The Tear of the Diasporex, Energy Zone B.
Previous firefights had blown out most of the lighting strips. Only a handful remained, stubbornly casting a dim, sickly-yellow glow across the deck.
Solomon Demeter stood at the end of the corridor. The tip of his power sword rested against the deck plating, warm green blood still sizzling as it dripped from the blade.
Before him, the corpse of the final xenos commander had just hit the ground.
The four-legged monstrosity wore mechanized armor much heavier than the rest of its kind, each of its two mechanical arms gripping a power sword. Right now, it lay flat on its back in a pool of its own gore, the massive hole in its chest—courtesy of Demeter's blade—still bubbling with blood.
Demeter didn't give the corpse a second glance.
He turned, looking over the hundreds of Second Company warriors behind him. Every single one of them was just as drenched in blood as he was.
Some were slapping fresh magazines into their bolters. Others were patching up wounds or leaning against the bulkheads to catch a brief breath.
But nobody said a word.
That was just how the Second Company operated. Efficient, silent, and strictly disciplined.
Demeter nodded in satisfaction. These were his men. They had completely shed the old habits from the days of the previous Captain, Akurduana. They didn't coast by on having the flashiest wargear. They relied on ironclad discipline, seamless teamwork, and absolute trust in the brother standing next to them.
"Two minutes to catch your breath," his voice rang out over the comms channel, calm but crystal clear. "Then we push into the core sector and head straight for the bridge."
"The Second Company is taking the win today."
The warriors gave silent nods, briskly double-checking their gear.
Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed from the rear of the corridor.
They were light. But in the relative quiet of the energy zone, they were impossible to ignore.
Every single warrior in the Second Company raised their bolter at the exact same moment. Hundreds of pitch-black muzzles aimed squarely into the gloomy passage behind them. Fingers rested heavily on triggers. Eyes sharp as hawks.
If anything looked even slightly off, they'd turn the end of that hallway into Swiss cheese in less than a third of a second.
Demeter raised a hand.
It was a subtle motion, but it prompted every warrior to lower their weapons by a fraction of an inch. He stared deep into the corridor, his eyes dead calm.
The footsteps steadily grew louder.
Through the dim, jaundiced lighting, silhouettes slowly began to materialize.
Silver-grey.
Jury-rigged power armor.
Over three hundred strong.
The guy leading the pack was average height and average build, but the way he walked...
Demeter's brow furrowed slightly. He knew that walk. That was the stride of a hardened veteran—a man who had actually seen the meat grinder of war and crawled out from under a pile of corpses. His steps were deliberate and collected. Every time his boot hit the deck, it was planted in the most tactically sound position possible.
The man stopped about thirty meters away from the Second Company and raised his right hand.
Over three hundred silver-grey figures halted in unison. Their synchronization was almost startling.
Then the man spoke, shouting in standard Low Gothic:
"We are an elite light-armor squad attached to the Iron Hands Legion!"
"We're here to provide backup on the orders of Lord Gabriel Santar!"
"Hold your fire!"
Demeter stared him down for a solid three seconds. Then he spoke, his voice carrying an eerie calm:
"Lower your weapons. Walk over here. Show me your credentials."
Over three hundred makeshift bolters dropped toward the deck simultaneously.
The man turned and threw a hand signal to the silver-grey figures behind him. All three hundred men aimed their muzzles squarely at the floor. He then stepped forward alone, stopping five meters from Solomon. Pulling a booklet from his belt, he tossed it over.
Solomon caught it and flipped it open.
It was a Solar Auxilia officer's commission. The texture of the parchment, the intricacies of the seal, the formatting of the serial numbers—it all checked out.
It read:
Name: Guderian Esau
Affiliation: 52nd Expeditionary Fleet, Solar Auxilia 337th Regiment, 3rd Battalion
Rank: Lieutenant, Company Commander
The anti-forgery hololithic seal glimmered faintly under the ambient light.
The commission was legit.
Demeter looked up, locking eyes with the man. The officer had already pulled off his makeshift faceplate, revealing sharp, angular features. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, hair buzzed down to the scalp, with a steady, piercing gaze.
The face on the ID was a perfect match for the man standing right in front of him.
"What kind of wargear are you wearing?" Demeter asked, his gaze sweeping over the three hundred silver-grey figures.
He had never seen armor plated in that style before. It wasn't a standard Imperial pattern, nor was it standard Iron Hands issue. The craftsmanship was rough and the structure basic, but it seemed to cover all the necessary functions.
Some of the men even sported obvious battle damage—blasted cracks on chest plates, scorched bullet holes on pauldrons, and deep gashes sliced into greaves by bladed weapons.
The man caught his ID back and flashed a grin. It was a smile tinged with a bit of helplessness, but also a dash of pride.
"To answer your question, my lord, this is some DIY gear Lord Gabriel Santar has been making up over the last twenty years. The Ironclad Mark I, a makeshift power armor variant."
He slapped his chest plate, letting out a dull, heavy thud.
"Forged from basic steel. It only provides basic protection and a slight strength boost. Compared to the genuine Astartes war-plate you're wearing, my lord, it's a child's toy."
