The Birth of a God
The shamans had foreseen the end.
For millennia, they had walked among men, guiding tribes and kings, shaping the destinies of nations with whispers of wisdom and the unseen forces of the Warp. They were the first psykers, ancient souls who had been reborn countless times, their essence drifting through the ages like autumn leaves caught in an eternal wind.
But now, the cycle was breaking. The Warp had become hungry, a shifting, seething abyss that no longer allowed their spirits to return. When a shaman died, his soul did not find rebirth. It was devoured, torn apart by daemons in an endless void of suffering.
They gathered in the cold heart of the world, beneath a sky pregnant with omens. The stars burned with the light of a dying age, and the earth trembled beneath their feet as they encircled the sacred fire. Clad in robes woven from the memories of ages long past, they spoke their final words,not to each other, but to the fate that awaited them.
"We have watched over mankind since its first breath," spoke the eldest among them, his voice weathered by the weight of centuries. "But now, we are dying. And when we are gone, there will be none left to hold back the darkness."
Silence followed, heavy with the weight of their choice. They had searched for another way, sought to weave their power into talismans, relics, and forgotten rites, but nothing could halt the inevitable. The gods of Chaos had awakened, and their hunger was infinite.
"Then we must give all that we are, so that one might stand where we could not."
One by one, they stepped forward, offering their souls to the fire. The air shimmered with power, the very fabric of reality bending as they poured their essence into the vortex of creation. The storm of their sacrifice raged, their spirits entwining, merging into something greater, something eternal.
And from the ashes of a thousand lives, "He" was born.
He awakened in the silence that followed, a being of unfathomable power, his form bathed in the dying glow of the ritual flames. He was no mere man. He was more. The first and the last. The guardian of mankind.
The Emperor had risen.