BOOM!
BOOM—!
BOOM-BOOM—!
...
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The deafening thunder of explosions assaulted the senses, the very air thick with a suffocating heat that burned the lungs.
When the bright plasma detonations erupted across the orbital defense lines of Cadia, the interwoven beams of light lances turned the fortress world's skies into a storm of violent electromagnetic flares. Macro shells rained down like fiery comets, bursting in waves of molten steel and flame that clawed their way skyward from the shattered surface below.
The fortress world was undergoing its greatest trial—one of life and death.
Like blazing orange blades, the orbital bombardments pierced downward, striking the planet's massive void shield arrays that blanketed Cadia's fortresses. Rolling thunder cascaded across the heavens, rippling the blue-white barrier fields like water stirred by a storm.
Then came the second volley. The third.
The armies of Chaos—especially Abaddon's Black Legion—had inherited much from the tactics of the Imperium.
Whatever else they were, they always started with orbital bombardment.
The bombardment came like a torrential downpour, relentless and merciless. The heavens above were thick with storm clouds of fire and lightning, as though the entire firmament had come alive. The charged energy fields boiled and roared like a tempest raging over a vast ocean.
The saturation bombardment fell from orbit without pause. The Chaos fleets that had surged through the Eye of Terror now poured forth in endless waves, flooding from the warp rift like a dam burst open.
Though the Cadian fleet fought desperately, it was a battle of attrition—numbers would decide the outcome. More and more Chaos warships breached the void, joining the assault.
Countless shells screamed through the atmosphere, trailing fire.
One such shell streaked over the head of Dubois, a civilian rogue trader of the Holy Selene Empire. It struck an invisible shield overhead, bursting into a blinding fireball and a plume of black smoke that spread across the battlefield, echoing with an eerie wail—like the whispers of the dead.
The flames illuminated his face—handsome yet pale, untouched by Chaos corruption, but weary beyond measure.
War had begun.
At first, Dubois had clung to hope, to ambition. He believed that if he persevered, he could rise to the pinnacle of both man and god. Instead, he had nearly found himself swallowed by a Tyranid hive fleet.
At the cost of nearly his entire flotilla, he had used a destroyer armed with a dark matter fission bomb as bait to lure in a void-leviathan. Only two of his largest cruisers had survived, escaping by using the golden light of a distant star as their point of reference while overcharging their shipborne Honkai Crystals to jump away through the warp.
Whether those cursed Tyranids had been annihilated, he did not know—but the leviathan itself had certainly perished. He had seen its vast, gaping maw bloom with light as bright as a sun.
Guided by the ship's AI—a semi-sentient automaton—they had barely navigated their way through the storm-wracked tides of the warp, finding a narrow, relatively stable corridor through which to escape.
For a brief moment during that jump, the fractured Honkai energy fields around them had revealed glimpses of something—terrifying, incomprehensible things that Dubois could never forget.
It was… unnatural.
This universe was poisoned.
First the Tyranids, then the heretics, and now—this. From the scale of it, this was no mere raiding force. This was a crusade.
They couldn't handle it. No one could.
They had to summon the main Imperial fleet—quickly.
As Dubois and his crew scrambled to contact the Imperial Navy, nearby flashes of combat caught their attention.
Upon scanning the engagement, they realized the outmatched fleet under fire was composed of ships remarkably similar to their own—though with more gothic ornamentation: skulls, cathedrals, and gilded angels. Still, for a rogue trader flotilla, such personal flair was not unusual—as long as it didn't overstep the boundaries of Imperial decorum.
For example, bringing an unauthorized figurine of the Divine Empress aboard one's ship would be considered blasphemous overreach—a grave offense that could end in financial ruin once the stingy bureaucrats of the Imperial military caught wind of it.
A muttered complaint from a rogue trader of the Sacred Selene Empire: "The God-Emperor Herself never made such a decree, yet they monopolize Her honor as if it were their own."
On the opposing side, however—what an abomination.
Foul. Reeking. Disgusting.
The enemy vessels' original metallic hues were completely unrecognizable—smeared with gore and festooned with skulls. Blood and flesh coated their hulls, and some ships had even merged with the organic matter covering them, becoming writhing abominations of steel and rot. The stench of plague carried for leagues, a green, oozing fog of filth.
There was no need to think twice—
Target the heretics!
With a grimace, Dubois made the painful decision to expend one of his remaining dark matter fission bombs to strike them down.
He had no choice. Nearly every escort, destroyer, armed transport, and auxiliary ship in his trading fleet had been devoured by the Tyranid swarm. Only two Lunar-class cruisers remained. The strongest firepower had survived, yes—but his resources were gone.
So he loaded the warhead into the largest torpedo launcher aboard one of his cruisers and fired it straight at the most corrupted of the Chaos vessels.
While the enemy reeled from the destruction of their flagship and chaos spread through their formation, Dubois seized the moment—rushing forward to rendezvous with the other fleet of rogue traders, broadcasting frantically for them to flee together.
To everyone's disbelief, they discovered they couldn't understand each other's language. After much confusion, hand signals, and flag semaphores, they managed to coordinate just enough to retreat in unison.
