A group of soldiers armoured in soot-covered bluesteel rushes forward. Their heading is a hooded figure all clad in rags, the fabric unsuitably thick, torn at the corners and sides and leaving trails of thread and cloth flowing around like dark malignant mist. In the figure’s hand is a long pole that extends to a tip where two flashing sharp fangs protrude in opposite directions – the double-bladed scythe. The soldiers are equipped with Screened greatshields in one hand and Sharpened shortswords in the other – each of them shrouded in a faint blue gleam – and with a mighty warcry they throw themselves at the lone figure.

The figure only leaps a smooth step fromhither to raise the bizarre weapon up into the air, where it dematerialises just to be replaced with a massive warhammer that appears out of thin air. And as quickly as all that the ragged figure slams the switched-in weapon down at the soldiers from an elevated side, flinging those that were unfortunately caught in the blow into the air, their shields and helmets shattering even before they could land where their bones snap and their last breath is snatched. Their formation broken, the scythe returns and the figure proceeds to cut down the chaotic remnants.

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Yet there is an interruption as a barrage of spears rain down and the figure has to dance backwards. Without any delay and even swifter in pace, the figure lunges at the source of the interruption and cracks the warhammer down on wide blue translucent plates – the gleaming Screens – that shatter upon impact along with the greatshields underneath, smashing the defenders flat and squashed onto the ground. Bloodcurdling screams pierce the air while new orders are quickly given and the soldiers reassemble their ranks, but their efforts prove futile as the figure pummels through the fragile hastily-established defence lines with relative ease. Disciplined Soul-sourcers these Mankind soldiers are, yet they are outmatched, stuck disoriented by the fact that they could be outmanoeuvred by a single foe such that they continue failing to properly rally up.

Back with the scythe once more, the figure hacks and slices, each cut taking another life, as swift as the fluttering of the dark malignant mist trailing behind each movement.

The knight pushes himself onto his feet and brings down the shield from his back. With one hand, he pulls on his helmet.