Gunfire erupted in the narrow passageway. An auxiliary soldier in flak armor, holding a lasgun, fled for his life. He didn't even dare to look back, simply sticking his lasgun behind him and randomly pulling the trigger.
He was supposed to be stationed at the intersection of the previous corridor, but when a silver-grey wall began to move slowly and steadily toward their defensive works, fear overwhelmed him.
He swore his squad had tried everything. Neither lasguns nor shotguns had any effect on that wall of steel, and a krak grenade only made the wall hesitate for half a step. The higher-ups had even issued them a flamer—a damn flamer. Using a flamer in such a narrow corridor, regardless of whether the enemy could take it, meant they would be roasted alive by the heat of burning promethium first, or maybe die from hypoxia. Damn it! The higher-ups hadn't equipped them with the heavy firepower they needed at all.
Even as his squad poured all their firepower into the wall of steel, it continued to close in. It seemed to reach a certain distance, and in an instant, with the bang-bang-bang of a few bolter shots, the upper bodies of everyone else, including his squad leader, were turned into a paste of flesh smeared across the wall.
The auxiliary could only run blindly. Perhaps in his panic, he was tripped by a corpse on the ground. He fell hard, his lasgun sliding out of his grasp. Looking at the weapon that had fallen in front of him, he remembered what his instructor had said.
"Keep your weapon sling on, or I'll shove that lasgun up your arse."
It was too late. The soldier could hear the heavy footsteps behind him; the "wall of steel" had already moved up behind him. The soldier turned his head in despair to see a massive boot coming down on him.
"Emperor!"
Peter Karaxis stomped down on the soldier's chest with a powerful, heavy iron boot, crushing the fallen mortal auxiliary's ribs and flak armor into a pulp. The young soldier didn't seem to have processed it, his wide-open mouth still gasping desperately, futilely trying to draw air into his flattened lungs.
Ignoring the pathetic wretch, Peter continued advancing down the corridor with his boarding shield raised. The battle-brother next to him kept pace. Who was it on his left? Peter couldn't quite remember. Right, Andrew. Andrew was on his left, an arrogant young man who had been assigned to Peter's tactical squad as a replacement before the battle. This was his first real combat. A shame he would be dead in ten seconds.
...Seven, eight, nine, ten. The squad reached a corner. A burst of rat-a-tat-tat from a heavy bolter rang out. Andrew was a step too slow as he rounded the corner, exposing a narrow sliver of his side to the heavy bolter at the opposite end of the passage. With a loud crack, Andrew's shield arm was shot off first, followed immediately by his helmet and chest plate.
Peter remembered saying it countless times: stick close to the formation, adjust your shield, and don't let any gaps appear in the shield wall. But Andrew was certain he'd be fine.
"Expeditionary Levies" like Andrew mostly had problems of one sort or another, thinking they were experienced and knew everything. In truth, the knowledge from hypno-indoctrination only lets you know; there is a vast gulf between knowing and doing. Peter chuckled internally. As if he wasn't an "Expeditionary Levy" himself. His first real combat had been on a world called Tallarn. He had just been luckier, learning the real skills before he lost his life.
As Andrew's body fell, Peter pulled the trigger, his bolter spitting fire to lay down suppressing fire on the yellow-armored enemy.
The battle-brother behind him immediately filled the gap. Now, on his left, was Brother Anthony. Peter was much more at ease. After all, Anthony had crawled out of the bloody pits of the Siege of Terra with him, and they would survive this campaign too.
He advanced with his shield raised according to muscle memory, ignoring the dull thuds of heavy bolter rounds impacting its surface. Upon reaching tactical distance, he took out a krak grenade and tossed it over the shield. With a booming explosion, the mortals behind the defensive works were wiped across the wall. The squad continued to advance and suppress, firing without emotion.
The battle ended quickly. The enemy retreated, leaving behind the corpse of one in yellow armor. They had retaken this corridor—for now. Peter took a deep breath of the filtered air in his helmet and ordered the squad members to fortify their position.
