"That should do it. This is the last one, right, Enginseer Veduco?"
The Enginseer chosen by Hadron to accompany me nods his head. I hear gears turning inside his body as a stream of data flickers from the projector attached to his right arm.
"Yes, Omnissiah. This area is the final one that needs cleansing. With this completed, construction speed can be increased by 100% compared to the previous output."
Right. They've started calling me Omnissiah. Especially after watching me turn everything I build into a functioning STC fragment. Speaking of STCs—Hadron already recreated the Sutherland for us and immediately asked me to produce more STC data for the mecha.
Why? Because she wants to send the original to Mars and store the copy in the Forge World of Urdesh. She refuses to risk losing an STC, and she knows Mars is the safest vault for something so sacred.
Another STC that caught her attention was the one for all the drones I've made. Modular, easily upgradable, and, according to Hadron, powered by an energy generator several generations older than what the Imperium currently uses. She already replaced it with a better one. She even ensures that they are equipped with better weaponry than the one we currently have.
Hadron also loves that the drones work flawlessly with Neural Link. It means she can control them wirelessly from massive distances by using her brain. Hell, she even upgrades the bionic in her brain to work better for the drones that she secures for her private army.
The last STC she obsesses over is the set of implants I designed. Why? Because it's easier, safer, and ideal for molding elite soldiers from Imperial Guard regiments. Sadly, she isn't a Magos Biologis and cannot modify or perform the surgeries.
Luckily for me, one of the Adepts accompanying her is a low-ranking Generator—capable of performing surgery, though unwilling to alter sacred STC data because, according to her, she is not yet worthy to modify the template.
People joke about the Sisters of Battle being zealots, but the Tech-Priests? They're not falling behind. Sometimes, they're even more zealous than members of the Inquisition.
"...according to the calculation, the expansion shall be completed in two months of Terra Standard Time."
I snap out of my thoughts as Enginseer Veduco finishes his report.
"Right. That leaves us with—"
Before I can continue, a bicycle screeches to a halt beside us. My Guardians and the Imperial Guards escorting me instantly point their rifles at the rider—then relax when they see it is one of the warband.
She dismounts at once and kneels.
"Your Holiness! A message has been received by one of the Astropaths! It is a direct communication from Terra and requires your presence!"
…Shit. A message from Terra. As always, there are only two outcomes: incredibly good news or unbelievably bad news. No in-between.
"Very well." I turn to Veduco. "I leave the preparation of this sector to you, Enginseer Veduco."
"Of course, Omnissiah. Your will shall be done."
I nod, then glance at the messenger.
"Take me back."
"Yes, Your Holiness!"
==| Line Break |==
I arrive before a frail man wearing a simple habit and a waist belt. A shroud covers his eyes, emblazoned with the sigil of the Imperium. He looks fragile, but the psychic pressure rolling off him—and something darker beneath it—makes the air heavy.
This is why I rarely approach Imperial Psykers. They reek of death, especially Astropaths. And I know why. Their minds and souls are permanently connected to the God-Emperor, and a sliver of His psychic essence leaks through them.
I can feel the foul essence of sacrifice even without them using their power.
At least, according to Ddraig, that presence shows no hostility toward me. Meaning the Emperor does not hate me—probably.
The Astropath turns his empty gaze toward me. I hold back a shudder as he speaks. His voice is heavy and carries weight that I cannot describe.
"By the order of the Imperial Regent, Lord Primarch Roboute Guilliman, Beacon of Hope, Your Holiness Kael is hereby commanded to assume authority over the 5th and 6th Companies of the Salamanders Chapter, as well as the Katanda Stalwart 307th, 345th, and 417th Regiments. They shall arrive shortly after this message."
…Bloody hell.
An order directly from Big Blueberry Boy himself. At least he sent one of the best Space Marine Chapters—otherwise this could've been a nightmare. Two hundred Salamanders, plus three full Guard regiments. I'm not familiar with the Katanda Stalwarts, but I pray they're not as stubborn as the Death Korps of Krieg.
Also, how many people are in a Regiment? The books do not specify the number. Sometimes it is in the hundreds of troops, but sometimes it is in the tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands.
"Your orders are as follows: Secure the Moebian System. Any who resist shall be declared Extremis Traitoris. All necessary resources must be made available to achieve this objective. Lord Kael is granted the highest authority within the Moebian Domain. End of Astrotelepathy message."
Silence fills the room. I feel a headache building behind my eyes. Why can't I get an easy mission? For example, like turning this world into a feral world. That is easier to do with all the Tinker Abilities I have.
