Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

The creature before them was no trembling heretic or defiant mob. It was a Daemon. Its skin was a deep, hellish red, its goat-like horns twisting upward from its grotesque head. Sinful flames flickered in its eyes, and its forked tongue flickered like that of a serpent. Shark-like teeth glinted as it sneered at the nuns, and an aura of palpable malice filled the room.

Daemon spoke—not in the crude obscenities of mortals, but in the true language of Chaos. The words were alive with curses, each syllable a desecration of reality itself. It pointed a single clawed finger toward a novice standing near Elizabeth. The girl's bolter clattered to the ground as her body convulsed violently. Her scream was cut short as her blood began to boil, literally, within her veins. Steam hissed from her skin, and red mist seeped from her eyes, ears, and nose. Moments later, she collapsed, lifeless.

Daemon grinned, turning its gaze toward another Sister. Sister Lysandria, the team leader, stepped forward, raising her voice above the dread-filled silence. "Faith is your protection!" she shouted. "The Emperor's words are your shield!" Her conviction was not in vain. A golden light enveloped her armor, the holy radiance of the Emperor's divine protection burning away Daemon's foul sorcery. The misty black tendrils of the creature's power retreated, unable to touch her. "No Daemon may harm the Emperor's daughters!" Lysandria cried. "Fire, Sisters! Do not fear—our God watches over us! Shoot!"

The bolt guns roared to life. Flamethrowers unleashed streams of holy fire, and the air was thick with the sound of explosions and the acrid stench of promethium. Shells and flames poured toward Daemon, but to no avail. Its crimson flesh seemed to swell, its muscles hardening like iron. Bolt rounds failed to penetrate, and even the searing flames did little more than singe its skin.

The Sisters faltered. 'What manner of monstrosity was this?' Even ceramite and steel would have crumbled under such an onslaught, yet Daemon stood, unscathed, a grotesque smile on its face. In an instant, it disappeared.

The next moment, it reappeared behind Sister Spike. Daemon crouched, gripping the powerful Sister with one hand on her shoulders and the other on her thigh. With terrifying ease, it twisted her body as if wringing out a rag. Her legs coiled unnaturally, bones snapping, and Daemon tossed her aside like a broken doll. The Sisters fought valiantly, but the battle quickly devolved into chaos. The room became a cacophony of roaring bolters, jetting flames, and shouts of desperation. The Sisters were overwhelmed, their faith unyielding but their strength insufficient. One by one, they fell. 

Elizabeth's body slammed into the corner of the room, Daemon's massive hand striking her like a hammer. The impact twisted her limbs into unnatural angles, and her vision blurred before darkness consumed her. When she regained consciousness, she couldn't feel her body. Pain radiated from every joint, but she forced herself to breathe, testing her wrists and ankles. Slowly, she realized she could still move, albeit barely.

Her bolter lay a short distance away, just out of reach. She imagined herself lunging forward, grabbing the weapon, and firing at Daemon. She envisioned charging it with a phosphorus grenade, hoping to take the creature down with her. But no matter how many scenarios she ran through her mind, they all ended the same way: her death and Daemon's survival.

Elizabeth remained motionless. Fear rooted her to the spot, whispering insidious justifications into her mind. 'Daemon is too powerful. It killed us so easily. It treated us like insects. What chance do I have?'

Even in the heat of the battle, Daemon had fought with an almost casual cruelty, its contempt for the Sisters plain in every movement. Their sacred weapons, their prayers, their faith—it had mocked them all. The disparity in strength was so vast that it felt like a cruel joke. 'You're just a mortal, a weak woman in the face of this monstrosity. What could you possibly do?' Elizabeth's thoughts spiraled deeper into despair. She conjured a thousand reasons to justify her inaction, each one more convincing than the last. But deep down, she knew the truth. She could think of a hundred thousand excuses, and they wouldn't change a thing. Her fear wasn't logical—it was primal. And yet, bravery doesn't need logic. 'You coward,' a voice screamed in her mind.' Have you forgotten the sacred words of the Emperor? Cowards will die of shame! Stand up and fight!'

The words burned into her heart like fire. Elizabeth clenched her teeth, her breath ragged. Slowly, she extended her hand toward the bolter. Daemon's monstrous form loomed before her, oblivious to her movement. Its cruel laughter echoed in the room as it toyed with the remains of her Sisters. Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the bolter, and in that moment, a spark ignited within her. Not hope—hope was a fragile, fleeting thing—but rage. The righteous fury of a daughter of the Emperor. 'For the Emperor, 'she thought, her grip tightening on the weapon. 'For my Sisters. For humanity.' Not all warriors are fearless, and not all nuns are unshakable in their loyalty. The Imperium has its share of weak links, and Elizabeth realized, with dawning horror, that she might be one of them.

Among the Sisters lost was Eryndis, a senior nun Elizabeth had always admired. She was everything Elizabeth aspired to be—kind, compassionate, a mentor to newcomers, and a stalwart warrior on the battlefield. Eryndis had been the warmth in the grim, cold reality of their crusades. She had treated Elizabeth with gentle care, guiding her through the trials of their shared service. Now, she was unrecognizable. Her broken body lay on the ground, stripped of dignity, Daemon having torn it apart with grotesque indifference. Her legs had been bitten off, her torso ravaged, and her once-kind face twisted in eternal agony. The sight twisted something inside Elizabeth.

Nearby, Sister Marcellia was still alive, though barely. Her face was a mangled mess, her limbs contorted in impossible directions. Daemon had discarded her like a broken toy, and now she lay moaning weakly, her words incoherent. Elizabeth tried to suppress her anguish. 'Do not look, do not hear, do not think.' She repeated the words like a mantra, but the nightmarish reality seeped through.

Then she heard new sounds—footsteps, a woman's voice murmuring strange, agonized words. Elizabeth opened her eyes just a crack, dreading what she might see. Her worst fears were realized. Suspended in the air by vile, writhing appendages was Sister Lysandria, their leader and mentor. Lysandria had been a paragon of faith, her conviction unyielding, her strength an inspiration to all under her command. The Emperor's light had shone brightly through her, and her steadfast belief had given hope even in the darkest of battles.

Now, that light was gone. Daemon had ensnared her with grotesque, vine-like appendages. Two wrapped tightly around her arms, pulling her upward, while others held her legs apart, suspending her in midair like a mockery of the Imperial Aquila. Lysandria's power armor, once a shining testament to her devotion, was broken and discarded.Elizabeth's heart sank. How could this happen? Lysandria had been their leader, their protector, a warrior blessed by the Emperor Himself. She had prayed with unshakable resolve, and her faith had always carried them through. Yet here she was, desecrated and broken, a mere plaything for Chaos. 'How could she fall? How could she abandon her duty?'