"Titus?"
The crimson glow of the Inquisitorial Grand Master's cybernetic eye flickered. "If the Ordo Xenos ever had such a warrior, Savior, I would bring him before you myself."
He respectfully ended the communication, his brow furrowing slightly.
The Primarch of Hope had called for this man by name—yet he, the Grand Master of the Ordo Xenos, had no knowledge of him.
He turned to the waiting Captain of the Deathwatch. "Do you know of a warrior named Titus?"
Arthus shook his head. "I've never heard the name, my lord."
The Grand Master paused, momentarily stunned. Then he added, "He must be a formidable warrior—otherwise the Primarch would not remember him."
There were too many Deathwatch scattered across the galaxy; it wasn't surprising that some names slipped through the cracks.
As for how the Primarch of Hope knew him?
Perhaps through some manner of divine foresight, the Grand Master mused.
But regardless.
He would find this man and fulfill the directive of the Savior.
The Inquisitorial Grand Master waved his hand. "You may go, Captain. For now, you and your men are to remain on Holy Terra. I suggest you begin training specifically for combat against the Dark Eldar xenos.
I have a feeling the Primarch will have use for you."
"Oh, right."
He suddenly recalled something and retrieved a bundle of dark gold vouchers from a concealed compartment in his armor—each stamped with the personal sigil of the Savior.
"These are benefits gifted by the Savior to various departments. With them, you are permitted to enter the inner sanctum of the newly constructed Ecclesiarchal Holy Grounds—to bear witness to the Emperor's sacred relics.
Take this chance to rest and recover."
This Holy Site on Holy Terra was a major project overseen by the Savior himself. At its center stood a towering spire and countless relics of the God-Emperor.
Bathed in sacred light, it offered spiritual cleansing to all who entered.
More notably—it bore the unmistakable mark and style of the Savior.
Its defining feature?
A full-service retreat resort—complete with rest, relaxation, and spiritual therapy.
These were granted as benefits to departments across the Imperium. Periodically, access vouchers were distributed to select groups, allowing chosen individuals a full seven-day spiritual cleansing pilgrimage.
It was a strategic way to win loyalty.
There was also a limited purchasing channel for these passes, available to high-ranking department leaders.
A kind of group-wellness program, but only with strict prerequisites: one needed Thrones, merits, and a thorough assessment of duties and achievements to be granted a "free" voucher.
This, naturally, triggered a form of internal competition.
"If that other department purged a Chaos cult and got their cleansing retreat... would it not make us look like failures if we didn't?"
Many department heads had started collecting these vouchers as internal bonuses or morale boosters.
It also doubled as a defense against Chaos corruption—spiritual reinforcement against the Warp.
The tower's divine light could cleanse not only taint but also emotional exhaustion, preempting the risk of spiritual collapse.
"Benefits?"
Arthus and the other warriors were a little baffled. There were far too many unfamiliar things on modern Holy Terra.
Nonetheless, they accepted the dark gold vouchers and thanked the Grand Master.
This was a rare chance—to see the Emperor's relics with their own eyes.
Arthus led his warriors out of the Inquisition stronghold, activating the vouchers via a datalink.
Minutes later—
A luxurious, dark gold transport vessel roared into the sky, unobstructed by any traffic controls.
It was the "special ship" assigned for the Holy Site's arrivals.
Once aboard, the warriors removed their pitch-black power armor and weapons, changing into pure white robes. On their wrists, they wore sanctified relic-bands.
They were delivered to the inner sanctum of the Holy Site.
It was like a paradise world—complete with natural landscapes, beaches, and artificial oceans—designed for total healing of body and spirit.
And saturated with sacred light.
"By the Emperor…"
Arthus and the Deathwatch warriors looked upon the smiling crowds and felt the warm golden light on their skin. It was unlike anything they had ever known.
It felt like the closest they had ever been to the God-Emperor Himself.
And so, the warriors of the Deathwatch began their seven-day spiritual retreat, an experience that would leave a deep impression on them.
Especially the so-called "full therapy service."
