Chapter 3: This is the Astra Militarum!
"Right now, we're on a Deathwatch Strike Cruiser. The hull is in this state because the Deathwatch were ambushed by Chaos Space Marines while pursuing Drukhari pirates through a Mandeville Point. Then, just as things couldn't get worse, an Ork Rok crashed into them mid-transit."
"As for the inside, the Chaos-corrupted crew murdered the Navigator, engaged the Warp drives, and performed a ritual. Unfortunately for everyone, their cult worshipped Chaos Undivided, which is why the ship is now a multi-colored nightmare. Oh, and all the commotion woke up the dormant Genestealer cult."
Standing before a sealed blast door, Romulus calmly summarized the ship's current predicament.
Arthur just shrugged, as if he'd expected nothing less. Inwardly, he felt like he'd swallowed a mouthful of filth.
The whole situation had a depressingly familiar flavor. A "greatest hits" collection of galactic misery.
"So what's our next move?"
Not bothering to wait for the ship's possibly corrupted cogitator to respond, Arthur simply sliced the blast door open with his power sword.
"First, we rendezvous at the central transit hub. We'll link up with the Cadian 43rd and proceed to the Gellar Field Generator. Chaos Space Marines have breached that section. We need to assist the resident Deathwatch kill-team in cleansing the enemy. After that, we check the Navigator's Sanctum to see if we can even jump out of the Warp."
Romulus tossed a melta charge behind them as they moved. The molten plastacrete sealed the corridor, trapping the pursuing cultists with the frenzied Orks.
"There's a regiment of the Cadian Shock Troops aboard—the 43rd—and some Battle Sisters. The situation is... manageable. Oh, and you should spend some points to download High and Low Gothic from me. It'll save us communication problems later."
"How do I do that?" Arthur asked, completely bewildered.
"You have this insane power-up and you haven't experimented with it at all? All those years writing webnovels for nothing," Romulus said, his movements faltering for a second as he couldn't help but roast his friend again.
He shook his head and explained. "Just focus on the intent to spend points to acquire those languages. You can edit the exchange system yourself—strictly speaking, it isn't really a 'system,' more like an adaptive interface that presents itself in a way we can understand. But we don't have time for you to poke around with it right now."
"Oh, right, right."
Following his friend's instructions, Arthur focused his will and a mental interface flickered into his consciousness. Just like that, he could download the languages. There were countless other options, things he recognized and things he didn't. To use it effectively would require some serious study.
Arthur scanned the dizzying array of data, noting how many items were already being sorted based on his own subconscious thoughts. He hesitated for a moment but decided against any other purchases for now.
"So, besides us two, who else got dragged into this?" Arthur asked, cautiously scanning every shadow for hidden enemies as they moved down the corridor. The enemy density here was much lower, and the path was littered with corpses riddled with precise bolter holes—kill-shots, almost certainly the work of a Space Marine.
"Two others."
The question made Romulus think of a particularly headache-inducing individual.
"Let me guess." Arthur drew a flamer from his hip and gave a hulking Ork Nob the veteran's barbecue treatment before asking tentatively, "Karna and Ramesses?"
The four of them were old comrades, their shared history evident in their chosen screennames—all heroes and demigods from Terran myth. They gamed together whenever they could. Since Romulus was here, guessing the other two wasn't hard.
"Yep." Romulus didn't deny it.
"Did the universe conscript our entire fireteam?" Arthur grumbled, but honestly, his mood was significantly better than when he had first arrived. Sure, he was still neck-deep in the muck, but having his three best friends with him was infinitely better than struggling alone.
"Maybe our IDs just sounded too heroic," Romulus sighed. "Should have taken your advice and named myself 'Emperor's-Underpants.' I bet the Emperor wouldn't have drafted that." He didn't sound too upset. Being miserable was one thing, but having three other unlucky bastards to share it with balanced the scales. Misery alone is suffering. Misery loves company.
"So where are they?" Arthur asked curiously.
"One is holding the line at the Navigator's Sanctum. The other one..." Romulus glanced at his chronometer. "...should be carving his way over here any second now."
"Hm?"
A massive horde of Orks suddenly appeared up ahead. Just as Arthur was about to charge in and go berserk, Romulus grabbed his arm. He watched his chronometer, counting down under his breath.
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
"HORUS!"
A crimson figure blurred past them. Arthur barely caught a glimpse before a furious, bestial roar echoed down the corridor.
SCREEE!
The crimson warrior landed, his power lance crackling with a blue disruption field. Propelled by the ferocious thrust of his jump pack, he plowed a gory furrow through the battlefield.
SWOOSH!
