Amidst the ruins littered with corpses, Martin marched back alongside the PDF he had managed to save. Their reaction to his appearance was a mix of shock and relief, though exhaustion weighed heavily on them all.
The hive city lay another ten kilometers ahead, and renegade forces still harried them with sporadic attacks.
It was in worse shape than he remembered, though his memories had already grown faint. Still, by nature, he tried to strike up conversation with the PDF to break the oppressive silence that hung over the group.
"State your name and rank, Guardsman," he demanded of a female sergeant walking just ahead of him. She kept one hand pressed against her side, where a heretic's blade had pierced her.
"Yes, my lord. Sergeant Jennifer Kara," she replied quickly, her voice tinged with both urgency and fear. Around them, the other soldiers flinched.
"You are wounded, Guardsman. Where is your unit's medic?" His crimson lenses locked onto her, making his presence all the more intimidating.
"Dead, my lord," Jennifer answered, her voice trembling.
"Hmm… excellent," Martin muttered with a dark, grim sense of amusement before tossing aside his axe and lifting the sergeant into his arms like a princess. The sudden gesture made the nearby soldiers raise their weapons at him instinctively.
"What are you going to do to me?!" she asked in panic, struggling to break free. He answered her gently.
"Listen, child. My duty is to protect and safeguard humanity—and right now, that means helping you. I don't want to lose a capable soldier. Remember that, and stop complaining before I change my mind and make you walk on your own."
At that, the sergeant fell silent and allowed herself to be carried without further resistance.
Martin then turned to the three PDF troopers behind him and wasted no time giving orders.
"You three—carry my axe."
The soldiers flinched at the command.
"Yes, sir!" they answered in unison, hurrying to lift the massive weapon together.
With everything in order, Martin led the group onward, never noticing the faint blush on Sergeant Jennifer's face.
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Five hours later – Hive City
When Martin finally arrived at the Hive City, he was greeted warmly. Escorting the surviving soldiers who had accompanied him, he personally ensured they were taken to the medical facilities before moving on to where he was truly needed.
He only hoped that Commissar Rachel Kaleb had not changed—unlike so many other things.
A strange unease lingered in Martin's mind. Though everyone who saw him appeared overjoyed and excited, he understood why. After all, it was not every day that one laid eyes on a living Space Marine—whether loyalist or traitor.
Yet the atmosphere was steeped in despair. The air reeked of mildew, blood, tears, and hopelessness. Refugees filled the area—displaced souls who had lost their homes to the heretics.
His journey deeper into the High City left him unsettled. The slums sprawled endlessly, and while Hive slums were always overcrowded and filthy by nature, this place was far worse than anything he had ever witnessed.
As he pressed on, people parted before him, watching with wide eyes, none daring to block his path. At last, he reached the command center—a place still adorned with its customary grandeur.
Inside, he saw officials moving about, along with young Mechanicus adepts scurrying through their duties. The sergeant who had acted as his guide led him into a chamber lavishly decorated in the Gothic style. A portrait of Commissar Rachel hung upon the wall, showing her as striking as ever. Opposite it, a massive chainsword and a power sword were mounted in display.
And there, seated behind her desk with a commanding presence, awaited Commissar Rachel herself—her stern expression radiating authority and power.
He had never forgotten her.
(A PDF Commissar is a commissar assigned to oversee Planetary Defense Forces. They are often either too old to be deployed effectively on the frontlines or are serving under punishment.)
He only hoped she was neither familiar with the Night Lords nor changed from the reasonable woman he remembered.
"Greetings, my lord. I am Commissar Rachel Kaleb," she addressed him with a steady, confident tone—very much in the manner expected of a commissar. For Martin, it was time to employ the skills he had refined over the course of 8,000 years.
"Greetings, Commissar. I am Sergeant Martin of the Night Talon Marine Chapter. We intercepted a distress signal, but our patrol craft suffered a catastrophic accident en route to this world. I alone survived—until I encountered the PDF forces and aided them against the heretics," Martin explained, lying as naturally as if it were the truth. Commissar Rachel appeared thoughtful, her expression tightening as she considered his words before continuing the conversation.
