"Hurry up!"
"Double-time, all of you. No one falls behind!"
Captain Garadon's square-jawed face tightened, the two thick brows on his forehead standing up as he barked the order with uncompromising severity.
As Third Company Captain of the Imperial Fists, he was also the longest-serving battle company captain in the Chapter's history.
His name carried weight. He was a formidable warrior, his physique and strength a near-perfect embodiment of the gene-father Dorn's discipline and teachings.
His will had been hammered across tens of thousands of battlefields and worlds. He was one of the Imperial Fists' most unbreakable bulwarks.
Garadon ran in a marching gait at full speed, with Third Company's hulking brutes pounding after him.
Among Space Marines, the Imperial Fists were renowned as one of the most physically imposing and iron-willed brotherhoods.
Now this pack of warriors did not even have time to put their robes back on. Bare-armed and broad-shouldered, they sprinted toward their destination, throwing the sanctuary into commotion and drawing every eye.
It looked like a charge to battle.
Garadon kept calling out as they ran, stoking morale.
"Sons of Dorn, we're about to face a trial that decides the Chapter's future!"
"We are the company with the strongest will. Whoever drops first can crawl back to the Phalanx Shrine and sit in confinement!"
Not long after, the stern captain led his men into the target zone. Scalding air and the roar of machinery slammed into them.
It was every Imperial warrior's nightmare, a test of supreme courage and bodily toughness.
The Hell Sauna District.
Inside were the infamous trials: the Imperial Knight-grade plasma-reactor alloy massage machine, the Super Fascia-Blade Hell, and the ultra-high-temperature steam sauna chambers.
They were experiences every Imperial warrior was said to "have to taste" at least once.
Rankings for all participants were displayed on a massive stone monument.
The lists made it brutally clear who had the tougher body, the greater tolerance, and the stronger will.
It was one of the rare challenges in the Imperium that could fairly measure a warrior's physical and mental fortitude.
The Savior, the Lord of Ultramar, the Lion, the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, Commander Dante of the Blood Angels, and other high-ranking legends had all left records here.
It made warriors' hearts race.
Who would not want to test themselves against the great names of history?
On the Hell Challenge leaderboards, the overall number one across all events was the Savior. His oversized name dominated the display.
But the Savior's exact performance metrics were hidden, unknown to all. That was its own special kind of challenge.
Only when someone broke the Savior's record would the first-place data reveal itself, letting everyone see where the limits of the human body truly lay.
Every warrior in the Imperium wanted to shatter that record and claim the title of the Hell Sauna District's number one.
Unfortunately, no one had succeeded.
The First Primarch, the Lion, had tried.
He pushed himself until he blacked out completely, and still failed to crack the Savior's record enough to force the data to appear.
Second place, and no higher.
Rumor said the Lion held on until his mind went foggy and his body could not take it anymore, and right before he passed out he shouted:
"Impossible!"
That alone spoke to the Savior's terrifying physical strength.
Any warrior who had endured the Hell trials came away with sincere respect for the being sitting in first place.
Third on the board was Commander Dante. His will was so powerful it surpassed even some Primarchs.
Under normal circumstances, impacts at that intensity would have knocked him out or sent him to a recovery ward.
But he endured.
Unbelievable.
In short, anyone who reached the top hundred earned the respect of warriors across the Imperium. As for the top ten, that meant standing shoulder to shoulder with legends.
Inside the Hell Sauna District, heat rolled in waves, steam boiling in the air. Alloy machines rebuilt from heavy vehicle engines thundered like angry beasts.
It was enough to make even Space Marines hesitate.
Garadon's breathing grew rough as he and his Imperial Fists halted at the entrance.
Through the fog of steam, they could make out tall silhouettes in the distance, and there were quite a few of them.
Marneus Calgar, the Ultramarines' Lord Defender and Chapter Master, the Rift Lords Chapter Master, and their warriors.
All of them were elite among elites, worthy of the Imperial Fists' caution.
This time, Garadon had brought his company here to represent the Imperial Fists in a Hell Challenge match against Calgar's group.
The goal was simple.
Run every event back-to-back until everyone else dropped.
For Space Marines, it was a proving ground and a friendly contest, a way to tighten bonds.
Because only by demonstrating strength and will could you win the respect of your battle-brothers.
The real reason the Imperial Fists treated this so seriously, however, was that this "friendly match" involved the Chapter's battlefield engineering business.
The reasons were complicated.
The Iron Warriors had recently completed several major projects. They had even extended their reach to Holy Terra itself.
More importantly, many of those projects were won by the Iron Warriors from other Chapters, and the cooperation had gone exceptionally well.
