On the outskirts of the Aru Industrial Zone, along the road leading to the Iron Hands' garrison.
Three heavy transports sped across the wasteland.
Cogboy sat in the cab of the lead vehicle, his right mechanical prosthetic eye constantly scanning the surrounding environment. He wore a practical set of field combat fatigues today, draped in a dust cloak.
The convoy carried a hundred crates of extended cigarettes, three hundred crates of Primarch-exclusive special-supply alcohol, and... ten custom-made sets of Mechanicus-style smoking accessories and drinking vessels.
This was the task Paul had assigned: to finalize a long-term supply agreement before the Iron Hands departed.
"Cog Bro, do you think Captain Karon will agree?" asked the player driving, [Speaking of the Emperor's Cock].
"Yes," Cogboy said with absolute certainty. "They like our goods, and the conditions we're offering are incredibly generous. Supplying them at cost in exchange for mineral tax breaks and technical support. For the Legion, this is a surefire deal with nothing to lose. The ore provided by a single hive city doesn't actually matter all that much to the massive Iron Hands Legion as a whole. Compared to things that can bring them spiritual pleasure, they'll easily accept it."
[Speaking of the Emperor's Cock] chuckled. "Then does that mean we're basically tied to the Iron Hands now?"
"You could say that." Cogboy looked out the window at the rapidly passing wasteland scenery. "But tying ourselves to them isn't the goal. The goal is... to establish a channel of mutual exchange. With this channel, we can use the Iron Hands to reach other parts of the Imperium's military system. For example, the Departmento Munitorum's resource allocation division, the supply chains of other Legions, and maybe even... the logistics headquarters on Terra."
[Speaking of the Emperor's Cock] drew a sharp breath. "Cog Bro, you're playing a massive game of chess here."
"It has to be massive," Cogboy's voice was remarkably calm. "Our Crimson Dawn currently only barely has a foothold on a single planet. Five thousand players, ninety million people. On a galactic scale, we don't even count as dust. If we want to survive, if we want to develop, we must leverage outside strength. The Tenth Legion, the Iron Hands, is the best springboard because Primarch Ferrus is pragmatic; he only looks at the results and doesn't question the process. Furthermore... the Imperium's territory is simply too vast. Relying solely on us players, it's absolutely impossible to achieve our ultimate goal. We must rally all forces that share our vision."
The convoy drove into the industrial zone.
Skitarii guards of the Mechanicus inspected their passes at the checkpoint and waved them through. The colossal silhouette of the Fist of Iron hovered in low orbit like an inverted mountain.
Cogboy checked the time. "Eight days left. In eight days, the Iron Hands will leave, and the Blood Angels will arrive. So within these eight days, we must finalize all agreements and solidify all relationships. And then... face the trial of the Great Angel."
–
Time flowed by. Twenty-four hours later.
The secret room beneath the Governor's Office.
Paul opened his eyes. He had maintained his psychic output for a full twenty-four hours. Even with the constitution of a Chosen One, he felt somewhat exhausted at this moment. But it was well worth it.
The vital sign fluctuations within the seven secret chambers gradually stabilized.
The augmentations... were complete.
Hiss!
The alloy doors of the secret chambers slowly slid open. White steam poured out from within, carrying the mingled scent of nutrient fluids and disinfectants.
The first figure walked out.
Tax Bro. No, now he should be called... an Imperial Fists Astartes.
He stood 2.6 meters tall, his shoulders almost twice as wide as an ordinary man's, his entire body encased in Mark IV Maximus power armor. The primary color was a bright yellow, like the midday sun. Etched onto his pauldrons and chest plate was the black clenched-fist insignia, the symbol of the Imperial Fists. The Legion numeral 'VII' was engraved on his left pauldron.
His power armor had undergone custom modifications. Additional hydraulic boosters were installed at the joints, and the power pack on his back was a full size larger than standard models, clearly designed to support a much stronger output. His weapons consisted of a bolter with High Gothic Imperial Fists variations engraved along the casing, and a one-handed power axe, its blade crackling with the blue light of a disruption field.
Tax Bro took two steps, the power armor's servos emitting a low hum. He raised his hand and clenched his fist, the alloy gauntlet letting out a grinding crunch.
"I feel..." Tax Bro's voice blared through the power armor's external vox-speakers, much deeper and richer than before. "...fucking fantastic!"
Another alloy chamber door slid open. The second figure stepped out.
A White Scars Astartes.
Standing 2.55 meters tall, he was slightly shorter than Tax Bro, but his build was much leaner and more streamlined, like a hunting cheetah ready to pounce. His power armor was a reconnaissance variant of the Mark IV Maximus suit, featuring additional weight-reduction designs and hydrodynamic patterns at the joints.
The primary paint job was a pure white, like fresh snow on the wasteland. His pauldrons, poleyns, and couters were accented with red jagged stripes symbolizing lightning and storms. This was the signature color scheme of the White Scars Legion, representing speed and devastation. The Legion numeral 'V' was etched onto his left pauldron.
