Other universes of Cherner's realities.

On the planet Teira, there was a profound silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence that calmed you; rather, it was unsettling—like reality itself was listening intently for what was about to be revealed. In the communications hall, three individuals had gathered: Vasily Krasnov, Gultar, and Arima Kisho. Over the holographic table, a slowly rotating projection of Earth was marked with annotations, routes, and empty sectors. “So, there’s no sign of Ramazanov?” Kisho asked calmly, his tone nearly devoid of emotion. Gultar shook his head negatively. “We’ve searched all of Russia—every point, every route. He’s not there.” Krasnov took a step forward and lowered his voice. “There’s one thing. A temporary warp rupture was recorded near Valery Alekseevich’s accident site. It was very unstable. If he really ended up in the Immaterium…” He paused. “Finding him will be extremely difficult. Possibly impossible.” Kisho nodded silently. All three understood: the warp didn’t obey logic. In such a realm, even a fleet of a hundred ships would find it impossible to search, let alone locate a single individual. If Valery Ramazanov had ended up there, his fate could range anywhere—from an endless wander to death at the hands of the Immaterium’s creatures or traitor space marines. At the same time—or on the same day, hour, month, year… if those concepts even had meaning here—the War in the Sea of Horrors raged on. In the warp, there was no concept of “before” or “after.” Those who entered today might stand beside those who had wandered for millennia. Within the territories held by the Iron Warriors, one of the Chaos fortresses began to stir. Sirens wailed, demonic machines came to life, and the walls vibrated from the looming threat. “Iron Warriors, to arms!” roared one of the traitorous space marines. “The Imperial Fists are advancing! These worshipers of the Corpse on the Throne think they can break us! In the name of the Indivisible Chaos! In the name of the Hammer of Olympias!” The response was a thunderous roar of weaponry. Flashes of fire, explosions, and shrieks of metal erupted. The bolter fire tore through the darkness, followed by fierce hand-to-hand combat. A warrior clad in Mk III armor—golden, scarred by the wounds of war, a black fist emblazoned on his shoulder—barged into one of the fortress halls. “Brother Valerius, the fort has been cleansed of heretics.” The warrior addressed turned and pulled a two-handed sword from the body of the fallen Iron Warrior. His crimson-and-gold armor bore signs of wear, and the number “60” stood out prominently on his shoulder pad. “Good, Brother Marcus,” he replied evenly. “Casualties?” “None. Thanks to your tactics, the assault was successful,” Valery Ramazanov—general of the Sixtieth Division of the Fire Empire—nodded. “That’s good. But our one hundred and fifty against your two hundred aren’t enough to storm the Fortress of Hatred on Medrengard. We lack a fleet, heavy equipment, and ammunition.” His words were dry; it was not fear but calculation. Suddenly, the ether crackled to life. “This is the Astartes Order, the Fire Hawks. We are lost in the Immaterium and searching for the Light of the Astronomicon. Are you loyalists or agents of Chaos?” Marcus quickly responded, “Fifth Great Company of the Imperial Fists. What are your numbers?” The answer arrived almost immediately. The Fire Hawks emerged from the distorted space fully equipped: the mobile fortress-monastery “Ecstatic Rex,” five warships, around eight hundred battle-brothers, and two thousand support personnel. They had entered the warp recently—or perhaps an eternity ago. Later, the combined forces withdrew from the battlefield and began seeking refuge. They found a planet strangely untouched by Chaos: New Terra. Fortifications already stood there, erected by those who, like them, had once been lost in the Immaterium. On New Terra, Ramazanov laid out his plan. “We will attack Medrengard. Destroy the Iron Warriors' factories, cut off their demonic supplies, and weaken the legion. Then we’ll seek a way back to the Materium.” He spoke not of glory or faith, but of returning—to his wife, to his daughter. The decision was made. Radio and vox communications were restored. The signal spread through the Immaterium like a cry in the dark. The first to respond were the remnants of the Order of the Mourning Lions—the heirs of the Dark Angels. Forces began to gather; the war continued. And somewhere far away, in another world, a girl named Kamila was yet unaware that her father was alive—and that he would surely return.