[Simulation starting...]
[Current identity: Space Wolf Blood Claw (Warp)]
[Please select your identity first]
[If you refuse, you will descend immediately]
[Identity selection has been refused]
[Simulation starting...]
[You descended into the Warhammer universe]
[Location: Galaxy·Outland·Unknown Void]
[You descended into a battle barge named "Nicor"...]
[You are inside a private cabin. The air is thick and stale, a humid, metallic scent hanging heavy, typical of an old voidship. Right behind you, a huge water tank, murky and silent, occupies one-third of the room area.]
[You are wearing a set of Mk V Heresy-pattern power armor with mixed, mismatched parts. The suit groans lightly as you adjust to its weight, a familiar, reassuring sound.]
[A pale and skinny little boy reluctantly held up a bulky metal helmet to you. His hands trembled slightly under the weight. His slightly shining eyes were a disturbing mix of blue and red, and his irises seemed to have undergone some kind of alarming mutation, catching the dim cabin light.]
[You breathed in the humid air, the mechanical whine of the suit's life support systems suddenly loud in the close space, and subconsciously took the heavy helmet. The cold ceramite against your gauntlet felt solid.]
[You saw the little boy offer a weak smile, revealing the incomplete development of his teeth—a sign of long-term malnutrition.]
["Name." You lowered your head, the words amplified and distorted by your suit's vox-caster.]
[Your deep voice is like a rough eraser scratching smooth glass, extremely harsh and unsettling in the small room.]
["My name is S, Spong, Pa-, Lord Padrick..." the hesitant little boy stammered out, clearly struggling with the formal address.]
[You can't help but grin, the movement tightening your pale facial skin and revealing a row of sharp white teeth like a shark's.]
[You move the power armor you've put on, the suit's servos whining as you walk to the cracked and broken mirror fixed to a bulkhead in the cabin.]
[You see a bald Astartes brother without a single strand of hair. Your skin color is a shocking, ghostly pale, like that of the dead, and even the sclera in your eyes are completely black. The darkness seems to drink the light.]
[You stare at this set of mixed-part rebel power armor, and the distinctive shark mark printed crudely on its faded gray ceramite steel surface.]
[You seem to remember Astartes with similar features. They were rumored to be... Space Sharks. The Carcharodons Astra Chapter.]
[You hear the cautious urging from the little boy, Spong. He reminds you, his voice barely a whisper, that the short lunch time is coming and you risk missing it.]
[You let Spong lead you out of the cabin, through the complex and ever-changing passages—a maze of unlit corridors and clanking pipes—and head toward the lower cabin of the battle barge.]
[You came to a wide, low-ceilinged space called the "Crab Hall" by Spong, the air here even thicker with the smell of unwashed bodies and machine oil.]
[You saw countless mortals coming to collect food. The sheer volume was staggering; there were about three thousand people by visual estimation alone, jostling and pushing in a silent desperation.]
[You also saw the Astartes monks mixed in the crowd. They were wearing mixed power armor and almost all had the same pale gray skin, but only a few had the completely black sclera you possessed.]
[You sat heavily in an empty, shadowed corner, the armor's weight thudding on the metal deck, causing a few nearby mortals to jump.]
[You stared at the excited little boy Spong's agile steps and nimble body as he wove through a large number of people and went to the hatch to collect food. His small, swift movements were those of someone practiced in survival.]
[He returned and you got a small bowl of nutritious porridge mixed with an unappetizing ceramic powder and about a liter of lukewarm fresh water.]
[You frowned, the smell bland and the texture gritty, and ate a spoonful of the tasteless nutritious porridge out of habit, not hunger.]
[You look expressionlessly at the little boy, Spong, who is carefully holding a bowl of corpse-pink slurry that is as thin as water, and sips it reluctantly, his eyes wide and watchful.]
[Your keen senses, amplified by the armor, instantly notice a strong mortal warrior who has just walked past you with a plate of steaming, fragrant, unknown beast meat. The aroma, rich and savory, was an insult to the watery slurry in your bowl.]
["Spong, watch my bowl," You told the little boy, the warning quiet but firm. "Don't eat it. Mortals will choke to death on that stuff." You slowly stood up, the power armor's hydraulics hissing as you straightened to your full height.]
