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Perhaps every Warhammer fan knows that this universe is built on an impressive scale. Gods and demons devour each other. Interstellar fleets, like candles, burn out in the indifferent void. Millions of dead are nothing more than daily statistics, and planets are mere bargaining chips on a political map. It goes without saying that such a vast and fascinating place cannot exist without heroes. And heroes—they come in all shapes and sizes. Saint Celestine, soaring on snow-white wings above the battlefield. Ursarkar Creed, trapped in Trazyn's storage room like a fly in amber. A nameless guardsman who lived an average of 15 hours and died in a bayonet charge. And, of course, the ordinary regimental commissar, whose job it is to maintain the required level of courage, no matter what. But this issue is about a commissar—but not quite an ordinary one. Perhaps one could even call him a healthy man's commissar. "Who is he?" an interested neophyte might ask. And who else but old Caiphas Cain himself!