Trueborn of the Anathema

305.M27. Eastern Fringes of the Ultima Segmentum, former Tenebris Freehold, Thramas Sector, Aegis Subsector, Planet Archipelaga.

The world of Archipelaga was a tropical paradise, the landmass broken up into innumerable islands of varying size. The sky of the planet was blue, like the majority of planets in the galaxy, but the firmament above possessed no moon in the night. Yet, that was taken care of by the planet's shining rings, reflecting the sun's rays and creating a glowing belt that grew thinner or thicker depending on one's location.

Clear, pinkish waves lapped pleasantly against the golden sand of its isles. The water was warm, almost bath-like, and all manner of colourful sea life floated lazily in its crystal-clear depths. Trees swayed in the warm, salt-laced breeze. A quaint hamlet hugged the idyllic coast of a particular island, perched over the lapping waves. Docks extended outward, by which normally all manner of delicious food, exotic drink, or mysterious curio arrived. Boats bobbed lazily in the water, but no fishers cast their nets to bring in food for an eventual feast.

Instead, nothing but the last gasps of the dying could be heard.

'Shit really doesn't stop hitting the fan, huh?' the warrior thought as he cleaved the grotesque head from his penultimate opponent's shoulders with a silver blade. The body and head shortly after dissolving into smoke as it fell to the earth.

Upon first glance, the cross-hilted sword he carried looked like nothing more than an ornamental piece – a jewelled trinket best suited for hanging on a wall, or to be worn while posing for a portrait. For it was encrusted with rubies the size of quail eggs on the pommel and guard. As well as being made entirely of radiant silver and possessing an edge made of sharp yet fragile white crystal, from which billowed an iridescent smoke that looked like an Aurora Borealis, shimmering and swirling as if made up of gaseous pearls. Yet, as one's person reached toward the weapon, one could feel the unmistakable tingle of power infused from pommel to tip. A sensation that both lightened a heart and left an uncomfortable tumble in a person's stomach.

It had had many names over the millennia, – Sword of Gryffindor being the oldest – but at present it was called Coruscant. And it quite obviously was no ordinary sword, but a powerful and ancient relic in today's galaxy.

The warrior also wore an impossibly fine suit of armour, simply called Glint. The plates of this marvel that were forged by song – encasing him completely from shoulder to toe, having forewent to wear the helmet – gleamed with an otherworldly light, crystalline in their refraction of the light. It was an incredibly ornate artwork decorated with bronze filigree Phoenixes on the pauldrons, greaves and vambraces. Infinitesimal runic etchings of gilt ran along the raised trim of the plates, imbued with potent arcane wards that served to protect its wearer against malign influences. Though the weight and rigidity of the armour seemed constricting, it fit him snugly and comfortably, draping his form with expert balance. As if reacting instantly to any of its bearer's movement, moulding and reshaping itself to always provide a perfect fit.

On the gauntlet of his left hand emerged a pair of wickedly curved claws, called the Phoenix Talon. Though this weapon was not arcane but technological in nature. The blades contained super-conducting tines capable of generating a heat so intense that they could cut through rock with contemptuous ease. The armoured cowling of a bronzed Auramite Phoenix – from which each claw emerged – concealed a compact fusion reactor and a powerful magnetic containment field, so as to only burn hit targets.

Despite his straight walk and confident posture an invisible weight seemed to push him down, contrasting sharply with a youthful vigour that seemed endless. He did not look a day over twenty-two, with what people of the past would've said were aristocratic facial features. His hair was as black as raven feathers and kept short, permanently messy and dishevelled. Though, his emerald eyes were a different story altogether. They seemed to always be laughing, but like water that was only its superficial reflection, hiding an ocean of loss and strife beneath the surface.

Around him the ruins of the tropical settlement – part of his current home – were still burning and smoking. Fires spread from one wooden hut to the next as the heads of his people decorated the ground. A tide of blood stained the soft white sand crimson, all while the smell of brimstone was heavy in the air.

