The newly appointed Lord Castellan of Cadia, Supreme Commander of the Imperial Guard of the New Realm in the Cadian Gate Defense Zone—Ursarkar E. Creed, nearly fifty years of age, possessed the typical violet eyes of a true Cadian.
More than thirty years of military life had carved the marks of war upon his face. His square head was crowned with short gray hair; his frame was solid and compact, shoulders broad, neck thick, and arms powerfully built.
Though not tall, he was sufficiently robust. His steady, firm build mirrored his temperament—like his title, he was both the Lord of the Fortress… and the Fortress itself.
As Cadia faced the overwhelming tide of Chaos, when the entire world stood upon the brink of annihilation, the soldiers of the Cadian Shock Troops unanimously chose Ursarkar E. Creed as their Lord Castellan. His honor and achievements were beyond dispute.
Without a doubt, he was not a man who joked—and his words carried weight with every senior officer of the Cadian Shock Troops.
"Merchant wanderers?"
"Imperial citizens seeking shelter under the Imperial Navy?"
"Two vessels of unknown markings and unregistered keel codes?"
The senior officers of the Cadian Shock Troops repeatedly examined the report spoken by their Lord Castellan.
At such a perilous time, emphasizing these so-called merchant wanderers—was there something special about them?
"Are they special in any way? If they're just merchant wanderers who strayed into the Eye of Terror, we can simply requisition or evacuate them…"
One officer voiced the question cautiously.
His tone was measured, but his expression brimmed with hostility and suspicion.
In his mind, with the Chaos armies closing in, the warp storms growing ever fiercer, and Abaddon's Black Legion appearing across the Cadian Gate in massive numbers—how could a small flotilla of merchant wanderers suddenly emerge from the Eye of Terror, encounter the Imperial Navy, and conveniently assist them?
That was far too coincidental.
There had to be something wrong.
Even without the recent rebellion at the Volscani Cataphract landing site still fresh in memory—what were these merchant wanderers doing in the Eye of Terror? Buying? Selling? From whom, and to whom?
It didn't take deep thought to realize the truth. Those silver-tongued profiteers who worshipped wealth above all else were either traitors—or heretics.
Everyone knew that in this galaxy filled with ruins, desolation, horror, slaughter, deceit, and curses, even local planetary nobles, governors, forge world tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and, at times, the High Lords of Terra themselves were no strangers to the practice of smuggling military goods or contraband to the enemy.
Usually, the Imperium turned a blind eye to such dealings. But to continue such trades when the galaxy was at war—selling materiel to the foe? That was beyond forgiveness. If they'd been betrayed and robbed in turn and were now seeking Imperial Navy protection—then good riddance.
"Lord Castellan, how are we to determine that they have not turned from the Emperor's light and embraced Chaos?"
"To be cautious…" One musclebound Astra Militarum officer drew a finger across his throat in a cutting gesture.
Creed watched their murderous expressions quietly, drawing in a deep breath from his cigar without a change in his expression.
After a pause, he exchanged a glance with his standard-bearer and bodyguard, Jarran Kell, who stood guard by the conference room doors. Confirming the security of their surroundings, Creed tapped the edge of his cigar against the crystal ashtray, knocking away the ashes before exhaling a cloud of smoke.
"You are all soldiers who, after the disaster at Kasr Tyrok Fortress, were entrusted by the people of Cadia and swiftly elevated to command under the Emperor's light. I trust you all. In the days ahead, we will stand shoulder to shoulder—through life and death alike. So I'll not keep secrets from you."
Turning, Creed reached for the servo-skull resting on the table. "Calibrate the frequency."
Seeing this, the military officers in the council chamber grew solemn. Each reached forward, detached the integrated data cables from the servo-skulls, and inserted the plugs into the data ports of their cranial implants.
"Any act of leaking or disseminating this file will result in immediate execution."
With a slow blink, Ursarkar E. Creed completed a series of Mechanicus-style verifications, then pressed the activation rune. The servo-skull's hollow eye sockets lit with a faint, ghostly glow.
A low hum filled the air. Streams of greenish binary code flickered across the holo-displays before a surge of psychic resonance projected the contents directly into the minds of everyone present.
It was a recording—footage captured at the front line.
"That is… a Lunar-class cruiser?"
The scene was so vivid it felt as if they were there themselves. Two enormous ships—scaled-up versions of the Lunar-class—appeared before them.
Their size was immense. Compared against the Chaos warships that the Cadian Navy was currently engaging in the background, even the most seasoned veterans among them could see that these vessels far exceeded the standard Lunar-class specification: five kilometers in length and eight hundred meters across the dorsal fins. These two were easily twice that size.
