The sight of the Angels lifted the morale of the 43rd Regiment—noticeably so.
But through Arthur's perception, he could see that these dutiful soldiers were far from well, appearances aside.
He wasn't blind. Even if he hadn't personally experienced the adverse effects of the Warp's corruption, the signs of hyperreality distortions were painfully evident all around.
Because the outer hull of the strike cruiser had been breached by one of the Orks' ramshackle, metal monstrosities, the ship was no longer just haunted by the grotesque monstrosities in the corridors.
The constant Warp incursion bleeding through the hull was corrupting everything—matter, air, even the people.
Though the Gellar Field was still operational, it couldn't fully shield them. The troops, bathed in Warp energies, had begun to suffer. Blank stares, muscle spasms—minor symptoms at first. But some had far worse: grotesque mutations festered on their skin. In the rear med-bays, wounded soldiers had their armor fused with raw flesh. Even the medics didn't know where to begin. Often, they were left with no option but brutal excision—cutting through armor and meat alike. What lay beneath made Arthur's stomach twist.
Most of them were barely recognizable as human anymore.
Worse still, in the surgical bays, the sloughed-off flesh didn't die. It fused with the metal around it—pulsing, tumorous growths spreading like cancer along the bulkheads.
Arthur watched in silence as, after treating the wounded, the medics casually picked up flamers and torched the growths into ash.
Only after confirming every last scrap was incinerated did he lower his readied incinerator, his gaze shifting to the massive breach on the ship's bridge.
Had the Ork ship struck even slightly deeper, the very steel beneath their feet might have started to come alive.
Shouts of war echoed in the distance—Imperial forces clashing with the enemy. Even the roar of chainsaws and bolt-fire couldn't drown out the loyal soldiers' battle cries—though it felt as much like defiance against fear as it did a show of strength.
If such physical mutations were possible with mere proximity to the Warp, one could only dread what it might do to the mind.
Having now personally experienced the savage cruelty unique to the universe of Warhammer 40K, Arthur's wariness of the Warp only grew. At the same time, he found newfound respect for the Astra Militarum—the Imperial Guard—who kept fighting in such hellish conditions.
He could only hope they'd recover quickly. Their strength would be needed for what came next.
As Arthur pondered in silence, he and Romulus reached the improvised command post nestled behind the defensive line.
Even before they stepped inside, a woman's voice rang out.
"You're telling me that without confirming the enemy's strength, equipment, or deployment, and with no contact from the Deathwatch kill team, we're expected to lead our troops in breaching the Gellar Field generator?"
Her voice was full of doubt, but not fear—just honest concern for the situation.
"We should wait for the return of that Ultramarine. Under his command, we can consolidate what's left of our mobile forces, strike hard, and secure key points along a path to the generator. We could build a defensive line with mutual support across nodes."
"Indeed," the Commissar replied, patient and composed. "But what we're deploying isn't the entire regiment—it's a handpicked team of elites from different companies under my command. Gathering intel is part of our mission. This is sacrifice for the Emperor. To die and have one's soul ascend to the Golden Throne is an honor."
In a Warp-tainted zone like this, where even a stray emotion could be twisted by daemons, only calm and faith in the Emperor could anchor a soul.
Of course, there were the other kind of commissars too—ruthless types who barked orders and used execution as punctuation. But such people didn't usually live long out here.
"But without you, how do we maintain morale?" asked the Canoness, her face clouded with concern. She'd fought at the defensive perimeter and knew how grim it was.
The soldiers weren't afraid of heretics or xenos—they would charge bayonets-first into fire, strike with entrenching tools against any foe. But in the Warp, it was the whispers and the mutations—not the enemy—that broke spirits.
"Look around you," said the Commissar gravely. "Warp energies gnaw at us every moment. Time is not our ally. Even if we fall, let it be on the road to the enemy."
Most likely, even if they found a viable route and the main force reached the generator, the odds of victory were one in a million. But this was the only strategy that had any chance at all.
Sending men into unknown territory to fight block by block was a terrible burden. But war leaves no room for better choices.
"As for defending the elevator platform," the Commissar continued, "I believe Colonel Kovek is more than capable."
"But—"
Clatter—
Arthur and Romulus entered the command room just before the runner arrived, breaking the tension that had begun to spiral.
In the presence of Warp energies, comms gear had been reduced to little more than blasphemous noise generators. Orders now had to be passed by flesh-and-blood messengers—an inefficient but unavoidable solution.
The Astra Militarum didn't shun technology. Under normal circumstances, their integrated networks could match any Imperial force in coordination.
But with the ship's vox arrays fried and machine-spirits corrupted by Warp-viruses, this crude method was all that remained.
Arthur glanced around the room, surprised at how intact the command structure seemed. His gaze settled on the silver-armored Sister who'd been arguing with the Commissar.
The emblem on her chest—a blooming rose.
