The city of Vale was burning. Monstrous beasts of Grimm flooded the streets and tormented the few civilians still around, however one's focus would be more drawn to Beacon Tower and the immense, bestial and draconic Wyvern that beat its gigantic wings and screeched as it circled the tower. Far, far beneath, an unstoppable object met an unstoppable force, two beings fought and collided with the power of Gods behind every movement.

One, an agent of Chaos that sought to destroy all that the civilized world was and would be. Its opponent, a sentinel of Order, wishing to thwart the plans of those opposing it. Their weapons clashed, their magical synergy creating quakes that shook the very foundation of Beacon Tower. Only one could walk away from this fight, and as the climax of their fight reached its end, the symbol of Order lay battered and broken on the ground, bleeding and weakened by combat and rusted by age.

"You put up a good fight… but not good enough," the agent of Chaos cackled, before driving her blade into Order's heart and stepping past him and the rickety Atlas machine housing the body of the once-Fall Maiden, now just a shriveling corpse, shuffling toward a pair of ornate doors of silver.

"You… will not win… You cannot…" The symbol allowed himself to sputter and cough, slowly rising and slumping against the wall, ichor seeping from his mouth and wounds.

"Says the one bleeding out on the ground," the agent slowly pulled at the great door, and after a few moments of struggle, it opened a crack, and seemed to depressurize, sending the agent stumbling backwards from the force of the stale air as the doors blasted open and the light fixtures, grand golden torches inscribed with scarabs. The agent glanced back at the dying man, smirked to herself, and walked back to him. She grabbed him up by the collar and dragged him along with her down the gold and silver hall lit by brilliant orange-red flame reflecting off gold and silver to make the room almost glow.

"It's all mine, dear Ozpin…" She stepped through another pair of huge doors, onto a great balcony, the torches along the walls lighting in chain reaction, bathing the room in colourful light via crystals and massive chandeliers. Far below them, an army of sleeping giants lay, knelt to one knee, swords in offhands and guns upon hips. Their armour, ornate yet simple, painted bright scarlet. The agent held Ozpin over the rail and forced him to look upon the army, numbering four hundred. This army split down the center in a cross, all leading to a grand pedestal, carrying a great vortex of cackling, swirling energies that would send this agent to the maze protecting the Relic of Choice.

The agent dragged him down flights of elegant stairs and to the base of the pedestal, where she admired it for a moment. The near lifeless body of Ozpin in her arms croaked and coughed once more, reminding the agent of his presence.

"Goodbye, Ozpin… enjoy the afterlife, for however long you stay." She threw his near-corpse aside and stepped through the vortex. The ground seemed to rumble and shake as she entered. Ozpin glanced up from his place on the floor, his life draining rapidly. Two beams of brilliant green light blinded him, and the ground thumped around him. He could swear he saw the hulking suits of metal moving around him, some even looking upon him, however it did not take long for him to be ridden of consciousness.

"Rest, old friend… I will come for you soon," were the last words the immortal warrior would hear through the ears of Professor Ozpin of Beacon Academy, from whom, he could not tell.

Searing, agonizing pain met his senses.

The kind of pain that turned even the most hardened of souls into blubbering, wailing wrecks, etching into his very mind like a railway spike nailed in with a sledgehammer, sending pulses of the throbbing, blistering pain into his very psyche, his savage cries of remorseful woe drowned out by the howling laughter of dark gods as they tormented him, breaking away at the walls that protected his very soul. The unsteady, instability of the Warp meant that he could spend anywhere from another hour in this hellcape, to many centuries, whilst only a moment may pass in the material realm.

This was his fate, as it has been for centuries in his war in the shadows against the encroaching darkness. Every resurrection came with ceaseless repercussions that continued to haunt and break at his soul, until one day, it would consume him. The fortress of his mind, ravaged by the endless bloodshed, the blistering cackles of scheming gods, the burgeoning sickness and decay, the pleasureful moans and screams of the depraved. Subject to this torture upon his death for what felt like centuries. Never once had he broken, but deep in his core, he knew he could not halt their advances upon his vulnerable soul forever, and yet he stood fast, determined and bolstered by a holiness he could not describe with his most fervent of words.

Then, just like that, it was gone. The howls of the damned, throwing themselves at his psychic barriers, the psionic torment of the dark gods that dwelled in the realm beyond the veil of reality ceased to project across his mind as he entered the material realm yet again, however it was not at all what he expected. His mind projected itself onto something he hesitated to call mortal. Something so alien and yet so familiar that it made him ache.