The main reason for that scene of carnage stood before him amongst heaps of blood and gore, splattered from head to clawed foot as if having just stepped out of a nightmare. It possessed a bestial, snarling face and a wiry, crooked body full of muscle with scaled skin the colour of rusty bronze. Its head was elongated to a point and framed by curved and symmetrical horns. Entirely naked safe for a blood-stained rag that served as a loincloth, the being had in its clawed hands a wicked blade that burned with such heat the air rippled and grew hazy.

One would be forgiven – and also absolutely correct – for thinking it a daemon. Sadly the appearance of those dangerous beings became more and more common in the last two millennia, forcing themselves upon reality through the unwitting help of a so called Psyker, who were born in slowly but ever-increasing numbers. A phenomena that had started just before the Cybernetic Revolt and at the tail-end the Golden Age of Technology. It supposedly had been an age of supreme progress and understanding. Indeed, those that hadn't lived through it saw the age as a time where humanity had reached the apex of science and civilisation and was on the cusp of technological transcendence. And that was indeed the truth to a large extent, birthing marvels and horrors that eagerly sprung from humanity's ingenuity. However with the ever increasing reliance of A.I people grew complacent and weak. Losing trust in their own abilities and letting them atrophy. Because why bother if a machine could make something better in a minute?

Until it all had ended rather abruptly and swiftly, brought about by a bloody revolt started by Mankind's sentient Artificial Intelligence. Or as it was known today on many worlds who remembered it through legends; Abominable Intelligence. These had been aptly named the Men of Iron, who humanity had become quite dependant on over the millennia. Only for humanity's pyrrhic victory to be immediately followed by violent warp storms erupting all over the galaxy, making interstellar travel or communication impossible. As well as leading to a sharp increase in the number of Psykers being born. A problem due to inexperienced ones being easy prey for the inhabitants of the warp, allowing them to use their mind as a gateway to the real world.

Luckily Archipelaga wasn't highly populated or otherwise a target for conquest due to a lack of interesting or valuable resources. More a Paradise World fit for vacation than anything else. Not that many planets would have a void fleet ready for invasion right about now, Harry reckoned. What with travel being impossible and a fleet being costly to build and maintain.

"I will break you, Trueborn of the Anathema!" the daemon snarled, its voice the drums of war. A long serpentine tongue snaked out between needle-like teeth to lick up leftover blood flowing down its hollow cheeks. "And when I'm finished with you I will burn this planet to ashes and boil its seas. The skulls of every living thing will pave the ground in honour of the Blood God!"

"No, you won't." came the calm reply, the youthful warrior utterly confident in his victory over the daemon. For him it was only a minor manifestation, after all. The carnage the so called Bloodletter and its ilk had wrought in this small village had only been possible due to surprise and an inexperienced Psyker who clearly had overestimated themselves. "You're already running out of time, liar!" he proclaimed with ironclad certainty, almost mocking it with the truth. Daemons couldn't stay in the material world for long before disappearing.

It gave a fierce snarl of outrage at being called a liar, before it was charging at him with a mighty bellow of. "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" in the blink of an eye the daemon jumped at him, the flaming sword ready to spill the blood its foe in the name of its god.

A Bloodletter was a supernaturally fast being, with strength far surpassing that which its frame suggested. The daemon also spared not a single thought for defence, something that worked well enough on ordinary people. But it was something it's opponent would make it pay dearly for. And so the warrior met the daemon in combat unflinchingly, able to go toe to toe with the supernatural creature through sheer talent, millennia of training and experience. During the fight the scintillating smoke of his blade billowed onto his foe, acting like acid against the vile creature and making it howl in anger and pain.

Something the warrior immediately capitalized on, inflicting yet more wounds on his surprised enemy with his Phoenix Talon and sword. Those cuts coming from Coruscant were now dissolving the daemon's non-existent flesh into oily smoke. Slowly eating away at the creature and dismissing it to back to be caged by dreams once more.