Bloody hell. I knew the mission was to turn the Moebian Domain into a bastion against Chaos, but I wanted to start small. Is this your doing, ROB? This is too much, even for me. Now I need to lead thousands of people, and I'm just getting used to commanding hundreds.
Now three regiments and two Marine companies are being deployed here.
So much for sneaking around. Once the heretics learn about this troop influx, they'll move en masse. And I still haven't located the Moebian 6th Regiment.
In canon, they were responsible for igniting the rebellion. But in this timeline? The Cult of Admonition had already started the all-out revolt.
I scan the faces around me—everyone is waiting for my commands. I inhale.
"Gather the others. I need their opinions before we fulfill Lord Regent Guilliman's order."
Well, at least the resources will be plentiful. The Imperium truly has millions of worlds, and that means almost an unbelievable resource for me to spend. Even this sector alone is overflowing with material.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|3rd POV|
The world of Branx Magna echoes with ceaseless machinery. The pounding sound of the machine molding metals, and the sound of melting metal being poured into a mold. It is the familiar soundscape of every Manufactory World—billions of humans slaving away at the tasks forced upon them by their overseers.
Life here is harsh. Sixteen-hour workdays, a single half-hour break, and endless hard labor—because automation has become a taboo thing in this universe.
Factory casualties number in the thousands daily, yet such losses fall well within acceptable margins for those who manage these continent-spanning manufactories.
On this world, a human life is worth less than a cog.
Such is life in the Industrial Worlds of the Imperium: endless toil, suffering, and death. And even death is no guarantee of peace—for some are taken and stripped of identity, turned into mindless servitors by the Tech-Priests.
However, hidden deep beneath Branx Magna, something else stirs.
In a chamber far from the factories' thunder, new sounds blend with the clamor—
The screams of the damned.
Human souls are chained to machines to fuel them. Their bodies are wired directly into the engines. Daemons are bound into mechanisms, shrieking in hatred and agony.
And the mastermind behind this is Magos Biologis Sora-Tel.
Once a respected Mechanicus Magos, she descended into Chaos after dabbling too far into the ruinous power of the Warp. Now a devoted servant of Nurgle, she aspires to create something worthy of her god's delight.
She is the source of the plague haunting Tertium. The cause of rampant mutations. The cause of the Plague that turns people of Tertium into Poxwalkers. The architect of nearly half the machinery failures across Atoma Prime—she infected them all with Daemonic Corruptors.
It is a miracle the loyal Mechanicus kept the remaining machinery operational.
Sora-Tel is one of the highest-ranking figures within the Cult of Admonition, and the reason the rest of the cult has gained the strength it now possesses.
"Perfect…"
She gazes at the incubation tube before her with twisted pride. Inside floats her greatest creation: a fusion of human, machine, and daemon. Nurgle granted her His blessing, allowing her to sew these profane genetics together.
But as she turns away, her entire body freezes.
A wave of Nurgle's will washes over her. The Grandfather snarls—an absolute command follows. His anger seeps through the Materium, and she shudders as she feels his anger.
She cannot refuse. Even hidden in the depths of this fortress, Nurgle's power reaches her. She does not want to obey, but she used His gifts. She must now pay the price.
Nurgle demands she join the other worshippers and assault Tertium. Immediately.
She does not know why, but she has theories. The most likely: the approaching presence of the servants of the False Omnissiah. She might be holed up in her hidden workshop, but the other cult member still gives her information about what is happening on the outside.
What she hates most, however, is that He orders her to deploy her masterpiece—even though it is not yet complete. It still needs time to mature, and she does not like to rush it. Perfection needs time.
Sadly, Nurgle does not care for her so-called perfection.
Agony crawls across her nerves as invisible tendrils coil around her heart, brain, and synthetic organs. Cold. Suffocating. It is as if a centipede is crawling inside of her, reaching all of what is important to keep her alive.
She understands the meaning of this.
Obey, or die.
The sensation loosens as she submits. She turns to her pet Daemonhost—a floating corpse riddled with maggots and oozing pus.
"Gather the others… We depart for Atoma Prime."
A gurgling roar escapes the Daemonhost before it drifts away.
Across the Moebian Domain, every Chaos cultist feels the call. All begin to move—all march toward Atoma Prime.
Another war brews. A war that will decide the fate of the world. Will Atoma Prime fall and become a Daemon World? Or will it rise as the Bastion of Humanity?
The fate of the planet rests on the shoulders of one man.
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