The first sensation was brightness.
Not sunrise brightness, not hospital brightness—more like the primordial idea of "light" had been polished until it gleamed and then poured into a room. The floor was white. The walls were white. The ceiling was white. If IKEA ever opened a branch inside the afterlife, this was probably their display model for Existence, Minimalist Edition.
A man stood alone in the center, barefoot, blinking rapidly, because his last memory was decidedly not of a place like this. He remembered sneezing. He remembered the sound of a cat meowing pitifully from under a car. He remembered grabbing his emergency antihistamine. He remembered thinking—
"Oh no."
The sneeze. The swelling. The tightening throat. The kitten crawling onto his lap with affection and deadly intent.
"Oh hey," the man muttered, rubbing his face. "So… I guess the cat allergies finally got me."
A voice like warm starlight drifted in from behind him. "Welcome, child."
The man turned—and nearly disassembled himself from awe staring at heavenly being before him. An angel, seated upon a desk of heavenly make, a terminal bright, playing angelic music while the Angel himself, and the being before the new arrival looked like every depiction of an angel humanity had ever attempted, and more until it was the picture perfect being in front of the recently deceased man. The Angel was tall, radiant, with wings of snow white dove feathers, and a golden lock of hair that flowed endlessly without a single strand out of place. The angel smiled gentle in a way that made the heart ache. If kindness had a physical form, it was this stranger. The angel stepped away from his desk and towards the new arrival with warmth in his smile. "Do not fear. I am Uzemial. Your Guardian Angel and guide to your new life my child."
"Oh," the man breathed. "Guardian angel? Like… my guardian angel?"
"I have watched over you since your first breath," Uzemial said, placing a hand over his heart. "And I have even witnessed your last. You may rest now my child. You have crossed and soon able to start again."
The man that had just arrived took that in. Slowly. Carefully. Then spoke in a tone as if he had just heard he was suffering from stage 4 cancer. "So… I'm dead. Like actually dead. Not 'my life flashed before my eyes' dead. Not 'I passed out in front of the fridge' dead. Actually dead-dead."
"Yes." Now the angel Uzemial shared an expression of grief that outshined that of the new arrival.
He exhaled shakily. "It was the cat, wasn't it."
Uzemial's expression softened, every inch of his face expressing sorrow. "You noticed a stray kitten shivering in the rain. You feared your allergies, yet you still approached. You wrapped it in your coat. You whispered comfort to it so it would not feel alone. When it attempt to reciprocate the kindness...the reaction was… severe."
The man tilted his head back and laughed—helpless, incredulous, because of course that was the end of his story. "Amazing. Truly incredible. I donate three times a year to animal shelters. I volunteer to clean cages. I break out into hives if a cat looks at me from across the street, but I still try to help one kitten and—boom. Fatal allergic reaction. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"You always showed compassion," Uzemial said softly. "You carried groceries for the elderly. You shoveled neighbors' driveways without being asked. You fed strays because you did not want them to go hungry, despite your body's protests. Such kindness weighs heavily in your favor."
A lump formed in the man's throat. He hadn't been a hero. He had never saved the world. He had never done anything of worth, he just tried to be… decent. To leave corners of life slightly better than he found them. But hearing it spoken aloud, in this bright, impossible place, by a being of literal light—it felt overwhelming. Beautiful. Painful.... yet hollow.
"I wasn't… ready," he whispered. "There were things I meant to do. Letters I meant to send. Soup kitchens I planned to volunteer at again. Senior cats no one wanted that I hoped to sponsor. I wasn't done. I could have done more..."
"Few ever are," Uzemial said. He rested a hand on the man's shoulder. The touch was like someone had wrapped him in the safest blanket in existence. "That is why you are here. The Terminal Conjunction of New Life. A place of passage. You may choose your next beginning."
The man blinked. "Choose. As in… choose choose? Like—pick my version of heaven.... or oh my are you talking about reincarnation? I get to choose where I get to reincarnate into? Pick where?"
"Any world. Any universe. Any reality. Your compassion grants this freedom. I will see that you reach your goal safely and securely." Uzemial spoke with softness that was honey to the ears.