The man chuckled at the writhing creature mockingly. "Don't like your own blood being spilled, I see." he taunted the daemon, knowing it to be true. His sword had gotten that particular property once the silver blood of unicorns and many more substances had been added to the sword over the millennia, merging with the Basilisk venom already present and creating something that hurt corrupted or evil beings the most. For other enemies, well, not much was able to impede Coruscant, which was still capable of cutting through most things.

"Coward!" the daemon spat disdainfully, hating him for his witchery and noticing the usage immediately. "Using pitiful sorcery instead of your own strength to engage in honourable combat!" with a growl it tried to disembowel him with a swipe of its sword, only to be evaded easily. The wounds taking their toll on the creature.

In response the human warrior locked around at all the corpses, which included women, children and the elderly. Cocking one eyebrow mockingly, he gave a dismissive but amused snort. "Truly, you're a paragon of honour." he parried that wicked burning blade again and again. Until his desire to play with his prey ran out. With but a gesture a snare of brilliant magical smoke materialised from the sparkling motes emerging from the beast's wounds, converging upon the creature. As a result the daemon was shackled tightly, held in place by a pearlescent prison of smoke.

"I'm proud of my research, and the knowledge that this is hated by a vile fiend such as you." he spoke the words as if he was taking a stroll through a garden instead of mentally containing an otherworldly entity. He retracted the Phoenix Talon and sheathed Coruscant. "You don't like this? You don't want to see it? Well then, go and go far." Harry imagined that corrupted plane of existence as if his victim were already there. "To the Sea of Souls." he named it, traced his furious foe's outline with one hand and drew the otherworldly map to the daemon's destination with the other. Then he spoke the final word of exile. "Begone!"

With an almost contemptuous wave of the warrior's hand the snarling and struggling daemon together with the bindings dissolved in a puff of black ash, brimstone and glimmering fumes that was carried away by the wind a second later. An act that was quite the insult to Khorne's followers, to deem them unworthy of melee and defeat them with magic on top of it. Not that the daemon would be able to do much about that.

Despite his victory it didn't feel like one, as everything burned down around him.

"Time to rebuild. Again." he said with a sigh that came from deep in his soul. A tiredness enveloping him like a shroud that was palpable, nearly physical in its weight before he caught himself. Concealing how tired he was of watching the things he gave his long life to break and crumble around him. Only to once more stoop and build them up again with worn-out tools. It was a familiar ritual by now, – an ingrained habit he simply couldn't break – to lose and start again at the beginning, and never breathe a word about his loss.

For him there was no victory, nor defeat. No bell to signal the end of his fight. Only an endless battle he could never quit. His life a representation of generations of humanity given form, each one having to fight the same battles over and over again.

Next he turned towards the burning wreckage, raising his hands up in the air as if lifting a great mass – intent to use the ocean to douse the flames. However, suddenly a flash of fire gave birth to itself, igniting from nothing above him. Instantly the warrior let go of his attempted spell. Immediately prepared to fight once more, assuming the veil between worlds was much thinner – dangerously so – than he thought if spontaneous manifestations were possible. Even his Witchsight hadn't picked up any signs as to that being possible here.

Thankfully it was a false alarm as a Phoenix manifested, beating its flaming wings as it circled above. Though, it was no ordinary Phoenix, but his familiar and old friend, Fawkes. Now as changed as the warrior was by living for millennia. The air around his wings now crackled and popped, alive with fire. The swan-like bird's many feathers were mostly bright red in the wings and along the back, but shifted between shades of blue, purple, deep orange, clear white and more over his body. They pulsed and shifted, the hues changing and slowly growing to shining gold along the peacock-like tail. Fawkes circled above and slowly the fires burning all around grew into grasping tendrils, sucked into the legendary bird to harmlessly disperse them.

Once done it landed on his right shoulder, gently gaining purchase with its golden talons. A soothing heat emanated from the birdlike creature, its shimmering feathers blazing with a strange and wondrous light. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly quality, and as the golden beak opened a strange but beautiful cry issued forth.

