Arthur had transmigrated.
Just a moment ago he had been bidding farewell to his online friends who still fought for the Emperor in the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, preparing to start his daily writing session. Then, in a sudden haze, his consciousness slipped away.
And when he awoke, he was inside a chamber of forged steel.
Lifting his eyes, he saw the golden double-headed eagle shining proudly upon the wall of iron. Incense and candles filled the room with a warm glow, driving back the oppressive air of decay.
But Arthur's heart had already gone cold.
"A dream?"
The sound of iron boots striking the ground echoed through the chamber. Arthur stepped past a burning brazier, and in the mirror-bright wall, his reflection appeared: a towering figure encased in jet-black power armor.
A gray robe draped over the armor, and through its folds gleamed ornate engravings. Skulls and sacred icons adorned the shoulders, and on the plates could be glimpsed the faint insignia of a winged sword.
Arthur's gaze fell lower, to the crystal-clear holy oil at his bedside. Resting within was a sword and shield.
The blade gleamed with lethal cold light, its craftsmanship so exquisite that even Arthur, no smith, could not help but marvel. Upon the shield, two crossed swords divided the face into four quarters: the golden Aquila above, and two robed gray figures etched into the remaining space.
Artifacts such as these belonged not to the battlefield, but behind the glass of the highest shrine, offered to the faithful.
Arthur drew in a breath.
Seven lung lobes expanded to their limit, and his twin hearts roared like burning reactors, pumping heat through every fiber of his being.
But his own heart felt frozen.
Even the superhuman physique of an Astartes gave Arthur no comfort. His soul trembled with panic.
"I should pray this is just a dream. Failing that, maybe I'll pray I landed in 30k, or 42k when the Lion returns."
His eyes fell upon a tome resting upon the desk, its title impossible to miss: The Codex Astartes.
"Oh. Guess I'd better pray for the Lion's return, then."
He swept the desk clear into a storage chest and walked to the pool, armored gauntlets reaching in to grasp the sword and shield. He remembered how much he had loved role-playing with this loadout in games, and immediately regretted it.
The room was silent. Aside from the flickering flames, nothing stirred. The giant, nearly three meters tall, seemed frozen in place as his hand closed around the weapons.
Arthur felt numb.
Transmigration, such an alluring word.
But tied to Warhammer 40k, it was anything but a blessing.
Warhammer 40k, a grimdark space opera crafted by Games Workshop, a cesspit where every race fought endlessly, and by M41 this cesspit had reached its peak.
Arthur's lot, the supposed good fortune of awakening as a Space Marine, offered no safety at all, for he was a Fallen Angel.
And with the Lion's return uncertain, he now faced one of the most fanatical legions in the galaxy.
The Dark Angels, the first of the Emperor's twenty legions. Their countless glories, their name as the First Legion, laden with special meaning and honors. They held themselves as the model of the Astartes.
And such a chapter tolerated no stain.
Arthur looked silently at the black armor upon him.
The Fallen were their deepest shame.
Whenever the Fallen were involved, the Dark Angels shed their mask of calm discipline and would stop at nothing to purge the taint. Turning their guns on allies, unleashing psychic interrogations, wielding forbidden tech, invoking Exterminatus, all were standard practice.
And once a Fallen was captured, there was no cruelty the Dark Angels would not employ.
Better to be dead, Arthur thought bitterly. Yet even death was no escape, for in the warp one could never rest in peace.
Such was the truth of this universe: alive, you struggled in the cesspit; dead, you swam in an even fouler one.
Damn it, not even death brings peace.
Fury welled within him. Sword in hand, Arthur strode to the door.
One faced with despair often lost reason, and that lost reason now twisted into violence.
This was a Space Marine dormitory. He would find whoever commanded here and demand a mission.
All he wanted was to fight, to carve down foes until he too was slain. Drag a few into the grave with him, better than rotting here.
This life was already ruined.
Maybe the Emperor welcomed transmigrators. Perhaps he could at least join the Black Templars or some cursed crusade.
He jabbed the door controls. Nothing. It was as if something pressed against the other side.
Arthur's face hardened. He drew back and kicked.
A deafening bang filled the air.
Metal snapped, flesh burst. A foul blue ichor sprayed across his visor as the door gave way.
The world opened before him.
A wide starship corridor, cold wall-lamps flickering under tremors.
He looked down. Below the railings, greenskin orks bellowed WAAAGH as they tore into desperate humans wielding scrap weapons.
He looked up. The ceiling crawled with xenos bearing three pairs of limbs, their pink flesh half-transparent under the light, bone plates expanding and contracting as they breathed.
To the side, sharp-eared aliens lay strewn across the floor, twisted in despair, bodies broken. By them loomed voluptuous pink figures, drawn by the scent of agony.
And straight ahead, beneath the shattered doorway, a bloated blue Horror writhed its last, its massive body ruptured. Its chaotic gaze met Arthur's, filled with nothing but despair.
The collapsed support pillar beside it told of what destruction it had just suffered.
The battlefield stilled, all eyes falling on the armored giant. For a heartbeat. Then, as if on cue, the clash resumed its rhythm.
As it always was in this universe.
Death. Chaos.
"…Heh."
Arthur tugged at the corner of his mouth. A bitter smile escaped him, and the fire in his heart guttered out.
He no longer knew what face to make. But that twisted smile, the one that appeared when words failed, when all you could do was tug your lips upward, that was the true bitter laugh.
Behind him, the room he had awoken in was gone.
Arthur stepped forward.
His shield crushed a cultist to pulp. His blade flashed blue, cleaving a Genestealer's head. His boot smashed an Eldar to pieces, sending it to She Who Thirsts.
This was a universe of men, elves, orks, daemons, and worse.
Blue flame roared, melting corridor steel. It splashed harmlessly against his shining shield. Arthur swung wide, plasma gun roaring from behind its cover, incinerating a hidden sorcerer in an instant.
A universe of magic and machine alike.
"Blood for the Blood God!"
A red-skinned Berserker swung a massive sword, harvesting heads.
"For the Emperor!"
Guardsmen, clutching melta charges, dove into the daemon horde.
A universe where gods and mortals alike strode openly.
The hull ripped apart under invisible force, revealing the void beyond.
An indescribable vista. Frost spread along the breach. The transparent void shield flickered under the pressure of the warp storm.
A universe where tomorrow could never be known.
Arthur smiled at last, calm and resolved. He raised his sword against the monsters before him.
This was Warhammer 40,000.
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