Inside the conference room, the other three were so shaken by this overwhelming aura that they dared not speak.
Occus slowly rotated his body, his single mechanical eye sweeping across their terrified faces. "Listen. Complaining is meaningless now. Lord Sanguinius has arrived, and the Ninth Legion has already taken over orbital defense. What we need to do is survive."
He pulled up a data-slate. "According to the information I queried on the Mechanicus internal network, although Lord Sanguinius absolutely abhors evil, he also values the possibility of redemption. As long as there is no direct evidence, as long as we aren't caught red-handed, and as long as... we appear entirely cooperative." Occus lowered his voice into a menacing hiss. "For the foreseeable future, pull back on everything! Suspend all illicit businesses! Scrub all the ledgers clean! And anyone who might arouse suspicion... dispose of them."
He spoke those last three words casually, but the temperature in the conference room plummeted.
Achil opened his mouth to speak but ultimately just nodded.
Greave Atens shook his head, then let out a helpless grunt of agreement.
Garrison Conmo said nothing, tacitly accepting his method of handling things.
"Also," Occus continued, "prepare gifts. The Blood Angels revere beauty and art, and they have an appreciation for mechanical creations. In three days, I will take you to pay your respects to Lord Sanguinius. When that time comes, you had best know exactly what to say... and what not to say."
With that, he rotated his body and marched out on his array of mechanical legs, leaving the conference room without a backward glance.
The heavy alloy doors closed behind him with a dull, heavy thud.
Inside the room, the remaining three men looked at each other in dismay.
After a long while, Achil let out a bitter laugh. "Prepare gifts? Give what? Money? Would Lord Sanguinius even care for money? Art? Where in our hive would we find art? We might as well gift him a pile of slag..."
Greave Atens stood up, his nearly two-meter-tall frame casting a massive shadow under the harsh lights. "I will prepare a few master-crafted Knight greatswords... Rumor has it the Blood Angels have many master swordsmen; perhaps they will find those interesting."
Garrison Conmo shook his head. "Our impoverished dynasty doesn't have much to offer. I wonder if Lord Sanguinius would like some psyker children?"
He laughed sinisterly, then, as if suddenly remembering something, quickly shook his head. "Forget it, I don't want to end up like House Alar."
With that, he turned and left on his own, muttering under his breath, "Knowledge... change..."
This erratic behavior drew sideways glances from both Achil and Greave.
Greave scratched his head. "What is wrong with him? Why is he acting so bizarrely?"
Achil's lips curled into a mocking sneer. "Who knows. That lunatic has always been unhinged; it isn't the first time. He's probably burned his brain out from overusing his psychic powers."
Standing behind Achil, Busir Hysman watched the scene unfold, a faint smile creeping onto his lips.
–
Aurelian IV, Low Orbit.
The handover was proceeding in absolute silence.
In the void, the vessels of the Iron Hands fleet formed into a neat evacuation column, their thrusters spewing azure wakes.
The broadside hangar doors of the Red Tear completely opened. Thunderhawk and Stormraven gunships swarmed out like a hive of bees, diving toward the planet's surface.
They descended upon the Aru Industrial Zone, the spaceport of the City of the Holy Anthem, and thirteen other major military strongholds.
Blood Angels warriors, clad in blood-red power armor, marched out in formation, brushing shoulders with the departing Iron Hands.
The stark stylistic contrast between the two Legions was on full display in that moment.
The Iron Hands warriors were silent and brutally efficient, their movements as perfectly synchronized as cogs in a machine.
Their warplate bore virtually zero ornamentation, featuring only utilitarian modifications and the battle-scars of past wars.
The warriors of the Blood Angels were... far more vibrant.
Though equally disciplined, their movements carried a unique, flowing rhythm. Their power armor was etched with exquisite filigree, their pauldrons painted with golden winged insignias.
Some warriors even bore xenos trinkets hanging from their armor, proudly displayed as trophies of war.
At the former Iron Hands garrison in the Aru Industrial Zone, the handover ceremony between the two Legions was so brief it bordered on callous.
"Garrison defense system ciphers, transferred," an Iron Hands sergeant said, his voice flat and completely devoid of emotion as he handed over a data-slate.
"Received. May the Emperor protect your crusade," the relieving Blood Angels sergeant replied, taking the slate and offering a crisp, standard Aquila salute.
The two Astartes didn't even spare each other a second glance. The handover complete, the Iron Hands sergeant turned and boarded his transport craft.
The transport lifted off, merging into the torrent of evacuating vessels.
The entire process took less than three minutes.
–
Bridge of the Red Tear.
Sanguinius stood before the observation deck, his pristine white wings resting naturally against his back.
His gaze pierced through the viewport, falling upon a highly conspicuous industrial zone on the planet's surface—the crash site in Sector 7 of Dawn City.
Down there, a Warp rift had recently been sealed by the Mechanicus, but the energetic residue still lingered in the atmosphere.
"Father," Azkaellon said, stepping up behind him to deliver a low-voiced report. "Garrison deployment is at seventy-eight percent. We estimate full takeover in forty-seven minutes. Troop rotation in the Aru Industrial Zone is complete. The Mechanicus Tech-Priests report that the rift seal is stable, but they strongly advise retaining at least one company of Astartes for a long-term garrison, just in case."
