The bitter wind of the northern wastes cut through even the sealed joints of Lucian's T-45 power armor, a constant reminder of how far they had fallen. The City of Frost loomed before them through the perpetual twilight of the planet's polar region, its massive walls rising like the bones of some primordial giant against the darkening sky. Ice crystals formed and shattered against his visor in endless cycles, each breath fogging the internal display with reminders of his own mortality.
Lucian's boots crunched against the permafrost as he approached Captain Morrison, who stood hunched over a tactical display that flickered intermittently in the cold. The veteran's face was drawn with exhaustion, forty years of service etched into every line around his eyes. Behind them, the remnants of their unit huddled in whatever shelter they could find among the ice formations, thirty souls who had managed to survive the latest catastrophic retreat from what they had been told were the front lines.
"Captain," Lucian's voice crackled through the vox-grille of his helmet, each word carefully measured despite the desperation gnawing at his chest. "I need to know our options here. Is there any possibility we can still evacuate from this world? Any transport off-planet?"
Morrison's head snapped up from his display, his weathered face cycling through expressions of disbelief, anger, and finally settling on something that might have been pity. The Captain's own T-60 power armor, more advanced than Lucian's aging T-45, seemed to make him larger and more imposing in the dim light as he straightened to his full height.
"Trooper Lucian," Morrison's voice carried the weight of decades of command, each syllable carefully enunciated. "That question could have you shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy." The words hung in the frigid air between them like a death sentence, and Lucian felt his blood turn to ice that had nothing to do with the arctic climate.
But then Morrison's expression softened, just slightly, and he continued in a lower tone that wouldn't carry to the other men. "But I know you, Lucian. Forty years you've served this system, bled for it, lost friends for it. You're not asking because you're a coward. You're asking because you're scared, and scared is normal when you've seen what we've seen."
The Captain gestured for Lucian to follow him a short distance from the group, their heavy footsteps creating small avalanches of snow and ice. When they were out of earshot, Morrison's voice took on an almost conspiratorial quality.
"You want the truth, veteran? That Eternity Gate they told us about on the front lines? The one they said would be our evacuation point if things went south?" Morrison's laugh was bitter and sharp as the wind around them. "Complete fabrication. Propaganda designed to flush out the dissidents and cowards, give them something to run toward so they could be identified and dealt with."
Lucian felt his jaw clench so hard that his teeth ached. "Then where—"
"The real Eternity Gate is here," Morrison interrupted, nodding toward the massive structure of Frost City. "Right here in the City of Frost. Those poor bastards who tried to retreat to what they thought was the evacuation point? They ran straight into kill-zones. Automated defense systems, orbital bombardments, the works. They were slaughtered like livestock."
The revelation hit Lucian like a physical blow, and once again he found himself cursing the name Valorian under his breath. The more he learned about how this war was being conducted, the more his belief solidified that the so-called Independence Sector was nothing more than tyranny wrapped in the glossy packaging of freedom and liberty. The rhetoric spoke of protecting the common citizen, of fighting for their rights and freedoms, but the reality was manipulation, deception, and the casual disposal of human lives when they became inconvenient.
Before Morrison could respond, a new sound reached their ears – the deep, thrumming bass note of artillery so massive that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. The horizon to the south flickered with brief, brilliant flashes, each one followed seconds later by that earth-shaking thunder. Lucian had spent enough time around heavy weapons to recognize the sound profile, and what he was hearing defied belief.
"By Liberty!," he breathed. "Those aren't standard siege guns. That's something... bigger."
Morrison nodded grimly. "Krork super-heavy artillery. We've been tracking their advance for the past six hours. Whatever they're firing, it's large enough to level city blocks with single shots."
The vibration of their APC's engine provided a counterpoint to the distant bombardment as they made their way toward the vehicle. Even through the shock-absorbing systems of his power armor, Lucian could feel the mechanical rhythm of the transport's heart, a reminder that they were still mobile, still had options, even if those options were rapidly dwindling.
Captain Morrison activated his vox-unit, the device crackling to life with bursts of static punctuated by urgent voices. "Frost City Control, this is Captain Morrison with survivor group designation Seven-Seven-Alpha, requesting permission to enter the city. We have thirty effectives, mixed armament, low on supplies but combat ready."
The response came back almost immediately, the voice on the other end carrying the crisp authority of someone who had never spent a night sleeping in a foxhole. "Seven-Seven-Alpha, permission granted. Proceed to Gate Seven for intake and debriefing. Welcome to Frost City, Captain."
As their APC rumbled toward the city's entrance, Lucian found his mind racing through possibilities and contingencies. If the Eternity Gate was indeed located within Frost City, then determining its exact location would be his first priority. After that, he would need to assess what kind of security surrounded it, what resources would be required to access it, and most importantly, whether it was even functional.
He studied the thirty men who shared the cramped interior of their transport. Each wore power armor similar to his own T-45 model, though the suits showed varying degrees of battle damage and field repairs. Scorched plates, welded patches, jury-rigged systems that spoke of long campaigns and desperate improvisation. These were survivors, men who had learned to adapt and endure because the alternative was death. Captain Morrison, in his more advanced T-60 armor, stood out like a knight among foot soldiers, his equipment marking him as someone deemed worthy of better protection by the system they all served.
As they approached the massive gates of Frost City, Lucian found himself genuinely impressed despite his cynical attitude toward the Valorian regime. The doors were enormous slabs of adamantium, each one easily a hundred meters tall and proportionally thick. They moved with surprising grace for their size, sliding apart to reveal the interior of the city beyond. The engineering required to create such structures was staggering – this was the kind of infrastructure that spoke to the Independence Sector's industrial capabilities.
Their APC rolled through the gateway, and the moment they cleared the threshold, the massive doors began to close behind them with a resonant thud that seemed to shake the very air. Lucian felt a momentary sense of claustrophobia as the outside world was sealed away, leaving them trapped within whatever defenses Frost City could provide.