Fleeing toward the Cadian Gate Defense Zone, both sides continued to communicate.
In the vast galaxy, the Imperium of Man was infamous for its paranoia and suspicion—but these strangers had saved Imperial citizens. They appeared to be human, uncorrupted, and similarly fleeing from the Eye of Terror after suffering heavy losses.
Thus, for once, the Cadian detachment that encountered them remained cooperative and open—treating them as allies rather than foes.
Eventually, the Cadians sent over a wetware device—a horrifying hybrid of machinery and half-living tissue. In the Imperium, nearly every complex machine operated via a cogitator—a form of bio-computer made from a cloned or harvested human brain.
Dubois, through the assistance of his ship's AI servant, managed to interface with the device, adapting its fragmented neural-language data and patching its translation software. Slowly, they achieved basic communication.
A series of halting exchanges followed—full of misinterpretations and garbled translations.
But at last, both sides learned what they needed to know.
The Cadians received shocking information and immediately began transmitting reports through their command hierarchy. Dubois, in turn, learned the location of the nearest Imperial military outpost.
Their destination was the same. Agreement came easily.
Of course, retreating was never a calm affair. As both fleets prepared to withdraw, Abaddon the Despoiler's Black Legion surged forth in full force, launching a merciless pursuit.
The dire situation became painfully clear. Upon finally reaching the fortress world of Cadia, Dubois's two ten-kilometer Lunar-class cruisers were immediately requisitioned by the Cadian command.
For the first time, Dubois began to doubt them.
He remembered the last remaining dark matter fission bomb. When he turned it over to the Imperials, their reaction—their suspicion, their paranoia, their distrust even of their own—only deepened his unease.
Since when had the Imperial military become so poor?
A single weak planet-killer bomb—enough to make them panic? Two old Lunar-class cruisers—worth requisitioning?
"Strange…" he muttered. "The enemy's at their doorstep, yet I haven't seen a single Astartes Angel of the Emperor… or any Imperial auxiliaries for that matter."
Tightening his grip on the orichalcum-steel case in his arms, lined with veins of shifting violet light, Dubois glanced around. Aside from his seven or eight personal guards, the rest were strangers.
They were soldiers—Kasrkin elite stormtroopers—encased in sealed carapace armor, their weapons modified with reinforced barrels, thermal cooling coils, and gyrostabilized power packs for their hot-shot lasguns.
There were Imperial Navy officers among them—and even Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, leading contingents of Skitarii and Ministorum guards.
Those red-robed figures… were they even still human?
Clad in crimson robes bearing the sigil of the cog and skull, their flesh was stitched with metal, their skin wrinkled and pallid. Beneath their hoods, mouths were sealed with steel implants, faces disfigured by machinery. Their eyes were nothing but mechanical augmetics—soulless, milky white.
Could such beings even be called human anymore? How much of their flesh was truly their own?
The metallic conduits that passed for hands gripped the hafts of weapons and axes, cable-like tendrils slithering from beneath their sleeves. Wires extended from their hunched bodies, connecting to the floating servo-skulls that hovered behind them.
…Alright, fine. Collecting skulls—sure, that's normal enough for the Imperium's soldiers. Heads as trophies, proof of valor—it's practically a tradition.
But mindless servitors? Flying cybernetic infants? And what was with the way they "maintained" their weapons—as if they were praying to them?
Watching the half-mechanical priests swinging censers and sprinkling holy oils and sanctified water over a massive triple-barreled fortress cannon, Dubois could only stare in stunned disbelief.
What was this?
Even the Seventeenth Legion—the Word Bearers, the most zealously religious of the Astartes—couldn't possibly match this level of ritualistic obsession.
And most concerning of all—their weapons and equipment seemed… mediocre.
Keeping his doubts to himself, Dubois and his retinue, escorted by a heavily armed detachment, made their way from the nearest ground-to-orbit landing zone of Kasr toward the Cadian High Command's massive Thorn Fortress.
Tap, tap, tap, tap—
They walked through corridors filled with soldiers in full battle gear, faces grim and movements hurried. As Dubois scrutinized these Imperial troops, the Cadian soldiers eyed him in return—a pale, unnaturally clean man with refined attire and the air of someone who'd never handled a weapon in his life.
Who is this man?
Dubois, meanwhile, could hardly suppress his thoughts. These are the Emperor's soldiers? Their equipment looks worse than that of some auxiliary regiments…
Both sides regarded one another with doubt.
The Cadian garrison soldiers wondered why such a delicate-looking stranger—accompanied by Imperial Navy officers and even Tech-Priests—warranted such an escort.
The presence of Kasrkin stormtroopers drew even greater attention. Among the Cadian troops, whose violet eyes were the mark of their birthright, many turned to watch as the elite passed.
To every Cadian, the word Kasrkin carried immense weight.
It was not merely the name of the fortress world's elite shock troops—it was an honor.
Only a few recruits showed enough promise in their early training to be reassigned to the Kasrkin. Most earned the title after surviving countless campaigns and proving their mettle again and again.
