Inside the Tech-Sergeant testing area of the Macragge's Honour, a dull, atypical explosion shattered the otherwise orderly hum of machinery.
There was no towering inferno, only a thick cloud of black smoke billowing from in front of Aila Si's petite frame, accompanied by scattering metal fragments and the pungent smell of ozone mixed with superheated metal.
"Ugh…"
The pale pink-haired girl stood frozen, her signature, slightly defiant, large green eyes now wide with disbelief, staring at the completely deformed, barrel-twisted, still-smoking "masterpiece" in her hands—the Ailas Storm, Fourth Improved Model, or rather, the 374th failed attempt.
A strong sense of loss, mixed with frustration, grievance, and exhaustion, instantly washed over her like a cold tide.
She didn't even wipe her smoke-blackened little face, but simply plopped down onto the cold, hard floor with a "thump," still clutching the ruined weapon, and then—
"Waaah… wah—!"
Without warning, Aila Si burst into tears, her tears falling like broken pearls, mixing with the soot on her face, leaving two clear streaks.
Her crying wasn't her usual feigned sobbing, but was filled with genuine sadness and helplessness.
"Why, though… waah… I… I clearly calculated the heat dissipation module… waah… why did it explode again…?"
Beside her, the new Company Champion Draculas stood unmoving, his colossal body like a mountain.
He looked down at a fresh scorch mark and a tiny dent on the finely crafted Champion's armguard of his left arm—marks left by the fragments and shockwave from the recent explosion.
His face, covered by the Champion's helmet, showed no discernible expression, but in his steady gaze, a flicker of extremely subtle helplessness seemed to pass.
He wasn't angered by the damage to his armguard, nor did he utter a word of blame.
Instead, this Champion, known for his valor and silence, made a gesture that surprised even the Tech-Priests secretly observing from a distance—he slowly, somewhat clumsily, within the limits allowed by his heavy Champion Armor, crouched down as much as his massive body permitted, bringing his gaze level with the little sprout crying on the floor.
"Do not be disheartened, Tech-Sergeant Aila Si," Draculas's voice came through the helmet's speakers, deep and carrying a strange, calming power, completely at odds with his fierce appearance.
He extended his armored, massive hand, which had just withstood the explosion's impact, but did not touch Aila Si, merely hovering before her, like a silent, reliable bulwark.
"Failure is the cornerstone of success."
Aila Si looked up with her tear-blurred little face at the Champion's helmet so close to her, and cried even harder: "But… but there are too many cornerstones… waah… there are already three hundred and seventy-four of them…"
Draculas was silent for a moment, his gaze shifting to the ruined Ailas Storm in Aila Si's arms.
His mind, honed by countless battles and possessing an instinctive understanding of weapon structures, quickly analyzed the situation.
Four parallel Bolter barrels, firing simultaneously at maximum rate, generated an incredibly terrifying amount of heat.
Although Aila Si had designed complex cooling fins and miniature cooling cycles, it was clear that under the extreme conditions of sustained firing, the rate of heat accumulation far exceeded the limits the cooling system could handle, ultimately leading to the weakest structural point—possibly the barrel connections or energy conduits—overheating, softening, and eventually collapsing and exploding.
"Heat," he succinctly pointed out the core of the problem, "accumulating, too fast.
Cooling, insufficient."
His judgment precisely hit upon the biggest technical bottleneck of the Ailas Storm.
This was not a flaw in the design concept, but an insurmountable chasm encountered in material science and energy management.
Aila Si sobbed, listening to the Champion's words, her little head drooping even lower.
She knew Draculas was right, but that did not alleviate her disappointment.
Clutching her failed "masterpiece," she mumbled in a tearful, childish voice: "I… I know… Thank you… Champion Lord…"
Then, she struggled to get up from the floor, not even bothering to brush the dust off her bottom, and, still clutching the heavy, ruined Ailas Storm, she walked with her little head down, like a lost little animal soaked by rain, step by step, towards her own cabin-cum-invention room, which was piled high with various parts, tools, and half-finished products.
Her small back, filled with a loneliness and dejection utterly contrary to her usual mischievousness, was a poignant sight.
As she walked, she continued to sob, her mind in disarray.
"Ugh… why… why can't it be as smooth as the miniature power fist…?"
She recalled that when she developed the miniature power fist, although she also went through multiple adjustments, it was nowhere near as many desperate failures as the Ailas Storm.
That relatively "smooth" success contrasted sharply with the seemingly endless explosions she was now facing, making her even sadder.
Tears blurred her vision, and she was so engrossed in her world of sorrow that she paid no attention to the path ahead.
Meanwhile, at a major intersection leading to the bridge, First Company Captain Cassius, along with Lieutenant Golden and two veteran Sergeants from the First Company, were discussing the new mission just issued by the Chapter Master.
Cassius held a data slate, his brow slightly furrowed: "…an agricultural world named Hestia-IV, located beyond the edge of the Ultramar Sector, has refused to pay the Imperial tithe for three consecutive tax cycles and has cut off regular communications with neighboring star systems.
The local Planetary Governor's stated reason is 'widespread crop failure due to abnormal climate, rendering them unable to pay.'
The Chapter Master orders us to dispatch an elite squad, under the guise of 'technical assistance,' to investigate the actual situation and assess whether there are… heretical or rebellious tendencies."
Lieutenant Golden nodded: "Careful handling is required.
If it is truly a natural disaster, we must provide necessary assistance to maintain the Imperial image.
But if…"
Before he could finish, he suddenly felt a slight, tearful thud against the Captain's greave.
"Ugh…"
Cassius was focused on the mission briefing when he felt something hit his greave.
The force wasn't great, but it was accompanied by a suppressed whimper.
He instinctively looked back—
He saw the pale pink-haired little sprout, Aila Si, clutching her signature "Ailas Storm," which was now smoking black and clearly ruined, with one hand, while her other small hand covered her forehead.
Her little shoulders were twitching, and her face was streaked with black and white, covered in tear stains.