Lucian gazed upward—and froze.
Titans.At least Fifty of them, their towering frames half-shrouded in steam and mist. Warhounds stalked between massive glacier battlements, while Reavers loomed like mobile fortresses. At the center, an Imperator Titan stood immobile, its head lost in clouds, a walking god of war.
Lucian had heard of Titans, of course. Everyone had. But he had never seen one with his own eyes. He had always believed they were purely Martian relics, too sacred and rare to ever leave Mars itself.
But these were not the Martian colors of the Collegia Titanica
These machines were painted navy blue and crimson, banners of the Liberty Eagle fluttering proudly from their armor plates. The realization struck Lucian like a physical blow.
"These… these aren't Martian," he whispered. "The Sector builds them now?"
Morrison gave a grim nod. "The Liberty Titan Legion. The Sector's very own Titan Legion. We've had them for generations, Vue-Baptiste. You've just been too far down in the mud to see them."
Lucian stared, awe warring with disgust. The sheer power here—the wealth, the industrial might it represented—it was beyond comprehension. The sight was simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying, a reminder of the vast military machine that the Independence Sector could deploy when circumstances demanded it.
And yet, Lucian thought bitterly, they left us to die in trenches while they built walking gods behind walls of ice.
As their group disembarked and began making their way through the organized chaos of the city's interior, Lucian noticed movement from a different section of the complex. A new group was emerging from what appeared to be an inner sanctum, and immediately his tactical assessment systems began processing what he was seeing.
These were not ordinary soldiers. They stood nearly seven feet tall in power armor, and the equipment they wore made Lucian's T-45 power armor look like a child's toy by comparison. The designs were sleek and advanced, incorporating technology that his systems couldn't even identify. Each soldier carried weapons that appeared to be energy-based, the power requirements for which would probably drain his armor's reactor in a matter of minutes.
But it was their discipline that truly marked them as elite. They moved in perfect synchronization, each step calculated and precise. Their formations were textbook examples of military efficiency, and even in what appeared to be a routine movement from one location to another, they maintained tactical spacing and weapons readiness that spoke of training that went far beyond anything Lucian had experienced in his four decades of service.
One word crystallized in his mind as he watched them: Liberty Guardsmen. The elite soldiers of the Independence Sector, transhuman warriors who served as the link between ordinary human forces and the Space Marines of the Liberty Eagles Legion. These were the soldiers that propaganda broadcasts spoke of in reverent tones, the heroes who stood between civilization and chaos.
Captain Morrison moved up beside him, and Lucian could hear the excitement in the veteran's voice as he spoke. "The Liberty Guardsmen are here, Lucian. That's good news—very good news."
"Liberty Guardsmen?" Lucian asked, though he already knew the answer.
Morrison nodded enthusiastically, his weathered face showing more hope than Lucian had seen from the man in weeks. "If the Liberty Guardsmen have arrived through the Liberty Gate, then it means the Liberty Eagles aren't far behind. The Eleventh Legion, Lucian—the Space Marines themselves."
"Space Marines?" The question came out more sharply than Lucian had intended. "The Eleventh Legion?"
"That's right," Morrison confirmed, his voice carrying the kind of confidence that only came from absolute belief. "The Liberty Eagles. When they arrive, the tide will turn, mark my words. These Krorks might have numbers and big guns, but they've never faced the sons of Franklin Valorian in battle."
Morrison's faith was absolute, the kind of unshakeable belief that had probably sustained him through decades of warfare and kept him functioning even in the face of seemingly impossible odds. But as Lucian listened to the Captain's words, he felt only a deep cynicism welling up inside him.
The Liberty Eagles, the so-called champions of freedom and liberty. Another part of the propaganda machine.
Lucian scoffed quietly to himself, the sound lost in the ambient noise of the city around them. He had no faith left in the so-called System of Liberty, no belief that the arrival of Space Marines would somehow transform their desperate situation into a glorious victory. In his experience, the higher up the chain of command you looked, the more likely you were to find politicians in armor rather than warriors fighting for principles.
The Liberty Eagles might be superhuman, they might possess weapons and abilities that defied conventional understanding, but they were still part of the same system that had placed him and his comrades into this frozen hell at the edge of known space. They served the same leaders who thought nothing of sacrificing human lives for strategic advantage, who viewed ordinary soldiers as expendable resources rather than people with hopes and fears and families waiting for them to return home.
The conversation between him and Morrison had revealed more than just tactical information about their situation. It had crystallized the fundamental divide between those who still believed in the righteousness of their cause and those who had seen too much to maintain that faith. Morrison represented the old guard, the career soldiers who had built their identities around service to the greater good. Lucian, on the other hand, a prisoner in a system that viewed survival as primary, the losers of the former regime.
The Lieutenant who met them at the processing station was everything Lucian had come to expect from the Independence Sector's officer corps—young, clean, and possessed of the kind of crisp professionalism that came from never having spent a night in a genuine foxhole. His uniform was immaculate despite the warzone they found themselves in, his equipment showed no signs of field wear, and when he spoke, it was with the measured cadence of someone reciting from a manual rather than drawing from experience.
"Captain Morrison, Sergeant Lucian," the Lieutenant began, consulting a data-slate that flickered with organizational charts and duty rosters. "I'm Lieutenant Hayes, Third Spire Defense Coordination. You and your men are being integrated with the existing defensive forces for the Third Liberty Spire sector."
Lucian felt Morrison tense beside him, the veteran's instincts clearly picking up on something in the Lieutenant's tone. "The Third Spire, sir?" Morrison asked carefully. "What's our mission parameters there?"