Time seemed to stop. The man stared into the white expanse as if waiting for a cosmic loading screen to appear. His thoughts raced. Peaceful worlds beckoned. Idyllic worlds. Worlds where he could garden. Worlds where cats wouldn't kill him. Worlds without war. Worlds with gentle nights and warm mornings—
Then something glinted in his eyes. Something feral. Fanatical. Deeply, alarmingly earnest in the human that did no wrong.
Uzemial waited patiently.
The man inhaled sharply, vibrating like a coiled spring.
"I—" he began.
He stepped closer. gently placing his hands upon his guardian Angel.
"I want—"
His breath hitched.
"I WANT TO BE REINCARNATED INTO THE WARHAMMER FORTY THOUSAND UNIVERSE!"
He screamed it straight into Uzemial's serene, celestial face with the pure ecstasy of a man who had finally been given unlimited cosmic wish fulfillment—and used it in the most catastrophically stupid way possible.
And Uzemial did not react.
Uzemial did not immediately respond.
He stared.
Not the gentle, patient stare of a celestial guide, but the paralyzed expression that somehow said: Did this mortal just scream the equivalent of wanting to jump into an industrial blender. His perfect, serene expression cracked like porcelain under a sledgehammer.
"…I'm... i'm sorry," Uzemial said slowly, blinking. "Did you say—Warhammer… forty… thousand?"
The new arrival puffed out his chest. "YES! THE ONE! THE ONLY! THE GLORIOUS IMPERIUM OF MAN!"
His voice echoed off the sterile white walls like someone had committed a war crime against acoustics. The heavenly music from Uzemial's computer ended as if the man who arrived had just mentioned madness. Still faced with Uzemial's horror the recently deceased human stood vibrating in place like a caffeine-addled Redditor who had just been told the Emperor might canonically wink in his direction.
Uzemial's wings twitched. An angelic twitch. Subtle, barely visible… but deeply distressed. "My child," he began carefully. "That universe is not—how do I phrase this—remotely survivable."
The new arrival beamed with the brilliance of someone who had never read a single mortality statistic from the Astra Militarum. "THAT'S WHAT MAKES IT AWESOME!"
"It is not awesome," Uzemial countered, voice tight. "It is a proliferating cosmic torture chamber of unending suffering. It is a universe where hope goes to die. Repeatedly. There are Daemons that make hell look like a day spa. Men are used as living ammunition. Entire planets are liquefied because someone sneezed without permission. My sweet child of mercy—why would you throw yourself into such a place?!"
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" the new arrival howled, throwing both arms skyward as though expecting a thunderbolt to applaud him. "I SHALL SERVE! I SHALL DIE! I SHALL DIE TWICE IF NECESSARY! I WILL KILL HERETICS, MUTANTS, XENOS, AND THAT ONE GUY WHO THINKS THE EMPEROR IS A WARM CHAIR!"
Uzemial stepped back, eyes widening. "…Why would you kill the last one?"
"He knows what he did. Filthy blasphemous HERETIC!" The angel rubbed his temples, which was honestly impressive, because angels weren't supposed to have migraines.
"My dear child," he tried again, voice trembling with the forced calm of a teacher explaining to a kindergartner why they cannot eat the glue stick. "The Warhammer forty-thousand universe is not a place you choose. It is a place you are punished with. I cannot in good conscience send you there."
"You MUST!" the new arrival insisted, pointing dramatically at him. "I DEMAND IT! IT IS MY DESTINY!"
"It is suicide," Uzemial snapped—then caught himself, smoothing his robes. "Respectfully. It might be Heroic. It might even be meaningful to you. But still it is suicide."
The new arrival inhaled deeply, drawing breath like a meme-warrior preparing to unleash the battle cry of his people. Then he screamed at the top of his lungs:
"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS!!!"
Uzemial recoiled like he'd been shot. "He does not! He absolutely does not! I have read the reports! His protection rate is abysmal! He protects maybe—maybe—one in a hundred billion!"
"HERESY. GOD EMPEROR LOVES ALL. Also, that's still better odds than the DMV!" the new arrival shouted triumphantly. Uzemial pinched the bridge of his nose, something no angel in cosmic history had done before until this exact moment.