Aila Si lifted her tear-filled big eyes, and her blurry vision recognized who she had bumped into—it was the short-tempered First Company Captain Cassius, who had given her plenty of "detentions" but occasionally tolerated her antics.
Normally, she might have stuck out her tongue, made a face, and run off.
But at this moment, the accumulated grievances from repeated failures and the pain from her forehead made her feel incredibly wronged instantly.
She pouted, her voice choked with tears, and with all her might, she kicked Cassius's incredibly hard greave.
"Thud!"
A muffled sound.
The result was predictable.
How could Aila Si's foot, clad in special little boots, possibly budge an Astartes Brother, especially the finely crafted power armor of a First Company Captain?
Instead, she herself was so jolted by the recoil that her entire little foot went numb, and a piercing pain instantly shot through her.
"Ow—!"
Aila Si cried out in pain, clutching her foot and hopping on one leg several times.
Her tears flowed even harder, and her crying instantly escalated from sobbing to wailing: "Waaah—!!!"
As she cried, she dared not linger any longer, hugging her failed creation, she limped, yet quickly fled the "accident scene," her cries echoing down the corridor, filled with endless grievance.
Cassius was somewhat stunned by the sudden kick and subsequent reaction.
He looked at the insignificant little footprint on his greave, then at Aila Si's crying, fleeing back, and a rare, pure confusion appeared on his rugged face.
He scratched his neatly combed short hair and looked at Golden, who was equally taken aback: "What's wrong with that little sprout today?
Did she eat a bad energy bar?
She's usually so lively, isn't she?"
Lieutenant Golden smiled helplessly; he could probably guess: "I heard her 'Ailas Storm' project hit another bottleneck.
There seemed to be an explosion in the testing area just now.
She's probably in a bad mood."
Upon hearing this, Cassius pouted but said nothing more.
He was long accustomed to Aila Si's eccentric inventions and the occasional commotion she caused.
As long as she didn't blow a hole in the battleship, he usually chose to turn a blind eye.
It was just that the little one's reaction today was indeed a bit abnormally… pathetic?
He shook his head, casting aside this little interlude, and refocused his attention on the task at hand.
"Never mind her.
Golden, selecting the personnel is up to you.
They need to be sharp, capable of uncovering the truth, and also understand discretion."
"Understood, Captain." Golden solemnly accepted the order.
Meanwhile, on Holy Terra, deep within the Imperial Palace, in the solemn residence of Lion El'Jonson, the atmosphere was far more somber than in the battleship corridor.
Lion King stood like an armored statue before a colossal star map.
On the map, the shadowy markers representing the reunited Night Lords fleet were expanding and moving at an unsettling speed and scale.
He had just concluded an encrypted communication with his "Angels"—special reconnaissance units within the Dark Angels—whom he had dispatched to monitor the movements of the Eighth Legion.
The intelligence confirmed Corvus Corax's news and corroborated what Guilliman had previously informed him.
Konrad Curze, the nightmare who should have fallen into history, had not only returned but was actively rebuilding his Legion, and… seemed to truly be turning his spearhead towards the forces of Chaos.
Just then, a Lion Guard, clad in a deep green cloak and with a lion's head emblem engraved on his armor, silently entered the hall and knelt on one knee behind Lion King.
"Your Highness, the Lord Regent's recent schedule has been completely filled with a series of meetings with the High Lords of Terra, discussing the adjustment of the Imperial new tax system, the defense priority of the Nyx Rift, and the appointment and removal of several Sector Governors… According to his inner court archivist, the Lord Regent will… not be able to personally handle matters concerning the Eighth Legion in the short term."
On Lion King's granite-carved face, there was no change in expression, but in the depths of his sharp, hawk-like eyes, a flicker of understanding and… resolve passed.
He had expected this all along.
Guilliman was deeply entangled in Terra's vast and inefficient bureaucratic quagmire, tied down by countless seemingly urgent but actually trivial administrative duties.
Expecting him to respond promptly and effectively to Koz's affairs in a short time was almost impossible.
Yet, Koz's actions were becoming faster and more aggressive.
Lion King would never allow anything that could threaten the stability of the Imperium, especially anything that could tarnish the reputation of the Primarchs and the Adeptus Astartes, to develop unchecked.
He had to personally confirm: what exactly did Konrad Curze, this traitor from ten millennia ago, this brother consumed by inner darkness, intend?
Was his so-called "return" and "atonement" a meticulously planned deception, or… was there truth to it?
More importantly, he needed to personally weigh whether Koz and his reunited Eighth Legion truly possessed… the value to be "utilized," and whether that value was enough to offset the immense risks and… shame they brought.
"I understand." Lion King's voice was deep and full of majesty, betraying no emotion.
"You may go."
The Lion Guard bowed and silently exited the hall.
Lion King slowly turned, his gaze falling upon a helmet hanging on a weapon rack on the wall.
The helmet was ornate and majestic, presenting a dull metallic sheen, adorned with a roaring lion sculpture on top, with a Golden faceplate outlining stern lines, like a sleeping king of beasts.
He reached out and steadily placed the exquisite Lion Helm, symbolizing the Lord of the First Legion and the Lion of Caliban, upon his head.
"Click." The sound of the clasp closing was exceptionally clear in the silent hall.
As the Golden faceplate lowered, obscuring his majestic countenance, an even heavier, more suffocating sense of oppression emanated from him.
The eyes revealed through the faceplate's visors now held only cold scrutiny and unquestionable resolve.
He did not need to await Guilliman's authorization, nor did he need to heed the squabbling of the High Lords of Terra.
Some responsibilities, some threats, had to be faced and resolved by him personally.
"Give the order," Lion King's voice, resonating with metal through the Lion Helm, echoed in the empty hall, "Activate the unyielding truth.
Target—the Eighth Legion's active star sector.
I will personally 'visit' my… brother who walks in the shadows."
The order was swiftly executed.
In orbit above Terra, the colossal flagship of the Dark Angels Legion, the unyielding truth, resembling a mobile fortress, began to slowly detach from its berth within the even grander and vaster, city-like hangar of the "Mountain Array."