Lieutenant Hayes' expression remained neutral, but Lucian caught the slight hesitation before he answered. "Defensive operations, Captain. Standard rotation duties with the Planetary Defense Force units already in position." He gestured for them to follow as he began walking deeper into the city's interior. "You'll be familiarized with the defensive positions and integrated into the existing command structure."
As they walked, Lucian began to notice details that painted a picture their escort wasn't verbalizing. The corridors they passed through showed increasing signs of strain—scorch marks on walls where emergency power had overloaded, patches of newer construction where battle damage had been hastily repaired, and most tellingly, the gradual increase in the ambient noise level as they moved toward their destination.
What had started as the distant rumble of artillery when they first entered Frost City was becoming something else entirely as they approached the Third Spire. The sound was constant now, a bass vibration that seemed to emanate from the very walls around them. Each impact sent tremors through the adamantium superstructure, subtle but noticeable to anyone with Lucian's experience reading the rhythm of battle.
"Lieutenant," Lucian said, his voice carefully neutral, "exactly how active is the Third Spire sector?"
Hayes glanced back at him, and for just a moment, the professional mask slipped. "Very active, Sergeant. The Third Spire faces the primary axis of Krork advance."
The admission hit Lucian like a physical blow, but he kept his expression steady. Of course. Of course they were being assigned to the heaviest fighting. The survivors of a failed defensive action, men whose units had been broken and scattered, were being thrown into the meat grinder because they were expendable. Not valuable enough to preserve, but still useful enough to absorb enemy fire and buy time for more important assets.
Captain Morrison's jaw tightened, but his voice remained professional when he spoke. "What kind of enemy activity are we looking at, Lieutenant? Numbers, composition, threat assessment?"
"Substantial," Hayes replied, which told them exactly nothing while confirming everything they feared. "The defensive positions are well-fortified, and the automated systems are performing within acceptable parameters."
Acceptable parameters. Lucian had heard that phrase enough times to translate it accurately: people were dying in large numbers, but not quite fast enough to constitute a crisis requiring intervention by higher command. The phrase was a bureaucratic way of saying that the current rate of attrition was considered sustainable, at least for the immediate future.
As they climbed a series of transport lifts that carried them toward the upper levels of the spire, the sounds of combat grew increasingly distinct. What had been a generalized rumble was resolving into individual components—the sharp crack of las-fire, the deeper boom of explosive ordnance, and underlying it all, the constant thunder of incoming artillery strikes hitting defensive barriers.
Lieutenant Hayes noticed their expressions as the sounds grew louder. "The Third Spire's defensive grid is among the most sophisticated in the city," he said, though whether he was trying to reassure them or himself wasn't clear. "Void shields, automated defense systems, overlapping fields of fire. The position is virtually impregnable."
Virtually impregnable. Another phrase that experienced soldiers learned to distrust. Nothing was impregnable, and the use of qualifiers like "virtually" usually meant that someone was trying to convince themselves as much as anyone else.
When they finally reached the level that housed the Third Spire's defensive positions, Lucian understood why the Lieutenant had been so careful with his language. The view from the observation ports was simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying.
The Third Liberty Spire jutted out from the main structure of Frost City like a massive finger pointed at the enemy, its weapons emplacements and defensive positions commanding a vast field of fire across the frozen wasteland beyond the city walls. But it was what filled that wasteland that made Lucian's breath catch in his throat.
Orks. Hundreds of thousands of them, spread across the landscape in a green tide that seemed to stretch to the horizon. They moved in crude formations, their primitive vehicles and war machines creating clouds of black smoke that darkened the already dim polar sky. But even from this distance, Lucian could see that these weren't the disorganized mobs he had fought in previous campaigns.
These Orks were being led. Larger figures moved among the masses, clearly directing the flow of the assault. And looming in the distance, partially obscured by smoke and atmospheric haze, were shapes that could only be the Krorks themselves—the massive, intelligent war-leaders that had turned this species from a nuisance into an existential threat.
The defensive systems of the Third Spire were indeed impressive. Void shields shimmered in the air around the structure, creating a protective barrier that deflected incoming artillery strikes in brilliant flashes of dissipated energy. Automated turret systems tracked targets across the battlefield, their firing solutions calculated by artificial intelligence that never tired, never hesitated, and never showed mercy.
But it was the sheer volume of incoming fire that made Lucian realize why they were needed here. Every few seconds, the void shields flared as massive artillery shells impacted against them. Each strike sent ripples of displaced energy cascading across the barrier, and while the shields held, Lucian's tactical experience told him that this kind of sustained bombardment would eventually wear them down.
"The enemy focuses approximately sixty percent of their total artillery capacity on this position," Lieutenant Hayes said, his voice taking on the tone of someone delivering a briefing he had memorized. "Current defensive systems are absorbing an average of two hundred and forty major impacts per hour, with approximately fifteen thousand small arms hits during the same period."
Lucian did the math in his head and didn't like the results. That level of sustained fire represented an enormous commitment of resources by the enemy, which meant they considered this position strategically vital. It also meant that when—not if—the defensive systems eventually failed, the results would be catastrophic.
Through the observation ports, he could see the current defenders in action. Planetary Defense Force troopers moved through prepared positions with the mechanical precision of soldiers who had been doing this for weeks or months. Their las-rifles created constant flickers of red light as they engaged targets, the disciplined volleys creating a steady rhythm of destruction among the Ork ranks.
But it was the Liberty Guardsmen who truly dominated the battlefield. Their plasma and volkite weaponry carved through enemy formations like invisible scythes, each shot creating expanding spheres of superheated destruction that vaporized everything within their radius. Where the PDF's las-fire killed individual Orks, the Liberty Guard's weapons erased entire squads from existence.
Automated defense systems added their own contribution to the slaughter. Smart missiles streaked out from concealed launchers, their guidance systems identifying high-value targets and eliminating them with kinetic warheads that created brief stars of destruction across the battlefield. The coordination between human and machine was flawless, creating overlapping fields of fire that turned the approaches to the Third Spire into a killing ground of unprecedented efficiency.