"Very well, my lord. At present, we have evacuated the last group of civilians into secure locations. Each of the Hive City's six main gates—massive fortifications—has been manned with sufficient troops to withstand the assaults we expect. The issue lies with Gate Three, which has sustained damage and cannot be fully sealed. I require you to command the defense of Gate Three alongside the PDF forces, to buy time for the Adeptus Mechanicus to repair it before the heretics launch their full-scale assault."
Martin weighed the risks for a moment. The heretics' artillery could not breach the city's defenses thanks to the immense void shield that enveloped it. Still, he could not be certain whether the enemy possessed armored vehicles or anti-armor weaponry. On this world, the best weapons the heretics wielded were little more than autoguns, while he himself wore a suit of Terminator armor. For him, this battle would be little more than exercise.
And yet—heretics were never to be underestimated.
Martin already knew how this would unfold: how many heretics would come, when the gate would be repaired, how many lives would be lost—if this reality played out the same way as the one he remembered.
"Very well, milady. May the Emperor protect us," he replied. His words seemed to ease Rachel, bringing visible relief to her expression—exactly as he had intended.
"And to you as well, my lord. May the Emperor protect you," she answered.
"Since my weapon was lost, might I request that chainsword?" he asked. Most of these heretics were likely devotees of Khorne, and he was more than capable of wielding a chainsword alongside his chain-axe—something he handled with ease. Rachel, however, appeared hesitant and even a little sorrowful before responding.
"As you wish, my lord. I doubt I shall ever have the chance to wield this blade again. May you use it to strike down as many of the Emperor's enemies and heretics as possible."
The words "no chance to wield it again" felt strangely misplaced as he reached for the weapon. What was remarkable, however, was how he lifted the massive blade with one hand, though ordinarily it required both to handle properly.
For a fleeting moment, he found himself imagining the commissar herself, standing against an ork, swinging the oversized chainsword in defiance. The image came to him vividly.
"Thank you, milady. May the Emperor protect you," he said, securing the chainsword before making the sign of the Aquila with his hands.
"And to you as well, my lord," she replied.
At that moment, the doors opened, and a Tech-Priest entered the chamber—one whom Martin knew all too well.
"And that will be your guide and aide," Rachel said, gesturing toward the Tech-Priest.
"Blessings in the name of the Omnissiah. I am designated A40AT, and I shall serve as your guide," the figure introduced himself. He appeared much like the Tech-Priests most people were familiar with: a tall frame wrapped in crimson robes, a massive artificial white ocular lens replacing one eye, both arms and legs replaced by augmetics, and a pack mounted upon his back from which sprouted four mechadendrites.
At the very least, A40AT was exactly as Martin remembered him.
"Thank you," Martin replied curtly, before immediately setting out for Gate Three by the quickest route. Along the way, A40AT bombarded him with questions regarding his wargear, and Martin answered only in broad, shell-like details—yet the Tech-Priest listened with genuine excitement.
---___________________________________
"Your armor appears most advanced. Is that a Tartaros pattern, my lord?" A40AT exclaimed. Martin answered with pride, weaving his fabricated tale with convincing precision.
"Indeed. This is a suit of Terminator armor dating back to the Horus Heresy. I had to achieve much—prove myself many times over—to earn the right to claim it," he said. A40AT nodded in solemn understanding—or at least gave the impression of it. Either way, the moment Martin had anticipated finally arrived.
After a long, dark passage through twisting shortcuts, Martin and his guide reached Gate Three. Its condition was dire: the massive doors bore heavy damage, and by his estimation repairs would take no less than ten hours. A small force of Tech-Priests and servitors labored feverishly on the ruined mechanisms.
In front of the gate, a hasty line of fortifications had been erected—concrete blocks, sandbags, and barbed wire forming a makeshift bulwark. Manning this fragile line were no more than thirty defenders, most of them PDF troopers, worn down and weary from endless fighting.
"Welcome, my lord," the soldiers said as soon as they saw him, all of them dropping to one knee and bowing their heads. Martin was hardly surprised.
