Boom—
Lances of heavy flamer washed out, incinerating the heap of monstrous mutant raptors that clogged the gate.
They crumbled to charcoal.
The Pasong tribe's Sentinel walkers cleared the obstacles with brutal efficiency, opening a path for the new Guardian's column behind them.
"By the Emperor…"
Iron Knight Hadda watched, half in awe and half in worry.
He could not help picturing what that fire would do to him if it touched—his iron mail would never stop such heat.
The Pasong tribe's army—armed to the teeth by the Savior's materiel—dealt the Lion's own Iron-Knight host another heavy shock.
The weapons gulf between the two tribes was vast, enough to bruise the knights' morale.
They had long thought themselves the strongest army in the jungle, every man burning with pride.
But these steel beasts and towering armored warriors pricked their illusion like a bubble.
The gap was of entire ages—as if apemen of a primal tribe had met a modern armored brigade.
Resistance or rivalry hardly even entered the mind.
Learning that the Pasong tribe's arms and armor were gifts from the Savior, the Iron Knights unconsciously carved that name into memory.
Yet they did not let it crush them.
A true knight must keep his pride, face the gap, and bow to no hardship or foe.
"We came to aid Pasong; we can't let them look down on us."
"Iron Knights know no fear."
"Stand tall!"
They rallied their spirit and escorted the precious food deeper into the settlement.
"Pasong may have mighty arms and armor, but they cannot possibly have the meat our tribe enjoys."
Hadda thrust out his chest, refusing to glance at the daunting wall and those steel monsters.
His tribe had its merits.
On this world, meat was a treasure; most beasts carried venom, and countless tribesfolk had lived their whole lives without tasting flesh.
Meat existed mostly in old stories, passed down by elders.
Sometimes the people would gather by the fire to hear the shamans tell how the forebears feasted—the Emperor's Ascension revels, the banquets of palace and king.
But the Lord Lion had found a way to render flesh safe to eat, letting the tribe taste the legendary food once more—what greatness was that?
Hadda still remembered his first bite—his hands trembled as he bit down, the sour, fatty savor almost making him shake.
Many had wept then—partly for the flavor, partly because Lord Lion had let them touch the afterglow of yesteryear.
Before Kamas' sky had been devoured and the end had fallen, their ancestors had eaten just so.
"The Pasong people will be struck dumb when they see this meat."
Swallowing, he eyed the carts piled under broad leaves.
He could not help a flicker of anticipation.
Once inside, perhaps the Lord Lion would declare a feast, and all would share the savory game.
Then Pasong would sing the Lion's greatness.
His gaze swept the convoy to the tall figure at its head—the being the Iron Knights followed—
The First Primarch, the Lord Lion.
A presence whose shadow meant safety and the promise of a better life.
Hadda had already planned it: as soon as they entered Pasong he would throw back the cart-leaves—
Let them see what bounty the Lord Lion had brought.
The other knights agreed; they had braved danger to bring aid—they should show their worth.
And proclaim the Lion's wise generosity.
"We're here…"
The convoy passed the high wall into Pasong; the Iron Knights raised the Lion's banner and strode in with martial pride.
They whipped back the cover leaves to reveal cart after cart of dark-red, almost black, dried meat.
"Brothers of Pasong!"
Hadda filled his lungs, voice deep and steady, drawing every eye.
He seized a thick strip of jerky and lifted it high, so all could see this precious flesh.
"Behold—give thanks!
This is the Lord Lion's gift to you—purified meat fit for our tables, the food of our forebears!
This is the Lord Lion's handiwork—what greatness—he—"
He stalled.
His raised hand clenched upon the meat without thinking.
He had finally seen what lay ahead.
A carnival of a feast—steel machines lined up with racks groaning under whole cuts of meat.
Not black, sour jerky—but great slabs of fresh flesh, marbled red and white in perfect ratio.
They looked irresistible.
Fat dripped onto iron plates with a sizzle, and a wave of impossible fragrance rolled over him.
His mouth watered; his stomach growled, betraying him.
Shame washed in after, deep enough to drown him.
"Gulp—th-this…"
Hadda stood frozen, jerky aloft, under a hundred stares—helpless as a child.
Several Pasong tribesmen gnawed grox steaks, grease shining on their lips, waiting to hear what this stranger would say next.
Not understanding, they twisted the knife: "Do you want some? His Majesty the Savior's marinated cuts—so fragrant…"
Hadda almost broke. He shoved the dark jerky back into the cart and wished he could vanish.