And yet, the Orks kept coming.
"How long has this been going on?" Morrison asked, his voice tight with professional interest and growing concern.
"Three days of continuous assault," Hayes replied. "Enemy casualty estimates range from eight to twelve million killed, with similar numbers wounded. But their reinforcement rate appears to match or exceed their loss rate."
Twelve million dead, and they were still coming. Lucian had fought Orks before, had seen their seemingly limitless capacity for regeneration and reproduction, but this was beyond anything in his experience. This suggested an enemy with resources so vast that normal concepts of attrition warfare simply didn't apply.
"What about the Krorks themselves?" Lucian asked. "The big ones in the back—are they engaging?"
Hayes shook his head. "Negative. Intelligence suggests they're observing our defensive capabilities and casualty infliction rates. Current assessment is that they're using the smaller Ork variants as expendable reconnaissance units while they develop counters to our defensive systems."
Using them as expendable reconnaissance. The phrase sent a chill down Lucian's spine that had nothing to do with the arctic climate. If the Krorks were intelligent enough to conduct systematic intelligence gathering operations using their own species as expendable assets, then they were dealing with an enemy far more sophisticated than conventional Ork threats.
Lieutenant Hayes led them through a series of reinforced corridors toward what would be their new quarters. The barracks they were assigned to were functional but stark, designed to house soldiers who were expected to spend most of their time either fighting or preparing to fight. Rows of bunks lined the walls, each equipped with basic life support connections and equipment storage.
Already present were the remnants of other units—survivors like themselves who had been folded into the Third Spire's defensive roster. Lucian counted roughly sixty men and women, all wearing the same expression of weary professionalism that he had seen in mirrors for the past several weeks. These were soldiers who had learned to compartmentalize their fear and focus on the immediate tasks of survival and mission completion.
"Your duty rotation begins at dusk," Hayes informed them, checking his chronometer against some internal schedule. "You'll be replacing the current defensive teams for the night watch. Sector assignments and weapons allocations will be distributed by your squad leaders within the hour."
A Liberty Guardsman had been waiting by the barracks entrance, his massive frame making even Captain Morrison look small by comparison. The enhanced soldier's armor was pristine despite the obvious signs of recent combat—energy weapon scoring on the chest plates and fresh repair seals where battle damage had been corrected. When Morrison approached him, the Guardsman nodded with the kind of professional acknowledgment that passed between career soldiers regardless of their specific branch of service.
"Captain," the Liberty Guardsman said, his voice carrying the subtle modifications that came with transhuman enhancement. "Welcome to the Third Spire. Your men have a reputation for competence under fire. We'll need that here."
Morrison returned the nod. "We'll do our duty, Guardsman. What can you tell us about enemy tactical patterns?"
"They're learning," came the reply, short and to the point. "Each wave incorporates counters to the previous day's defensive measures. Whoever's running this operation has been studying our response patterns and adapting accordingly."
The implication was clear: they were facing an enemy that was not only massive and well-equipped, but also intelligent and adaptable. Each day of fighting was providing their opponents with more information about human defensive capabilities, and that information was being used to develop increasingly effective countermeasures.
After the brief exchange, the Liberty Guardsman departed with the same efficient precision that seemed to characterize everything about the enhanced soldiers. Morrison watched him go, then turned to address the assembled men.
"All right, everyone listen up," Morrison called out, his voice carrying the authority of decades of command experience. "We've got a few hours before our rotation begins. I want everyone to use this time to rest, check equipment, and get familiar with your new sector assignments. This isn't a temporary posting—we're part of the Third Spire's defense now, and that means we perform to the same standards as everyone else here."
He paused, scanning the faces of the men who had survived the retreat with him, as well as the other survivors who were now part of their extended unit. "I know this isn't the assignment any of us were expecting when we started this campaign, but it's the mission we've been given. We've all seen what's out there, we know what we're facing, and we know that the people behind us are counting on us to hold this position."
Morrison's voice carried conviction, the kind of absolute belief that had sustained him through four decades of military service. But as Lucian listened to the familiar rhetoric about duty and mission completion, he found himself focusing instead on the practical realities of their situation.
They were being used as expendable assets, placed in the position where casualties were highest because their survival was considered less important than preserving more valuable units. The enemy they faced possessed resources that seemed limitless and intelligence that was systematically exploiting their defensive weaknesses. And somewhere in the distance, the real threat—the Krorks themselves—waited and watched while their lesser kin died in the millions to gather information about human military capabilities.
"Get some rest," Morrison concluded. "We'll need to be sharp when the sun goes down."
As the Captain moved away to begin his own preparations, Lucian found himself staring out through one of the observation ports at the endless sea of enemies beyond the city walls. The constant flashing of defensive weapons created a strobing light show against the perpetual twilight of the polar region, each flash representing the destruction of one or more enemy combatants. But for every Ork that died, it seemed like ten more took its place.
The sound of incoming artillery had become so constant that it was starting to fade into background noise, just another part of the environment like the hum of life support systems or the distant vibration of the city's power generators. But Lucian's tactical instincts refused to let him ignore what that constant bombardment meant: the enemy had enough ammunition to maintain this rate of fire indefinitely, which suggested supply lines and production capabilities that dwarfed anything the human defenders could match.
As he prepared his equipment for the coming night watch, Lucian found himself wondering if survival was even a realistic goal anymore. The Third Liberty Spire might be well-defended, its automated systems might be slaughtering enemies by the thousands, but wars of attrition were ultimately decided by mathematics, and the mathematics of this situation seemed to clearly favor the enemy.