Among its legendary features was the High-Speed Fascia-Blade Massage, an elite challenge for any Astartes warrior.
It was said that Commander Dante of the Blood Angels still held the record—lasting several hours before finally passing out.
…
Imperial Inquisition Headquarters.
The Grand Master of the Ordo Xenos continued the search for Titus.
But despite questioning numerous sub-order leaders, no trace of the man could be found.
He was a ghost.
Serkes, as one of the most radical Puritan inquisitors, believed that only pure-blooded humans deserved to exist in the Imperium. Not just xenos—but also mutants, psykers, and Navigators.
He even viewed Space Marines as impure.
These Angels of Death, the Emperor's creations, were—he claimed—potential threats, just like any xenos or heretic.
To monitor them, Serkes personally oversaw several Chapters—especially those active in the Storm and Solar Sectors—searching for any signs of corruption.
Marines under suspicion of heresy were often detained, interrogated, and subjected to his oversight.
His only limitation?
He lacked the authority to execute Astartes unless irrefutable proof was obtained—otherwise, any attempt would lead to violent reprisal from the Chapter involved.
"Knowledge without faith wields the blade of ruin."
The graying Serkes murmured a verse from the Holy Lexicon of the Emperor as he entered the prison.
He had carried out the Inquisition's sacred duty for nearly four centuries.
Serkes had monitored multiple Chapters and interrogated dozens of Astartes suspected of treachery.
It was a successful career.
He had personally condemned six Chapters as heretics and issued exterminatus writs, purging filth from the Imperium.
He had even led Grey Knights in the destruction of the Grey Reavers Chapter and their homeworld.
And yet…
His record had one flaw:
A single Ultramarine—a warrior named Titus, who had been in his custody for over a century.
This Astartes, during a campaign against Orks on Gryaz, had unleashed powers drawn from the Warp—resisting it with inexplicable might.
Serkes had sought to uncover the reason behind it.
But after a hundred years…
He had found nothing.
No confession. No Warp taint. No corruption.
"There must be something deeper behind this…"
Serkes was convinced.
Despite repeated petitions to release the Astartes, he had refused.
Not until the final truth was revealed.
Inside the stasis cell.
Titus was bound in cruel, spiked mechanical restraints—some of which pierced through his flesh.
But compared to the scars from war that crisscrossed his body, these injuries were trivial.
The constant pain, however, was unrelenting.
The Ultramarine kept his head bowed, his resolute face marked with a trace of guilt—locked in deep self-reproach.
During the battle on Gryaz, he had accidentally unleashed Warp energy—and displayed incredible resistance to it.
As a result, he had been branded a potential daemon collaborator.
Titus held firm to the Codex Astartes, believing himself loyal—but had no explanation for the phenomena.
He didn't know why it had happened.
And he did not resist.
When the Inquisition strike vessel arrived, Titus surrendered to Inquisitor Serkes without protest, acknowledging the Inquisition's authority.
He refused to raise his weapon against them.
To do so would brand him a heretic.
That would forever tarnish the record of the Ultramarines and shame his gene-father and battle-brothers.
All he wished was to prove his innocence…
And return to service in the name of the Emperor.
But a century had passed.
Titus had endured countless torments in his cell.
No salvation came.
No word of hope.
Yet still—his faith never wavered.
Clack-clack.
Ancient gears rumbled as Titus's stasis cell slid into the Confession Chamber.
Pshhhh—
A mechanical arm injected a potent interrogation serum—designed to amplify sensation and weaken willpower.
Its purpose: to extract the soul's deepest secrets.
Then—
Dozens of spikes retracted and drove into his body, discharging torturous electrical pulses.
Even the strongest warriors found such agony unbearable.
But aside from a single stifled groan…
The chamber echoed only with the crackle of energy and the scent of scorched flesh.
"Interrogator—raise the pain intensity," Serkes growled.
This was the Inquisition's latest interrogation tech.
He had spent years petitioning for it—hoping it would finally expose Titus's secrets.
It had never failed.