They bore unmistakably Imperial ship aesthetics—yet they were far too clean, too simple. There was not a single trace of Chaos corruption, nor the ornate ecclesiastical carvings common to Imperial Navy designs. Though heavily scarred by battle, with dents and burns from massive impacts, their hulls still possessed an austere beauty.
Then—one of them fired.
"…Huh?"
Just one torpedo?
And it missed?!
Their weapons were clearly well-maintained—were they saving ammunition for the holidays? Fire a proper salvo, Throne-damn it! Even an Ork mek would've done better than that! A Grox could command that ship more competently!
As several Cadian officers subconsciously prepared to curse the captain's tactical incompetence and question whether he'd ever studied the regulations of void warfare—
BOOM—!
The Chaos battlecruiser ahead, its hull covered in the eight-pointed star of Chaos, oozing blood and stench, radiating malevolence and cruelty, pressed forward with arrogant contempt—right as that lone torpedo, dismissed as irrelevant, erupted in a blinding inferno of light and heat.
The black void, crisscrossed moments ago with lances, macrocannon fire, and torpedo trails, was suddenly flooded with orange-red brilliance.
A new sun was born.
The inner ring of the explosion bloomed outward in a violet-red wavefront, expanding at near-light speed, colliding head-on with the void shields and armored hull of the nearest Chaos battlecruiser.
Its shields overloaded within seconds—melting away like spring snow.
The eight-pointed star at the ship's prow warped and shattered. The adamantium-clad bridge burst open like an eggshell, scattering fragments into the void. Batteries of macrocannons disintegrated under the glare, while superheated plasma gushed from ruptured conduits, spraying outward like volcanic fire.
Twisting, vaporizing, annihilated—then swallowed whole by the expanding 'sun.' A few nearby Chaos cruisers, destroyers, and escorts caught within the blast radius were likewise consumed by the incandescent sphere.
But it did not end there.
Because this battle had taken place in low orbit above a daemon world, the explosion unfolded almost directly over its surface. A quarter of the planet was sheared away in the detonation. Its moons shattered instantly.
It came quickly—and ended just as quickly.
For a heartbeat, the entire battlefield—Imperial and Chaos alike—fell into utter silence.
Even the battered Cadian Navy fleet, caught in retreat, was frozen in disbelief. Only the sight of the two mysterious ships executing emergency evasive maneuvers snapped them back into action. The Cadians regrouped and fled alongside them.
The Chaos fleet of the Black Legion, seemingly unnerved by the weapon unleashed, scattered its formation at once. They fired a few half-hearted lance shots in pursuit, but their aggression faded quickly.
Thus, what had been a hopeless engagement ended abruptly—with Chaos suffering an unexpected, devastating loss.
Bzzzt—
"…This…"
The footage ended. Though breathtaking, the silence that followed in the high command chamber of Kasr Kraf was heavy and oppressive.
Only the soft rasp of lighters and the quiet click of igniting cigars broke the stillness. Smoke filled the room, cloaking every face in gray haze.
Clack—
Detaching the data cable from the cranial implant at the side of his forehead, Ursarkar E. Creed took a slow drag of his cigar, his expression unreadable. "Speak your thoughts."
"..."
After a long pause, one of the Cadian generals spoke. "Lord Castellan, I have never heard of such a weapon within the Imperium. Where did it come from? Which Forge World produced it? Or… did they perhaps find a new STC construction module within the Eye of Terror?"
STC—Standard Template Construct. According to known Imperial archives, the STC system was a complex analytical and design network, a relic from humanity's Dark Age of Technology.
Some Imperial historians believed that the scientists of that age foresaw the coming of the Age of Strife, and created the STCs to ensure their technology would never be lost. It was said that within these templates resided the total sum of mankind's technological knowledge.
Had a tech-priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus been present, he would have surely fallen to his knees in fervent praise of the Omnissiah—
And then, no doubt, would have done anything within his power to contact that returning fleet. Threats, theft, extortion, bribery, flattery—anything—to obtain it.
"Lord, that must be the only explanation! No mere merchant wanderer would risk entering the Eye of Terror unless they had discovered an STC module!"
"We must dispatch a fleet to ensure their safety! If such a weapon can be reproduced—no, even if it cannot be mass-produced—just one in our possession could turn the defense of the Cadian Gate in our favor!"
"Yes! Where are the coordinates of their fleet now? We must secure them at all costs!"
One voice after another.
Their tone shifted completely—their earlier suspicions forgotten, their curiosity now transformed into fervent zeal.