The maintenance bay hummed with mechanical efficiency as robotic limbs descended from the ceiling like metallic spiders, their sensors scanning every millimeter of Lucian's battered T-45 power armor. Steam hissed from coolant vents as the automated systems began their work, welding plates, replacing components, and buffing out the countless scratches and burn marks that told the story of forty years of warfare.
Lucian stepped back from the storage compartment, his body aching from the phantom weight of armor he had worn for so long that it felt like a second skin. The recycled air of Frost City carried the familiar scents of machine oil and ozone, but underneath lay something else – the metallic tang of fear and desperation that seemed to permeate every corner of the facility.
His eyes lingered on the repair work, watching as servo-arms carefully attended to the damage around his armor's spinal column. The scarring there was extensive – a deliberate pattern of destruction that masked the true nature of what had occurred. To the casual observer, it would appear that an ork explosive had detonated near his position, destroying his AI core and leaving him temporarily cut off from his armor's advanced systems.
The truth was far more sinister.
Lucian could still remember, how he shot Kellerman.
The shot had been muffled by the chaos of combat, lost in the thunder of artillery and the screams of the dying. But the real betrayal had come afterward, when Lucian had deliberately targeted his own AI core with an Ork Stikkbomb, destroying the only witness to his crime.
The replacement AI core he had been issued was a standard military model – efficient but lacking the advanced cognitive functions that might have noticed discrepancies in his behavior or questioned orders that seemed out of character. It was a small mercy in a universe that seemed determined to offer none.
"Not discovered," he murmured to himself, watching the robotic limbs work with mechanical precision. "Just another casualty of war."
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since before their retreat began. The cafeteria would be crowded with other survivors, other men and women who had seen too much and done too little to change their circumstances. But food was food, and survival required maintaining the routines of normal existence even when nothing about their situation was normal.
The corridors of Frost City stretched before him like arteries in some vast mechanical organism. Emergency lighting cast everything in harsh shadows, while the constant hum of generators and life support systems created a monotonous background noise that seemed designed to drive inhabitants slowly insane. Security checkpoints monitored every movement, their sensors tracking biometric signatures and cross-referencing them against databases maintained by the Valorian regime.
It was near the cafeteria entrance that Lucian first spotted the old man.
He was perhaps in his mid-fifties, though the harsh conditions of Frost City had aged him prematurely. His clothes were the simple gray coveralls worn by maintenance personnel, and he pushed a cleaning cart with the methodical efficiency of someone who had long ago accepted his place in the world's hierarchy. There was something familiar about his posture, something in the way he moved that triggered memories Lucian had thought buried.
"Ferdinand?" The name escaped Lucian's lips before he could stop himself.
The old man looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile that seemed to transform his entire appearance. "Young master," he said, his voice carrying the refined accent that Lucian remembered from his childhood. "I wondered when our paths would cross again."
Ferdinand V. Marsh had been the Vue-Baptiste family's head butler for as long as Lucian could remember. A man of impeccable manners and unwavering loyalty, he had been more of a father figure than Lucian's actual parent – a cold, ambitious man who had seen his son as little more than a political asset to be leveraged in the complex games of Corporate politics.
Lucian crossed the distance in three strides. They embraced briefly, a simple gesture that to any onlooker appeared to be nothing more than a chance meeting between old acquaintances. But Lucian could feel the tremor in Ferdinand's hands, could sense the emotion held tightly in check.
"I thought you were dead," Lucian said, his voice harsher than intended. "When the Valorians came for our family, when father was executed… when they burned everything down."
Ferdinand's smile was tinged with sorrow and something sharper beneath. "What you saw die that day was not me, young master — merely a clone. A deception, planned long before the purge began. Your father knew which way the wind was blowing. He understood the tide would turn against us, and he prepared… contingencies. While the clone perished for the crowd, I was sent to secure certain assets — things too valuable to be left in Valorian hands."
Lucian froze. A clone.All those years of grief and guilt — the crushing certainty that he had failed to protect the man who raised him — turned suddenly hollow. A lie.
"The real Ferdinand Marsh," the old man continued, lowering his voice, "has been here for three decades. When the regime turned this world into a prison, I was among the first exiles. And I have waited, silently, for the day you would come."
Lucian struggled to process it all. "Thirty years… and you knew I'd end up here?"
Ferdinand's eyes glittered strangely in the cold light. "Your father foresaw many things."
He cast a wary glance toward the door, scanning for listeners. "But this is no place to speak of such matters. Come to my quarters tonight — Block C, Level 7, Room 347. There are truths you must hear… and a legacy you must claim."
The hours crawled past like years. Lucian went through the motions of briefings, inspections, and rote military procedure, but his thoughts were locked on Ferdinand's revelation.
When night finally fell, Lucian moved through the residential corridors with deliberate calm. The Ork assault had subsided for now, leaving the base in an uneasy stillness. Block C stretched before him like a warren, its narrow passageways lined with identical doors, each marked with nothing more than a stenciled number. The recycled air was thick with heat and the faint tang of machine oil.
The few people he passed — exhausted soldiers, gaunt civilians clutching ration tins — barely registered his presence. They were all too beaten down to care. Here, everyone was just another shadow in the dim light, and Lucian preferred it that way.
Ferdinand opened the door before Lucian could knock, ushering him inside. The quarters were bare but spotless, every object placed with precise care. Lucian's eye caught subtle modifications: mirrors positioned to catch blind spots, sightlines arranged for defense. This was no mere janitor's home — it was a lair built to survive.
"Thirty years is a long time to live a lie," Lucian observed.
Ferdinand smiled thinly. "A necessary one. Word travels quickly among the labor ranks here. When I learned there was a Vue-Baptiste scion among the garrison, I knew it was only a matter of time before you found me."
Lucian accepted the steaming cup of tea offered to him, letting the warmth soothe his hands. "I always thought I was the last of our line. After the purges, after everything the Valorians did to… to destroy us."