"You are already dead because of cat allergies. Cat allergies. And you want to enter a universe where the air itself occasionally kills people due to spite and mega pollution?"
"YES!"
"You want to fight Tyranids? Those are space bugs crossed with dinosaurs the size of buses. You can't even handle a kitten! And you want to fight that!?"
"I CAN LEARN!" the new arrival bellowed. Uzemial opened his mouth—then closed it—then opened it again, like a man debating whether to smite a mortal or to smite himself instead.
"I refuse," he said finally. "Outright. Unapologetically. Absolutely. I will not condemn you to the forty-thousandth millennium. I am your guardian. My purpose is to safeguard your soul, not throw it into a meat grinder lubricated with despair and horny daemon semen."
"YOU ARE NOT THROWING HARD ENOUGH!" the new arrival roared. Uzemial actually choked.
"My child. Please. Listen to me. There are gentler realms. Kinder realms. Universes where your compassion can flourish. Even universes where cats will not kill you!"
"I WANT THE GRIM DARK SAUCE!" the new arrival screamed, pounding his chest as if trying to restart a dying heart. "LET ME BLEED FOR HUMANITY, LET ME BE ITS CHAMPION AGAINST THE ENDLESS DARKNESS! TO BATHE IN THE BLOOD OF THE XENOS AND ALL OTHER THREATS. TO HEAR THE PRAYERS OF THOSE WHO CAN NOT STAND, SO THAT I MAY STAND AS THEIR SHIELD. FOR WHEN I FALL, I WILL INSPIRE THOSE WHO COULD NOT STAND, TO RISE UP AND TAKE MY PLACE. LET ME SAVE MY DADDY SKELETON IN A GOLDEN LIGHTHOUSE. MAKE ME WARHAMMER 40K AND LET ME BLEED FOR MANKIND!"
"You won't bleed for humanity," Uzemial hissed. "You'll be turned into paste by an ork with a wrench the size of a telephone pole!"
"That's a glorious death!"
"It's stupid!"
Their shouting match went back and forth, rattling the very room as rationality battled against the Zealous nature of a man willing to die for his GOD EMPEROR.
And then—
A thunderous, authoritative voice blasted through the white chamber's invisible loudspeakers:
"UZEMIAL. MANAGEMENT REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE. IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS IN REGARD TO YOUR… ESCALATION."
Uzemial froze.
Slowly—slowly—he turned his gaze to the new arrival. The angel's expression was the spiritual embodiment of I am in so much trouble because of you.
"…I should not be surprised," Uzemial whispered, before exhaling his frustrations. "Of course this would happen. Of course."
The new arrival smiled brightly, hands folded like an innocent child who definitely did NOT just shout about killing heretics at top volume in a heavenly lobby.
Uzemial sighed, long and deep. "Stay here. Do not touch anything. Do not shout anything. Do not attempt to pledge yourself to any fictional empires while I am gone."
"YES SIR!" the new arrival barked with military posture.
"That is—exactly what I feared you would do," Uzemial muttered.
He turned toward the shimmering doorway that hadn't existed five seconds ago.
Just before stepping through it, he added:
"Sit. Stay. Behave. I will return shortly."
And then he vanished.
The moment Uzemial vanished through the shimmering doorway, the new arrival sat perfectly still.
Perfectly still… for three seconds.
On the fourth second, he erupted into motion like a toddler who had just discovered the concept of consequences and decided he didn't believe in them. His chair toppled backwards. He leapt to his feet and threw both arms in the air with the triumphant shriek of a man who had finally been left unsupervised.
"HAAAAA!" he howled, spinning in place. "FREEDOM! UNREGULATED CHARACTER CREATION! THANK YOU, CATS! THANK YOU FOR KILLING ME WITH YOUR BEAUTIFUL LITTLE MURDER-FLUFF!"
He blew a kiss toward the ceiling—toward the heavens, toward the cruel and microscopic proteins in cat saliva that had ended his mortal life. "This is all thanks to you, Whiskers! You furry assassin! For this is destiny! Wait for me my Emperor, I shall save you and the Imperium."