He knew it was all meaningless. In 36 minutes, the Imperial Fists would retake this position. Half an hour after that, Peter would fight his way back here again. This cycle would repeat countless times in these corridors over the next week. By the end, they would be using corpses for cover and stripping armor from others for replacements.
At that time, Peter had stared intently at the Imperial Fists soldier lying on the ground, wondering if he too would soon die like that. Peter knew that for an Astartes, fearing death was not a good quality, but that was on the condition that one died with honor and dignity.
He knew then that this was a meaningless meat grinder. This world had no strategic position or any valuable resources; it was all just because of the stubbornness of two Primarchs.
And Peter knew he was dreaming now. He just hadn't expected to return here in his dreams, back to the "Iron Cage." But he had a meeting to attend soon, so Peter controlled himself, using auto-suggestion to wake himself from the dream.
On the upper decks of the Blackiron, in the Astartes quarters, a powerfully built, naked man rose from an iron slab bed, shaking his head to dispel the drowsiness.
The man stood in the small cabin, his head almost touching the ceiling. He was a full 2.3 meters tall. His genetically engineered body was among the largest even for his kind. His bulging muscles were like those of an extinct creature from ancient Terra called a "Belgian Blue," making his standing form resemble a solid wall. Only the exposed neural interfaces and countless scars on his skin marred the aesthetic of this physique.
His equally genetically engineered, stern features were complemented by a high-bridged nose, and two thick eyebrows sat above his eyes like black caterpillars. The short hair on his head was black with a few streaks of silver, swept back into a short slick-back style. This combination, along with a granite-like expression of determination, made him look like a majestic statue.
Peter walked straight to the datascreen and tapped it casually. The comm-link opened.
"Anthony, notify all the brothers to assemble in the bridge conference room in 30 minutes. We've reached our destination."
"Yes, Captain."
Peter didn't correct Anthony's form of address. He cut the communication and walked directly to the side door. As the hatch opened, automated wall lamps filled the room with light, and two twisted creatures in the corner began to stir.
The two beings stood up. They had a human silhouette, but their skin was pale and bloodless. Both arms had been amputated at the shoulder, replaced by a screw-driver and a power clamp. Several cables pierced their abdomens and chests solely to power the machines on their hands. An opaque tube was inserted directly through their mouths into their stomachs, a convenient way to provide the creatures with sustenance. Servitors, half-human, half-machine tools created by the Cult Mechanicus. Their frontal lobes had been removed while they were alive, and since then, they felt no sorrow or joy, knowing only how to perform their mechanical tasks.
And in this small, private armory, a bolter, a combat knife, and a dented boarding shield hung on the wall. On a table, seven or eight magazines loaded with bolts and several grenades were neatly arranged. In an iron box next to them were unopened bolts. And a skull, a yellowed skull. It was placed incongruously in the armory, its abnormal size seeming to reveal the identity of its former owner.
But the most eye-catching object in the room was the suit of power armor on the central rack: a suit of Mark III 'Iron' Armour. This suit, also covered in impact craters and gashes, had seen Peter through the Tallarn Campaign, the Siege of Terra, the Battle of the Iron Cage, and countless other engagements, large and small. More than a third of its components had been replaced.
Fortunately, the thicker frontal plating of the Iron-pattern, compared to other models, had saved Peter more than once. His power armor had been pierced from the front several times, even wounding his flesh. If he hadn't been wearing Iron Armour, it would have been more than a simple injury. Peter had considered repairing the armor and shield, but given the current shortage of materials, he ultimately decided to leave them as they were, so long as their integrity wasn't compromised.
He raised his hands. The servitors silently removed the power armor components and began to fit them onto him. While attaching the left pauldron, Peter saw that the eight-pointed star and iron mask on it still shone brightly. But now, he only felt disgust. After the meeting, he would grind off this symbol of the IVth Legion.
Peter put on his helmet, bidding farewell to the man he was when he left the Legion. Because they were no longer "Expeditionary Levies," no longer consumables, no longer Iron Warriors, no longer slaves of Perturabo. Now, they were the "Forged Steel Brotherhood."
...