Pasong was throwing a vast open-grill banquet—and he had just finished shouting praises for the Lion's rank, sour jerky in front of everyone.
It was mortifying—dragging the Lion's pride through the dirt alongside his own.
Beneath the giant trees, the feast sprawled among hastily pitched army tents; several six- or seven-meter field galley trucks lined up, roasting a variety of meats.
There was toasted bread and baked potatoes, too, and heaps of fruits and vegetables.
A riot of color, scent, and savor.
The Pasong folk reveled in the Savior's bounty—throwing the Lion's jerky into cruel contrast.
Worse, the knights had shouted it aloud.
The scene doubled in awkwardness.
Now they stood, at a loss, eyes locked on the field kitchens, longing to crane forward and steal a bite.
That raw, gene-deep hunger for pure food was almost impossible to suppress.
At the head of the line, two tall figures had turned to stone.
Under the people's looks, they even felt the itch to turn and run.
"Y-Your Highness… we should let the knights join the feast. They've eaten little these last days."
Zahariel let out a long breath, trying to bleed off the mortification.
He could barely stand to look at the men swallowing hard and pretending composure.
It was too shameful.
More shameful still was his gene-sire, the Lion—perhaps the most embarrassing moment the First Legion had ever suffered.
Their lord had hauled carefully prepared supplies across hazards to conquer this tribe—only to look like a beggar at their feast.
It was brutal.
For one who prized honor, this was a blow to the face—the unforgettable kind.
"…Mm."
The Lion took a long time to push out the single syllable.
Humiliation flooded him until his armored toes squeaked in their boots; he had never felt so awkward, so small.
Slapped down by the Savior at a distance—his head rang.
Zahariel still held authority here as Pasong's Guardian, and swiftly had the elders seat the Iron Knights at the feast.
He sent food to the convoy's tribesfolk as well.
Soon no one spared a thought for the Lion's "rank jerky." They gorged themselves upon the Savior's fare, tears running down their faces.
When humans taste the pinnacle of flavor, they weep.
The Lion found the scene absurd.
A primitive tribe dotted with Imperial army tents and modern gear; tribesmen, armored troopers, and Iron Knights sitting together over a spread fit for nobles.
Poverty and backwardness fused with advancement and luxury; the Savior's materiel had transformed the tribe.
Jungle hardship had become enjoyment.
…
"These are… the Savior's theater-level field-supply systems?"
Seated in a tent, the Lion paged through a multi-lingual "user booklet," glanced out at a six- or seven-meter field galley truck, and felt the absurdity deepen.
Was the Imperium truly so wealthy now?
Even during the Great Crusade the logistics had never been like this; with a few tins and some self-heating synth-food you counted yourself lucky.
But the Savior's train served all fresh food; not even on Caliban had the Lion eaten so well.
It was, in truth, no miracle. The Savior commanded numerous agri-worlds running Golden Age farm techniques—the yields were staggering.
With such stores, the army should be fed well—not pinched and starved like the Old Imperium's troopers.
Soldiers bled on battlefields; if you did not fill their bellies, how were they to fight?
Back on Old Terra there had been a famed army whose logistics strove to serve hot, balanced meals; some kitchens cooked to order, and provisioning vehicles climbed any terrain.
Compared to that, the Savior's feeding plan might even be conservative.
There was still room to learn.
…
The Lion sipped juice, savoring the taste on the tongue.
Since waking, he had hardly eaten a normal meal.
Before the laden tables, a thought struck him; his face darkened; a small ache tugged at his heart.
A possibility—
That the Savior had plundered the Imperium's scant stores, squandering them to pamper his troops.
Imperial hive-worlds already strained under the Tithe; if more were heaped upon them, how brutal would the suffering be?
"Damn him!"
His fist knotted; sorrow creased his brow.
Such luxury, such waste—how many Imperial subjects must starve, how many die?
How could such exploitation be forgiven?
Then he opened another booklet—and stalled again.
This one spelled out, with images and captions, the source of every food item in the supply—farm vistas, safety standards, harvesting—complete with "green food" marks.
Per the text:
All field rations came from the Savior's own agri-worlds—the top grades at that—guaranteeing both flavor and health.
It was so detailed it bordered on pedantry—even the provenance of every cut was logged.