And then he sprinted toward Uzemial's pristine, throne-like chair and desk with the speed and grace of a man who had spent too much time on internet forums arguing about Space Marine power armor capacities at 3am. He vaulted over the side of the desk, he then vaulted again for no reason, then finally landed belly-first across the console with a happy groan.
"Daddy's home."
The console—the Multiversal Rebirth Allocation Terminal—glowed softly. It hummed. It pulsed with cosmic authority and unimaginable responsibility.
The new arrival started pressing buttons like he was trying to beat a speedrun record.
Windows opened. More windows. Lists. Settings. Universes. Dimensions. Power settings. Custom sliders dangerously marked ADMIN USE ONLY.
He hit all of them and as many of them as he needed to get to the metaphorical meat and potatoes of his goal.
Within seconds, icons and data sheets burst across the translucent screen: heavenly-approved templates, reincarnation surveys, karmic matching systems, archetype presets, species options, assorted metaphysical legal disclaimers—
He skipped all of them.
He typed WARHAMMER into the search bar so aggressively the search bar stuttered.
"Oh YES," he breathed as a character sheet materialized before him—a near-exact replica of a Dark Heresy 1st Edition character sheet, except cosmically expanded, blessed by the omniscient bureaucracy of the afterlife, and definitely not intended for mortal hands.
His eyes glistened.
His grin widened.
"LET'S. GET. TO WORK."
THE BUILD BEGINS
He filled out his name.
"Aedan Volear."
It sounded cool. Mysterious. Like someone who definitely wasn't destined to die to a lasgun malfunction on day one. Hell it could be a name of a highborn noble, the Volear dynasty... maybe of rogue traders or a sector governor of some sort.
Then he jabbed open the Characteristics table.
Each attribute appeared with a soft ding:
Weapon Skill
Ballistic Skill
Strength
Toughness
Agility
Intelligence
Perception
Willpower
Fellowship
The system gently highlighted a suggested roll button.
He slapped the MAX button so hard the console flickered.
All attributes jumped to 300. In a system that was maxed out to a limit of 100.
There was a chime of concern—like the system tried to say, "Please don't—" but he had already moved on.
He cackled. A maniacal, greasy-gamer laugh that echoed across the sterile white room.
"YESSSSSSSSSS! PERFECTION IS WITHIN MY GRASP!"
THE PSYKER TAB OF GLORIOUS DESTRUCTION
He flicked open the Psyker tab.
The system generated a polite warning in soft gold text:
ALERT: Alpha Plus-grade Psykers are extremely dangerous and not recommended for—
He punched ACCEPT repeatedly until the warning surrendered.
He maxed his Psy Rating to 100, falling well beyond the safety margins of any psykers that were not divinely mandated individuals such as the Emperor of Mankind.
He added Pyromancy and squealed. He added Biomancy and giggled. He added Telekinesis, Divination, Geomancy, Spatial Distortion, Santic Powers, he gave them all new powers and limits beyond what was established using his endless imagination to birth endless horrors, and finally—
He paused.
A forbidden school pulsed at the bottom of the list. Something not meant for mortal selection nor any section at all.
VOID / OBLITERATION
(Warning: Not canon. Not safe. Not sane.)
His pupils dilated.
He added it instantly.
Alarms tried to form, but he muted them.
"YES! DELETE BUTTON FOR REALITY ITSELF! I CAN'T WAIT TO MISHANDLE THIS!"
EVERY SKILL KNOWN TO MANKIND, MORTALKIND, AND PROBABLY SOME BIRDS
The Skills section opened.
The system attempted to scroll. It failed. There were too many skills.
But he clicked them anyway.
Dodge
Parry
Medicae
Chem-Use
Forbidden Lore (All of them)
Common Lore (All of them)
Scholastic Lore (All of Them)
Trade (All of them)
Pilot (Everything)
Awareness
Survival
Stealth
Charm
Blather
Dodge (he clicked it twice for safety)
Speak Language: Everything
Secret Tongue: Every secret tongue including ones that didn't exist yet
And so much more…
The system politely tried to ask if he truly wanted to master ALL languages.
He screamed "YES!" at the console.
The console accepted this as valid input. and all the other madness that the new arrival kept on stacking upon his character sheet.
TALENTS (THE "I DON'T NEED BALANCE" PACKAGE)
He scrolled down to the Talents section.