Unlike Tax Bro's heavy-assault configuration, White Scars' power armor was noticeably lightweight. The power pack on his back was a standard model, but it was fitted with two additional external power capacitors, clearly intended to sustain prolonged high-speed maneuvers. His weapon was a specialized storm bolter with a barrel fifteen percent longer than the standard type, allowing for a flatter trajectory and a longer effective range. Hanging at his waist was a power tulwar, the curvature of the blade as elegant as a crescent moon, its edge flickering with the deep blue of a disruption field.
White Scars took a few steps, not emitting the heavy thuds of Tax Bro, but rather possessing the litheness of a feline. He raised his hands and threw a few rapid punches, slicing through the air with sharp whistles.
"Reaction speed increased by at least 300%." White Scars' voice transmitted through the vox-speakers, carrying the unique magnetism of electronic distortion. "When my neural reflexes were enhanced to the peak of Type III, I thought I had hit the limit... Looking at it now, that was just an appetizer."
The third figure walked out.
[I'm Not the Regent I'm Just Passing By Guilliman], an Ultramarines Astartes.
He stood 2.58 meters tall, his physique so well-proportioned it was practically flawless; the ratio of every muscle looked as if it had been measured with a ruler. His power armor was a standard Mark IV model, but the detailing was exquisitely refined. The primary color was a deep blue, resembling a midnight starry sky. The edges of the pauldrons and chest plate were traced in gold—the signature color scheme of the Ultramarines, representing rationality and order. The Legion numeral 'XIII' was etched onto his left pauldron.
His power armor appeared the most standard, but a careful observer would notice that the servo-motors at all the joints had been specially tuned, operating in near silence. His weapon was a standard bolter, but the casing was fitted with a precision scope and a ballistic cogitator. His other weapon was a power sword, its blade perfectly straight, with the emblem of the Macragge's Honour carved into the crossguard.
G Bro walked over to Tax Bro, the two standing shoulder-to-shoulder. One yellow and one blue, one heavy and one steady—a striking contrast.
The fourth figure.
[Have You Been Loyal Today?], a Sons of Horus Astartes.
Standing at 2.62 meters, he was the tallest of the seven. His power armor was also a Mark IV model, but heavily customized. Ramming horns were added to the pauldrons, and extra armor plating was welded to the outside of the chest plate, giving the overall design a much more ferocious look.
The primary color scheme was sea-green and pale gray, the standard colors of the Warmaster's Legion before their fall to Chaos. The pauldrons were etched with the Lunar Wolf insignia and the Legion numeral 'XVI'.
His weapon configuration was the most brutal: a twin-linked heavy bolter that required a two-handed grip, with barrels as thick as small cannons. A power hammer hung at his waist, the head the size of an adult's skull.
[Have You Been Loyal Today?] took two steps, and the ground trembled slightly. He swung the power hammer, the resulting wind pressure dispersing the steam in the secret room in a ring.
"This power..." His voice was low like thunder. "One punch could smash through the frontal armor of a Leman Russ tank."
The fifth figure.
[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work], a Space Wolves Astartes.
He stood 2.6 meters tall, built as thick and sturdy as a bear. His power armor was a heavy assault variant of the Mark IV. The pauldrons were exceptionally broad, covering almost half his chest.
The primary color was wolf gray, with a wolf's head insignia painted in dark red on the pauldron. The left pauldron was etched with the Legion numeral 'VI'.
His weapon was an assault-pattern bolter with a bayonet lug attached to the muzzle, currently fitted with a gleaming, serrated combat blade. His other weapon was a power axe, its broad head engraved with the runes of the Space Wolves Legion.
[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work] cracked his neck, the cervical vertebrae popping loudly. "This body... has real kick! When my sister finally manages to get a quota and logs into this game, she's definitely gonna jump out of her skin when she sees me."
The sixth figure.
[Execute Old Man the War Criminal], a Raven Guard Astartes.
At 2.53 meters, he was the shortest of the seven, but only relatively speaking. His power armor was a stealth variant of the Mark IV, the surface painted in matte black to absorb most light. The joints were coated with sound-dampening material, making his movements almost completely silent.
The left pauldron was etched with the Legion numeral 'XIX'.
His weapon configuration was quite unique: two bolt pistols, their compact frames perfect for single-handed shooting. His belt was loaded with various throwables: frag grenades, smoke grenades, stun grenades... and even two melta bombs.
[Execute Old Man the War Criminal] took a few steps, silent as a ghost. He raised his hands, testing the grip on his bolt pistols, and nodded. "Concealment, mobility, ambush capability... perfect. Very suitable for observing from the shadows."
The final figure.
[Tau Buddy You're Right], an Alpha Legion Astartes.
Standing at 2.57 meters with an average build, he lacked any distinguishing features—which was precisely the most terrifying feature of all.