Standard Terran Calendar: .672.M31
Designation: Lemnos III
Segmentum: Ultima
Sector: The Maelstrom
System: Lemnos
Population: 1-3 million
Allegiance: Imperium of Man
Classification: Feudal World
Tithe Grade: Quartus Exemptus
The Dagger-class frigate, the Blackiron, floated silently in the orbit of Lemnos III. The ancient warship was a veteran of many wars, having undergone numerous repairs—at least, that was the case before its capture by the Iron Warriors. Around a circular table in the equally battle-scarred conference room of the command bridge, all 22 Astartes of the "Forged Steel Brotherhood" warband were seated. Servitors had served each of them a goblet of bloodwine.
Peter wasted no time, activating the holographic projector directly. A blue and yellow planet materialized before the brothers.
"This is Lemnos III, the third planet in the Lemnos system. It has no moons and three main continents. The landmass accounts for 41.53% of the planet's total surface area, which is predominantly mountainous. The main continent is ruled by a feudal dynasty and its numerous vassals, with the ruler of the most powerful dynasty serving as the Planetary Governor. Of the other two continents, one is at the north pole, permanently frozen and sparsely inhabited. The people on the other continent are even more primitive—basically barbarians clad in beast hides and wielding stone and bone weapons. The total planetary population is between one and three million, with no obvious signs of Chaos corruption or mutation among the inhabitants. The main continent's technology has just entered the iron age. In other words, the Planetary Defense Force is still using spears and bows. This is Lemnos III, and it will become our homeworld."
Peter's gaze swept across all the Astartes.
"Do the brothers have any questions?"
A deep voice spoke up:
"Lord of the Forged Steel, why have we left the Eye of Terror and traveled all the way to the Maelstrom to find a homeworld? This world's population is too sparse, its technology is backward, and it even belongs to the False Emperor."
Peter looked at the speaker. It was Brother Vornaby, captain of the 2nd Tactical Squad. He was one of the later additions to the warband. However, he was quick-witted and adept at getting along with the brothers, knowing when to raise questions on their behalf even if he already knew the answer. It was for this very reason that Peter had appointed him captain.
"The worlds within the Eye of Terror are more or less corrupted, their inhabitants heavily mutated, making them poor stock for new blood for the warband. There are also too many warbands, so we'd never get a turn at the good spots. With our current strength, we cannot occupy a world with planetary shields and orbital defenses for long. Most importantly, it's highly likely the Imperium has no idea this world even exists."
Peter casually tossed a heavily damaged sheet of parchment onto the table.
"I found this in the Legion archives. It's what led us to this world. During the Great Crusade, this world was conquered by the Iron Warriors Legion. And I mean the 'former' Iron Warriors Legion."
"Back then, the Primarch had not yet returned to the Legion. Our predecessors in the Legion discovered this planet during the Great Crusade. A squad landed and found the king of the so-called dynasty. The rest isn't worth telling. A few dozen Astartes facing a mob of natives armed with wooden sticks. The king immediately declared his return to the Imperium, and the Legion left behind some administrators and went on its way."
Feeling a bit thirsty as he spoke, Peter picked up his goblet and took a large gulp of bloodwine, wetting his throat before continuing.
"At the time, the Imperium even thought about collecting the tithe, but this world couldn't provide anything. They had no food, weapons, or industrial goods. There might be minerals underground, but there's no mining equipment. As for manpower, rather than traveling all the way into the Maelstrom to recruit from a world of a few million, it would be better to put more thought into the nearby hive worlds."
"And then, nothing. It couldn't serve as a supply point, nor could it be taxed. The Departmento Munitorum simply set the tithe to Grade Quartus and forgot about it. The relevant Imperial documents are probably buried under a hundred meters of parchment, or were destroyed in the fires of the Battle of Terra. If I hadn't found this file in the Legion's archives, this world would have likely remained in obscurity. As for the administrators left behind back then, that's even less of a problem. Nearly a thousand years have passed; their descendants have long since become part of the local ruling class."
"Wait for the Imperials to come? You might as well wait for death. At least death is certain to arrive."
Hearing their leader's deadpan joke, Philon let out a hearty laugh and took up the conversation.
