The galaxy screamed. A cacophony of war, heresy, and despair echoed through the void, a constant thrum against the Golden Throne. For ten millennia, the Emperor had endured, a silent will guiding a blind Imperium. He had tried countless methods—legions, faith, bureaucracy, terror. But the rot deepened. The Warp gnawed.
Now, the Emperor's vast consciousness reached beyond the stars, beyond the fabric of this universe. He sought not just power, but essence—natures foreign to the grim calculus of his realm. He needed monsters of the right kind.
And he found two.
The first arrival was not a thunderclap, nor a glorious descent. It was a devouring silence. One moment, a sector of void near a besieged Imperial world was empty; the next, reality shuddered. Something unfolded into it—a patch of the Warp recoiling as if a deeper predator had entered its waters.
On the scarred surface of a satellite, amidst the wreckage of shattered orbital defenses, a figure stood alone.
He wore no armor. Only a long crimson coat flowed around him, shifting as if alive. His pale skin gleamed against the void, eyes burning with a predatory gleam behind dark glasses. No weapon hung at his side; he had no need of one. He was the weapon.
Alucard.
The No-Life King.
The Emperor's silent will echoed in the depths of his ancient mind:
"You are no daemon. You are disciplined. I need your monstrosity."
Alucard did not kneel. He did not bargain. He simply understood.
He had long since embraced what he was—corruption could not sway him, for he had surpassed it. He had devoured ancient gods and monsters in ages past. Now, the Warp's foul tides seemed thin and pathetic in comparison. They called to others with promises; to him, they were prey.
A detachment of the Inquisition, drawn by the psychic anomaly that was not truly psychic, arrived. Their psykers reeled; their sanctioned witches fainted. The interrogators remained rooted, staring at the crimson figure.
The Custodes observed from their vigilant posts, golden helms unreadable, bodies tense. They saw a being of impossible power—not Warp-born, not xenos, not a man. A thing outside their catalog of threats.
Then the daemons came. Lesser entities spilled from a rent in reality on the planet below—a tide of gibbering filth.
Alucard smiled.
It was not a smile of courage, nor one of defiance. It was a terrible, knowing grin—the expression of a hunter who had not merely tasted prey, but become its god. Shadows boiled outward from beneath his coat, stretching in tendrils that twisted unnaturally, devouring light.
And then he descended.
Where he walked, daemons vanished. Not slain in battle—consumed. Their essence drained, their forms reduced to shrieking echoes. Warp-storms flickered and died in his wake. Psykers sensed an empty void where he strode, a void that should not exist—a null greater than any null-field.
He did not fight like a Space Marine, nor a Custodian. He fought as a nightmare given hunger. Shadows formed maws, tearing daemons limb from limb. Lesser Warp-creatures dissolved into crimson mist. When a Herald of Slaanesh dared approach, its song of seduction was met with a cold laugh—and then it ceased to exist.
A Greater Daemon, a massive Bloodthirster, charged him.
Alucard's form seemed to dissolve—countless black dogs, bats, shadows writhing. The daemon's axe met only smoke and hate. Then a pale hand emerged from the dark and dragged the towering beast down, screaming, into the sea of shadows.
There was no corpse left.
The daemons began to flee.
They feel scared for first time in ages
Psykers across the battlefield screamed in unison: something was eating the Warp itself. The Emperor's Tarot fractured. The daemons' whispered names died mid-incantation. And in the shrill psychic noise, a single phrase began to echo:
The Crimson God-Eater.
First from terrified daemons. Then from the astropaths who caught their dying cries. Then through Inquisition vox-traffic, scribbled hastily by shaken interrogators. The Custodes made note of it in cold silence.
They did not know who he was. They only knew that the enemy ran from him—and that no mortal dared stand in his way.
But they still observe him from afar if—only if he began his attack to imperium.
Meanwhile, across the void, another soul was called.
Not a monster, but a king.
Aragorn awoke—not in Rivendell, nor in the gardens of Gondor—but in a sterile Mechanicus chamber, beneath the gaze of a shattered galaxy. The quiet peace of death was gone. His world of Middle-earth lay far beyond, unreachable. Yet a voice had summoned him—a voice of will, of desperation.
"You understand honor. Hope. Leadership. These are alien to my world. Will you bring them back?"
The Emperor spoke not as a tyrant, but as a soul on the edge of eternity. And Aragorn, Isildur's heir, had never turned from the shadow.
He rose.
His body was remade—armored in gleaming ceramite laced with mithril, light and strong. In his hand was Andúril, reforged with anti-Warp runes singing against the corruption of the Warp.
He stepped into the ruins of a shattered Imperial city. The air was thick with despair. Imperial Guardsmen huddled behind rubble, their faces grey with exhaustion.
Aragorn did not shout. He moved among them, speaking softly, eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom. His presence alone rekindled courage. Men who had prepared to die stood taller. Lasguns steadied in shaking hands.
Where he walked, the Warp's oppressive weight seemed to lessen.
And when battle came, Aragorn fought not as a berserker, but as a king. Each stroke of Andúril was measured, graceful, deadly. He stood where the line broke, holding ground with the calm of one who had faced the Black Gate and lived.
The soldiers around him whispered in awe. They did not know his name,but he have charisma to charm them not like slaanesh but courage to face ahead. They called him:
The Last True King.
Two legends had entered the galaxy.
Alucard, the Crimson God-Eater—the living nightmare that devoured the enemies of man.
Aragorn, the Last True King—the beacon of hope amidst despair.
And in the Golden Throne, the Emperor watched. One a monster embraced. One a king reborn. Both wielded now in a war that would decide the fate of this dying galaxy.