Its massive engines spewed forth an ethereal blue light, propelling this giant vessel, which carried the First Legion's long history and countless secrets, to adjust its course and sail into the deep starry sky.
On the bridge, Lion El'Jonson, wearing the Lion Helm, gazed silently at the boundless sea of stars outside the viewports, like an ancient monarch about to set out on a campaign.
Ten millennia of time seemed compressed into this moment.
The threads of destiny intertwined once more.
Loyalty and betrayal, light and shadow, order and fear… The Lion King and the Night Lords, these two Primarch brothers whose paths diverged ten millennia ago and who even once clashed in battle, were about to meet again, drawn by fate.
And what profound impact would this meeting have on the future of the Imperium, on the fate of the Eighth Legion, and even on the entire galaxy?
No one knew.
Only the cold stars silently watched the beginning of it all.
Dorian rubbed his still faintly aching temples, which felt as if countless tiny drills were stirring inside, and slowly shuffled out of his cabin.
Last night's dream about gladiatorial arenas, the butcher's nails, and endless slaughter was too real; even now, awake, he could still hear the echoes of mad shouts and demonic roars in his ears, and waves of phantom pain in his skull made him irritable.
"The Emperor above… this damned dream…" He vigorously patted his head, covered with short, stiff black hair, trying to dispel the chaotic, bloody images and the strange pain.
"If this keeps up, I won't be beaten to death by Captain Cassius, but I'll be driven mad by this wretched dream."
He urgently needed to find something to do, preferably a long-term mission away from the battleship, to temporarily avoid trouble.
Everyone knew that although Captain Cassius's mood had stabilized somewhat after being forcibly ordered to rest by the Apothecary, no one could guarantee that his blood pressure wouldn't spike again when he saw Dorian, the "culprit," leading to another beating.
Dorian certainly didn't want to test Captain Cassius's patience again.
He shook his head and decided to try his luck with Lieutenant Golden.
As an old comrade from the 7th Company, 2nd Squad, and now the First Company Lieutenant, Golden could always arrange suitable tasks for him.
Walking down the wide corridor, Dorian habitually looked through an observation window on one side, overlooking the massive main hangar bay below.
Several transport ships had just docked, and ground crew and Tech-Priests were busily unloading sets of heavy, imposing armor from them—the newly arrived, Ultramarines blue-painted Indomitus Pattern Terminator Armor.
The armor gleamed with a cold metallic luster under the hangar lights, its massive shoulder pads and thick limb structures exuding a sense of power.
Dorian couldn't help but stop, pressing against the observation window, his eyes wide with fascination, letting out sounds of admiration: "Hey! That's awesome! They sent so many of these big guys again!" He touched the equally valuable Ironclad Pattern Terminator Armor he was wearing, feeling smug.
"Good thing I joined the Ultramarines; with the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar backing us, there's plenty of equipment!
If I'd gone to some poor Chapter, I'd probably have to conserve Bolter rounds and might even have to beg for food! It's great to have a strong foundation!"
He was immensely proud to be an Astartes Brother of the Ultramarines, especially because of this "never short on funds" confidence.
However, this pleasant feeling was quickly overshadowed by another practical problem.
He rubbed his rumbling stomach, smacked his lips, and made a disgusted face: "It's just the food on this battleship… when will they improve it… Although the nutrient paste tastes a bit better than before, with some synthetic spices added, it's still essentially that same paste, sticky and greasy, truly damn hard to swallow… If only we could have some roasted beast meat, or even just bread made from real flour…"
Despite his complaints, he knew that during long voyages on a battleship, efficient, easy-to-store, and distribute nutrient paste was the most realistic choice.
But that didn't stop him from dreaming.
With a longing for good food and an urgent desire to avoid Captain Cassius, Dorian quickened his pace and arrived outside Lieutenant Golden's office.
He tidied his appearance, knocked on the door, and, after receiving permission, pushed it open and entered.
"Lieutenant Golden!" Dorian straightened his back, trying to make his expression look serious and reliable. "Excuse me, are there any… long-term off-ship missions available recently? Like patrolling a remote star system, or assisting a world in clearing out Xenos nests? I'm ready to depart at any time!"
Golden was sitting behind his desk, processing files, and looked up to see Dorian, especially his "I really want to contribute to the Chapter (please let me leave the battleship)" demeanor, which immediately made things clear to him.
He had just finished discussing the Hestia-IV tithe mission with Captain Cassius and was deliberating over selecting the right personnel.
Send Dorian? Golden's mind instantly conjured images of Dorian arriving on Hestia-IV, facing potentially troublesome civilians or low-level rebellions, and without a word, activating his Thunder Hammer and Bolter, shouting "For Ultramar and the Emperor!", and then obliterating the entire Planetary Governor's mansion, and even potentially some farmers who merely complained… No! Absolutely not!
Golden immediately drew a huge red cross through that option in his mind.
That mission required calm, meticulousness, and negotiation skills, not a "human demolition hammer" like Dorian.
"Missions, well…" Golden put down his data-slate, feigning contemplation, his fingers lightly tapping the desk. "Around the battleship recently, hmm… there aren't any long-term off-ship missions at the moment, just some routine patrols and security duties." He saw the disappointment on Dorian's face and changed his tone. "However, I hear you might… need to lay low a bit recently? If you're just looking for a place to stay and stretch your limbs, why not go to the gladiatorial arena?"
"The gladiatorial arena?" Dorian's eyes lit up.
"Yes," Golden nodded. "There's a batch of new Astartes Brothers who just completed their armor ceremony, undergoing adaptive training and sparring.
You can be their sparring partner, let them experience what true combat is like on the battlefield, and it'll count as contributing to training new recruits for the Chapter.
How does that sound?"
This suggestion was exactly what Dorian wanted!
He could avoid Captain Cassius, legitimately beat people up, and also stretch his limbs and vent some energy—it was hitting multiple birds with one stone!