The Lion did not know the truth: the agri-ministry had compiled the booklet to curry favor—desperate to show they worked hard, because their output was otherwise too efficient to look impressive.
If they could not flaunt effort in toil, they would in documentation—especially when delivering to the war office.
"…?"
The Lion stared at the familiar-yet-strange script until even his grief could not keep its shape.
If these foods all came from the Savior's worlds, what crime was it to feed his soldiers well?
Were the Lion able, he would have done no less.
He frowned, feeling—again—that he had lost to this Savior on another front.
That made two in a row.
He shoved another steak into his mouth to refill his reserves; a Primarch could fight long without food in extremis—
—but matter was still matter, and this was a material world.
"The fellow's food does taste good."
So he thought.
Music swelled—the Savior's hymnals rolling over the tribe, verses praising that great and gracious presence from every angle.
Pasong's elders came out to give thanks and led prayers of praise.
That was the point of the feast—to give thanks.
From the crate's "holy texts" they had learned that today was the Savior's Descent Day, when all His subjects held grand celebrations in His honor.
"Descent Day" had once been Urth's Reclamation Day, but as the realm widened the festival was renamed for easier spread.
The singing and thanking flowed on, joyous—yet it did not gladden the Lion.
It grated. The joys of men did not converge.
Every note and word felt like the Savior whispering mockery in his ear, reminding him how far less welcome he was.
Most of all when he saw his tribesfolk join the hymns.
He did not know why, but he kept measuring himself against the Savior—call it the magnetism of two warlords, or simply the first real failure in a long, long time.
His food turned to paste. He swallowed, rose, and slipped from the feast to clear his head.
He skirted the great trees toward the rear of the settlement.
"Your Highness…"
Zahariel followed, the veteran trying to soothe his sire's mood.
"This may be a blessing in disguise. With these resources, we can leave this world far sooner."
"You're not wrong."
The Lion let out a breath. "Pity the man dropped so little on Kamas; nowhere near enough for our plans."
Such supplies could win songs and prayers—but for rebuilding a planetary civilization, they were scant.
"If he'd given us more, I'd thank him properly—koff, koff—"
He looked up with a bleak little quip—and almost choked on it.
In his view stretched hills of war-stock, rolling away like low mountains.
At the same time, his vambrace auspex howled; the metal mass ahead had spiked beyond easy count.
The giant trees had screened the rear—he had not seen any of this before.
Zahariel stared with him, stunned.
"Your Highness… we may truly owe the Savior thanks."
…?!
The Lion stood, numb, before the wealth of a small crusade.
Was the Savior targeting him—forcing such a complete defeat?
The thought flashed—and then he laughed, broad and genuine.
Whatever the bruised pride, this was fortune; he would not have to build civilization from one.
Very lucky indeed.
A few great bounds carried him onto the "supply mountain," twenty meters high and stretching on and on—and his surprise deepened.
There was simply too much: construction machines, building materials, and a greater pile of arms and armor.
A dozen Sentinel walkers were strewn like toys; nearby lay racks with perhaps two hundred suits of personal combat armor.
"Perhaps these were lost cargo, not a deliberate drop."
So the Lion guessed.
To seed a primitive world with such treasure was near waste—like dumping wealth in a river.
Even at the height of the Great Crusade, the First Legion's lord would have balked at such extravagance.
In truth, the Savior's realm shipped standardized kits by design, scaled to arm locals to fight horrors—and to jump-start development.
The new machinery tended toward simplicity, Golden Age design thinking in embryo—mostly foolproof to operate.
Still far from the true Dark Age of Technology.
Back then, complete STCs and true machine intelligences could raise a world almost on autopilot.
The Savior's realm reached for that—but dared not field AI at scale; systems held only ordinary smart logic.
No selfhood.
At best, they were fortified machine-spirits—servitor-skulls with better manners and human-facing interfaces.
"At least the fellow did a good thing."
The Lion muttered the concession around a mouthful of pride.
He kept his word as ever.
His voice steadied, a current of confidence beneath it.
"Zahariel—we can quit this world soon. With these tools and parts, I'm confident we can lay down a shuttle within five years."
Then he could reach the Imperium's centers, seize the levers, and call his sons home—especially the Fallen, scattered and suffering.
They were his sons as well.
And then… he would meet this Savior, face to face, and learn what manner of man he was.
"Your Highness… we may not need that long."
Zahariel nodded toward a sector of the yard, excitement edging his voice.
(End of Chapter)
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