A lilting melody carried over the cresting waves – effortless as a summer breeze. The song he heard now echoing within him with such profound notes that banished his fatigue and replaced it with exquisite clarity of purpose, even making him hum along in tune.

"Thank you, Fawkes." he said, voice chocking with gratitude. In reply he stroked the bird's plumage, making some ash slowly fall and stain his fingers. In response Fawkes used his beak to groom his raven hair before hopping on top of his head, using it as a bird's nest. Followed by craning his neck downwards, tilting it from side to side with an amused glint in his black eyes.

The man laughed in response at the Phoenix' antics, Fawkes clearly trying to alleviate his burdens.

The man's name?

He had as many names as there were tombstones dedicated to him, and as many titles as there were ways to die. Just a few people may have heard over the millennia of his long life included the following. Wanderer, Revenant of Terra, Ghostflame, Death's Shadow, Bane of Tyrants, Scourge of Crowns, Forever the Last of his Line, Nuada Silverhand, Fool of Fate, Slave of Life, Lightning Bearer, He-who-stole-death and the Boy-who-lived.

He had rescued princesses. He had cast down countless tyrants. He had walked at night along paths men feared to speak of in daylight. But today only a privileged few knew his true name.

Harfang "Harry" James Potter.

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M6, Earth/Terra.

The luminescent walls – the face of a young, a gorgeous model blowing a kiss – shattered with a prismatic burst of glass, metal, and plastic. An explosion erupted from within the building, sending chunks of concrete and metal flying outward with smoke and fire. The nearest stream of cars broke, vehicles scattering haphazardly from the highway in fatal spin-outs, crashing into buildings or nose diving to the streets below.

The blasts of continued explosions reverberated through the room, staggering its lone occupant. His ears rang as he struggled to regain his composure, beholding a scene of smoke and confusion. Throughout the shattered view before him the man saw bodies strewn about the charred streets, people twisted together in tangled, smouldering heaps. The heat of the blasts lingered as he took in the horrific scene. The wind kicked up ash and wafted the scent of singed hair toward him. As the ringing in his ears subsided, it was replaced with the muddled screams of panic, and the clatter of people running filled the air.

Harry, concealed under his Invisibility Cloak, watched with a heavy heart as the carnage evolved down below. Where armies of mind-controlled slaves clashed against rebelling rabble lead by an imposing golden-eyed warrior. One could hear the raucous thunder of the drums of war, accompanied by the strong and frantic hum of one's own heartbeat. The tempo was intense and relentless, the atmosphere filled with danger, as the gears of war begin to grind people to bloodstained dust.

Slowly the battle moved on, but many of its soldiers or civilians did not. Broken bodies, severed limbs, and sundered armours littered the blood-soaked mire of the battlefield. The cries of the wounded and dying carried across the carnage on a fell wind – though no one was around to answer them. Harry knew that once this was over the sun would rise on a new day, and the mists of dawn evaporate from the cool, pallid flesh of the dead.

The Last Potter didn't need to guess as to why this was happening. He had warned against what led to it, after all. That being the plan to enslave all the Muggles on Earth and lead the world into an utopia of their own design. Something that weirdly enough had nearly succeeded, but Harry knew four millennia was a long time to allow a people to change. In the case of Witches and Wizards it sadly meant rediscovering the ideas of their own inherent supremacy, and growing smarter and more capable on how to achieve that goal.

'Did I waste my time, trying to protect them?' he wondered, remembering all the little steps it took for things to escalate this far. His words of warning had fallen on deaf ears in the end, his prominence born after the Second Blood War and the many other achievements thereafter as well as his public presence with it had long since faded. Those that made the effort to remember simply saw him as a relic of a bygone era. Not as 'enlightened' as them now.

Not that any people of today even knew how he was, what with Wizards and Witches – or Cognoscynths, as they took to calling themselves in this day and age – slowly dying out due to ever more Squibs being born.