"That's great! Lieutenant Golden! You truly are…" Dorian was so excited he almost jumped up, and before he could finish his words of gratitude, he impatiently turned, yanked open the office's heavy alloy door, and was about to rush out.
However, he clearly overestimated his control over his strength when excited, and underestimated the door's sturdiness.
With a deafening "CLANG!!!" the heavy alloy door was yanked by him, its edge slamming hard against the doorframe, the immense force instantly twisting and deforming the door panel, even sending a small metal fragment flying!
The entire door became stuck in the frame at an extremely awkward angle, emitting a grating metallic screech.
Dorian himself was startled.
He looked back at the ruined door, then at the expressionless Golden behind the desk, awkwardly scratched his head, and without bothering to salute, blurted out, "Sorry, Lieutenant Golden!" then scurried away like a gust of wind, his heavy footsteps rapidly fading down the corridor.
In the office, Golden looked at the completely ruined alloy door, which would need to be replaced, and his mouth twitched.
Just as he was about to say something—
"Hum…"
A servo-skull, flashing red indicator lights and bearing the Imperial Aquila and Ultramarines Chapter badges below, flew precisely out of a hidden compartment in the ceiling like a vulture scenting blood, hovering before Golden, and spoke in a flat, synthesized voice:
"Record: Lieutenant Office G-7, alloy blast door sustained structural damage, assessed as deliberate human damage.
According to Macragge's Honour Internal Management Regulations, Article 114, Section 514, damage to public facilities requires compensation at replacement cost.
Calculation indicates repair costs will deduct forty percent of responsible party, Lieutenant Golden's, next month's standard nutrient paste supply to cover related expenses.
Record complete, penalty effective immediately."
Golden: "…"
He looked at the meticulous, unyielding servo-skull, then at the pathetic scene at the doorway, and finally, all his emotions condensed into a long, helpless, and frustrated sigh.
"Dorian… you bastard…"
Meanwhile, Dorian had excitedly rushed to the gladiatorial arena located in the mid-section of the battleship.
This was a huge circular space, surrounded by high grandstands with energy shields, and a central combat area paved with special cushioning material.
The walls were adorned with Ultramarines battle banners and holy icons of the Emperor.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, ozone, and a faint hint of rust.
This was where new Astartes, who had just completed their gene-seed implantation and armor ceremonies, conducted sparring, honed their combat skills, and adapted to their new physical strength.
Dorian himself was a regular here in his day, and with his natural brute strength and ferocity, he had practically defeated all the new recruits of his cohort, earning him the title of the arena's overlord.
As soon as he walked in, he heard a familiar voice from the stands: "Dorian?"
Dorian looked up and saw Gaius and Kolesa sitting in a good vantage point in the stands.
Gaius was still wearing his blue combat uniform, his expression calm.
Kolesa sat beside him, wearing a custom-made uniform dress, her silver hair flowing like moonlight, a serene smile gracing her beautiful face.
"Gaius!" Dorian immediately grinned and vigorously waved his bear-paw-like hand. "You two came to watch the fun too!"
Kolesa looked at Gaius's best friend, whose personality was straightforward, and she had a good impression of him.
Although he was sometimes annoyingly reckless, she saw his guileless sincerity and deep affection for Gaius.
She returned Dorian's greeting with a gentle, kindly smile.
After exchanging greetings, Dorian immediately ran impatiently towards the Tech-Priest area at the edge of the arena, shouting as he ran: "Quick, quick! Priest! Help me take off my Terminator Armor! I can't move in it!"
Under the skilled operation of the Tech-Priest and his assistants, the heavy Ironclad Pattern Terminator Armor was removed piece by piece and neatly placed on a stand.
Stripped of his Terminator Armor, Dorian felt as if a layer of restraint had been lifted.
He casually peeled off his black, sweat-wicking combat undersuit and tossed it aside, wearing only a pair of Legion-issue gray shorts, revealing his massive physique, like a giant bear standing upright.
Beneath his bronze skin, his knotted muscles were like forged steel, brimming with explosive power.
His broad chest, rock-hard abs, and arms as thick as a normal person's thighs all showcased his astonishing physical prowess.
Even more striking were the crisscrossing, dense scars on his body—burn marks from laser weapons, deep gashes from chainswords, marks from Xenos claws, and pockmarks left by embedded shrapnel from explosions… Each scar was a testament to a bloody battle, a narrow escape from death, and a badge of his valor and loyalty.
He stretched his neck, producing a series of cracking sounds, then with a nimble flip, he leaped into the central combat area of the arena, landing firmly on both feet, kicking up fine dust.
He looked around at the new Astartes Brothers who were sparring or resting, their eyes filled with awe and curiosity as they looked at him, then he grinned widely and shouted in a booming voice:
"Hey! Brothers! Anyone want to challenge me? Let the fiercest assault Astartes Brother of the First Company give you a lesson and show you what real combat on the battlefield is like!"
His imposing physique and formidable aura immediately drew the attention of all the new recruits.
Soon, a new Astartes Brother, equally tall but noticeably younger, mustered his courage and stepped forward, respectfully saluting Dorian.
"10th Company, Camidius, I seek your guidance!"
Dorian nodded with satisfaction and casually adopted a stance: "Come on, brother! Use your greatest strength!"
The new Astartes Brother let out a low growl, pushing off with his feet, and charged at Dorian like a cannonball, unleashing a powerful straight punch towards Dorian's chest!
The speed and force of this punch would be extraordinary among mortals, enough to punch through steel plate.
However, in Dorian's eyes, this punch was as slow as a snail.
He didn't even block; instead, just as the fist was about to connect, he subtly shifted his body, letting the punch pass, while simultaneously his right hand shot out like lightning, grabbing Camidius's wrist, pulling him forward, and with a slight trip of his foot—
"Thud!"
With a dull thud, the new Astartes Brother didn't even realize what had happened.
He felt an irresistible force, instantly lost his balance, and in a dizzying whirl, he was slammed hard onto the cushioned ground by Dorian with a clean over-the-shoulder throw!