A Chapter Master had once wept under its force, spilling all of his heresies.
The Interrogator looked at Titus—still defiant—and swallowed hard.
"My lord… this is already the highest intensity. Any more and the machine will break…"
"Then extend the session—until the limit is reached."
Time passed.
Eventually, the first round of torture ended. The machine sparked, dangerously close to failure.
"…Serkes…"
Titus, soaked in blood, slowly raised his head.
His gaze was still resolute.
There was no despair. No broken mind.
Only a warrior who endured.
A servant of the Emperor.
"Titus, there's no need to keep hiding."
Inquisitor Serkes stared at the resilient prisoner, brows tightly furrowed. "This is the Confession Chamber. You must confess your sins. I have no mercy, no remorse, and no regrets."
"Tell me everything you know…"
"I've already told you—hundreds of times," rasped Titus, his voice hoarse and worn. "All the interrogation records are there. You can read them. But you still don't believe."
"I am a son of the Primarch of the Ultramarines. No corruption or temptation could ever sway me from the path of honor. Still… I am willing to tell you everything again…"
He looked Serkes straight in the eye.
"But all things must end eventually, Inquisitor."
Under that gaze, Serkes instinctively took a step back.
He grew angry at the realization of his own fear. "Titus! Open your mind and submit to psyker interrogation!"
A sarcophagus-like stone casket rose into view. Within knelt a psyker connected at the back of his skull to a dense web of conduits and amplification arrays.
This was a high-grade psyker interrogator dispatched from the sector command.
Hummmmm—
Frost formed on the stone. The psyker's eyes turned milky white. A psychic pulse surged toward the prisoner.
Titus did not resist. He allowed the probe to invade his mind.
He had nothing to hide.
Serkes took a deep breath. "Yes… just like that. Psyker, dig into his fears. Unearth his deepest secrets."
The mental force penetrated into Titus's psyche—only to crash against a wall of indomitable will.
Beyond it: mountains of corpses, oceans of blood, and the purest rage.
This was a dangerous interrogation method. Painful. Brutal. Sometimes lethal. Psykers had been known to reduce subjects to gibbering shells.
Titus trembled as searing pain flooded his nerves. His eyes and mouth began to glow with soul-light.
His mind drifted.
"In the name of the Emperor," Serkes intoned, "tell me everything. Are you guilty of heresy? Why are you untouched by the Warp?"
Titus's subconscious replied instantly:
"No. I am not a heretic. I would never defile honor—not even for Chaos."
Not the answer Serkes wanted. He adjusted his questioning.
"Do you feel fear?"
"Yes."
"What is your deepest fear?"
"I fear failure."
"Do you crave power? Reward? Do you desire the Warp's strength?"
"Redemption is my reward."
"Damn it!" Serkes snarled.
He recognized the words—vows from the Codex Astartes. He was fuming now. "Tell me your darkest secret!"
"I have no secrets."
"You must have broken your oath of loyalty!"
"No. My oath is to serve. Forever."
Before Serkes could continue—
"AAARGH!!"
The psyker screamed in horror, as if witnessing an eternal, unspeakable terror. He convulsed violently and collapsed.
He had reached the core of Titus's mind—and failed to endure what he saw.
The psychic interrogation was over.
"Damn it!"
Serkes was knocked to the ground by the backlash of residual psychic energy, looking thoroughly disheveled.
He climbed to his feet. "Restrain the prisoner again! Titus, I will find your secret—I swear it!"
It was becoming his obsession.
Serkes resolved to travel to Holy Terra itself—to find someone at the Inquisitorial headquarters capable of truly breaking this so-called heretic.
But as he left the cell, he received a priority message:
The Grand Master of the Ordo Xenos himself had arrived at this backwater watch station—demanding a briefing.
Serkes immediately composed himself and rushed to present his findings to the venerable master.
…
Stasis Cell.
Covered in wounds, Titus stared at the blank wall before him, a trace of sorrow in his eyes.
Since his imprisonment, he had received no word from his battle-brothers. No visits. Nothing.