His power armor was a standard Mark IV model, painted in the Alpha Legion's signature indigo-blue. However, upon closer inspection, it seemed there were other colors hidden beneath the surface layer. The left pauldron was etched with the Legion numeral 'XX'.
But his pauldrons were double-layered; the outer layer could be rapidly detached and swapped, a signature feature of the Alpha Legion, making it easy to disguise themselves as other Legions.
His weapon configuration was the most varied: a standard bolter, a lasrifle, a plasma pistol, and a belt lined with data-spikes and comms-jammers.
[Tau Buddy You're Right] didn't test his weapons; instead, he first checked his power armor's disguise functions. He pressed a switch on the inner side of his pauldron, and with a click, the outer indigo-blue plating dropped away, revealing the bright yellow primer of the Imperial Fists underneath. Another press, and it shifted to the pure white of the White Scars.
"Disguise systems operating normally." His voice, processed through a scrambler, sounded neutral and featureless. "I can switch to the exterior appearance of any Legion within fifteen seconds."
Seven Astartes, seven Legions, seven different styles.
But there was one thing they all had in common: their helmets. Or rather, the shiny ornaments perched on top of them.
Tax Bro's helmet sported a triple laurel: The base layer was the Imperial Fists' Bastion Crest, composed of miniature ceramite battlements and crenellations. The middle layer was the Laurel of Victory, interwoven with laurel branches and the black clenched-fist emblem. The top layer... was the Emperor's Laurel, formed from platinum and gold branches, a circular wreath intertwining with the black clenched-fist.
White Scars also had a triple laurel on his helmet: the White Scars' Champion of the Steppes Crest, the Crusade Laurel, and the Emperor's Laurel.
G Bro: the Ultramarines' Double Laurel Wreath and Aquila, the Laurel of Victory, and the Emperor's Laurel.
[Have You Been Loyal Today?]: the Sons of Horus' Double Laurel and Black Wolf Head, the Laurel of Victory, and the Emperor's Laurel.
[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work]: the Space Wolves' Double Wolf Fangs and Laurel, the Laurel of Victory, and the Emperor's Laurel.
[Execute Old Man the War Criminal]: the Raven Guard's Double Raven Feathers and Laurel, the Shadow Laurel of Victory, and the Emperor's Laurel.
[Tau Buddy You're Right]: the Alpha Legion's Double Serpent Scales and Hydra Head, the Deceiver's Laurel of Victory, and the Emperor's Laurel.
Seven people. Twenty-one laurels.
The lights in the secret room shone down on the master-crafted metal, reflecting a dazzling array of halos.
Paul slowly stepped forward. Looking at these seven walking laurel display racks, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"You guys..." He pointed at the three layers of ornaments stacked on Tax Bro's helmet, measuring over thirty centimeters high. "...isn't this a bit too flashy? Aside from your respective Legion-specific laurels, you didn't miss a single Laurel of Victory or Emperor's Laurel? If Ferrus Manus saw this..."
Paul imagined the scene: The pragmatic Iron Hands Primarch, who despised ornamentation and believed honor should be shown through combat records rather than decorations, seeing seven Astartes standing before him, each wearing three laurels...
"He'd probably just throw you straight into the nearest forge and re-smelt you."
Tax Bro grinned. Although it couldn't be seen behind the faceplate, it was obvious from his voice. "Come on, Paul, didn't you say we needed to deepen the deception? The only way to deepen the deception is to stack more on!"
White Scars chimed in, "Plus, we checked the lore. Towards the end of the Great Crusade, there really were Space Marines who earned multiple laurels simultaneously."
G Bro added, "Warriors who simultaneously hold a Legion Laurel, a Laurel of Victory, and the Emperor's Laurel do exist. It's rare, but not impossible. The main point is to intimidate. Our disguises need to stand up to scrutiny."
[Have You Been Loyal Today?] swung his power hammer. "Besides, dressing like this looks awesome! I guarantee that when the other Legions see us, they'll all be completely dumbfounded: 'Since when did our Legion get such a badass Astartes? How did I not know about this?'"
[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work] nodded earnestly. "I think it looks good too."
[Execute Old Man the War Criminal]: "Exactly, exactly! Wearing all these honors might actually boost our win rate if we get into a fight. Anyway, they're not our Crimson Dawn's laurels, so who cares if we wear them? Hehe."
[Tau Buddy You're Right]: "I agree with what all you Tau Buddies are saying. Well said."
Looking at these seven goofballs, Paul shook his head helplessly.
Fine. It was a bit ostentatious, but the effect... was definitely deceiving enough. Parading around in these outfits, even the Adeptus Custodes guarding the Imperial Palace on Terra would pause for three seconds in pure shock, and the Emperor himself might just recruit them into His personal guard on the spot.
"Alright, get used to your new strength first." Paul clapped his hands. "Take off the power armor in an hour and assemble in the conference room. We're going to start executing... the plan."
The seven replied in unison: "Understood!"
--
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