Although the ground had a cushioning layer, the impact still left him disoriented and seeing stars.
The entire process took less than two seconds.
Strength, speed, and technique were on completely different levels.
Dorian clapped his hands as if nothing had happened, then turned to Gaius in the stands, proudly giving him a thumbs-up, his face beaming with a pure smile, as if saying: "See, brother, aren't I awesome!"
Gaius looked at his brother's antics, a helpless smile appearing on his face as he gently shook his head.
And Kolesa, looking at Dorian in the arena, like a giant bear exuding pure strength and boldness, then at the calm and reserved Gaius beside her, a soft light flickered in her violet eyes.
She gently took Gaius's hand, feeling the warmth of his palm.
These two warriors, so different in personality yet equally loyal and brave, their friendship, perhaps, was a rare warmth in these cold years of war.
Dorian wasn't idle; he turned back to the new Astartes Brothers and shouted boldly: "Next! Who else wants to try?!"
In the arena, a new round of "guidance" and "tempering" began again.
However, for most of the new Astartes Brothers, it was more like a one-sided, profound realization of their own insignificance and the harshness of the future.
Inside the Chapter Master's office, Marius Calgar was buried deep within a "mountain range" of data-slates, like a king imprisoned by state affairs. He had just finished processing an application for an irrigation system upgrade on an agricultural world, his fingers rubbing his temples, which ached from prolonged reading, trying to dispel the fatigue that was almost solidifying. Just then, the office's communicator emitted a priority alert.
"Chapter Master," the voice of the bridge duty officer came through, "We have received an encrypted communication from the Departmento Munitorum of Terra, marked 'Assistance Request.'"
Calgar looked up, a sharp glint in his eyes. A direct request from the Departmento Munitorum of Terra usually meant trouble.
"Content."
"A planet named Dracomyndas, located at the edge of our patrol routes. This planet is a rare combination of a Shrine World and an Industrial World. Its Industrial World portion has exceeded the tithe payment deadline but has not yet submitted it, and the Planetary Governor has lost all contact. Due to the presence of a tax-exempt Shrine World on this planet, the situation is special, and the Imperial Navy is not convenient to intervene directly. It requests that the Adeptus Astartes, specifically us, as the closest Chapter, dispatch forces to investigate the situation."
"Dracomyndas..." Calgar repeated the unfamiliar name in a low voice, his fingers unconsciously tapping the desk. Industrial World Planetary Governor lost contact? Overdue tithe payment? The inherent complexity of a combined world... Several possibilities flashed through his mind: the Planetary Governor's personal ambition swelling, attempting independence? Chaos whispers corrupting the upper echelons, brewing rebellion? Or, worse, a Genestealers cult having infiltrated and taken control?
Whichever it was, it needed to be investigated immediately. Left unchecked, a spark could ignite a wildfire.
"I understand," Calgar responded in a deep voice, then connected to another internal channel, "Cassius, report to my office."
He had called for the 7th Company Captain Cassius. In his opinion, for such a preliminary investigation, dispatching an elite squad from a company was sufficient; there was no need to mobilize the First Company, which bore heavy responsibilities.
However, not long after, the metal door of the office slid open, and in walked the First Company Captain Cassius, sporting slightly disheveled short hair, deep bags under his eyes, but still striving to keep his back straight.
"Chapter Master, you called for me?" First Company Captain Cassius's voice carried a hint of an almost imperceptible hoarseness; clearly, his previous "forced rest" had not entirely dispelled his fatigue.
Calgar paused, then realized he hadn't been clear, leading to a "mix-up"; having two people with the same name was indeed troublesome sometimes. But then he thought, First Company Captain Cassius had been heavily burdened by administrative duties recently; perhaps sending his squad out on a relatively simple mission, allowing him to focus on matters outside of administration, would actually be beneficial for his recovery. Moreover, with the First Company's execution capabilities, handling such a mission would be foolproof.
"Yes, Cassius," Calgar quickly adjusted his mindset, pointing to the mission brief data-slate he had just received on his desk. "There's an urgent mission. Dracomyndas, a combined Shrine and Industrial World; the Industrial Governor has lost contact and is overdue on tithe payments. The Departmento Munitorum has requested us to investigate."
He succinctly explained the situation and issued clear instructions:
"You are to immediately select an elite squad and, using 'escorting important personnel' or 'conducting technical exchange' as the public reason, enter Dracomyndas. The primary objective is to establish direct contact with the Planetary Governor and ascertain the reason for the loss of contact and the overdue tithe. If it is determined that the Planetary Governor is personally derelict in his duties or deliberately resisting taxes, I authorize you to arrest him on the spot and bring him back for trial."
At this point, Calgar's tone became particularly serious, and he emphasized the warning:
"However, you must be extremely careful! This planet contains a Shrine World, and it is highly likely that an Adeptus Mechanicus exploration fleet or a Sisters of Battle convent is stationed there. Your actions must be cautious; you absolutely, absolutely must not engage in any conflict with the Adeptus Mechanicus or the Sisters of Battle! Do you understand?! Our goal is to solve the problem, not to create greater trouble."
Cassius quickly scanned the information on the data-slate, his eyes regaining their usual sharpness. Compared to dealing with endless documents, this straightforward mission made him feel much more at ease.
"Understood, Chapter Master! Mission accomplished!" Cassius stood at attention, his voice clear and resonant.
"Go, depart as soon as possible," Calgar waved his hand.
After saluting, Cassius turned and strode out of the office, feeling his steps lighter.
Leaving the Chapter Master's office, Cassius quickly walked towards the First Company's barracks, while rapidly sifting through suitable candidates in his mind. The mission required an elite, reliable squad, and... one that wouldn't cause trouble. Especially the point about avoiding conflict with the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Sisters of Battle, which required extra attention.
Soon, a name almost reflexively popped into his head—Dorian.