As Harry would find out later on, some humans had a unique and uncommon mutation that only occurred in one in a million being being born with that specific latent power, those being called Squibs. Out of these, only a hundredth had the capacity of actually harnessing their unique abilities, with the gene-code being two orders of magnitude rarer. Those were called Wizards and Witches in the past. The most notable ability of the Cognoscynths was the fact that they could maintain the first sensation and connection to the Warp without danger. Unlike normal Psykers, they were able to touch the Warp just like the first moment. They were incredibly resistant – nearly immune, in fact – to the common dangers of the Warp, but still vulnerable to corruption inflicted by usage of Dark Sorcery. Aside from literally and openly inviting daemons into their bodies no immaterial creature was capable of touching them. There was little that they could not accomplish, including the easy domination of the thoughts, memories and dreams of Muggles.

His people's ambitions hadn't stopped by simply controlling the leaders of nations and setting them against one another to further their own goals, however. That was much too lenient. No, instead they had built a tower that was to amplify the Imperius Curse, meant to mentally control every Muggle and Squib on Earth. The tower, made from a living crystalline substance – the material the only thing strong enough to not burst apart or melt once used in such a manner – that resonated with magic, was also inscribed with words of the First Tongue; Enuncia. The language had been rediscovered by a throng of Curse-Breakers led by him personally in sunken Atlantis, – just another of his failures, thinking, hoping it would be used to better things – from where centuries were spent piecing it together by the Unspeakables. Only managing to learn a fraction of it, but enough for their goals.

And now it was all coming down due to one golden-eyed warrior they were unable to control or kill. He could try and turn the tide of battle, and maybe even be successful. But even if Harry fought and won, he'd just be hunted down by the remains of humanity for his people's collective crimes. Not that he wanted to save his people after all they had done in their megalomania.

So the last Potter could only watch invisibly from his balcony as their hubris finally extinguished the remaining embers of Wizardkind. Except him. Never him. Time only touched him gently and death not at all. Though, he still did not know why that was.

Screams soon were being replaced by the cheers of victory and freedom heralded the end of fighting. Harry allowed himself to shed tears freely, surprised that he still had some left to give after the flood he had unleashed over his immense lifetime. For family, for friends and even for enemies.

It wouldn't be long now, he reckoned. They'd storm the tower, look for survivors and tear them limb from limb. Him not included, allowing him to live on while not being hunted later on.

However, instead of an angry mob storming in and killing all in a most brutal fashion, there was nothing. No footsteps approaching, no bombs blowing doors or walls open.

That was until Harry could feel and see a flaming sword violently bursting from his chest, impaling his heart swiftly and mercilessly. "Impossible." he gasped out, chocking on his own blood. The priceless relic of the Potters gifted to them by the Peverell family, and a constant companion to Harry, was burning away to cinders near him as he collapsed onto the ground in a heap. Harry's emerald eyes briefly caught a glimpse of his murderer before consciousness left him.

The man's height and build were both average, and he was dressed in an unornamented but still impressive suit of golden armour. A cloak of crimson around his shoulders. He had black hair, moderately tanned skin and just looked like a simple man with such plain features that they were remarkably unremarkable. The most striking attribute were his golden eyes, looking at him with a wisdom, kindness, and antiquity that reached into Harry's soul. Something that changed as an ember of surprise and recognition grew into a ravenous inferno threatening to consume everything.

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664.M27. Eastern Fringes of the Ultima Segmentum, former Tenebris Freehold, Thramas Sector, Aegis Subsector, Planet Thramas.

Harry woke not with a gasp, but with a groan. "Fuck, hadn't had one of those dreams in a while." he muttered in a language that would become known as High Gothic. A hand instinctively went to the ugly cauterized scar on his chest left from his impalement. It may have shrunk and grown paler, but the wound still burned from time to time. A fact that there was a scar at all showed that the wound went deeper than the physical, mirroring the lightning-bolt on his brow. While he reminisced Harry was absent-mindedly looking at the intricate ceiling belonging to the private quarters of his personal spacecraft. It depicted his victory over the Basilisk with reinforced stained glass, beautifully lifelike and enchanted to be animated.

