"Again."
In the hall filled with the sounds of clashing metal, the air thickens with the energy of anticipation. Two warriors in armor stand facing each other, gripping their swords tightly. Their gazes are focused, and their expressions serious—they are ready for the duel.
Like dancers beginning their performance, they circle each other, feeling the tension grow with each passing moment. Suddenly, one of them makes a swift slash with his sword, but the attack is easily blocked by his opponent, who confidently steps back to avoid the strike. Both warriors study each other's movements, searching for a weakness in their defense.
The sparring session continues without pause. They exchange rapid strikes and parries, each trying to find an advantage, yet both remain cautious not to fall for any tricks or feints. The sound of metal rings through the air as their blades clash, creating a scene that evokes ancient duels.
Soon, the fight develops a rhythm, resembling a well-rehearsed choreography. The strikes come one after another in quick succession, but each one has its own harmony and precision.
Even to an untrained eye, it was clear that one warrior was holding back, while the other was nearing his limit. The exchange of blows lasted a few more moments until the blade of the warrior in gold armor stopped mere millimeters from the throat of the warrior in camouflage-painted armor.
"Better. But still not enough. Again," the warrior in gold armor sheathed his sword and returned to the center of the hall.
"Understood," I replied, evening out my breath and following my teacher.
Yes, a Teacher with a capital T. I could never have imagined that the words spoken by Malcador the Sigillite would lead to me being trained by one of the Custodians.
Ra Endymion was a harsh, demanding, and experienced teacher. He spared neither himself nor me in his mission to fulfill the task given to him. Thanks to him, I managed to unlock my hidden potential as a swordsman. Though it came at the cost of liters of blood and even more sweat. Each day, I trained for a couple of hours in marksmanship, but the rest of the time—aside from brief periods of rest and sleep—was dedicated to melee combat training.
At first, Ra Endymion held back; the difference in strength and experience between us was too great. But gradually, as he saw my progress, he began to push harder, restraining himself less. He found the perfect balance—not allowing me to become overconfident, but also not letting me fall into despair or frustration due to the difference in our abilities. At one point, I even managed to force him into a defensive stance, which elicited the beginnings of respect from him.
This went on for several years until Ra Endymion deemed his mission complete. The only thing a Custodian couldn't give me was personal experience in real combat.
So, after completing my training, I was allowed to return to commanding my squad, which was preparing to join the Great Crusade.
I was ready to once again, as I did when I first became an Astartes, assert my authority over my men. But that proved unnecessary. My training under one of the Custodians only strengthened my reputation as a truly worthy warrior and leader.
Just before rejoining, instead of my squad being attached to one of the companies, it was decided to expand my unit into a full company. To do this, they assembled other squads that had just completed their training. Here, I had to prove my right to leadership through training duels and strategic battles in simulators.
It took some time to work out the coordination and ensure the troops bonded with each other. We were fortunate that the convoy, which was to take us to one of the Chapters of the Fifth Legion, had not yet finished forming, giving us the time we needed.
Interestingly, my company, like my previous squad, consisted of recruits from both Ursh and other regions of Terra, but none from the Tullian region. When I asked why, I was told that a special order had come down bearing the seal of Malcador the Sigillite, commanding that forces similar in composition to my original squad be placed under my command.
Why Malcador issued such an order was anyone's guess. It could have been continued favoritism from the Regent of Terra, or perhaps an attempt to prevent internal conflicts caused by hidden ostracism, as was common during the Astartes selection process.
Finally, the convoy completed its preparations and was ready to depart. I experienced my first journey through the Warp. The sensation was far from pleasant—a strange mix of seasickness and an otherworldly sense of discomfort. Being an Astartes, it didn't particularly hinder us, though I could faintly perceive something wrong, an irritation that lingered at the edges of my senses.
During the journey, I spent my time transforming the company into a unified force, rather than a collection of disparate groups. I focused on heavy weaponry, and for good reason.