If he could get this guy off the warship for a few days, he would have a few days of peace! Just the thought of it made Cassius feel his breathing become much smoother. As for the risk of Dorian causing trouble... Cassius gritted his teeth, deciding to take a gamble, after all, the mission itself sounded uncomplicated. Moreover, he could arrange for a reliable person to keep an eye on him.
Thinking of a "reliable person," Sergeant Karl's figure naturally appeared. With Sergeant Karl there, at least half of Dorian's reins could be held.
Having made up his mind, Cassius immediately used the First Company's internal communication channel to call Sanx's squad communication code.
Inside the gladiatorial arena, the atmosphere was at its peak.
Dorian was like a tiger among sheep, single-handedly facing five new recruits who had bravely charged at him together. He didn't even use any complex combat techniques, relying solely on his inhuman strength, speed, and precise timing. With blocks, dodges, or deflections, a series of "thuds" and "owes" sounded, and in less than ten seconds, the five new recruits were already lying on the ground in various postures, still praising Dorian as a true First Company warrior.
Dorian clapped his hands, triumphantly raising his chin towards Sergeant Karl in the stands, giving a "see that?" boastful look.
Sergeant Karl, holding Kolesa, sat in the stands, watching his brother's over-energetic display with a faint, helpless smile. Kolesa, meanwhile, nestled obediently in his arms, her violet eyes curiously observing everything in the arena. For her, this pure clash of physical strength held a raw and direct shock, different from the nuances of psychic abilities.
Just then, Sergeant Karl's helmet's built-in communicator chimed with an incoming call on the company's encrypted channel, simultaneously relaying Captain Cassius's clear and urgent command:
"Sanx, ten minutes. Full gear, assemble at Hangar Bay Four. Mission."
The order was concise, clear, and brooks no argument.
Sergeant Karl's smile vanished instantly, his eyes sharpening. He immediately picked up Kolesa and left the arena, whispering, "I have a mission; I need to leave right away."
Upon hearing this, a flicker of panic and worry instantly crossed Kolesa's violet eyes. She instinctively tightened her grip on Sergeant Karl's arm armor: "Mission? Is it dangerous? Can I... can I go with you?" She didn't want to experience the anxiety of being separated from him again, especially when she sensed he might be facing danger.
Sergeant Karl could feel her unease. He stopped, cupped her cool cheeks in his hands, and looked directly into her azure eyes, his voice steady and reassuring: "Don't worry, it should just be a routine reconnaissance mission; there won't be any danger. You wait for me on the warship, okay? It's the safest place."
His gaze and words seemed to carry a certain magic, gradually calming Kolesa's anxious heart. She knew she was an Aeldari, and her presence in a human world might cause unnecessary trouble, and Sergeant Karl needed to focus on his mission. She bit her lower lip, finally nodding obediently and softly replied, "Mmm... I'll wait for you to come back. Be careful."
"I will." Sergeant Karl lightly kissed her forehead, then without further delay, he picked her up again and, like an arrow released from a bow, sprinted towards the cabin area, so fast that he even created a gust of wind.
Kolesa closed her eyes, silently praying for his safety in her heart.
"May Isha protect him, may the Emperor protect him, and bring my warrior back safely."
Sergeant Karl first took Kolesa back to their cabin, ensuring her safety, then immediately rushed to the armory at top speed. Time was tight; he had to make every second count.
Inside the armory, a Tech-Priest and servo-skulls had already prepared his equipment according to the instructions. Sergeant Karl skillfully began donning his master-crafted Mark X Power Armor, each buckle and every circuit connection precise and swift. At the same time, he checked his steadfast will Power Sword at his waist, and the crucial sniper rifle, "Hawkeye," as well as the Airas-pattern Power Fist. His movements were like a precise machine, efficient and without any superfluous action.
Just as he had put on his helmet and was performing the final airtightness check, the armory door was violently pushed open, and Dorian's tall figure burst in with a gust of wind.
"Hey! Sergeant Karl! You rascal!" Dorian shouted, as he began to squeeze into the more cumbersome but more impactful Saturnine Terminator armor with the assistance of a Tech-Priest. "Got a pretty wife and forgot your brothers in arms, huh? Didn't even call me when you got a mission, just snuck off yourself!"
His tone carried exaggerated complaint, but more so the familiarity of brothers.
Sergeant Karl looked at him through his helmet's visor, responding somewhat awkwardly, "Sorry, Dorian, time was too tight, I forgot for a moment." He had indeed been so focused on settling Kolesa and preparing himself that he had overlooked Dorian.
"Alright, alright, I'll forgive you this time!" Dorian waved his hand, and with the Tech-Priest's help, installed the Power Fist on his left arm and the twin-linked Storm Bolter on his right. The heavy armor of the Saturnine Terminator made his already burly frame appear even more massive, like a moving steel fortress. "Hurry up, don't keep the Captain waiting!"
The two quickly completed their final equipment checks and, one after the other, with heavy steps, hurried towards Hangar Bay Four.
Inside Hangar Bay Four, a modified transport shuttle, emblazoned with the Ultramarines' blue insignia, had already started its warm-up, its engines emitting a low rumble. Beside the transport shuttle, a figure stood silently waiting.
Luna, a veteran Tech-Sergeant of the First Company. She wore standard Mark X Power Armor, but it had undergone numerous personal modifications. A multi-functional bionic eye, added to the side of her helmet, glowed with a calm red light. On either side of her power pack, four mechanical "blessed arms" for precise manipulation and repair were currently retracted and folded, like dormant metal tentacles. She held her Bolter steadily in both hands, her posture composed, like a bedrock. Seeing Sergeant Karl and Dorian arrive, she merely gave a slight nod, a greeting.
Sergeant Karl and Dorian quickly took their positions beside her, forming a standard departure formation.
Soon, First Company Captain Cassius's figure appeared at the hangar entrance, striding purposefully towards them. He, too, was clad in Captain-grade master-crafted Power Armor. His gaze swept over the assembled three-man squad, and when he saw Dorian's massive Saturnine Terminator, his eye twitched uncontrollably. The terrible memory of having been exasperated to the point of fainting rushed back, filling him with lingering fear and an uncontrollable anger.