"Oh I'm going to be a PROBLEM."
He clicked Melee Weapon Training (Primitive).
Melee Weapon Training (Chain).
Melee (Force).
Melee (Power).
Bladedancer.
Step Aside.
Combat Master.
Swift Attack.
Lightning Attack.
Unnatural Strength x10.
Unnatural Toughness x10.
Good Reputation (Literally Everyone).
Meditation.
Strong Minded.
Step Aside again.
Warp Lock.
Sound Constitution x1000.
Foresight.
Unshakeable Faith.
Total Recall.
Jaded.
Master Orator.
Master Chirurgeon.
Crippling Strike.
Foresight (he double-clicked it; the system just gave up).
Pure Soul.
Sanctified Soul.
Iron Will.
Warp Conduit.
Warp-Hardened Soul
Unnatural Willpower x100 to bonus modifier
Never Ever Ever Roll Perils Again Ever (This one wasn't even real but he tricked the system into creating it.)
If a player at a tabletop ever presented this build, the GM would disown them and boot them from the game, before hitting every forum and venue of communication to pre-warn all other GM's about the mad power gamer that was coming towards them.
MENTAL SAFETIES: THE ANTI-CHAOS SUITE
He toggled the corruption slider to 0.
He toggled corruption resistance to MAX.
He gave himself daemonic possession immunity, psychic shielding, emotional stability, infinite trauma tolerance, and anti-insanity safeguards that basically made his brain the Fort Knox of souls. Granting him the powers of a psychic god with none of the backlash and dangers.
The system generated a very faint spiritual cough, like it was trying to say:
This is illegal in seventeen metaphysical jurisdictions.
He ignored it.
THE GEAR OF AN UNHINGED MAN
The Equipment tab was a buffet.
He ate everything.
Master-crafted carapace armor (sleek, sanctified, stealth-capable).
Anointed purity seals by the handful.
Stealth field generator (because subtlety is important when you're a walking apocalypse).
Master-crafted force sword.
He paused at the sword-name field.
He typed:
THE DOOM OF ANYTHING THAT GETS IN MY WAY,
("Sword of Doom" for short).
He sighed happily. "Beautiful."
He added:
– 100,000 Mk.V frag grenades and detonation packs
– 1,000 days of high-quality food rations
– 1,000 bottles of purified water
– An advanced medical kit
– A plasma gun that could unmake anything it hit.
– One million rounds of plasma ammunition for said plasma gun
– A mechanicus-standard toolkit
– A chemistry kit
– A universal auspex with infinite battery life
– Three backup force swords "just because"
– A bolt pistol he would never use since he forgot to take ammo with it.
– A book titled How To Ignore Your Guardian Angel In Six Easy Steps
Finally—
A double-headed aquila necklace dipped in the Emperor's own tears.
Or as our main character gasped at the sight of it. "THE HOLY JUICE!"
And took 10,000 bottles full of emperor sanctified tears. (If the master of mankind did not cry before he does now)
He equipped it immediately to his character.
THE LAST DECISION: A OR B
The system pinged.
CHOOSE YOUR DEPLOYMENT UNIVERSE:
Option A
Option B
(No details provided.)
He rubbed his chin.
He whispered dramatically:
"Hmmmmm."
He selected Option A.
The console chirped.
A happy chirp.
Then:
A concerning chirp.
Then:
A box popped up.
CONFIRMED: TRANSPORTING USER TO WARHAMMER FANTASY UNIVERSE.
Silence.
The new arrival blinked.
He opened his mouth to protest.
No sound came out.
Then—
"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!"
But before he could reach the console—
Before he could scream—
Before he could plead with every god, daemon, and administrative angel—
The white room erupted in blinding, holy light.
His body dissolved like a man being erased by the world's most polite laser beam.
"No no no NO NO PLEASE TAKE ME TO THE SPACE MARINES I WANT TO DIE IN A TRENCH NOT TO AN ELF—!"
The light consumed him.
His scream was devoured.
And the last thing he ever heard in the Terminal was Uzemial's distant, muffled voice, returning too late:
"…I swear, if he touched anything—"
And then—
He was gone.