Trained relentlessly and armed with superior equipment, Kasrkin troopers equaled—or even surpassed—any non-augmented human soldier in the Imperium. Each could lead a squad or platoon in battle.
Their courage, discipline, and skill far outmatched those of standard guardsmen. Thus, they were entrusted with the most perilous missions.
Some soldiers, rushing toward their assigned defense lines, glanced at Dubois and muttered to themselves: That pretty boy—could he be a diplomat from Terra?
Dubois's pale eyes, unfocused, gazed toward the distant expanse of steel and fortifications. Perhaps he was merely daydreaming—or perhaps, he was observing everything in meticulous, calculating detail.
As the largest fortress on Cadia—and home to its supreme command—the Kasr Kraf Fortress sprawled across a vast expanse. Its exterior was a metallic jungle of bastions, turrets, and colossal artillery batteries.
The Tech-Priests who oversaw its construction once boasted that the fortress world of Cadia was stronger than Macragge, second only to Holy Terra itself.
Within the thick adamantium walls and layers of void-shield generators, gunboats and troop carriers surged like blood through the veins of a living organism, transporting fully armed soldiers to every sector of the planet's defenses.
Soon the ground itself trembled under the rhythmic pounding of the fortress guns. The thunder of macro shells shook even the great statues that stood sentinel nearby.
Above, rows of cannons—short and long alike—belched golden light lances into the heavens. Yet Dubois's attention was drawn elsewhere, to a voice—deep, commanding, and filled with purpose.
He turned, awe and fear mingling in his gaze.
"An Angel of the Empress…" he whispered, lips trembling. His pace quickened—then slowed. "…Strange. They seem… smaller."
"Lord Castellan!"
The Kasrkin officer leading the escort saluted the stocky middle-aged man in an olive-green greatcoat, a cigar between his teeth, a ceremonial power sword at his side.
Ursarkar E. Creed removed the cigar, exhaling a plume of smoke. His face bore its usual calm, faint smile—but the emotions in his eyes, the mixture of hope and tension, were plain to see.
At his side stood officers of the Cadian Shock Troops, three commissars, two solemn-faced Inquisitors, and several squads of Space Marines. Their hands rested on weapons, eyes sharp and watchful. Among them were sanctioned psykers, specially trained by the Imperium's Scholastica Psykana. All gazed upon the stranger before them—the man rumored to have come from the time of the Great Crusade.
"Creed, are you certain of your theory?"
"You expect us to believe such a tale?"
"Abaddon's fleet has already reached Cadia—mere hours behind them! How do you know this one isn't a Chaos infiltrator?"
Several of the Space Marine sergeants voiced their doubts.
'…No signs of Chaos corruption, Lord Castellan.'
The low murmur of the Rune Priest from the Space Wolves Chapter finally allowed Creed to exhale in relief.
"Young man," the Rune Priest growled, his gray, wolfish eyes narrowing. "What's that look in your eyes?"
He was a fearsome warrior, his rough blond hair falling in wild tangles, his broad, red-tinted face reminiscent of the warriors of the far eastern steppes. His slit-pupiled eyes gleamed with the predatory sharpness of a wolf.
A psychic amplifier mounted to the back of his skull marked him clearly as a psyker.
Under the gaze of all present, Dubois placed down his orichalcum case, pressed the side of his translation device, and knelt upon one knee, hand over heart in a knightly salute.
"Are you an Angel of the Sixth Legion—of the Space Wolves?"
"Fool! Of course I am a Son of Russ! Or do you take me for a whelp of Magnus?"
"I once had the honor of beholding Lord Russ himself during my stay on the Imperial Palace…"
"What?!"
In an instant, the Rune Priest's scarred face was inches from his own. His gauntleted hand clamped down on Dubois's shoulder, fabric straining under the sudden force. "Watch your tongue, boy! Such words demand proof—or blood!"
"Is that so strange?" Dubois countered calmly, his fist pressed to his chest. "During the Holy Great Crusade, the twenty Primarchs stood beside the God-Emperor. Though I was not born under the Sixth Legion's ruleworld, every citizen of the Imperium knew their names—those who walked in the God-Emperor's stead."
The conviction in his tone was unshakable.
By now, Dubois was certain—
These men resembled the Astartes, yes—but they were not the Astartes he knew.
He, after all, was the direct descendant of a noble line from one of the Selene Empire's vassal colonies. Even for a rogue trader, basic Honkai-enhanced augmentation was standard practice.
And yet—these so-called Astartes were shorter, less radiant. They lacked the faint but unmistakable spiritual resonance that every Imperial citizen of the Sacred Selene Empire instinctively recognized.
If Selene herself were here, she would likely find the difference amusing.
The contrast was clear—between gene-forged warriors and Honkai-forged soldiers.
"Hmph. You play your part well, stranger—but do you take us for fools? Ten thousand years adrift in the Warp, and you emerge whole, untouched? Your memories will tell the truth—"
The Rune Priest's fanged teeth bared in a wolfish snarl. Lightning-blue psychic energy arced between his gauntlets.
"Enough!" ×2
"Are all of you Wolves so barbaric?"
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