Brother-Sergeant Archassus Tecos stood tall among his brothers within the great hall of the Lord Warden's Vigil, the hulking fortress-monastery of his chapter, although calling them a chapter—and the Lord Warden a fortress-monastery for that matter—was like calling the Emperor a God. One could rationalize themselves into believing it, but it was only a half-truth. They were Legiones Astartes, Legiones Clyepstes, the Sentinel Legion, with numbers once in the high hundred-thousands, now barely numbering in the thousands. Their story was one that truly began after the end of the Horus Heresy. Abandoned by their Primarch and with traitors dwelling in the foul miasma of the Warp, they embarked on penitence crusade, from which nigh two-hundred thousand marines were laid low to something of a tenth, the names of the fallen not forgotten. Ten thousand years passed in the blink of an eye, perceived as barely two centuries.

Their re-entry to the Imperium was met with only hostility and suspicion of heresy and treachery. The Imperium of Man of the late 41st millennium was not the expanding empire of the Emperor, but the bloated shell of an imperium to their God-Emperor. Centuries of debate and contemplation on the legion's fate were wasted, but in the end, with aid from the legion's warmaster. With a small crusading fleet of around two-hundred Black Templars to keep them in check by order of the Ordo Hereticus and Malleus and to make sure they adhered, two-hundred salamanders to keep the Black Templars in check by order of the Ordo Astartes. They ventured into the depths of the Imperium and the Warp in search of traitors to kill. Now, in an unknown sector after yet another long travel through the treacherous Warp, they waited on the word of their warmaster.

Reports from the several scout companies on hand revealed the planet below to be inhabited, somewhere between a Death World and a Hive World; several bastions of civilization and spotty settlements dotting the continents around them, with monstrous beasts stinking of the Warp inhabiting all other areas.

Within the hall were the entirety of the battle-worthy Astartes of their crusade, two companies of Black Templars, two companies of Salamanders, sixty-three companies of Sentinels, identified by chapter; the Amaranthine Sages, Onyx Anvils, Venerable Spears and Boreal Paladins, marginally different by training and specialization and armour pattern.

The Venerable Spears, Gladius Veneratus, were masters of the desert, deploying in hot climates with speed and operating with lethal efficiency. The Onyx Anvils, Anvilus Onyx, specialized themselves in close quarters warfare and made themselves into masters of artillery, diplomacy and overwhelming force. The Amaranthine Sages, Curatus Amaranthine, excelled within cramped forests, jungles and kept a contingent of vehicle specialists and long-ranged weaponry to engage within the plains and marshes of whatever planets they deployed to, whilst the Boreal Paladins, Palades Borealis, mastered in the art of stealth, swordplay and were the more… conservative of them all, adhering to the Imperial dogma of the 41st Millennium and going as far as following the Imperial Cult, something the Sentinels found to be an abhorrent failure of the Imperium, proof of its corrupt aristocracy, disrespect to their 'holy' Emperor, and whilst none of the sentinels argued against the Emperor being God-like and the master of Mankind, they did find it horrid how far some went in their worship.

"There will be no such action from your chapter, Lammedeus." The marshal of the Templars company declared loudly to the Chapter Master, known as a Chapter Keeper by the Sentinels, of the Onyx Anvils; Lammedeus Tritus, a hulking Astartes in gleaming Iron-Pattern Armour. He was barely more man than machine, a praevian and Master of the Forge with mechanical whirring filling the air around him, his many bionics concealed in a cloak that matched the gray, white and black camouflage of his armour. The Astartes of the II Legion Sentinels, Salamanders and the Templars had been knelt before their leaders at the great altar at the end of the hall for hours, showered in gleaming light from massive golden statues of the Emperor of Mankind as the marshal and chapter keepers argued back and forth.

"If you would but consider my words for a moment Syras, you could see clearly the logic in them! My Astartes could have the city retaken from the beasts in but a day with minimal damage—" Lammedeus began to argue, only for the Marshal to stamp his great thunder hammer into the ground defiantly, billowing white cloak fluttering from the impact.

"No! We cannot show such hesitance toward this enemy and possibly leave behind their foul taint!" The Marshal was a man of tradition, combined with his heraldry, made clear why the Inquisition had assigned his company to monitor them.

"Whilst you have a point, Marshal Syras, I must agree with Lammedeus. If we are to capture the city, it would be wise to leave it intact, besides, the civilian populace is terrified as it stands. If what our dear scouts has said to be true, then murdering all who stand in our way will ultimately attract the warp-horrors rather than scare them off," declared the captain of the Salamanders, Agapirath Alvikus, belonging to one of few chapters who accepted their existence as loyal Astartes to be just, alongside the Lamenters and those who were saved by the Sentinels in those dark years of the 12th Black Crusade.

"No, I believe we should establish ourselves immediately and begin taming them, starting with the south-most island. From there, we can launch strikes into the other territories and force them to break under attrition!" Felgelan Fellbreaker, Chapter Keeper of the Venerable Spears and Lord Executioner, loudly protested. His form was adorned in mail over his battle plate, armour rough and sporting the sandy camouflage pattern that his warriors had adopted. His prior-spoken cousin adorned in reptilian hides over forest-green camouflaged artificer armour, gently nodded in agreement.