"No," Creed said flatly, his words falling like a bucket of cold water on their heated excitement. "There is no STC construction module."
The officers froze, their enthusiasm evaporating. Creed reached into his uniform pocket and produced a sheet of bio-treated parchment, stamped with the seal of the Astropathic Choir.
Reading aloud, his deep voice resonated through the smoke-filled chamber:
"Designation: NOVA Bomb—a dark matter fission warhead. Production site: direct dominion of the Astartes Second Legion, the Punishers—world number 117. Manufactured at the U.N.S.C. Reach Military Base."
"Nine fusion warheads are encased within a tritium-lithium armored shell. Upon detonation, the compressed Honkai energy particles within are converted into fission matter, compressed to neutron-star density. The resulting high-energy atomic reaction amplifies its yield by several hundredfold, releasing an immense burst of destructive power."
As Creed's steady voice echoed through the chamber, the expressions around him shifted from awe to disbelief.
They might not have understood every word of the technical jargon—but one phrase stood out clearly: Astartes Second Legion.
The legendary Lost Legion.
Could it be true? Did the Second Legion—the Punishers—actually exist?
These were not green recruits but veteran commanders of the Astra Militarum, men seasoned in war and well-versed in Imperial history. In the Cadian Gate, Astartes were no strangers. And the Codex Astartes had long spoken of the twenty original Legions, of which two were lost to time and legend.
To the people of Cadia, half of those Legions were names of terror—traitors, heretics, monsters who emerged from the Eye of Terror to wage endless war.
"Is the Second Legion real?"
One commissar removed his peaked cap, fingers trembling as he scratched at the implant ridge on his brow. "Impossible… it's been ten thousand years…"
"Lord Castellan, forgive me, but such an absurd report is beyond belief."
"Unbelievable?" Creed's deep eyes fixed upon the speaker. "Then what explanation do you offer?"
"Do you know what their first transmission to us was?"
"They mistook our fleet for merchant wanderers—asked us where the nearest Imperial Navy base was."
Creed's expression darkened, a trace of humiliation flickering beneath his calm tone.
He took a long draw from his cigar, exhaled slowly, and after a pause added, "Their language differs from ours. It is not of the Gothic family. After translation through the real-time linguistic processor, they referred to it as… Imperial Common."
"When I asked them about the dark matter fission bombs, they revealed that these weapons had been purchased—from the Imperial military itself. Three in total. Two have already been used. One directly saved the Navy detachment that reported contact. The other, according to their account, was used against a Tyranid hive fleet."
"They survived only because the detonation delayed the swarm long enough for them to escape."
Ursarkar E. Creed flipped through the report for a while, then pressed a hand wearily to his forehead.
"According to our analysts' bold hypothesis, these merchant wanderers are likely remnants from the early phase of the 30th Millennium Great Crusade. They became lost within the Warp, and only now—amid the intensifying warp storms of the late 41st Millennium and the disturbances around the Eye of Terror—were they cast back into realspace."
Even before Abaddon's Thirteenth Black Crusade erupted in full, there had already been signs of massive warp instability near the Eye of Terror. The frequent appearance of Space Hulks—vast derelict starships fused together by warp currents—had been one such omen.
Time, of course, held no meaning within the Warp. Hours inside could be decades outside. Months could pass within, while only days transpired beyond—or vice versa.
To these surviving merchant wanderers, perhaps only a few decades had passed in their perception.
"This remains conjecture…"
"Yes, conjecture," Creed agreed quietly. "But the most plausible one, wouldn't you say?"
He lifted his gaze to the senior officers seated around the circular war table, his tone calm but firm.
"Passive defense will only end in collapse. We must act. And this—this may be our chance. A hope, born perhaps from the Holy Great Crusade itself—from the age when the Emperor still walked among men, and the demi-god Primarchs still led humanity."
The decline of the Imperium since entering the 41st Millennium was something even the most faithful could not deny. That was why so many called it the End Times.
Every Cadian officer in the chamber felt the weight of that truth. The Imperium's decay, its stagnation, its bureaucracy—Creed saw it all. It pained him deeply, yet there was nothing he could do but fight with what little strength and faith he still possessed.
Now, at last, there was a glimmer of hope. And he was willing to gamble everything on it.
"I will never give up! We will not surrender! Cadia must not fall!"
His words struck the room like thunder. "I have already authorized their passage. They are en route to Cadia now. Once they arrive—everything will become clear."
"I vouch for them. I take full responsibility!"
Creed raised his head, his cigar's ember glowing fiercely in the dim light.
"Emperor, protect Your children."
...
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