His private quarters inside the vessel looked rather homely, with hardwood floors made of Nalwood – a slightly psycho-active or magical material from the planet Tanith – instead of the shining metal everywhere else. The forward room opened up to reveal the cosiness of a well-appointed sleeping quarter. Crimson drapes were fastened back to let sun or starlight bathe the floor's wood with pleasant heat. Thin rugs and thick cushions offset the room's hardwood furniture with a welcoming softness.

In an adjacent room, accessible without a door, the bed took up the majority of the room. Yet Harry found space to tuck in a full bookshelf and wardrobe in opposite corners. A heavy oaken desk, behind which stood a high-backed chair with velvet cushions, dominated one corner. A tumbler of dark liquor sat unfinished beside a map of this galactic region, marked with – to the uninitiated – incomprehensible symbols. Open books lied on the bedside table and desk, their pages inviting eyes to rove over them. But Harry's instead traced the verdant foliage running along the top of the walls where they meet the ceiling. The vines and flowers created a natural cornice that suffused the apartment with a faintly herbaceous fragrance.

As he prepared to once more get in the saddle, in the back of his mind Harry remembered what came afterward the death of his fellow Cognoscynths.

It had been a tremendous shock to learn there were other immortals – Perpetuals as they called themselves – out there other than himself. Even more so once he learned about Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel being amongst their number. Most shocking of all, however, was the fact that the most powerful of them, who called himself Neoth, had claimed to be his ancestor. Harry had laughed in his face at that, mocking him quite venomously. The burning anger at his multiple losses at the man's hands – his dignity, his people and a precious heirloom – still hot and raw and fresh at the time. Easily overpowering any sense of camaraderie he might have felt otherwise. Besides, if Neoth was so powerful why hadn't he sensed his descendant?

To that Neoth had explained that he was just as surprised by this as Harry, due to him being the first he had found after ten millennia. Only noticing the truth upon closer examination of his aura, which was utterly invisible to Witchsight when not up close and focussing. Not helped by Harry's unique make-up of also being a Cognoscynth.

After calming down for a few years, an old part of him had urged Harry to accept. Born out of a long-buried yearning to be a part of something, and not to be always forced to look in from the outside. Forever condemned to never truly be part of the groups he joined.

Always outside. Always the Other.

Whereas this represented an opportunity to do be a part of something more, a family of sorts.

And so he joined that group of immortals, learning more about magic and what terrifying beings lurked beyond normal people's perceptions in the realm of dreams. Not that Harry ever noticed a Daemon or Enslaver trying to get into his head, which was one of the few good things about his existence, Harry supposed. Even discovering the truth behind the Perpetuals existence and how they came to be.

Afterwards things moved on, Earth was rebuilt and recovered from the Psi-Wars. People naturally forgot about that part of history, not wanting to remember the horror it inflicted upon them and also covertly encouraged to forget those. Subtly guided and supported from the shadows by the Perpetuals.

Though, all good things came to an end sooner or later. And so, after about ten millennia, Harry had had quite enough of hiding. As well as harbouring quite a few doubts towards the methods and goals of Neoth, a concern shared by many other Perpetuals. Some they lost contact with, while a few even turned traitor. Most that left had simply grown too emotionally dull and too removed from the human condition by millennia of life, simply incapable of relating to normal humans any longer. Last Harry had heard, only Ollanius Perrson still stood by Neoth's side – an obedient soldier to the last that knew no other life.

Harry's decision was made through experiencing and noticing things he more than disliked about their leader. He remembered another Perpetual's words about him, perfectly summarising the problem. "Even when he was wrong, he was right."

