Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

What she saw would haunt her forever. A massive, red-skinned Daemon crouched at the far side of the room, its grotesque form shrouded in shadows. In one clawed hand, it held the limp body of a Battle Sister, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Her lifeless eyes stared directly at Elizabeth, wide with terror.

Daemon's jaws clamped down on the Sister's slender leg, sharp teeth sinking deep. With a sickening pull, Daemon tore the limb free, flesh and bone ripping apart with wet, squelching sounds. It chewed noisily, savoring the meal. Blood dripped from its maw, pooling on the floor in crimson rivulets. 'Stand up!' her mind roared. 'Get up and sing praises to the Emperor as you charge! Stand up, you coward!' But Elizabeth couldn't move. She lay paralyzed, her body betraying her. 

She woke with a start, heart racing, drenched in cold sweat. The nightmare receded, but the memories it dredged up lingered. She was back in the Abel system, on Abellum III. It had been her first mission as a novice Battle Sister—a baptism of fire, though one marred by failure. The planet was under siege, not by xenos or traitors but by a far more insidious threat: corruption. Evil thoughts had spread like a plague among the populace, rotting their minds and igniting rebellion. These heretics, drunk on their twisted notion of "freedom," destroyed churches, butchered priests, and desecrated the Emperor's name. They called it liberation, but it was treachery of the highest order.

The local Crusaders, few in number, had been overwhelmed. Worse still, the garrison meant to protect the planet had joined the heretics. They threw open the arsenals, arming the mob and plunging the world into chaos. Elizabeth remembered the deployment vividly. Her squad had been sent to purge the rebellion and restore order. But what awaited them was a nightmare. The corruption ran deeper than anyone had anticipated. By the time they realized the extent of the infestation, it was too late.

This was a carefully orchestrated rebellion, and the mission of Elizabeth's Sororitas unit was clear: Daemonstrate the Emperor's might and utterly crush the heresy that had taken root on this forsaken planet. When the Sisters of Battle arrived, it became apparent that the scale of the rebellion had been grossly underestimated. By the time they realized the true scope of the threat, they were already surrounded by the rebellious mob. Yet the Sisters didn't falter. Clad in faith and bolstered by the Emperor's blessing, they prayed, sang hymns, and launched a ferocious assault.

The rebels, though armed, were no warriors. Before taking up weapons, they had been ordinary people—white-collar workers, factory laborers, housewives, and even school custodians. Many had never fired a gun before. The weapons in their hands, looted lasguns and poorly maintained rifles, gave them a false sense of power. They mistook the cold weight of a firearm for control, the feel of a wooden stock for authority. Holding the trigger gave them an intoxicating rush—a perverse illusion of being gods, wielding the power to grant or end life with a flick of their fingers. It was an experience far removed from their mundane existence, and it filled them with a reckless confidence.

That confidence shattered the moment the Sisters charged. The nuns were unrelenting. They ignored the mob's numbers, their weapons, and their desperate pleas for negotiation. The Sisters carried the Emperor's will, and there was no compromise in His name. What followed was less a battle and more a massacre. Bolt rounds tore through flesh, ripping bodies into grotesque shreds. The roar of chainswords drowned out screams as the blades cleaved through limbs and torsos. Promethium-fueled flamers reduced heretics to ash, purging their sins in holy fire.

The mob's overconfidence was like a balloon—bloated and fragile. The Sisters burst it with ease, leaving a field of broken, burned, and bloodied bodies in their wake. Victory, as always, was inevitable under the Emperor's watchful gaze. But for the Sisters of Battle, victory on the battlefield was never the end—it was merely the beginning.

Interstellar travel, even in the 41st Millennium, was no small undertaking. The Imperium hadn't dispatched the Sororitas across tens of thousands of light-years just to win a single skirmish. They were here to solve the problem at its root, to ensure this rebellion would never rise again. The enemy's defeat didn't eliminate the heresy; it merely forced it underground. Those who survived the purge—those who had harbored treacherous thoughts—would now bury their beliefs deeper. They would seethe in silence, their hatred smoldering, waiting for another opportunity to strike.

The relatives and friends of the fallen rebels wouldn't reflect on their sins. Instead, they would blame the Imperium, nursing their grief and resentment like a festering wound. To the Sisters, it was obvious: unless every trace of rebellion was eradicated, another uprising was inevitable. The Sisters of Battle excelled at solving such problems.

Their mission wasn't just to win battles but to destroy the seeds of rebellion and the soil in which they grew. If heresy had corrupted minds, then those minds needed purging. If hatred lingered, then its bearers had to be silenced. The innocent and guilty alike were swept up in the Emperor's cleansing fire because distinguishing between the two was a luxury the Sisters couldn't afford. Rebellion was a disease, and like any disease, it spread invisibly. Rumors were its vectors, whispers its carriers. Even if you cracked open a heretic's skull with a chainsword, you couldn't see the heresy lurking within.

The purge began anew. This time, the battlefield was the homes of the planet's inhabitants. The Sisters kicked down doors, storming into houses and rooting out anyone who bore even a hint of heretical thought. Women begged, children screamed, and old men prayed for forgiveness, but the nuns had no time for mercy. Promethium flames and bolt rounds spoke the Emperor's will. Not everyone was guilty. Some had been swept up by the fervor, afraid to dissent openly. Others had resisted silently, saying nothing but refusing to act. Yet it didn't matter. Doubt, hesitation, and disobedience were unacceptable risks. The Sisters weren't here to judge individuals—they were here to purify the entire population.

As the purge continued, the heretics grew desperate. Those who had hidden among the crowds, pretending to be innocent, were eventually exposed. Backed into a corner, they revealed their true nature. At first, the rebellion had been fueled by cries of "freedom" and "liberation." Now, the heretics screamed "revenge," turning to darker forces to enact it. With the lives of women and children as sacrifices, they performed vile rituals, summoning Daemons to their aid.

Elizabeth's team had been tasked with purging a small town. The order was simple: cleanse the settlement of heresy. It was supposed to be a standard operation for the Sisters of Battle, yet when they broke through the door of a nondescript house, the horrors they faced were anything but routine.