He paused before adding, "But for baseline mortals like us, just getting to wear gear of this caliber is a massive honor. It's a blessing from Lord Gabriel."
Demeter thought of the man who had previously shown up at the Emperor's Children camp and nodded. He mostly accepted the explanation. He looked at the three hundred-plus troops standing before him. Their gear was bare-bones, but their posture was solid, and their eyes were resolute. More importantly, they actually smelled like a battlefield. These weren't rear-echelon glory hounds.
"You tag along with us for now," Demeter said flatly, his voice carrying that distinct, icy detachment typical of an Astartes addressing a baseline human. But beneath it was a rare flicker of approval. "You arrived just in time to tend our wounded and haul the extra munitions."
"We're about to push from the energy zone straight into the core sector."
Guderian tucked away his ID and slammed his right fist over his chest in a flawless Aquila salute. The motion was crisp, tight, and totally zeroed in:
"Copy that, my lord!"
"It is an honor to serve under your command!"
Demeter gave a curt nod and turned back toward the depths of the corridor, his purple cape sweeping behind him in an elegant arc.
The three hundred silver-grey figures sprang into action immediately. Some took the heavy ammo crates off the hands of injured Second Company Astartes. Others propped up the lightly wounded leaning against the walls. They moved with the crisp efficiency of men who had drilled this a thousand times over.
Taking point at the head of the formation, Demeter caught a glimpse of the silver-grey troops out of his peripheral vision.
The tight coordination they used to haul heavy crates, the efficient way they handled the wounded, and that unmistakable aura of absolute, unquestioning discipline.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
He knew that vibe all too well. It was the exact quality he valued most when leading troops. Looked like the Iron Hands had some decent commanders of their own.
He pulled his gaze away and kept marching forward.
--
[Regional Channel (Light of the Emperor)]
[Two-Faced Turtle]: "Holy shit, that scared the hell out of me! When they pointed those three hundred bolters right at us, my legs literally turned to jelly!"
[I am the Living Dragon]: "No shit, man! Those are actual Astartes! The real deal! Not budget knockoffs like us!"
[Metal Garurumon Beast Girl]: "Keep it low-key, guys. Don't blow our cover. These guys are veteran Space Marines. Nothing gets past them."
[Defending the Imperium is My Sacred Duty]: "Listen up, everyone. From this moment on, you execute my orders to the letter. If you shouldn't say it, zip it. If you shouldn't look at it, keep your eyes front. Our objective here is to help Demeter secure First Blood on the bridge. We're not here to play tourist."
A wall of "Copy that" scrolled down the chat.
[I'll Stitch You Up You Little Punk]: "Liam is a total badass! How the hell did you keep a straight face staring down a Space Marine?"
Marching in the middle of the formation, Liam watched the messages scroll by. The corner of his mouth twitched. He shot back a cool reply in the channel:
"I served in the military. I learned how to bury my reactions a long time ago. Forget Astartes. I held this exact same poker face when I had to report to the base commander back in the day. You get used to it."
The chat instantly flooded with a wave of "W"s and "Legend" spam.
Liam closed the chat, letting his gaze rest on the deep blue silhouette marching ahead of him.
Solomon Demeter.
Captain of the Emperor's Children's Second Company. A powerhouse from the Great Crusade era and a member of the Brotherhood of the Phoenix.
Liam had read all about the guy in the real-world lore.
Brilliant tactical mind. Incredible leadership. Strict discipline, fair with rewards and punishments, and utterly trusted by his men.
In Games Workshop's official canon, the man was a natural-born general. He didn't ride the coattails of his Primarch's favor or lean on some noble family lineage. He built his reputation on cold, hard battle records and the absolute respect of his brothers in arms.
He'd been an absolute menace during the Cleansing of Laeran, famously spearheading the assault into the Laer's underwater fortresses. He fought shoulder-to-shoulder with the Iron Hands and kicked so much ass during a boarding action that he actually stole the spotlight right out from under Fulgrim.
It was the first—and only—time the Phoenician had ever been jealous of his own son.
And then... came Isstvan III.
When the virus bombs dropped, Saul Tarvitz literally dug him out of the rubble. By sheer, stubborn willpower, Demeter survived the unsurvivable. He refused to give up his command, strapped on the armor of his dead brothers, and led a suicide charge straight into the teeth of the traitors.
It was just a damn shame...
Liam's eyes darkened for a split second.
A guy like that—a true hero—ultimately caught a blade in the back on Isstvan III from Lucius, all because he'd upstaged Fulgrim.
Gunning down traitors, only to get butchered by that bald little bitch.
Murdered by the very brother he used to fight beside.
Liam's fists slowly clenched at his sides.
He thought about the guys he used to command back in his old unit. The brothers who had crawled out of the meat grinder right alongside him. The men who trusted each other enough to turn their backs in a firefight.
If some rat had ever stabbed them in the back...
Liam took a slow, deep breath, his eyes hardening with fresh resolve.
This wasn't about some faction quest.
It wasn't for a payout of Imperial Coins.
It was just because... he respected the hell out of guys like this. He wanted to keep this man alive.
It was that simple.
Demeter, I've got your back, he swore silently. Not for the Imperium. But from one soldier to another.
--
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