But he took a deep breath, forcing the rage down. At least, he wouldn't have to see this guy for the next few days; that was the only good news.
"The mission brief has been sent to your data-slates," Captain Cassius's voice returned to its usual cold severity. "I will re-emphasize the core points: find the Planetary Governor, ascertain the reasons. If it's his problem, arrest him. But most importantly—"
His gaze, like two cold daggers, was fixed on Dorian, his tone resolute, carrying an undeniable warning:
"Absolutely! No! Conflict! With the Adeptus Mechanicus! Or the Sisters of Battle!"
He paused, even turning specifically to Sergeant Karl, authorizing him: "Sergeant Karl, I authorize you, if Dorian dares to disregard orders, to actively provoke the Sisters of Battle or the Adeptus Mechanicus... I allow you to put your sniper rifle to his head and just blow him away! Then, in the combat log, mark him as 'KIA'! Do you understand?!"
This order was undeniably severe, even carrying a hint of cruel humor, but Captain Cassius's expression was utterly serious.
Sergeant Karl was startled, glancing at Dorian, who was equally stunned beside him, and a bitter smile appeared in his heart. He knew that the First Company Captain's words were mostly out of anger and a severe warning, but constrained by orders, he still straightened his body and responded in a deep voice: "Understood, First Company Captain."
Only then did Cassius shift his gaze from Dorian, scanning the three again, and added: "Furthermore, while executing the main mission, pay attention to any anomalies on the planet. Any suspicious occurrences, such as unusual civilian behavior, symbols that shouldn't be there, or anything that makes you feel 'off,' record and report it immediately. We are facing too many unknown situations; caution is never wrong."
Finally, he raised his fist to his chest.
"For Ultramar!"
Sergeant Karl, Dorian, and Luna simultaneously raised their fists to their chests, their low, firm voices echoing in the hangar:
"For Ultramar!"
Without further ado, Cassius waved his hand: "Board the shuttle! Depart!"
The three immediately turned and, with heavy steps, boarded the ready transport shuttle one by one. The hatch slowly closed, cutting off the outside light.
With a more intense roar of engines, the transport shuttle, guided by a tractor beam, slowly slid out of the hangar bay doors into the cold vacuum of space. Then, its main thrusters ignited, turning into a blue streak of light, and sped towards the distant planet Dracomyndas.
Inside the bridge, Chapter Master Calgar watched the transport shuttle disappear into the star sea through the observation window, his gaze profound. He hoped this was just a simple administrative mission, but deep down, a warrior's intuition subtly sensed a hint of unease.
Dracomyndas… what secrets did that planet, a blend of faith and industry, truly hide?
The cold and desolate bridge of the nightfall (warship name) was now shrouded in an unprecedented panic and oppression. It was no longer the tension of facing a powerful enemy, but a sense of collapse originating from the core of their faith and power.
Konrad Curze, the Night Haunter of the Eighth Legion, that existence like the embodiment of shadow, was now painfully curled up beneath the main throne platform. He was no longer the giant bat or the ruthless judge standing at the pinnacle of fear, but rather like a mortal enduring endless torment. The dark green corrosive marks left on his pitch-black Power Armor during his fight with Mortarion now seemed to be infused with life, writhing and expanding wildly like living things, emitting a nauseatingly sweet stench of decay and a deeper, more profound foulness originating from the Warp.
Strands of dark green energy, like malicious vines, snaked out from the gaps in his armor, coiling around his body, even attempting to penetrate his exposed pale skin. Konrad's body trembled uncontrollably, and suppressed groans, mixed with pain and a certain invasive will, escaped from his clenched teeth. His sunken eyes, capable of glimpsing the threads of fate, were now bloodshot with a terrifying intensity, his pupils sometimes constricting to pinpricks, sometimes dilating and unfocused, as if violently struggling between reality and some plague-induced hallucination.
"Ugh… Mortarion… you… foul… maggot…" He tried to use curses to distract from the bone-deep, soul-corroding pain, but his voice was weak and intermittent.
"My lord!"
"Primarch Father!"
The surrounding Night Lords Warriors were in a panic; they had never seen their Primarch Father so vulnerable, so… close to destruction. Several warriors close by instinctively wanted to step forward to help him.
"Don't come closer!" Konrad suddenly raised his head, letting out a hoarse shriek with his remaining strength, a flicker of residual, protective clarity for his offspring flashing in his eyes, "Get away! Stay away from me! This plague… it will infect you all!"
His distorted and pained expression, along with the ominous aura emanating from him—which could even corrupt psychic perception—successfully deterred the warriors who wanted to approach. They froze in place, caught between advancing and retreating, only able to watch their Primarch Father suffer in agony, a feeling of powerlessness and anger permeating the bridge.
"Apothecary! We need an Apothecary!" one warrior shouted anxiously, but then remembered that the reunited Legion was still in its infancy, Tech-Sergeants and warriors were being integrated, but there were currently no specialized Apothecaries on the warship capable of handling Primarch-level Chaos corruption!
Just then, Zso Sahaal, the leader of the Black Guard, dragging his body, which had been severely wounded by Mortarion and only simply bandaged and armored, stumbled but steadily walked onto the bridge, supported by another Black Guard. Beneath his helmet, adorned with the severed bat-wing decorations, his eyes burned with an almost insane loyalty and determination.
He glanced at the suffering Konrad, and without any hesitation, ordered the Black Guard beside him in a hoarse voice: "Assemble the guard! Prepare the assault shuttles immediately! We will go to the nearest Chaos Warbands or Death World and bring back some Apothecaries! No matter what, Lord Konrad must be cured!"
To save his Primarch Father, he was willing to become a raider once more, even if the targets were former "compatriots" or other dark forces.
"Calm down, Sahar."
A relatively calm voice, yet one carrying undeniable weight, spoke. Sevatarion, the prince of crows, had also appeared on the bridge at some point. His gaze swept over the struggling Konrad, then to the anxious Sahar and the panicked warriors around them. There was not much alarm on his face, only a deep calmness, as if he had anticipated certain events.
