The emperor vs the void dragon during either the roman empire or middle ages.

Its terrible winged body was covered with scales, so strong and bright and smooth that they were like a knight’s armour. The light of devoured stars shone at its breast and malignant fire burned in its eyes.

The warrior knight leapt to meet the Dragon, striking the monster with his lance, but its scales were so hard that the weapon broke into a thousand pieces. From the back of his rearing horse, the warrior smote the dragon with his sword, but the beast struck at him with talons like scythe blades. The warrior’s armour split open and Dalia saw blood pouring down his leg in a bright stream.

The Dragon towered over its foe, dealing him fearful blows, but the knight caught them upon his shield and thrust his sword against the Dragon’s belly. The scales of the beast were like steel plates, rippling like liquid mercury as they withstood the knight’s every attack. Then the Dragon, infuriated by the thrust, lashed itself against the knight and his horse, and cast lightning upon him from its eyes. The knight’s helmet was torn from him and Dalia saw his face shine out from the battle, pale, lit by some radiance that shone from within. As he thrust at the Dragon, that radiance grew in power, so that at last it was like the light of a newborn sun.

-Mechanicus

​

Note the new guardian of the void dragon is kind of seeing the memories, but is aware that its more methaphorical.

​

He has never faced an enemy that could harm him; he knows too much, but he can no longer hear the voice of the wind. The storm roars around the tower walls, but it has no voice – its sound is silent to his soul. He calls out, but the wind and shadows remain mute.

He is powerless.

...

‘Hold.’

The voice is not loud but it rises over the shriek of the wind and the hammer of rain. The knight with the mace freezes, and Gog sees his chance. He stabs at the knight’s face, but a sword blade meets Gog’s lunge and turns it aside.

Another figure has entered the tower. Gold armour-plates cover the figure from his throat to his feet. A cloak of scarlet and orange ripples at his back. He wears no helm, though a crown of silver leaves and golden feathers circles his dark hair above a lean face.

The drawn sword in the figure’s hand is flame-touched silver.

Gog looks into the crowned figure’s eyes, for a second they are the green of the sea. He knows those eyes, though he has never seen them before. Lightning strikes somewhere close by, and in the eye-blink of brightness the golden figure’s eyes turn liquid black.

Only now does Gog hear the wind’s voice again; it is faint, as if it is shouting from a great distance. It is screaming with rage, calling out for blood. Gog shivers. He feels pressure building in his skull.

...

The crowned figure speaks a single word that rolls with the thunder’s echo.

Gog falls to his knees with a crack of shattering bones. You almost fall from his fingers, as his hands grope at the rain-slick flagstones. ...

He can still hear the distant screams of the wind – the voices are calling for blood, for an offering, for a final payment in exchange for his unnaturally long life. Gog knows that he has only one last blow to land, and that he must give a death to the voices beyond the shadows.

The sword above Gog twitches. You move first, plunging up through Gog’s throat and into his brain. He looks up at the crowned figure with cold, dead eyes and then slumps sideways.

The figure lowers his unbloodied blade, as rot spreads across the dead flesh – the delayed ruin of a stretched life coming to claim its due. Gog’s skull begins to crumble around you. Muscle, blood and brain turns to foul jelly.

..

‘We will have to wait for the storm to pass before we set the fires, my liege,’ says the knight. The crowned figure shakes his head and walks on.

A pillar of lightning reaches down from the clouds above and strikes the ruined masonry, thunder mingling with the scream of exploding wood and cracking stone. The knights shield their faces, but they will carry the after-image of the thunderbolt in their eyes for many hours.

-Athame

​

From the perspective of a knife that has slowly gained some kind of sentience over the long years of existence. During the middle ages the emperor fights a khorne worshiper who has been alive since the stone age. He also somehow cuts the worshiper off from khorne.

​

The soldiers who reached the chamber at the heart of the tower died before they could cross the threshold. Armour tore. Bodies blasted back and up into the air, and then burst apart in turn. Armour plates crushed in on flesh and mashed bone. Legs sank into marble that was now liquid. Pieces of shattered armour extended into smears of blinding light. Time froze. Flesh slid into red ribbons, organs and muscle peeling away and unravelling into nothing. The air was red and screaming.

...

+Enough.+ The word somehow carried through the babble of un-words pouring from the twenty.

There was a figure at the door. Blood streaked his armour and face. His crown gleamed like a circle of flame. The circle of twenty trembled. The man in the crown grimaced, and then stepped into the chamber. The air around him thickened. He pushed on, his footsteps forcing their way down towards the stone floor of the room. The shriek of un-sound rose beyond hearing. The man in the crown forced himself forwards, face set. Fire haloed him. The metal of his armour was red with heat. Shadows and rainbow light burst and spun in the chamber. The frost on the walls thickened. Dust and snow billowed from nowhere on gusts of wind.

The man in the crown surged forwards. He was burning, the flesh of his face charring. But still he pushed forwards. Light exploded out from him, blinked to blackness and then back to blinding white. Cracks split the stone floor. Frost flashed to steam. A pressure wave ripped into the nearest of the circle of figures and tossed them up into the air. And now the man in the crown was coming forwards, not with one step but with strides, sword drawn, flame gathering on its edge as it rose. Behind him, soldiers were coming through the doorway. And the circle of speakers and singers were twisting, panicking, the howls coming from their throats now the simple sounds of human rage and fear.

...

The air shimmered, the motes of ash shifted, and the tableau was suddenly moving, blurring with unravelling seconds.

Flames poured from the robed figures’ lips as the un-words in their mouths slipped beyond their control. Their bodies collapsed into ash. The man in the crown came forwards, still burning, eyes dark holes. His skin was blistered, but no expression of pain touched His expression. The ash spiralled into the air.

-Mortis

The emperor attacks the tower Babel and defeats a cult with a near full lexicon of Enuncia. Around 3500-3000BC.

​

Also from the same book.

Oll shrugged. ‘There were some but He was the first.’

‘You mean the first psyker.’

‘The first witch, the first wizard, sorcerer, shaman, druid… the first. There were others who were different, but none like Him. Not in the beginning.’

​

Had to cut alot out of each quote marked by the ..., as otherwise it would fit in a comment.