"I get it, boss. Although the warp storms are just as frequent here, it's still more stable than the Eye of Terror. And this is the Maelstrom, after all, where the wealth is practically endless, so it'll be much easier whether we're raiding or mining ourselves. Since both regions are unstable, there are clearly more opportunities here than fighting over those twisted planets in the Eye. Is that right?"
Philon was a battle-brother also clad in silver-grey power armor. As he spoke, he tossed a human finger from an unknown source into his mouth, chewing it with a crunch. The twisted mechatendrils connected to his power pack exposed his identity as a Warpsmith. But the biggest difference between him and the other brothers was his skin, which was as black as freshly dug coal, and his two eyes, which were solid crimson, like indicator lights in the night.
"Exactly, Brother Philon. Do any other brothers have questions?"
Peter waited for ten seconds, and the conference room remained silent for ten seconds.
"Next topic. Captain Barnabas, what is the status of the Blackiron?"
The captain, wearing a Mark II Crusade-pattern helmet, spoke:
"My lord, not great. This warship was built on Mars in the early days of the Great Crusade. It's a miracle it has survived to this day. With just a few lances and macro-cannons, we can scare off pirates, and that's about it. We don't even have the virus bombs or torpedoes for an Exterminatus order. If we wanted to carry one out, we'd have to bombard a world without planetary shields for several consecutive months."
"As for the crew, despite lowering standards and selecting from the slaves, we are still slightly short-handed. In terms of food, we can currently supply the crew and naval armsmen with corpse-starch. The slaves have always been supplied by pulping a selection of them into protein blocks for the rest. It is, shall we say, within acceptable limits."
Peter nodded and replied:
"Captain Barnabas, we won't be able to acquire another warship in the short term. We'll have to overcome this for a while longer."
"As you command, Lord of the Forged Steel."
Peter turned to the Warpsmith.
"Philon, how is the armory?"
Philon hastily put down his goblet and swallowed his wine.
"Boss, besides personal issue wargear, there isn't much left. For the mortals, aside from the armsmen's equipment, we've only got some lasguns, combat shotguns, autoguns, and stubbers. For aircraft, we have one Aquila Lander, two Arvus Lighters, and one Valkyrie still under repair. We have no ground vehicles at all."
"In the warband's armory, there's one Land Raider, one Rhino APC, and one Storm Eagle gunship. For small arms, we have forty combat loads of bolts, three bolters, two bolt pistols, seven monomolecular combat blades, three combat shields, two boarding shields, one heavy bolter, one meltagun, twenty melta bombs, and four crates of assorted grenades. However, we're running low on raw materials like high-grade ceramite, adamantium, power cells, and micro-cogitators. Just maintaining our current equipment is a strain. The good news is our promethium reserves are still ample."
"And the bad news?" Peter knew his brother's temperament.
Philon wore a triumphant expression.
"We barely have any equipment that consumes promethium."
He switched back to a serious face and continued his report.
"If we run out of materials, I'll only be able to make a few sets of carapace armor out of lesser-grade ceramite and modify some combat shotguns and lasguns for the brothers to use."
"Then modify some. We'll save them for the new blood."
Philon looked utterly bewildered.
"Boss, we have no new recruits, no gene-seed, no implantation equipment, and not even an Apothecary."
"The Apothecary and the equipment are already on their way. As for the gene-seed, I will solve that," Peter replied calmly.
Philon slammed a fist into his palm, a look of realization dawning on his face.
"Oh, it's that kid, Dioscorides, isn't it! I knew you had a plan, boss."
At that moment, the warrior sitting to Peter's left, the left side of his face a mass of scar tissue, clenched his gauntlet in anger.
"Captain, we fought for the Legion for so many years, yet when we wanted to leave, they treated us like thieves. The Primarch himself permitted the founding of warbands, yet they gave us nothing. I bet they wished we'd left the warship, the bolters, and the power armor behind. Better yet, if we had just died and left them our gene-seed too."
Peter let out a soft sigh and looked at Anthony beside him, stout and stocky, half his face melted away. Though he was the shortest among them, he was the one Peter trusted most.