Perhaps… perhaps he really had brought shame to the Ultramarines.
Perhaps he no longer deserved the Chapter's name or glory.
He clenched his fists. The chains around his wrists groaned.
Truthfully—he could break free at any moment. Tear the cell apart. None could stop him.
But he didn't.
Because he knew…
That would cross a line. A line he could never return from.
Suddenly—
A whisper curled through his mind. Hoarse. Blood-soaked.
"Titus… you are the strongest. You deserve better. You should fight for your freedom. Claim your honor. Don't waste away here in shame. Escape, and prove your innocence."
It was a daemon's voice. It sounded exactly like him—his own voice, warped.
Another self.
"Silence."
Titus's gaze turned colder. "Daemon… I will find you. And you will know my wrath."
"Hehehehehe…"
The daemon cackled.
"Titus…"
But then—
Scrape.
A chilling sound of steel on stone.
The daemon turned—only to see a boy, covered in blood, dragging a chainsword as long as he was tall.
The boy's body swelled and changed with each step.
By the time he stood before the daemon…
He had become Titus—tall, imposing, and ablaze with fury.
"No—!"
The daemon turned to flee, but was seized and dragged into the shadows.
There was only the sound of rending flesh. Screams. Silence.
The daemon had failed to possess him.
And died in the depths of Titus's soul.
Elsewhere, a blood-red presence looked on with amusement…
But no reply came.
The stasis cell fell silent again—just as it had for a century.
…
Watch Station Reception Hall.
Serkes entered respectfully, preparing to greet the Grand Master.
While the Inquisition had no rigid hierarchy, those who led sub-orders carried immense authority.
They could make or break a lowly Inquisitor's future.
Serkes hoped for a promotion.
But moments later—
A shout rang out from the hall:
"Impossible! Titus is a heretic! How can he be honored like this?!"
"Mind your words, Inquisitor."
The Grand Master's voice was stern.
"Titus is no heretic. The command came directly from the Inquisition's High Council on Terra. Even the sector representative has demanded his release.
You are to free him at once. I will escort him to Holy Terra personally."
Under the master's gaze, Serkes lowered his head.
"Yes… I will release him. But I still believe he may be corrupted."
"That is no longer your concern. Fulfill your duty."
The Grand Master turned and walked toward the cells, leaving Serkes frozen where he stood.
…
Stasis Cell.
The door creaked open. A shaft of golden light pierced the gloom.
Titus blinked, weary. "Another interrogation? When will this shame end…"
Click.
His chains fell away. The force field dissolved.
He dropped from the air and landed solidly on the floor. His chiseled frame flexed as he exhaled.
The Grand Master flipped through the interrogation records and sighed.
"Titus. Your loyalty has been proven. From this moment, you are free. Come with me."
He gestured for Titus to follow.
Back in the empty cell, Serkes stood trembling.
"By the Emperor… how could he be favored by such a presence? This must be a mistake!"
But footsteps echoed behind him.
Senior Inquisitors entered—those accompanying the Grand Master.
They had business of their own.
Now that Titus had been cleared…
It was time to investigate Serkes.
For corruption. Abuse. Heresy.
Moments later, Serkes's scream echoed through the facility.
It was a psychic interrogation.
His darkest fears—his suppressed shadows—would be laid bare.
He would be judged.
The Grand Master typed into his data-slate as he walked.
"Titus, your former charges have been expunged. You will retain all honors. You will no longer bear the stain of shame."
Titus walked beside him, boots clicking on cold stone, still dazed.
Salvation… had come so suddenly.
He had expected release only as a Black Shield, fighting in silence until death.
Instead—
"Why?" he asked.
"Hah… a good question," the Grand Master mused.
"All I know is—every branch of the Ordo Xenos has been searching for you. Tens of thousands of astropathic messages. Millions of agents combing through every record.
This was the highest priority order."
He looked at Titus.
"Now… tell me. What do you want?"
"…Battle."
"By the Emperor… that comes later. First, we go to Holy Terra. You can't show up looking like this…"
(End of Chapter)
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