A relentless series of slashes swept back and forth until everything in his path was reduced to shredded pulp. The Blood Angel below looked up at the two of them on the walkway, then glanced at the Astra Militarum troopers on the opposite side providing him with covering fire. With another guttural roar, he ignited his promethium-fueled jump pack and smashed clean through another bulkhead.
Only that terrifying, hate-filled shout lingered in their ears, refusing to fade.
"HORUS!"
"...You know, you're actually doing a bit better than him," Romulus noted.
"...I can see that," Arthur agreed.
With the help of a certain Blood Angel who did little more than scream "Horus!" and chew on cultists' heads, Arthur's group quickly reached the central transit hub.
As Space Marines—transhumans with two hearts and three lungs—they moved with blinding speed. Though they had exchanged a great deal of information on the way, to the mortal cultists, they were just a black and a blue blur that flashed through the corridor before their heads were suddenly airborne. It was hard to imagine how such massive, armored behemoths could move so swiftly.
CRASH!
Arthur didn't wait for the doors to open. He smashed through them, washing the faces of the unprepared enemies inside with his flamer. After instantly eliminating the threats his blade couldn't reach, he blocked a descending chain-axe with his shield.
"WAAAGH!"
Before Arthur could counter-attack, a storm of gunfire from behind the Ork converged on the greenskin's body.
In an instant, scorching las-beams punctured its tough hide, tearing the xenos apart. To Arthur's surprise, the volley of fire passed through the Ork's flesh and precisely avoided him as he was locked in the struggle.
He had been about to raise his sword to take the creature's head, but now he paused, lowering his blade with a look of disbelief. His gaze shifted, becoming complex as he looked at the soldiers who were already firing on other xenos. They wore crimson flak armor over dark camouflage fatigues.
At the front of the line, a smaller number of heavily armored Bullgryn wielded massive slabshields, locking down every critical chokepoint. The bodies of traitors and xenos, torn to shreds by an assortment of weapons, mixed with blood and viscera to form a viscous carpet that was trampled under their iron tread.
In the center of the formation, fire teams provided precise suppression down every corridor. A Genestealer that had just torn through a ceiling panel was melted into slag the moment it revealed itself, caught in a hail of converging las-fire.
On the flanks, a heavy bolter team fell silent for only a second before a new gunner pulled the half-vaporized corpse of his predecessor from the weapon and took his place, resuming the comforting, heavy thudding of its fire.
And at the rear, logistics squads hauled crate after crate of ammunition and power packs between the firing positions, ensuring a continuous, unbroken storm of firepower.
Every soldier had a duty. Countless mortal men, relying on their superlative training, had forged an impregnable fortress against a tide of monsters and fiends.
"This is the Cadian Shock Troops," Romulus said, unsurprised. He had clearly witnessed the fighting prowess of these Imperial Guardsmen before. He began clearing enemies from his line of sight and was the first to step into their position.
It was true that in many tales of the 41st Millennium, the Astra Militarum served as cannon fodder and a backdrop for the superhuman feats of others. But in this reality, they were soldiers selected from the best of an entire planet's population.
Moreover, the warriors before them in their crimson fatigues hailed from Cadia itself—a world where a six-year-old could expertly wield a lasrifle. They were the elite of the elite, even among the storied ranks of the Guard. Such a performance was to be expected.
Compared to the Space Marines, who, since the implementation of the Codex Astartes, were limited in number and increasingly relegated to special operations, these vast armies of mortal soldiers were the true bulwark of the Imperium against the heretic and the xenos.
Arthur silently scanned his surroundings, committing the details to memory. He focused on the chatter between the soldiers, then followed Romulus.
They were now at the ship's main transit lift, defended by the Cadian 43rd. As they entered the defensive perimeter, the battlefield, which had been quiet for less than thirty seconds, was assaulted by a new wave of Orks.
But this Ork tide had already been attrited by daemons, cultists, and Genestealers. Facing the precise and dense fire discipline of this elite regiment, they had no momentum left. All that awaited them was death.
The Guardsmen's defensive line was flawless. Besides the soldiers actively engaging the xenos, some even had the time to turn and offer a sign of the Aquila to the Angels of Death.
Amidst the growing cacophony of boltguns, lasguns, grenades, and flamers, Arthur gave a slight nod in return.
"For the Emperor!" he said, his voice a low rumble.
Low Gothic was a mishmash of countless dialects, but it bore enough resemblance to languages Arthur knew that his transhuman brain was able to quickly grasp many of the words. Perhaps it was a side effect of his new body, but when Arthur focused on something, his ability to learn was astonishing—just as it had been when he was slaughtering monsters moments ago.
"For the Emperor, my Lord!"
The Guardsmen were visibly honored. They roared their slogan and turned back to their posts, their morale soaring. You could see the exhaustion on their faces being replaced by renewed fire.
(End of Chapter)