Only then did the Imperial Fists realize, with a jolt, that their relationships with other Chapters were worse than the relationships enjoyed by the Iron Warriors, warriors who had once been stained by the power of Chaos.
Then the Imperial Fists lost multiple construction bids.
They lost even while receiving resource favoritism from the Savior.
What humiliation.
They had been too closed off for too long. Hardline, stubborn, and reluctant to socialize with other battle-brothers. This was the inevitable result.
The New Imperium was not like the old one, where everyone acted as their own little kingdom. It was a unified whole.
Isolationism did not work anymore.
And many resources and contracts had to be actively fought for. If you did not compete, you could only watch others take them, and slowly fall behind.
That was one of the Savior's development strategies.
After the Horus Heresy, the Imperium had clamped down too hard on the Chapters. Outside their homeworlds, most were stripped of meaningful resource autonomy.
Now that the Legion-style structure was being restored, they had to be given more autonomy again, and their vitality had to be released.
The Savior wanted each Legion and Chapter to leverage its own strengths to expand, instead of relying solely on blood transfusions from the Imperial core.
Take fortification engineering, for example.
The Administratum and the Imperial treasury would still provide funding in some cases, but how big you built, how you built, which contractor you chose, and who you partnered with.
Those decisions were made within the Chapters and Legions, according to their own capacity.
Imperial territory was vast beyond comprehension.
Whichever force reclaimed more unrecovered regions, secured more defense-zone assignments, and destroyed more xenos and heretic enemies would naturally earn more merit and more income.
Then they could build stronger fortresses, expand their forces, and upgrade their arms.
Survival of the fittest. The Imperium had no obligation to hand-feed lagging Legions. The strong should develop more.
That was responsibility to humanity.
At least for now, the Savior had not chosen to restrict the Legions. He let them grow aggressively.
He needed the Imperium's military strength to expand rapidly to win the great decisive war that was coming.
But clearly, the Imperial Fists had fallen behind in this wave. They had not built much.
They could not watch other Legions swell and arm themselves while the Imperial Fists remained stuck at a few thousand warriors like before.
The Iron Warriors had recently used fortification income to bring in more than ten high-tier Titans. They were on the verge of assembling an entire Titan Legion.
Watching their old enemies grow stronger hurt worse than losing a battle.
It hurt like hell.
"The glory of the Imperial Fists is slipping away, piece by piece."
"If this continues, who will even remember that the Emperor once granted our Legion the Crown of Victory, and that we were tasked with building the defenses of the Imperial Palace?"
Chapter Master Gregor Dessian had said, grief in his voice, not long ago.
"We must change, not sit here and watch other Legions surpass us, especially the Iron Warriors."
"Do you understand? Even today, right now, those Iron Warriors bastards are building a new defensive line outside the Palace."
"Just imagining how our gene-father would feel if he saw it makes my blood turn cold."
"We have shamefully lost the right to build the Palace defenses, and we lost it in a fair bid."
"Even if the Savior is willing to favor us, the Imperial Fists must prove our value. Do not forget that we were once the greatest fortress-building Legion!"
The Chapter Master's rebuke left every Imperial Fists warrior speechless.
It was humiliation, carved into the bones.
They decided to give everything, to win every fortification contract they could, and reclaim the honor they had lost.
This thirteen-day sanctuary convalescence, in Dessian's eyes, was the perfect opportunity.
Calgar and others were here. A chance to build real ties with the Ultramarines.
More importantly, the Ultramarines were wealthy. Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds had enormous fortification needs and endless front-line bastions to build.
Big contracts.
Rumor said the Iron Warriors were already trying to get close to the Ultramarines.
The Imperial Fists had to get there first and lock down those defense and front-line engineering projects.
So they sent their strongest battle company.
Garadon's Third Company.
It was the company best suited to display the Imperial Fists' raw physique and will. They had to win the Ultramarines' respect, along with every other Space Marine present, in the Hell Challenge events.
Put simply, the Imperial Fists were here to treat Calgar like a client holding massive contracts.
Make the host and the guest happy. Close the distance. Build the relationship.
That was why they sent the meanest, toughest hard-cases in the Chapter to participate in this very special "social event."
They were here to land projects.
After all, the Ultramarines were said to be the Imperium's perfect warriors. If Dorn's sons collapsed halfway through the Hell Challenge, how could they earn those warriors' respect?
Garadon exhaled slowly and adjusted his state.
This veteran captain felt tense. He had not been this tense even during the worst apocalyptic wars.
The reason was one person.
Calgar.
That name carried weight. He had defeated enemies that belonged in legend.
