The void sings tonight. Another patrol, another harvest of souls. Praise be.
I came upon a Minmatar patrol in the Ezzara system — four frigates, barely holding together with scrap and stolen tech. Laughable. I activated the lasers without a word. Their hulls crumpled like paper before the Emperor's righteous fury. I took no prisoners. There is no redemption for their kind, only absolution in death.
I feel the pulse of God in every kill. The light of my turrets cleansing the filth of this galaxy. Every wreckage a testament to the might of Amarr, every burning husk a sermon.
Some within the Empire would call me excessive. Fools. They lack the stomach for true devotion. The heretic, the unbeliever, the disloyal — all must burn. Mercy is heresy.
I dream of a galaxy purged of the faithless. The stars themselves will bow to Holy Amarr. And I — Jakov Retjar, the Hand of Fire — will be the blade that makes it so.
I go now to hunt again. There are whispers of a Gallente supply line near Chaven. The Godless cowards will not see dawn.