Ferdinand's expression hardened, voice edged with venom. "The Valorians called it the destruction of the noble houses. A convenient lie, a story for the masses. They made it sound like they were tearing down decadent monarchies — cruel aristocrats who lorded over the common man."He leaned forward, his voice a whisper."But we know the truth, don't we, young master? We were corporations. Builders of fleets, creators of prosperity. Your father's consortium alone fed billions and spanned half the sector's starlanes. We were the foundation of civilization — and Franklin Valorian couldn't abide rivals."
Lucian nodded grimly. "They branded us as tyrants to justify the purge."
"Exactly," Ferdinand said, eyes gleaming. "They rewrote history to make the people cheer while their true benefactors were slaughtered. And when the blood dried, they claimed the ruins as their own, wrapping tyranny in the flag of liberty."
He moved to a particular section of the floor, fingers tracing hidden seams with practiced precision. With a muted click, a panel slid open, revealing a concealed compartment below.
"Before the end came, your father gave me a final task — to secure certain… assets. Things too dangerous to leave behind, too valuable to trust to anyone but family. And now, young master, that burden passes to you."
From the hidden compartment, Ferdinand carefully lifted a small box wrought from an unfamiliar, silvery metal. Even under the dim light, it seemed to drink in the glow rather than reflect it. Its surface bore the Vue-Baptiste crest: an eagle in mid-flight, one talon clutching a sword, the other a gear — a symbol of their dynasty's dual legacy as warriors and builders of industry.
Ferdinand held it as one might cradle a relic. "This was hidden before the purges began," he said softly, almost reverently. "Your father knew the storm was coming. He wanted to ensure that when the Valorians burned our fleets and slaughtered our bloodline, something of us would endure."
He extended the box to Lucian, his hands steady despite the weight of the moment."Your father left this for you, young master. He believed… no, he knew you would one day need it. Even if he could not have imagined the hell that would bring you here."
Lucian's hands trembled slightly as he accepted the box. The metal was warm to the touch, and he could feel a subtle vibration emanating from within – as if the container held something alive, something eager to be released.
The locking mechanism was biometric, designed to respond only to Vue-Baptiste genetic markers. Lucian pressed his thumb against the scanner, and the box opened with a soft hiss of escaping atmosphere.
Inside, nestled in what appeared to be some form of stasis field, was a device unlike anything Lucian had ever seen. It was roughly spherical, about the size of a human heart, and constructed from materials that seemed to shift and flow like liquid metal. But it was the symbol etched into its surface that made his blood run cold – an eight-pointed star that seemed to burn with its own inner light.
"What is this?" Lucian whispered, though part of him already knew the answer would change everything.
Ferdinand's smile returned, but there was something different about it now – something predatory that had been carefully hidden beneath decades of servile behavior. "Your family was... innovative in their approach to technology, young master. In the final days of the civil war, when it became clear that conventional weapons would not be sufficient to resist the Valorian advance, your father authorized research into alternative power sources."
Lucian lifted the device from its resting place, surprised by how light it felt despite its apparent complexity. The eight-pointed star seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, and he could swear he heard whispers just at the edge of perception – voices speaking in languages that predated human civilization.
"The Heart of the Omnissiah," Ferdinand said, his voice taking on a reverent tone that Lucian had never heard from the man before. "A power source that draws its energy from the Immaterium itself. Your father believed it could power weapons capable of bringing down even the Valorian war machine."
The device grew warmer in Lucian's hands, and the whispers became more distinct. They spoke of power, of revenge, of the means to strike back at those who had destroyed everything he had once held dear. The eight-pointed star seemed to expand, filling his vision with visions of burning cities and fallen tyrants.
"How does it work?" Lucian asked, though part of him was already beginning to understand. The device was responding to his emotions, feeding on his anger and resentment, growing stronger with each passing moment.
"The exact mechanisms were known only to your father's most trusted researchers," Ferdinand replied, though his eyes never left Lucian's face. "But the principles are straightforward enough. The Heart creates a conduit to the Warp, allowing the wielder to channel immaterial energies for a variety of purposes."
As Ferdinand spoke, Lucian noticed something strange about the man's reflection in the polished surface of a nearby metal panel. For just a moment, the image seemed to flicker, revealing something else entirely – a figure that was taller, more angular, with eyes that burned with eldritch fire. But when he blinked and looked again, there was only Ferdinand, watching him with the patient expression of a loyal servant.
"You've been waiting for this moment," Lucian said, the realization coming to him slowly. "All these years, you've been waiting for me to find this device."
Ferdinand's smile widened, and for a brief instant, Lucian could have sworn he saw too many teeth. "I have been waiting for many things, young master. But yes, this moment was always inevitable."
The Heart pulsed again, and this time Lucian felt its influence more clearly. It offered him everything he had ever wanted – the power to strike back at the Valorian regime, the means to avenge his family's destruction, the ability to reclaim his rightful place in a galaxy that had forgotten the name Vue-Baptiste.
All it asked in return was trust. Trust in the whispers that promised him strength. Trust in the power that flowed from beyond the veil of reality. Trust in Ferdinand, who had waited thirty years to place this weapon in his hands.
Lucian's grip tightened on the device. As he stared into its pulsing core, the world seemed to sharpen. Colors became richer, sounds more layered. Somewhere at the edge of hearing, whispers coiled like serpents, their words just beyond comprehension.
"What do you feel?" Ferdinand asked softly.
"…Possibility," Lucian admitted.
Ferdinand's expression flickered — for a heartbeat, his eyes glowed with unnatural blue fire, his smile seemed, inhuman. The illusion snapped back into place before Lucian noticed.
"Yes," Ferdinand murmured. "Your family's legacy. Your birthright. With this, you could rebuild everything that was taken from you."