"So far, the reports from the scouts and Inquisitor Abajian tell us that the abhumans living upon the island—" the forest-armoured Astartes was promptly cut off by more enraged frothing from the Templar.

"'Abhumans.' Your lot are too soft, Tibencus. They are filthy mutants, ones that must be gathered up and slaughtered with our chainswords and bolt pistols!" The Black Templar marshal's words infuriated the present members of the legion.

"Watch your words, Son of Dorn. The hostility and vile hatred you speak of is bordering the so called 'heresy' you despise," came the ancient voice of the Astartes in the throne behind them.

Calling Angemech Tibelis an Astartes was akin to labeling a sapling a tree. His stature was closer to that of a primarch, and he held weight behind his words, with a reputation that made Marnius Calgar blush. Rumours held that he was a disgraced Custodes, haunted by his presence at the culling of the Thunder Warriors at the end of the Unification Wars. Others said that he was a disgruntled survivor of the culling, barely able to be called human from the sheer amount of genetic modification and cybernetics he had gone through to survive these millennia. What very few things were based on facts, he prevented the legion's absorption into the Ultramarines from the actions of their disgraced Primarch, and would lead their penitence crusade into the Warp, from where it would disappear for ten millennia, aiding imperial forces and living up to their namesake; the Iron-handed Sentinels of the Emperor, defending every man, woman and (the very few) acceptable abhumans from the horrors of the galaxy, slaying daemons, traitors, cultists and xenos along the way. His body was encased in shimmering golden battle-plate, reminiscent of the original Thunder Armour, utilizing Mark II and Mark III plate with Mark I parts shoehorned on, and a Mark VI helmet sporting a plume akin to that of the Thunder Armour.

The Black Templar captain looked like he was about to begin frothing at the mouth, raging silently at the accusation, but dared not disrespect or speak out against the Grand Warmaster of the Legiones Sentinels. Even a Black Templar in the know about the Sentinels knew of their devotion to the ancient warrior, the loyalist gene-father they never could have. They revered him like the Imperium reveres the Emperor, which on its own was a heresy almost unforgiveable, however the Inquisition made it clear that it was to be such, an act which confused him to all ends.

"What say you, Hamenes?" The Grand Warmaster's ruby-red eye lenses, glowing brightly and outlined against the shadows that engulfed his hulking form, centered on the final of them, Hamenes Morrerian, Chapter Keeper of the Boreal Paladins, Master of Blades and the only true worshipper of the Emperor among the legion.

"In the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, for His holiness and glory, for his unrelenting fury, we must help the abhuman, for even beneath their revolting flesh, there beats the heart of Man, and it is a heart we dare not deny lest we be found wanting," Morrerian's voice billowed like a grand organ, yet as serene as a harp.

"Well said, cousin," the Salamanders captain nodded to the white-armoured Astartes. His artificer armour diverged the least of his fellow brethren, with silver trim and the imperial aquila plastered across his chest, Crux Terminatus hanging from his neck and purity seals stamped across his broad, bare left pauldron, his studded right holding a great cloak, sharing his wintery camouflage pattern, hidden beneath was a great power sword forged with the strongest metals and blessed thrice, clasped tightly within a gauntlet beneath the cloak, ready to cut through those who would oppose him in battle, inscribed with the names of each Boreal Paladin chapter keeper before him, empowering the sword with holy fury.

"Your narrow-minded naivety will be the death of your chapters," The Black Templar grunted before striding away, his Templars following. Fellbreaker scoffed and turned to face the Grand Warmaster.

"Like a child, that one. His combat prowess speaks volumes, but his words and actions speak volumes more, no matter his reasoning," he prattled off before descending from the platform as well, accompanied by four veterans in terminator armour as a personal guard. The Grand Warmaster cleared his throat before proclaiming loudly,

"Astartes! Return to your duties and prepare for immediate deployment. This world WILL be ours." His words boomed like cannons, and the Astartes did so, rising to their feet and marching off, including the humble Brother-Sergeant of the 3rd Tactical Squad of the 36th Company, Archassus Tecos. Hidden within his head, still recovering from his perils in the Warp, Ozpin watched through his eyes silently, quietly probing his memories every so often and staying hidden within the depths of the Astartes' mind, learning all he could of the Imperium of yesteryear, the history of the Legiones Clyepstes and comparing notes from his limited knowledge of the slumbering armies beneath Remnant, finding a startling amount of similarities, his soul was plagued with worry upon realization of what would come.

War, endless and bereaved of innocence, of heroes and morality, replaced by battle-hardened souls, champions and warfare like Remnant has never seen. It would challenge his every moral and his very soul would be tested.

Ozpin knew it.

This was a war no man, woman or child would walk away from unaffected.