The Silent Herald of Wrath

The hooded warrior strode through the ruins of Ulthar Tertius, leaving behind a silence heavier than the ashes of the cursed world itself. His black armor, scarred and dulled by countless battles, seemed to radiate an unyielding purpose, as though every fragment of ceramite carried the sacred weight of the Eternal Crusade. Across his chest, just above his heart, gleamed the black cross of the Templars – stark and unadorned, yet sharper than any blade. It was not merely a symbol of faith but a promise of torment, a herald of doom for the faithless.

From the depths of the ruins rose whispers, vile and wretched, like the rancid stench of decay. They were too faint to comprehend, yet unmistakable in their corruption, infecting the air with their profane undertone. The warrior halted. Beneath the shadow of his hood, his unseen gaze turned toward the source of the cursed murmurs. He did not move immediately. His presence was a pronouncement, an unspoken judgment hanging like a sword above the heads of the guilty. Time itself seemed to freeze around him, every moment dragging under the oppressive weight of inevitable reckoning.

The sky above darkened, as though recoiling from the doom about to unfold. The whispers stopped abruptly, snuffed out like a dying flame, replaced by a suffocating stillness. In the eerie quiet, dread filled the void, pooling in the shattered streets like blood seeping from a fresh wound. Slowly, the warrior raised a hand. Between his fingers, a small black talisman gleamed – its surface marred by countless scratches, etched by battles where it had been pressed into the flesh of heretics, sealing their fates with iron certainty.

As he moved through the rubble, the world seemed paralyzed. Nothing remained after the slaughter but lifeless bodies and dried blood, mingling with the debris in a grotesque tableau of finality. Fear lingered, heavy and clinging, an invisible shroud over the ruins. Those who would later hear of this place would feel a cold dread settle over them, as if the shadow of this judgment stretched beyond time and space – a warning to traitors, a lesson to the devout.

And the warrior? He departed as silently as he had come, his steps like the fading echoes of a forgotten hymn. He was the Crusade incarnate – the Imperium’s implacable will given form, a relentless executioner of divine justice. The suffering he left in his wake was not mere destruction but purification, and every ruin he touched became another verse in the endless litany of the Emperor’s wrath.

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