As if responding to Ferdinand's words, the device sent a pulse of energy through Lucian's nervous system. For a moment, his vision expanded beyond the confines of the small cabin, showing him glimpses of Frost City's hidden passages, of the Eternity Gate's true location, of the Liberty Eagles who even now were preparing to make planetfall.
Lucian sat cross-legged on the floor, the Heart of the Omnissiah resting in his lap. Its crystalline core pulsed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, casting warped, shifting patterns of light across Ferdinand's hidden chamber. Each beat seemed to merge with his own heartbeat until he could no longer tell whether it was the device or his body dictating the rhythm.
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.
His breathing quickened as he ran his fingers along the etched patterns of its metal casing. The eight-pointed star engraved upon its surface writhed like a living thing beneath his touch, twisting and burrowing deeper into the metal, or perhaps into him. He couldn't look away.
Then, without warning, the glow flared brilliantly. A sharp crack split the air, like ice fracturing under immense pressure. The device began to vibrate violently, heat blooming against Lucian's palms until it felt as though he were clutching molten iron. He tried to drop it, but his fingers refused to obey, locked rigidly in place by some unseen force.
"What—Ferdinand! Get it off me!" Lucian screamed, panic rising like bile in his throat.
Ferdinand only smiled, calm and serene, as though this had been the inevitable outcome. "It is not holding you, young master," he said softly. "You are holding it."
Before Lucian could protest, searing agony erupted in his chest. It felt as though claws had reached into his body, hooking around his very heart and twisting, reshaping it into something unrecognizable. He screamed—a raw, primal sound of terror and pain—before his vision went white, and then the world shattered into blackness.
When awareness returned, Lucian found himself standing in what appeared to be a boardroom—though no boardroom that had ever existed in reality.
The walls stretched impossibly high, disappearing into a haze of shadow and shifting light. The air was thick, oppressive, carrying a scent of ink, blood, and burning oil. The long conference table before him was hewn from polished obsidian, its surface alive with flickering reflections of impossible futures. Each image darted away when he tried to focus on it, as if mocking his attempts to understand.
Four figures sat around the table. They were dressed as corporate titans—flawless suits, gold watches, polished shoes—but there was something profoundly wrong about them. Their silhouettes wavered at the edges, as though their bodies were masks stretched over beings far too vast and alien to ever be contained in mortal form.
Lucian's breath caught as his eyes were drawn first to the figure at the head of the table, a distinguished man with silver hair and cold, calculating blue eyes. His suit was immaculate, woven with subtle patterns that seemed to shift when Lucian wasn't looking. When he spoke, his voice carried the unshakable authority of someone who had shaped empires with a word.
"Lucian Vue-Baptiste," the figure intoned, and somehow his name sounded different coming from those lips—more important, more binding, as if it were part of some vast, cosmic ledger. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss and precious little time in which to do so."
Lucian's legs moved without conscious thought, carrying him toward the empty chair at the table's center. As he sat, his heart hammered in his chest. The air around each figure shifted subtly, the atmosphere bending to their presence. He realized, with a jolt of terror, that each one radiated an overwhelming emotion—raw, unfiltered, and irresistible.
The first figure to his left drew his attention like a magnet. A woman, impossibly beautiful, with skin like polished ivory and eyes of deep, violet fire. Her suit was cut to perfection, accentuating every elegant curve, and she wore a necklace that glimmered like starlight. The moment Lucian looked at her, his pulse quickened, and heat flushed through his veins.
Desire. Pleasure. Yearning.
Her smile was devastating.
"Such potential," she purred, her voice like a silk glove brushing over raw nerve endings. "Such delicious anger, such exquisite pain. You've suffered so beautifully, darling. It would be such a waste to let all that passion fade into obscurity."
Her words slid into Lucian's mind, painting vivid images of command, adoration, and indulgence—of men and women kneeling at his feet, not because they were ordered to, but because they wanted to. He could feel the intoxicating pull of her promise, the seductive whisper that he deserved to be worshipped.
Violet light shimmered faintly around her like a perfume made visible.
Across from her sat a mountain of a man, his crimson suit stretched to breaking over shoulders that looked built for war rather than negotiation. His hands were like slabs of meat, his scarred knuckles resting heavily on the table. The smell of iron and blood radiated from him, mingling with the faint tang of smoke.
Lucian's body tensed involuntarily, every instinct screaming danger. Fear mixed with something else—respect, almost reverence—for the sheer, primal power this being radiated.
The brute leaned forward, his voice a guttural growl.
"Suffering's just the beginning, boy," he said. "What matters is what you do with it. Do you let it break you, or do you break others first? Do you accept defeat, or do you take what's yours through blood and strength?"
His eyes gleamed like twin furnaces as his words echoed in Lucian's skull.
"Power isn't given. It's seized. Let me give you the strength to crush your enemies, to rip the false idols of liberty from their thrones and drown them in their own screams."
The air around him shimmered red, hot and suffocating. Lucian felt his muscles tremble, filled with a wild urge to destroy, to rend and conquer, to win.
To Lucian's right sat a figure swathed in deep green shadows, a man who seemed… wrong, in a subtler, more insidious way. His body was thick and rounded, not with muscle but with a strange, unwholesome vitality. His suit was immaculately pressed, yet faintly damp, as though it were sweating. The smell of decay clung to him, undercut by something cloyingly sweet, like rotting fruit.
Lucian's stomach churned, yet at the same time a strange calm settled over him, like sinking into a warm bath. This one radiated acceptance—a promise that no pain, no loss, no betrayal would ever matter again.
The green-lit figure leaned back, his voice soft and gentle, almost paternal.
"Survival," he murmured, and the single word seemed to fill the room like a living thing. "That's what you've always craved, isn't it? To endure when all others fall. To stand unbroken when worlds crumble to ash."
He extended a hand, and his smile was both kind and terrible.