[You move in your power armor and stride deliberately towards the hatch for collecting food. The sheer force of your movement seemed to warp the atmosphere.]
[Instantly, a large number of mortals, whether warriors or servants, froze and made a wide berth for you, clearing a path instantly.]
[Dozens of Astartes monks who are eating look at each other, their eyes seemingly full of confusion and a faint, unspoken disapproval.]
[Your power armor blocks the hatch for collecting food entirely. The chef inside looks up, fear instantly painting his face.]
[You reach out your massive, ceramite-clad arm and grab a mortal chef who is responsible for distributing food, taking him by the collar of his grease-stained tunic.]
["Why can my servants only eat corpse starch, while others can eat meat?" You stare expressionlessly at the mortal chef, your black eyes utterly devoid of warmth. Cold sweat instantly beaded on his forehead.]
[The other party's fat body, hanging in the air, is shaking violently, his legs kicking uselessly. His mouth opens and closes several times but fails to make a sound, only gasping for air.]
["Padrick of the reconnaissance team, I order you to put him down." A deeper, rumbling voice came from behind you, a sound of heavy authority.]
[You move the heavy power armor and look back, the servo-motors grinding. A sepia-armored monk wearing burly and heavy Terminator power armor stood there. He was old, marked by war. A Terminator cross was painted boldly on his shoulder, along with several rolled-up prayer parchments tied to the edge of the shoulder armor. Three ancient iron skulls hung from his waist, clicking faintly with his steps. He advanced slowly, powerfully, a figure of undeniable command.]
[You try to judge the other party's identity from the respectful actions and hushed words of the nearby sepia monks, who instinctively recoiled a step.]
[You quickly let go of the huge palm holding the mortal chef's collar. The chef dropped to the deck, coughing and scrambling away.]
[You performed a regiment salute to the sepia monk wearing the power armor, the motion sharp and precise despite the armor's bulk.]
["...Captain!" You didn't know the other party's name, and subconsciously made a reasonable judgment based on the preciousness of the Terminator power armor.]
["Why do you arbitrarily humiliate mortals? Have you forgotten the Astartes Codex and your dignity as an Astartes monk?" The deep voice from the Captain was like an exploding mine, ringing in your ears, a sound that bypassed the armor's noise dampening.]
[You cleverly waited for the other party to finish questioning, holding yourself still and meeting his gaze, and then explained the whole story in detail, keeping the tone flat and factual.]
[The captain of the third company, named Bail Sharr, stared at you expressionlessly, as if there was no emotion in his black sclera, which mirrored your own.]
[He walked to the side of the mortal chef, who was still gasping, and leaned over slightly to listen to his side of the story.]
[You also learned that the food supply of this battle barge, and even the entire war group, was critically running low. The Kraken was in dire straits.]
[The reason why those mortal warriors received meat food was because they were a group of mortal auxiliary troops called "Devourers". They were about to participate in a fierce, high-risk battle and received additional food compensation... That might very well be the last meal in their short, miserable lives.]
[You were silent for a moment, the weight of the realization sinking in.]
[You turned around and gave a curt, formal apology to the mortal chef, who flinched but nodded. You also admitted your mistake to the expressionless Captain Bail Sharr again.]
[Captain Bail Sharr accepted your apology, and at the same time, he used his own food share to take a portion of the unknown beast meat and handed it to you. It was a gesture of unexpected understanding.]
["Padrick, the never-ending ships are our only home. We were once the Forsaken, but now we have changed... Although they are mortal servants, they are also the people of Emperor. I don't want to encounter this kind of thing again. Treat them with the cold respect they earn through service, nothing more, nothing less..." The expressionless Captain Bail Sharr's low voice once again reached your ears, a mix of discipline and weary philosophy.]
[You stared with your pair of dark eyes, revealing your sharp teeth like a shark's in a quick, predatory movement.]
[You made a small suggestion to the other party, the thought already formed: You volunteered to participate in this combat mission of the mortal auxiliary army. You plan to atone for your sins and try to bring them back alive, using your own strength to balance the scales.]
[The expressionless Captain Bail Sharr rolled his dark eyes, a minute but telling movement.]
[He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his posture unmoving but the silence stretching, and finally agreed to your request.]