Ah. Order of the Sacred Rose. That explained her calm and logic.
The Sacred Rose were known for discipline and restraint. Even the famed rage of the Sisters of Battle was, in their case, directed with chilling precision—delivered in flame and bolter fire to the Emperor's enemies. Among the often zealous and frenzied Sisterhood, they were refreshingly rational.
"My lord," she said, catching Arthur's gaze, guilt plain on her face.
She had every reason to question the Commissar—but in the Imperium, no reason could excuse retreat. Sacrifice must never be feared.
Arthur shook his head gently. No harm done.
He wasn't fluent in Low Gothic yet. And besides, he didn't fault her for caution—if anything, the Sisters, always dealing with the Inquisition, had more real experience with the Warp than the Commissar likely did.
Arthur had seen the horrors on the frontlines himself. It wasn't just the cultists or xenos. The blood-slicked hallways, the razor-sharp protrusions—sometimes, the ship itself could kill you.
Rushing forward with unaugmented humans to open a path? They wouldn't last ten minutes.
"My lord," came a voice.
It was Colonel Kovek, who had stayed silent until now. His distinctive purple eyes marked his heritage.
"The 43rd Cadian, 'Broken Blades,' salute you!"
Arthur and Romulus returned the salute, striking fists to their chests.
Neither of them acted like nobles or gods—they were Astartes now, yes, but just hours ago, they'd been normal humans in the M3 era.
Their presence instantly dissolved the dispute in the room.
Everything that had been debated assumed the Angels were still absent. But now that they stood here—everything changed.
Even morale, the biggest concern, was no longer a problem. An Astartes standing silent had more effect than a Commissar shouting ten thousand speeches.
Every gaze turned to them—people who'd felt helpless suddenly grounded by a pillar of hope. In their eyes, the Astartes would lead them to victory.
Such was the faith the Imperium placed in its Angels of Death.
Arthur locked eyes with Romulus. Both could feel it—the weight of expectation.
Their old lives were gone. They were the ones who had to stand tall now, no matter what storm came.
"My apologies, Lord Astartes," said the Commissar.
"Praise the Emperor's guidance," he added. "He spared me from making the wrong choice."
Arthur stepped aside. He still didn't fully grasp the situation, and Romulus was better suited for addressing the troops.
"No apologies needed, Commissar," Romulus said warmly. "It was I who took too long searching for my brothers. I delayed your righteous preparations."
His voice was calm, firm—and eased the tension in the room.
Then he reached forward, smoothing out the wrinkled map. From his helmet, lines of tactical projections lit up the surface.
"Hmm?"
The attending Tech-Priest blinked beneath his goggles in surprise.
It seemed the machine-spirit of the map display, once corrupted by Warp-code, was showing signs of revival.
Battle plans filled Romulus's mind. In seconds, he processed them, selected the optimal path, and finalized it within his helm.
"Colonel Kovek, is the augur device still functional?"
Romulus rose after only three seconds' pause.
Kovek flipped his chainsword in a salute and lifted the augur talisman from his belt.
"Still operational."
"Then the Emperor watches over us," Romulus said, seizing the moment to rally hearts.
"The Astartes will spearhead a rapid assault, drawing the enemy to us. The Sisters and Astra Militarum will secure and fortify the flanks."
He looked around the room.
"Now, follow us. My brother and I will lead the charge and carve a path to victory."
No long speech. Romulus knew—action was the clearest command.
Donning his golden-crowned helm, he stood tall and reached for his bolter.
Click—
The bolt slid into place.
"For the Emperor!"
Standing proudly among them, the Commissar bellowed the Imperium's eternal warcry.
"For the Emperor!"
The elite assault squads, already formed up, roared in reply. Weapons clutched tight, eyes aflame with hatred for the xenos that dared defile Mankind's glory.
Failure?
Arthur looked over the soldiers. Battle-worn, stained with blood, armor cracked and soiled. Yet something had changed.
The crushing dread that had haunted them was gone.
In the dim glow of failing lamps, only their eyes and the golden aquilas on their chests still burned with light.
No more fear. Only resolve.
Even Arthur, still new to all this, felt awe rise within him.
He turned, stepping into the once-sealed corridor ahead—a hallway once adorned with carvings and sacred sculpture, now defaced with heretic sigils and pulsing flesh.
His enhanced hearing picked up every scuffle and whisper ahead. Muted footsteps, frantic shuffles—each painted outlines in the dark.
Shlunk!
A sword stroke. A statue fell.
Within, a daemon-infested effigy spilled blood and meat.
More noises surged behind him—the enemy had taken notice.
Arthur paid it no mind.
Las and bolter fire flew past him, cutting down the onrushing warped monstrosities as fast as they appeared.
For those mutated souls, blessed by Chaos and immune to conventional firepower, Arthur whispered:
"Only victory!"
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