The Inquisition fields no army. It fields an authority. A single Inquisitor and a hand-picked retinue of Throne Agents — a psyker, an anti-psyker, an assassin, a tech-adept, a mailed Crusader — each a different instrument turned against a different heresy. Where other forces win by weight of numbers, the Inquisition wins by the exactness of its tools and by the seal its master carries: the mandate that compels the wider Imperium to fight at its side.
That mandate is Requisition, the retinue's defining power. An Inquisitor's word presses Space Marines, Battle Sisters, Guardsmen and the tempered killers of the Officio Assassinorum into service they owe no formal duty. The borrowed muscle is never truly owned — every requisitioned body takes the place of one of the Inquisitor's own, so a retinue that borrows heavily marches thinner for it.
There is no swarm here, and no miraculous save. Endurance is honest carapace plate, a bought rosarius field on the master, and a handful of resilient elites. The Inquisition is the surgeon's answer to the galaxy's rot: few hands, each holding the precise blade the wound demands, and the authority to call down heavier steel when the blade is not enough.