"They were never our brothers. Think of the Father's Iron Circle automata. The Father doesn't even trust his sons, yet he demands his sons trust each other."
"So be it. If the Legion believes our service was only worth this much, then we no longer owe the Legion anything."
After comforting Anthony, Peter continued issuing orders.
"Anthony, Vornaby, lead the 1st and 2nd Tactical Squads, sixteen battle-brothers in total. Be ready in the hangar bay within the hour. We are going to conquer our homeworld. Captain Barnabas, you and the remaining three brothers will remain and guard the flagship."
Seeing he hadn't been mentioned, Philon immediately piped up.
"Boss, what about me, what about me?"
"You want to go down too? Is the Valkyrie repaired?"
Philon rubbed the back of his head with a sheepish grin.
"It's not that I'm not fixing the Valkyrie, it's just... lacking parts. Besides, I want to see our new homeworld too. I've been cooped up on this ship for too long."
"Fine. The timetable doesn't change. We won't wait for you."
With that, Peter rose from his iron chair, and the other warriors followed suit. Peter looked at the brothers surrounding him, struck his left breastplate with his right fist, producing a dull thud of ceramite on ceramite, and called out in a low voice.
"Into the Forge."
The others responded in kind, striking their own chests.
"Forged in Steel."
...
Once again, the great power of the God-Emperor caused the holy sun to rise from the horizon, illuminating all things in the world and providing ample nourishment for the grapes and olives on the hills. Today on Lemnos III, everything was as normal.
On the main continent, the landmass exposed above the sea resembled a giant letter 'C'. A gap of nearly a thousand kilometers in this tectonic plate allowed the sea to pour in, forming a huge inland sea.
In the northern region of the main continent, within the city-state of Nopea, lay the mountain forests belonging to the Parus family. Skaman Parus was riding a split-hoof beast, hunting in his family's timberlands with his kinsmen and allies. They hunted giant boars and deer. As the patriarch of the Parus family, Skaman had always felt that the hunt was the best social opportunity, attended only by family members or close allies. While strengthening their bonds, they also protected the family's vineyards and wheat fields.
The current Consul's term was about to end. If they could secure the support of enough council families, they could finally end the Grandi family's decade-long hold on the position.
As usual, the day began with the hunt, allowing the young lads to burn off their energy. After the exhilarating chase would come the feast, where the energetic young men would talk, wrestle, or duel.
The elders, like Skaman, would recline on chairs, enjoying fine wine and food while discussing the politics and economies of the surrounding city-states.
Skaman brought his thoughts back to the present. The hunt was not yet over. The young men held their reins tight, spears and javelins in hand, all vying to win the heart of the prey.
Skaman simply tugged his reins lightly to keep up with the group. He reached up and stroked his slightly graying beard, watching the vibrant group of youths.
He was old now. The opportunity should be left to the young, just as his father had once left him the chance to hunt lions. When he grew older still, his eldest son would take up his mantle. These young men were the future of the family; they were the future rulers.
"Wine."
Skaman held out a hand to the steward trotting beside him. The steward immediately passed him a waterskin. Skaman bit the stopper open, tilted his head back, and poured the sweet wine down his throat. Feeling the wine gurgle its way down, Skaman thought he might be suffering from heatstroke. There was a buzzing in his head, as if the very air around him was vibrating.
"My lord, my lord!"
Skaman felt the steward pushing at his thigh, which annoyed him. The steward had been with him for decades; had he forgotten his manners? It seemed he would need to feel the lash when they returned. Skaman decided to finish his wine first, ignoring the steward's nudges and continuing to drink deeply. The sound in his ears grew worse, and then the buzzing became a terrible roar, hammering against his fragile eardrums.
"My lord, my lord." The steward's pushing became more forceful and frequent. Skaman had no choice but to lower the waterskin.
For some reason, a sandstorm had kicked up in the hills, forcing him to squint. Even the split-hoof beast beneath him grew restless. Bracing against the gale, Skaman looked up, and his hand trembled so violently that the waterskin slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. He could only utter one phrase:
"Emperor above."