I only had experience commanding a heavy fire support squad. All other knowledge I had was theoretical, except for some experience from my previous life. However, since Astartes are far from ordinary humans, that experience was of limited use. I could have drawn on the experience of other squad leaders, who had worked in reconnaissance and vanguard roles. But there was one issue that ruled out this option: our company had no bikes. Instead, we were issued Rhinos and a couple of Predators. The few bikes we had were taken before or after the company was formed and reassigned to the vanguard forces.
So, my warriors were becoming specialists in heavy weapons. During our voyage through the Warp, they practiced shooting and tactics with heavy bolters, lascannons, missile launchers, sniper rifles, and even a plasma cannon that, through unknown means, was found in one of the transport's storage units.
During one of these training sessions, while we were practicing suppressing enemy forces and shifting fire, I was urgently summoned by the ship's captain.
"What happened?" I asked the captain.
"We're having problems with the Warp route. The Navigator reports that there's a massive storm ahead, which will prevent us from reaching our destination," he said nervously, fiddling with a ring on his finger.
"Hm. Then we'll have to either exit the Warp or adjust our course," I said as I grabbed a data slate, seeing that the Warp storm was enormous—far too large to bypass or force our way through.
"Yes. Fortunately, in case of unforeseen circumstances, we have special protocols. They dictate that in the event of abnormal conditions, we must immediately exit the Warp and contact command for further instructions."
Suddenly, alarms blared, and emergency lights flickered on. A message about an immediate Warp exit appeared on the nearest display.
"All hands, brace for impact!" the captain barked, rushing to his chair and strapping himself in.
I relayed his order to my company and activated the mag-locks on my boots, gripping a bulkhead tightly.
The ship endured heavy stress. A display near the captain showed a 3D model of the vessel, highlighting areas of damage. Many sections turned yellow, with a few in red, and with each passing minute, more appeared.
"Navigator! How long until we exit?" the captain shouted, his voice tinged with panic.
"Approaching exit point, but be ready for an emergency shutdown of the Warp engines," came the reply, causing the captain to curse under his breath while others paled.
The shaking intensified, and I felt as though, instead of moving away from the storm, we were heading straight toward it. The metallic groaning of the ship grew louder, as if the ship itself was in agony. It wasn't just the ship that was suffering—so were the people. Some endured it stoically in silence, while others whispered prayers or clutched amulets. A faint smile crossed my face; it seemed that there were no atheists in the trenches—or on ships.
But everything comes to an end eventually. Just as abruptly as it began, we were thrown out of the Warp, leaving many struggling to comprehend the sudden stillness.
"Report," the captain croaked.
"The ship has sustained extensive damage. Many systems are offline," one of the officers began, but a weary wave from the captain silenced him.
You didn't need expertise in space travel to realize the ship was in for a long repair, and any hope of reentering the Warp was gone.
"I need to know where we are. Get in touch with the astropaths and Navigator," the captain ordered, while I received a report on the status of my company.
I was far luckier than the captain. None of my Astartes had died or been injured. However, there were losses among the support personnel. Several dozen servitors were either dead or critically damaged, and many suffered severe injuries. We also had issues with equipment, which had sustained damage, and without the techmarine we were supposed to receive upon arrival, it was essentially dead weight.
"Captain, the Navigator reports we're lucky—we've exited into the patrol zone of one of the Astartes legions," the officer announced, bringing a sense of relief to the captain.
"Excellent. Then get in contact with them immediately and request assistance. I'm sure they won't have any trouble assigning us a Mechanicus ship," the captain said, his optimism growing.
"It will be done!"
"And what will your next steps be?" the captain asked, turning to me.
"We will join the legion whose patrol zone we've entered. We will also notify Terra and await further orders," I replied, as we had our own protocols for such situations.
"The astropaths have made contact with the legion, and they are prepared to send aid," the communication officer displayed the coordinates of the meeting point with the legion.
"And which legion is it?" I inquired, but the answer didn't please me.
The Eighth Legion. The Night Lords. The Terror Tools of the Imperium.
Accusers. Judges. Executioners.