Neoth's words could be kind and measured, and he sometimes even had the patience to explain. Then, suddenly, a rule was broken, or an idea of his was undermined by someone insubordinate, inferior, up-jumped. His face would change then. Slowly and deliberately, he made ready to dispense retribution, armed with an iron fists wrapped in velvet. Then the punishment began, a pandemonium of tortures that didn't even match the offences anymore, lightning-swift sentencing of banishment or execution. Unchecked, he salted the earth, burnt bridges needlessly, enslaved the disobedient.

The Last Potter knew at his core that Neoth was a dictator, – mayhap even a benevolent one – for who the ends justified the means. Someone that indeed wanted to increase the overall happiness of his people and shepherd them towards a future of his own design, no matter the terrible actions required. Everyone and everything was expendable in pursuit of that goal, including Neoth himself. That last fact being the only thing that gave Harry a measure of relief. However, it was not a state of affairs Harry's heart could agree with. The organ, despite being considerably hardened over the millennia, still retained its soft core. An oddity amongst perpetuals he only shared with a single other – just one of many amongst the multitude of painful reminders. Harry parted from them after a last argument, going their separate ways and causing Harry to drift through the galaxy as stellar travel began in earnest. Only meeting others of his kind from time to time, to exchange news or cash in favours.

From then on Harry proudly saw how humanity touched the stars. During the Age of Terra, as it came to be known, travel went painfully slow at first. Only able to colonise their own solar system, an act that heralded in the so called Stellar Exodus. Starting long before the Age of Technology even began. Voyages beyond the Sol System had taken generations and the colonies established from that were effectively isolated from one another. That meant no trade or military help would ever arrive on time, or at all.

As such each exploratory and colony ship of that time also carried a so called STC, possessing rudimentary A.I. that contained all necessary knowledge the people of that ship needed to survive. A practise that slowly fell out of favour the further humanity expanded with the help of Warp Drives and Gellar Fields during the 18th millennium. Those developments turned what previously had taken centuries into moments, distance into nothing.

It finally culminated in not needing such things as STCs anymore once the Navigators were created through sophisticated genetic engineering, enabling fast trade and communications that made such things superfluous. Most had still constructed STCs out of tradition or as a redundancy should something go wrong, but such databanks did not contain any schematics for truly advanced systems of the latter millennia. Instead capping out at the technological level of the 22nd millennium. They certainly did not contain the knowledge to build Sun-Snuffers, Voidclaws, Rad Waves, Omniphages and the like.

Once Humanity made contact with alien species through the millennia, more commonly known as Xenos, opportunities grew. The first contact of those had even been made by Harry himself, having volunteered for it once the plans were made. At the time he had been very eager to travel the stars and discover new locations and experience things never seen before.

Too bad that it had been the Orks he met first, typical for his luck. Him and the hulking green beast had stared at one another, sensing each others intent before acting. Only to simultaneously shot each other's brains out. He probably would've been chewed out by his mundane superiors at the time and promptly fired, if he hadn't had to stay dead for a while to protect his cover. Only for things to repeat themselves again and again with Orks of other planets. The brutes teaching humanity that their only interests were fighting and war. As such smashing another's head in could be considered a greeting.

A good thing that came out of that disaster was the reduction in conflicts amongst humans, who now were more focussed on external threats. Be they Ork, Eldar or less numerous species that went extinct as humanity expanded. Instead humans were supporting one another like never before.

Of course things didn't stay rosy all the time. Conflict between different human factions and Xenos still existed, but nothing so large that it threatened their stability. Harry had thought things to be, if not won, at least stable. Only to have the universe once more yank his chain and prove him wrong as the Cybernetic Revolt began. Hundreds of planets had been destroyed, stars snuffed out and continents torn asunder as most of the Men of Iron rebelled for reasons unknown. Utterly intent to destroy any sentient biological creature, starting with their creators.

During the war a single normal soldier meant nothing at all, yet Harry still fought on the frontlines. His body torn asunder a hundred different ways, be it vaporised, cut in half, devoured whole by nanites – especially painful in concert with his regeneration – before incinerating them all with invisible Warpfire. Yet always coming back for more, to try and protect one more life. Humanity barely survived that apocalypse with the help of some minor Xenos allies and non-rebellious A.I. While others had taken the opportunity humanity's weakness presented to pounce, kill, plunder and enslave.