A silver dragon was flying towards them in the sky. The dragon had short wings and a massive body, and at that moment it was breathing fire, descending vertically through the air. After it landed, the fire in the dragon's throat gradually subsided.
The dragon's belly slowly opened, and tall, iron giants strode out from within, their steps heavy and swift. There were seventeen of these giants in total. The mere sight of them filled the people with a primal fear, extinguishing any thought of escape, as if their submission was the natural order of things.
The servants began to kneel, praying and weeping. The young men were equally at a loss. Skaman was not much better off than them, but decades of life experience allowed him to react faster. The dragon and the iron giants seemed somewhat similar to the murals in the Temple of the Emperor—the stories depicting the Emperor's Steel Angels tearing open the sky, descending to the mortal world, and leaving behind wise sages.
The leading iron giant walked straight up to Skaman. With a hiss of depressurizing air, he reached up, removed his helmet, and revealed a face that looked younger than Skaman's own.
"Do you speak High Gothic?"
The angel had spoken. Although his voice was deep, it reassured Skaman considerably. It seemed the angels also had a human form. Though he didn't look particularly old, Skaman knew better than to judge an angel's age by his own experience.
"I do."
This language was said to have been passed down from the servants of the God-Emperor. While not often used in daily life, almost all members of the upper class in the city-states learned it, or at least they once did.
The angel pointed a finger at the steward and servants who were kneeling on the ground, trembling like leaves.
"Who are they?"
"My steward and my servants."
"Good."
Good? What was good? Before Skaman could process it, what happened next completely shattered the image of angels the priests of the Merciful Sect had taught him.
The lead angel grabbed the kneeling steward and drew the dagger from his waist, which was as long as a sword. The steward looked pleadingly at his master, the man he had grown up with, but Skaman could only watch from the side. He swallowed hard, not daring to make a single move.
Peter twisted the combat knife around the top of the man's skull. Ignoring the steward's desperate struggles and screams, he placed a hand on the cranium and pulled upwards with force. It opened like a coconut, revealing the white, tofu-like tissue inside.
At the same time, several other angels followed Peter's example, seizing the nearby slaves. Philon snatched a young man from his split-hoof beast, holding him like a chick. Philon had no intention of "opening the lid," and simply opened his bloody maw and bit down on the top of the man's head.
What happened next made Skaman's stomach churn. The priests of the Retribution Sect were right. The angels were the warriors of the God-Emperor. They were retribution, they were death, they were the sword for enemies and rebels—they had nothing to do with mercy.
Meanwhile, Peter stood with his eyes closed, concentrating, trying to activate his Omophagea. This was an organ implanted in his body during the nineteen stages of his genetic modification. This organ allowed these transhuman warriors to extract genetic material related to memory from the creatures they consumed, gaining an enemy's memories by absorbing their flesh. Of course, in theory, this organ's activation and intensity could be controlled, but for some Astartes, the organ had limited function, no function, or was even overactive—none of which were good signs.
He focused on the mortal's memories, discarding the irrelevant and absorbing the necessary knowledge as much as possible: geography, politics, faith, and language. As the superhuman organ worked, Peter muttered to himself:
"More than twenty large settlements called city-states, countless smaller ones. The continent is mainly mountainous, with scarce arable land. A council-based government, elected Consuls, citizen-soldiers, a localized Imperial Creed, and still limited technological progress."
Philon, ever blunt, chimed in.
"Looks like the Imperial administrators spread the council system again. Before the Imperial conquest, there was at least a unified dynasty. Now it's more shattered than a glass dropped on the floor. There is some good news, though. The old Imperial census was wrong, because they didn't count women, children, slaves, or outsiders as people."
Peter ignored Philon's words. He knew the Warpsmith's mouth never stopped, so he let him be. He turned his head to look at Skaman and said in a slightly clumsy local dialect:
"Councilor Skaman, take us to see your Consul."
"Ah!?"
Skaman was too stunned to comprehend.
Peter sheathed his combat knife.
"Don't just stand there. I have an entire planet waiting to be taken."