Rumor said he had even crossed blades on Vigilus with a traitor Primarch, the infamous Abaddon the Despoiler.
A warrior like that. Winning his recognition would not be easy.
A hard trial.
And Third Company was carrying an important mission for the Chapter.
They could not afford to fail.
At that moment, the mechanical thunder deeper in the district seemed to intensify, and the occasional cries of pain drifted out.
It made the atmosphere heavier.
Whether it was the Knight-grade plasma-reactor alloy massage machine or the Super Fascia-Blade Hell, both could produce agony.
Especially when paired with specialized restorative oils. It was like your muscles were crushed to paste, then rebuilt, reshaped, and grown again.
It was good for muscle, and even for bone.
But the pain was real.
For some elite warriors, being cut, shot, even losing limbs in battle felt like being scratched.
The Hell Challenge was different.
It was pain straight through the soul.
Even the toughest warriors, in the end, could not help but howl.
Worse than war.
Garadon finished steadying himself, then looked back at the faces behind him, each one hardened in fire, every scar clear.
These were the most seasoned, most resilient sons of Dorn.
His eyes turned solemn.
Softly, he said, "We go in."
It sounded like a horn before an assault. The Imperial Fists traded looks, then stepped into the district.
Like marching into a battle you might not return from.
Brothers. All in. Hold until Calgar drops. Win the Ultramarines' contracts.
Inside, the searing air flowed into their lungs with each breath, like inhaling hot sand.
By the time Garadon and his Imperial Fists reached the appointed area, the Ultramarines and the Rift Lords had already finished a warm-up round.
Calgar's towering frame sat on an alloy bench, a white towel wrapped at his waist.
His scarred, corded musculature looked even more brutal under the lights.
The perfect Ultramarine, the Lord Defender, looked over, studying Dorn's sons with a measuring gaze.
Others' eyes gathered too, thickening the tension.
Garadon said nothing. He merely offered a slight salute.
No one spoke.
At this moment, words meant nothing.
Steam rolled.
Several Imperial Fists warriors stepped forward, poured the special oil over themselves, and rubbed it into every inch of their bodies.
No hesitation.
They strode straight into the Super Fascia-Blade Hell and immediately set the intensity to high-tier.
Their message could not have been clearer.
"I'll go first and set the pace."
"Nothing to say. I'm putting on a show. You do you."
BZZZZT.
The roar hit, and the sound of alloy blades grinding into muscle made the heart clench.
The Imperial Fists warriors turned red from the pain. They clenched their teeth and did not make a sound.
The Ultramarines and the Rift Lords watched, and respect sharpened in their eyes.
That proved physical strength and unwavering will.
The hardest of hard men.
The sons of Dorn drew the room's heat upward, and the atmosphere became slightly more alive.
Calgar nodded, satisfied. He acknowledged their strength and rose from the alloy bench, his presence crushing.
He glanced toward the Ultramarines beside him, a silent signal.
Several Ultramarines stepped forward, applied the special oil, and entered the Super Fascia-Blade Hell.
High-tier intensity as well.
The Ultramarines answered with their own show.
Once the Ultramarines and Imperial Fists had each sent men forward for a round, the mood was set.
The Hell Challenge formally began.
Dorn's sons pushed themselves to the limit, dropping Ultramarine after Ultramarine.
All for the contracts.
Soon, the machinery in that district roared even harder, and screams echoed intermittently.
This was a collision of bodily toughness and willpower.
While the Imperial Fists and Ultramarines were locked in this brutal contest, one landing craft after another pierced the atmosphere, carrying the Kalozasa Dynasty's Necrons toward the Imperial Palace region of the Himalazian range.
On the Palace's outer perimeter, Iron Warriors engineering teams were already working at full heat, construction roaring forward.
…
In low orbit above Holy Terra.
Lion's Gate Spaceport.
Redemption-113 arrived at its destination and entered the docking yards under the port's guidance.
"By the Savior above!"
"Throne, I've never seen a sky this clean. What is that blue…"
Wave after wave of pilgrims stepped out from the sealed ship compartments, their vision opening wide.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hall, they could see the blue planet itself.
Holy Terra.
In ancient times, it had been called Earth.
The pilgrims' faces were full of shock. They moved in awed chatter toward the space elevator.
"By the Savior, Holy Terra is beautiful. It's nothing like other worlds. Big guy, look at that place!"
The short veteran was loud and excited, practically bouncing.
But when he turned his head, he realized the big man, Dorn, was gone.
Sometime during the commotion, he had vanished without a trace.
(End of Chapter)
[Get +30 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 300 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]