"I offer you resilience beyond imagining, Lucian. Wounds will close as soon as they are made. No poison will ever touch you. No disease will ever claim you. Even death itself will find you… inconvenient."
Lucian's breath caught as his own flesh seemed to itch with phantom sensations—bones knitting, skin sealing, a body that could never be destroyed. He recoiled, yet part of him longed for it.
Finally, Lucian turned his gaze back to the silver-haired figure at the head of the table.
Unlike the others, this one radiated control, a cold, calculating intellect that reduced everything to pieces on a board. His suit was perfect, his tie a shimmering blue that seemed to ripple like a pool of water. There was no smell, no heat, no visceral sensation—only a terrible clarity that made Lucian's thoughts feel sluggish and clumsy by comparison.
The figure smiled faintly.
"You've seen ambition," he said, gesturing toward the violet-lit woman.
"You've felt strength," a nod to the crimson brute.
"You've tasted survival," his hand brushed the green figure's direction.
"But all of these are useless without understanding. Without knowledge. Without the ability to weave events into a tapestry only you can see."
Lucian's throat went dry as the man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I can give you mastery over the unseen forces of the universe. The hidden patterns of the Warp itself. Sorcery, Lucian. Magic. The kind of power Franklin Valorian fears most, because it cannot be matched with armies or machines."
Blue light rippled across the table, dizzying in its beauty. For an instant, Lucian swore he saw endless worlds rising and falling like pieces in some great cosmic game.
Lucian trembled, staring at the four figures as their presence bore down on him. Desire. Rage. Comfort. Clarity. Each emotion clawed at his soul, promising him everything he'd ever wanted—vengeance for his family, freedom from weakness, the ability to finally matter.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "What… what's the price?"
The four exchanged glances. Their smiles were terrible.
The silver-haired man spoke first, his tone smooth and absolute.
"Simply this: when the time comes, you will act in our interests. You will break the Valorian regime and tear down its false ideal of freedom. You will ensure that Franklin Valorian—the so-called Immutable One—bleeds, suffers, and falls."
Lucian's fists clenched. "And if I refuse?"
The violet-lit woman laughed, her voice like velvet over broken glass.
"Oh, darling," she purred. "You already accepted the Heart into yourself. The contract is signed, sealed, and bound in blood. There is no refusal."
The table erupted in light. Violet, crimson, green, and blue energies surged toward Lucian, wrapping around him like chains and wings at once. The sensation was indescribable—pleasure and agony, clarity and madness, all crashing together as his mind was remade.
Their voices blended into one, a storm of divine will:
"We are the enemies of Franklin Valorian. The Immutable One blinds the galaxy with his false light. He must be humbled, broken, consumed."
The violet woman's smile widened, whispering close to his ear.
"You will be our arrow."
The crimson brute slammed his fists together.
"Our hammer."
The green figure laughed, warm and hideous.
"Our shield."
The silver-haired man raised his hand, and the others fell silent.
"Our investment."
The last word echoed as the world collapsed into darkness.
Then came the sound.Not the laughter of daemons.Not the wails of the damned.
But the grinding of gears.The clanging of chains.The scream of furnaces forced to burn beyond their limits.
The very air grew heavy, tasting of ash and oil, until each breath burned like molten iron. A haze rolled into the chamber, dark and acrid, carrying the stink of industry and the stench of unending war. It clung to Lucian's lungs, choking him as if the very concept of purity were being smothered beneath it.
From the darkness above, something descended.
It was not flesh. It was not spirit.It was architecture given hunger.
Four massive, mechanical wings unfolded like a cathedral collapsing in reverse, each segment ending in scythe-blades that screeched as they cut through the air. Their motion churned the noxious fog into violent swirls, scattering embers of light that hung in the air like dying stars.
Its body was a lattice of iron sinew and bronze plates, a writhing amalgam of forgotten machines and broken prayers.Where eyes should have been, furnaces burned, belching smoke that stank of rust and blood.Where a mouth should have been, grinding gears turned, the sound piercing Lucian's skull until he thought his thoughts would tear apart.
Then came the voice.Not words, but the agonized roar of a world being forged and broken at once:
"And I… am the Architect of your Cage, Your Heart"
Lucian fell to his knees, gasping in the acrid air. His skin blistered where the fog touched it, but he barely noticed. The Four whispered to mortals with temptation and emotion.
This presence did not whisper.It smothered.
The being reached for him, and the world went black.
He was lying on the floor of Ferdinand's chamber, drenched in cold sweat. lungs burning, heart hammering. The Heart of the Omnissiah was gone, yet he knew—with a certainty that transcended logic—that it now beat inside him.
But it was no longer his heart alone.
Staggering to his feet, he stumbled out into the corridor. His body moved without conscious thought, drawn to a maintenance panel. He slammed his palm against it—and watched in horror as wire-thin, metallic nematodes burst from his skin, burrowing into the panel. Lights flickered wildly, and suddenly information flooded his mind: troop deployments, defense schematics, communications logs. All of Frost City's secrets were his.
Lucian jerked his hand back, staring in shock. In the reflection of the polished panel, he saw not just himself, but a towering silhouette with Four scythe-like wings.Furnaces burning where eyes should be.Smoke trailing like the breath of a dead world looming behind him.
His voice trembled. "What… what are you?"
The silhouette leaned closer, its voice a whisper of grinding gears and broken prayers.
"The Omnissiah."
The word echoed in Lucian's skull, shaking him to his core. The god of Mars—the deity of the Machine Cult. Was this what they had worshipped all along?
A/N: Hey! An Extra Long chapter for thee! How is everyone, My contract has finished now I'm back home, Next Contract is probably October.
A/N: How did ya'll like this Arc so far? Is it confusing? or just barely passable.
A/N: TBH All I'm doing is reading WH40k and the New Book Era of Ruin is pretty interesting, read it Warp Gods and Primarchs hehe.