"In your current state, who can you possibly rescue? Moreover, what can ordinary Apothecaries, even heretics of Chaos, do against the corruption of Mortarion's primordial plague? It would only increase casualties and… sources of infection."
Sahar suddenly turned his head to look at Sevatarion, his tone accusatory: "Then what do you propose we do?! Are we just going to stand by and watch our Primarch Father be devoured by this filth?!"
Sevatarion did not answer directly. His gaze was fixed on the deep starry sky outside the main viewport of the bridge, as if waiting for something. He shook his head gently, his voice carrying a strange certainty: "Rest easy, Sahar. Someone will come to 'cure' the Night Haunter."
"Who?" Sahar and the other warriors all looked confused. In this chaotic star system, who would come to cure a Primarch of a traitor Legion? And who would have the ability to cure the primordial corruption caused by a Daemon Prince chosen by Chaos?
Sevatarion still looked out the window, a subtle, unreadable curve on his lips: "Someone… who wishes the Night Haunter to live, has the ability to 'help' him, and… will arrive very soon."
His words were like a riddle, leaving everyone even more perplexed. But Sevatarion's status and wisdom within the Legion made them reluctantly suppress their anxiety, and they could only, with a sense of trepidation, follow his gaze out the window.
Just then, Otani, whom Sevatarion had brought to the bridge and who had been quietly by his side, seemed to sense something. Her small body suddenly trembled, and she instinctively clutched a corner of Sevatarion's cloak, shrinking behind him.
Almost simultaneously, the bridge's detection arrays emitted a piercing alarm!
"Warning! Detecting large-scale Warp jump signatures! Directly ahead of the fleet!"
"Energy readings extremely high! Identifying signal… identifying signal as… Imperial Navy?! It's the Dark Angels!"
Everyone's gaze instantly focused on the main screen!
The space in front of the nightfall (warship name) seemed to be violently torn open by an invisible giant hand, revealing the bizarre and energy-turbulent Warp behind it! Immediately afterward, Imperial Navy warships, painted deep green, ancient and majestic in design, exuding a cold, deadly aura, emerged from the Warp rift like steel behemoths leaping from an abyss, slowly cruising out in neat battle formation!
The lead vessel, enormous as a mountain, with a roaring lion emblem carved on its prow and rows of broadside cannons, like a mobile fortress of war—it was the flagship of the Dark Angels Legion, the unyielding truth!
Following closely were several other Dark Angels battle barges, Strike Cruisers, and escort frigates! The entire fleet exuded the steadfastness tempered by countless battles and a restrained yet all-crushing terrifying power!
The sudden appearance of this powerful Imperial Navy fleet, and its oppressive posture of bringing the nightfall (warship name) and its escort ships within main gun range, instantly sent the hearts of all Night Lords Warriors into their throats! They instinctively gripped their weapons, even though they knew that in a ship-to-ship cannon exchange, their not-yet-fully-integrated fleet would likely be no match for the elite Dark Angels.
Otani looked at the huge green warship with the lion emblem on the screen, her small face pale with fright. Horrible fragments of memory about Imperial judgment were triggered, and she buried her face deeply behind Sevatarion's cold greaves, letting out tiny, fearful sobs.
Sevatarion felt her fear. Uncharacteristically, he did not push her away, but instead reached out his armored hand and gently placed it on her small, trembling shoulder, his deep voice carrying a strange soothing power: "Don't be afraid, Otani. Look at me, everything will be alright. They… bear no ill will."
His words seemed to have magic, causing Otani's sobs to subside slightly, but she still dared not look up at the screen.
After the Dark Angels fleet completed its jump, it did not immediately open fire. They hung silently in the void like silent hunters, yet all their weapon ports glowed with charging energy, firmly locking onto the nightfall (warship name) and the surrounding Night Lords vessels. This was a silent warning and deterrence, more threatening than any roar.
In the tense standoff, the nightfall (warship name)'s communications officer reported with a dry voice: "My lord… we have received a… direct communication request from the unyielding truth. Encryption level… highest."
At this moment, Konrad seemed to have temporarily suppressed some of his physical pain due to the stimulation of the immense external threat. He struggled, supporting the base of the throne with trembling arms, and with extreme difficulty, little by little, he pulled himself up from the floor, staggering back onto his cold, shadowy throne.
Each movement seemed to exhaust his strength, the intense pain from the corruption causing veins to bulge on his forehead, and cold sweat mixed with tiny drops of blood seeping from his skin continuously streamed down. But he forcibly straightened his spine, and in his bloodshot eyes, a trace of the Primarch's inviolable majesty re-coalesced, though this majesty now appeared so precarious.
He took a deep breath, the air seeming to carry the stinging pain of corruption, and then, with his still-intact, armored hand, he pressed the communication button with a heavy thud.
On the main screen, static snow flickered a few times, then stabilized.
A face clearly appeared in the eyes of Konrad and all Night Lords who could see the screen.
It was an old but granite-hard face. Golden hair cascaded over his shoulders, interspersed with a few silver strands of age, and a similarly golden, neatly trimmed beard covered his chin and cheeks. His forehead was broad, his brow bone high, and his eyes were like sapphires tempered by ten thousand years of ice—deep, sharp, as if they could pierce through all falsehoods and lies, carrying an inherent, undeniable authority and… scrutiny.
He wore an ornate shoulder guard adorned with the Imperial Aquila and a lion's head emblem, and was clad in deep green Power Armor. Simply sitting there, he seemed to be the absolute center of the entire bridge, and indeed, the entire fleet.
The Lord of the First Legion, the Lion of Caliban, Lion El'Jonson.
His cold blue eyes, through the distant communication signal, fell upon Konrad's pained and disheveled face as if tangible. There were no pleasantries, no superfluous words, only a deep, powerful statement, like a judgment striking at the core, resonating through the silent nightfall (warship name) bridge:
"Konrad…"
"You look terrible."