The shrine deck of the Arcadia was a place of quiet devotion. Candles burned in alcoves carved from steel, their light flickering across icons of the Emperor and memorial plaques etched with the names of the fallen from Arcadia's destruction. Families often gathered there — wives, children, and the aged, offering prayers for those who stood watch on the outer decks.
It was never meant to be a battlefield.
The bulkhead ruptured in a scream of rending metal. A boarding torpedo tore into the shrine like a spear, spilling smoke and fire across the sacred place. As the air cleared, red-robed figures strode forward, mechadendrites writhing, binary prayers echoing in metallic voices.
The Mechanicus had come.
"Purge the shrine of contamination," one intoned, vox-grille crackling with static. "The Omnissiah suffers no tainted spirit."
Skitarii stormed in, rifles raised. Civilians screamed, scrambling for cover as the soldiers opened fire. Candles shattered, icons melted, prayers drowned in a hail of gunfire.
But the Arcadians were not helpless.
Men and women seized heirloom laslocks, crude pistols, even ceremonial blades from the shrine walls. They formed lines before their children, before the icons, before the memory of Arcadia itself.
"For Arcadia!" a grey-haired sailor shouted, his voice shaking but fierce. He fired his antique weapon, the blast striking a Skitarius in the chest. The invader staggered, armor scorched, before retaliating with a bolt that split the old man in two.
The Arcadians roared and charged.
The shrine deck erupted into chaos. Mothers fought with knives, slashing at mechadendrites. Old veterans, too broken for regular duty, lifted cutlasses and threw themselves against servitors. Children carried ammunition to the fighters, hands shaking as they passed las-cells to their fathers.
Blood stained the shrine floor, mixing with the wax of fallen candles. The icons of the Emperor glowed red with firelight.
Harlock arrived in the midst of it, his saber already sparking arcs of deadly light. His crimson eye burned as he cut down two Skitarii in a single swing, his blade screaming through metal and bone. He saw civilians dying around him, the shrine burning, and his jaw tightened.
He raised his saber high.
"Hold this ground!" he bellowed. "For every child, for every name on these walls — let no zealot take them from us!"
The crew answered with a ragged cheer, surging forward with renewed fury.
But the cost was terrible.
A squad of Arcadian men overloaded plasma cells, throwing themselves into the advancing servitors. The explosion turned the shrine into a fireball, vaporizing the machines and the Arcadians alike. Their sacrifice bought a moment's reprieve — and with it, the defenders surged, driving the Mechanicus back step by bloody step.
Harlock stood among the bodies, saber dripping sparks, his face set like stone. His people were dying, but they were not dying as victims. They were dying as Arcadians — as defenders of their home.
The shrine deck was a slaughterhouse, but it held.
The Arcadia's heart still beat.