"At ease, guardsmen. Ready yourselves for the next battle to come—and teach these heretics the taste of the Emperor's wrath," Martin declared, speaking with as much conviction as he could to raise their morale. Many of them looked visibly heartened by his words.
"Yes, my lord!" they answered in unison before returning to their posts. Martin could still overhear some of them whispering to each other about the awe of seeing a Space Marine in person for the first time.
Beyond the defenses, the ground was littered with corpses of heretics and the wrecks of their ruined vehicles. Apart from that grim sight, there was little else of note save for assessing the condition of the defending force.
The defenders possessed two artillery pieces, each operated by four men, along with two heavy stubbers crewed by two soldiers apiece. The remainder of the force carried a mix of assault rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns. Not a single lasgun could be found among them.
An idea began to form in Martin's mind.
He strode toward a young female soldier who had been speaking with one of her comrades. Both women fell silent the moment his towering shadow blocked the sunlight over them.
"L-Lord, is there something you require of me?!" she stammered nervously, fear clear in her voice. Martin allowed himself a faint smile beneath his helm.
"No, nothing of the sort. I simply wished to ask why that heavy stubber over there is not in use?" he explained, pointing toward a weapon lying atop a damaged wooden crate. The weapon was battered, corroded, and looked as though it had not been fired in centuries. He already knew what would need to be done.
"That gun is no longer operational, my lord," she replied, her voice firmer now than before.
"Where exactly is it damaged, Guardsman?" Martin asked out of formality. He already knew precisely what was wrong with the weapon and how to fix it.
"The tripod is broken, my lord. The Mechanicus said they haven't been able to find a replacement part."
Excellent. That was something he could repair quickly, provided he had the right tools.
"May I take this heavy stubber, Guardsman?" He adopted a slightly sterner tone, though by now the young soldier seemed far less afraid of him.
"Yes, my lord," she replied.
Martin moved forward, lifting the weapon with ease and claiming it for himself. Fortune was with him—nearby lay the very tools he needed. The same female soldier, curious now, asked cautiously:
"My lord, what do you intend to do with it?"
Ah, should he tell her?
"...I intend to restore it to working order."
"What do you mean, my lord?" she pressed, but Martin was already setting to work, repairing the weapon with the equipment at hand.
---____________________________________
Soon, he had mounted the heavy stubber onto a makeshift stand he had cobbled together in haste. Thanks to the assistance of two eager young soldiers who gladly sacrificed their time to help, the gun was ready.
For the first time in millennia, after spending so long entombed within a Dreadnought, Martin felt genuine satisfaction in accomplishing something with his own hands.
Armed now with what was effectively an M2 Browning reimagined in grimdark fashion—and with two hundred rounds of ammunition—his firepower had increased significantly.
He almost forgot himself, briefly enjoying the sight of dawn breaking over the horizon. The morning sun was beautiful... until a familiar synthetic voice cut through the moment.
"Repairs have reached ten percent, my lord. Based on my calculations, the main gate should be fully restored within approximately two more cycles," reported A40AT.
Martin turned to look at the Tech-Priest, visibly annoyed. He was forced to endure their endless chanting rituals, waiting for the door to "heal itself." A40AT's expression, however, shifted as his gaze fell upon the heavy stubber Martin had just restored.
"Excellent work—" the Tech-Priest began, before his tone soured.
"You have corrupted the machine spirit, my lord! Weapons must never be repaired in such a crude fashion. Such an approach—" And so he droned on, lecturing for five full minutes with the zeal of a sermon.
Finally, in the name of the Omnissiah, A40AT declared, "I must request permission to remove the scrap—the so-called 'tripod'—from the other two weapons as well!"
But before Martin could even respond, the air was split by a sound that made every soldier tense. The moment he had been waiting for had arrived.
Blood for the blood god!!!!
Skull for skull throne!!!!!!
Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
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Our main character will be wearing Tartaros Terminator Armor in the color shown in the picture, and he stands at an impressive height of 8.5 feet—nearly 10 feet tall when clad in the armor.