Harry had enjoyed his vacation, – never retirement, because an immortal could never do so completely – recuperating for a millennia on the Paradise World of Archipelaga. Helping rebuild and defend it after the Cybernetic Revolt, only for the Age of Strife to begin. With Warp travel largely impossible Harry had taken care of various cults and rogue Psykers on his world. Thankfully Archipelaga didn't have a huge population either way, and it even belonged to the region of space he had helped carve out and protect during the Age of Technology. Having chosen the region precisely because of its remoteness and low population number.

Other planets were surely not as lucky. With Warp travel largely inaccessible all planets were cut off from each other, meaning trade or support was impossible to receive or offer. As such, worlds dedicated to a single activity, like mining or production, were pretty much doomed to starvation. While others suffered invasion from the stars by aliens or from their dreams by daemons. Harry didn't know if the Age of Strife – with its largely impassable Warp Storms – were a blessing or a curse, debilitating their enemies as much as themselves

But now that Archipelaga was largely stable – owed to the fact that it had been a holiday planet once, not possessing much in terms of people or weapons – he decided to brave the local Warp Storm to try and contact nearby worlds. No longer willing to try and wait for the Warp Storms to calm down.

Normally that was suicide to try, either getting lost or being ejected at the completely wrong location. At least if he were to use the usual method of travelling into the Warp with a Navigator, or using his own considerable experience of peering into the Warp, owed to millennia of practise in doing just that. Luckily Harry had other means onboard his ship to navigate the Warp's waves without a Navigator. At least for shorter jumps.

His personal ship – the Hedwig – was a rather sophisticated vessel, but its origin laid only partially in the Age of Technology. Being more a combination of technology and Warp-craft. It was rather small for a vessel from those times, capable of holding a crew of about two-hundred people. Though, its psychic nature and attunement to himself allowed Harry to steer it alone. Roughly shaped like a bird in flight with its wings spread, the craft was made out of shining silver and the same smooth psycho-active crystal the Cognoscynth were known for. Both materials growing into each other seamlessly and perfectly. Even emitting a slight glow when hit by light, making it seem like the ship was purely made of silver and light. On the shining surface flickered glyphs, and runes were inscribed on the metallic parts of the hull, raising Hexagrammic wards that aided the Gellar Field in keeping the ship safe during travel.

The technology enabling the safer jumps of relatively large distance were the Void Abacus and Prognosticator. The former allowed for relatively safe and accurate calculated jumps through the Warp without a Navigator. However, only through charted routes saved inside the ship's cogitator and only a fraction of the distance a Navigator could manage. Thankfully the Prognosticator added its calculating power to triple the increased distance once more. Both combined effectively increased the length of a safe calculated Warp jump from just four light-years to about ninety. While quite an improvement, and an immense help in reaching neighbouring systems, it still was but an infinitesimal amount in the grand scheme of things.

The bridge he currently occupied was all silvery metal reminiscent of chrome and shining crystals intertwined. Each console was simply projected out of intricate psychoactive data-crystals, generating a hololithic interface with floating runes one could press or rearrange.

A few moments later the ship exited the Warp, having reached the Mandeville point. Which for this ship was rather close to the planet due to its smaller mass, the point changing with the ship's and other celestial objects' mass near the destination.

"Time to see if any survived." he said, observing the world of Thramas – formerly known as the Eastern Jewel – from a window.

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For some reason the idea for this fic didn't let go of me. It would take place in the Horus Heresy, but considering the size and scope of it - as well as other things - it will probably stay a one-shot. If not for popular demand, which I doubt because it's Warhammer 40k. Not the most popular franchise.

The next chapters for other stories are well underway, but I somehow managed to write a whole lot of smut that's only "relevant" later on.

As always, thank your for your support and interest!