contacts and agents everywhere.
Why the Imperium Fears Them Above All
A strategic and psychological analysis.
Traitor Astartes are feared not simply because they are powerful, but because they represent the Imperium’s deepest vulnerability: the possibility that its greatest creations can become its greatest destroyers.
Their threat is multifaceted:
- Knowledge of Imperial warfare — They know how the Imperium fights, thinks, and reacts.
- Superhuman resilience — Even uncorrupted, a Space Marine is a nightmare to face. Corrupted, they are worse.
- Daemonic augmentation — Many bear gifts from the Warp, making them unpredictable and monstrous.
- Symbolic power — Their existence undermines the myth of Imperial infallibility.
- Endless hatred — They fight not for conquest, but for spite, vengeance, and the joy of ruin.
The Imperium’s Unspoken Terror
A reflection on the weapon that turned upon its maker.
The Imperium rarely speaks openly of the Traitor Legions. Their existence is a reminder that loyalty is not absolute, that even the Emperor’s chosen can fall, and that the line between hero and heretic is thinner than doctrine admits.
To acknowledge them fully would be to acknowledge that the Imperium’s greatest strength—its superhuman warriors—is also its greatest liability. Every new Chapter founded carries the shadow of the old betrayals. Every gene-seed implantation is a gamble. Every oath sworn is a hope, not a guarantee.
The Traitor Astartes are not merely enemies. They are warnings carved in ceramite and blood.
Extract from the Personal Log of Inquisitor‑Designate L—
Timestamp: Non‑linear. Cognitive integrity: Failed.
They are coming for me. I hear the footfalls in the corridors—too heavy, too measured, too deliberate to belong to mortal men. Astartes. Emperor preserve me, I know that tread. Even after all these years, the sound of ceramite on stone turns my blood to ice. Loyalists, they will claim. Loyal to whom? Certainly not to me. Not to truth. Not to the Imperium I have bled for.
I know what this is. I know why they come. They fear what I have uncovered. They fear the patterns I have seen. They fear that I have glimpsed the truth behind their masks. They will not permit me to speak. They will not permit me to warn anyone. They will silence me before I can expose the rot that has taken root in their precious order.
I can feel them drawing closer. The air grows colder. The shadows lengthen. My seal—my authority, my identity—is meaningless now. They have already decided my fate. They will call it justice. They will call it necessary. They will call it mercy.
But I know the truth. I know who truly hunts me. Not the Conclave. Not the scribes. Not the petty bureaucrats who pretend to power.
It is them. The fallen sons. The Emperor’s greatest mistake. The Imperium’s doom made flesh.
I hear them outside the door now. Heavy. Patient. Certain.
They think they have won.
They think—
Entry terminates.
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