WARHAMMER 40K: SEARCH-STRIKE-WITHDRAW SYSTEM
After the clash between the Imperial Planetary Defense Force and the rebel insurgents, the battlefield was littered with wreckage, corpses, and hastily abandoned after-action reports. To most, it was a graveyard.
To Ragnar, it was an opportunity.
With the Search–Strike–Withdraw System running at full efficiency, Ragnar calmly began what could only be described as battlefield requisition—unofficially, of course.
A fallen Guardsman’s lasgun?
Recovered. Standard M36 pattern, power pack still half-charged.
A set of damaged carapace armor stripped from a dead sergeant?
Recovered. Grade IV protection—patchable with scrap plasteel.
Oh? A bolt pistol dropped by a political commissar whose faith had not, unfortunately, extended to surviving the ambush?
Recovered. Emperor-blessed ammunition, high-caliber, still lethal.
And then—
The wreckage of a destroyed Leman Russ battle tank.
Most of it was slag, but deep in the twisted hull, Ragnar uncovered an intact heavy bolter battery and power-feed assembly—worth a small fortune on the black market, or an even greater one in the hands of someone who knew how to use it.
Everything was hauled back to the Underworld hideout.
Weapons were sold to hive gangs and rogue traders. Armor plating was melted down and reforged. Power cells were stripped, recharged, and repurposed. Soon, the hideout’s manufactorum was churning out improvised heavy stubbers, enhanced machine guns, and overclocked power packs, all barely within the tolerance limits of Imperial safety regulations—which was to say, acceptable.
Fully equipped, Ragnar donned multiple layers of salvaged power armor, the machine spirits appeased just enough to function, and returned to the battlefield.
There, he slaughtered heretics with ruthless efficiency.
Rebel forces were purged. Chaos cultists were erased. Each kill nudged his Favor with the God-Emperor a little higher.
Step by step, amid smoke, blood, and prayer, Ragnar advanced toward ascension.
Toward glory.
Toward faith.
Toward that most sacred of goals—
The Golden Throne.
…Even if, in his heart, he still privately called it the Golden Toilet.