Sanguinius gave a slight nod.
Ever since entering the Aurelian System, his precognitive sight had been trapped in a state of continuous interference.
It wasn't a complete block; it felt more like... someone whispering in his ear, deliberately muddling the words.
He could faintly sense that something was unfolding on this planet.
Something that would alter the fates of countless individuals.
But as to what it exactly was, he could not clearly see.
"Azkaellon," Sanguinius suddenly spoke. "Do you think... a mining world controlled by the four factions for eighty years could possibly undergo a fundamental transformation in just one short month?"
Azkaellon froze for a moment before answering cautiously, "Theoretically, it is impossible, Father. The inertia of the bureaucracy, the resistance of vested interest groups, the apathy of the populace... change requires time, it requires power, it requires..." He paused. "...It requires an absolute authority, an absolute paragon of wisdom, and a supremely powerful leader."
Sanguinius turned around, starlight swirling deep within his azure eyes. "Ferrus said that this organization known as Crimson Dawn took only fifteen days to begin transforming a hive city. Publicly trying corrupt officials, rebuilding public healthcare and education systems, enacting new labor protection regulations..."
He pulled up the data report for Kent Hive. "Ore production increased by sixty-two percent, refinement purity up by seventeen percent, and public security incidents down by seventy-one percent..." Sanguinius stared at the figures, falling silent for a long time. "Either these are true revolutionaries," he said softly, "or this is the most brilliant of disguises."
"Do you need me to investigate?" Azkaellon asked, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
"No," Sanguinius said, shaking his head. "We observe first. If they are revolutionaries... I will personally go and meet this Governor Cage. But if they are a disguise..." The Great Angel's wings unfurled slightly, a psychic halo illuminating the entire bridge. "...Then I will show them the meaning of true judgment."
–
Standard Terran Time, 04:17.
Outside Sycamore Hive, deep within an abandoned mineshaft.
Paul opened his eyes.
His dark golden irises glowed faintly in the pitch black. His power armor's life-support systems emitted a low hum, switching from standby to full combat mode.
Right on schedule, Schrödinger Bro's voice crackled in his ear. "The Iron Hands fleet has completely vacated the orbit of the Aurelian System. Warp translation signals confirmed. The Blood Angels' garrison deployment is at ninety-two percent, but their orbital surveillance network will take at least another four days to rebuild. The current timeframe is our golden window."
Paul slowly stood up.
His three-meter-tall, dark grey power armor looked exceptionally massive in the cramped confines of the mineshaft, the World Eaters crest on his chest plate reflecting a dull red gleam in the dark.
He looked around him.
Seven Astartes. Seven Legions. Seven distinct liveries.
At this moment, all of them opened their eyes.
"Brothers," Paul's voice broadcasted through the comms channel, calm but laced with an iron will. "It's loot time."
A synchronized rasp of scraping metal echoed through the tunnel—the sound of bolter safeties being disengaged in unison.
"Stick to the plan," Paul said, bringing up the structural schematics of Sycamore Hive. A holographic projection unfolded across his visor's HUD. "We are only here for the goods. No killing, unless their actions obstruct our objectives. Anyone who stands in our way—kill them. You cannot show any mercy, nor can you expose our true identities."
He looked toward Tax Bro, White Scars, G Bro, and [Have You Been Loyal Today?]. "You four will infiltrate the Underhive through the sewage network. Once inside, split into two teams: Tax Bro and G Bro, you are responsible for requisitioning the equipment in the lower manufactorum districts. White Scars and [Have You Been Loyal Today?], your team will clear out the supplies in the mid-hive warehouse sectors. Once you've kicked up enough chaos to draw the attention of the garrison forces..."
Paul turned to the other three. "[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work] and [Execute Old Man the War Criminal], you'll breach through the right auxiliary blast doors. Your targets are the PDF barracks and the command center in the Upper Hive. Paralyze their command grid, and once that's done, start looting anything of value up there. [Tau Buddy You're Right] and myself will launch a frontal assault on the main gates. We will create the illusion that the main force is pushing hard down the middle for a full-scale breakthrough."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over every single one of them. "This way, the mere fifteen thousand local enforcers and PDF troops left in the hive will be splintered and misdirected, completely unable to form an effective encirclement. You are all carrying heavy-duty material reclaimers. We have only one objective: everything that can be converted into Imperial Coins. The higher the value, the better." Paul's voice suddenly hardened. "Don't focus on killing! When there are no enemies around, prioritizing supply requisition is an absolute must! Every ton of ore, every machine tool, every slab of refined plasteel... these are the foundation of Crimson Dawn's future!"
The mineshaft fell silent.
Only the low thrum of their power armor's servo-motors could be heard.
"I will reiterate this one last time," Paul said, taking a deep breath. "We are Imperial Astartes. We are the Eight Champions. We are the Emperor's Angels of Death. Our operation today is to requisition supplies by the decree of the Emperor to support the Great Crusade. If anyone asks... tell them to take it up with the Departmento Munitorum on Holy Terra. Make sure you shout the slogans loud and clear, and project absolute, overwhelming authority. Understood?"
The seven men simultaneously raised their hands, slamming their fists against their chest plates. "Understood!"
"Move out."