V2 Chapter 28: We Shall Stand as Gods in Mortal Flesh
Accompanied by the low rumble of the lander's engines, Duvette returned to the front-line camp.
The landing deck's hatch lowered slowly, raising a cloud of grey-white dust.
Duvette walked down the ramp first. Behind him, several heavy cargo-servitors followed on heavy mechanical treads, their arms steadily holding a dozen sealed temperature-controlled supply boxes.
The boxes contained high-grade banquet food Duvette had specifically requisitioned from General Macaroth before departing: entire crates of quality synthetic meat steaks and genuine natural fruit from agricultural worlds. For front-line Astra Militarum soldiers who survived on corpse-starch, these were treasures precious enough to provoke a mutiny.
But right now, no one's attention was anywhere near those temperature-controlled boxes.
Whether 112th soldiers or warriors from other Astra Militarum regiments posted in the surrounding positions, when their eyes swept over Duvette's black commissar's greatcoat, every single one of them showed an expression of extreme shock.
On Duvette's chest, the Sabbat Worlds Imperial Honour Medal gleamed with cold light under the camp's lamps.
And beside it, the Star of Terra, representing the supreme honour available to a mortal servant of the Imperium, seemed to radiate a light too sacred to look at directly.
The silence lasted two seconds.
Then every warrior in the 112th erupted into a thunderous, sustained cheer. Several thousand mortal soldiers who had crawled out of a meat grinder raised their entrenching tools in the air, and the wave of sound nearly lifted the camp's camouflage netting off its poles.
For them, nothing was more worth losing their minds over than their commissar receiving a Star of Terra. Unless it was the knowledge that they themselves had been part of the campaign that earned it.
It meant the commissar leading them was no longer an ordinary officer. He was a living Imperial legend. And as his soldiers, every man and woman in the 112th would permanently share in that glory.
The 112th's faces were written with undisguised pride.
Particularly bald Stroud and the cluster of veteran troublemakers around him. They turned and looked at the soldiers from the other regiments stationed nearby.
Less than a few hours ago, those same friendly forces had been deliberately keeping their distance from the 112th, muttering among themselves that anyone who survived the upper hive nightmare must be Warp-tainted freaks.
Stroud and his people now addressed those soldiers in the most blunt possible terms. The targets of this attention went red in the face, but under the absolute weight of the Star of Terra, they couldn't find a single word to answer with and could only look elsewhere.
In the thunderous cheering, the soldiers crowded around Duvette back to the regiment's command tent.
Duvette had the servitors unload the food and distributed it to the ravenous scoundrels without ceremony.
After watching them fight over a few meat steaks, he waved his hand and sent everyone out.
The tent flap dropped. The noise outside cut off. Duvette was alone in the quiet command tent.
He walked to the tactical table, exhaled a long breath, and leaned back somewhat tiredly in the cold metal chair.
His mind finally had time to go back over everything that had happened on the Absalom.
The late-night conversation with Slaydo had been like walking a tightrope over an abyss. He had successfully transferred the weight of the reform plan onto the distant, unverifiable prophecy of the Primarch's awakening, but that also meant he had been thoroughly drawn into the most central political current of the Sabbat Crusade.
Then Duvette thought of something. He straightened up, extended his hand, and carefully unpinned the two medals from his chest.
He wanted to see what effects these two items, of absolutely singular significance in the Imperium, would register under the System's Legion Relic assessment.
He picked up the Sabbat Worlds Imperial Honour Medal first. A pale blue data stream immediately appeared at the edge of his retina.
[Sabbat Worlds Imperial Honour Medal]
[Aura: Scorched Earth Ironguard]
[Effect: When the Legion under your command establishes a defensive line in any area for more than 1 hour, the physical structure of cover in that area will be reinforced until the Legion departs.]
[As long as we stand here, this is humanity's territory.]
"A godly skill for static defensive warfare." Duvette traced a finger across the cold metal medal, making a precise tactical assessment.
With this aura, even if the 112th dug trenches in a muddy field, they would turn that position into something nothing could bite through.
He set the Sabbat Worlds medal aside and picked up the Star of Terra, which was emitting a faint light of its own.
When he read the description, Duvette's pupils snapped tight.
[Star of Terra]
[Passive Aura: United We Stand]
[Effect: The greater the number of Legion warriors gathered together within a set range around you, the greater the increase to their shooting accuracy, reaction speed, and physical strength. (Stacks without limit.)]
[We shall stand as gods in mortal flesh!]
Another aura that directly enhances physical capabilities, and it stacks without any ceiling.
If in a large battle he concentrated the entire regiment's several thousand troops together to trigger [United We Stand]'s maximum stacking effect, then simultaneously activated [Flesh Engine] at extreme overload...
The 112th's mortal warriors could potentially become comparable to ordinary Astartes, Duvette thought. The enemy would think they were facing another unremarkable Astra Militarum regiment. Then, without warning, the combat power those soldiers demonstrated would be equivalent to several thousand Astartes. That kind of surprise alone made a great many things possible.
Duvette found a metal sealed box lined with shock-absorbing foam from his canvas bag and stored both medals in it with extreme care. The Star of Terra was too conspicuous for everyday wear. Except for important occasions, it was better kept out of sight.
He leaned back in the chair and pulled up the System main panel. The balance showed 2,300 Emperor's Wrath. His options were growing, and the 112th's overall strength was increasing by the day.
Once he accumulated the remaining points and unlocked [Purification] as a permanent high-tier skill, the Chaos-contaminated Men of Iron STC could be attempted.
Even if he couldn't swallow that miracle construct on his own terms, the kind capable of shaking the entire Imperium, he could use it as a bargaining chip. By that point he would almost certainly have already made contact with Cawl.
As the only Archmagos in the entire Imperium who was still pressing forward, Cawl would definitely find the Men of Iron STC worth his attention.
It was a long shot. But perhaps worth attempting.
Duvette stood, lifted the tent flap, and stepped outside.
Bonfires burned in the camp's open ground. The 112th's warriors sat around the fires, wolfing down high-grade synthetic meat steaks. Two soldiers had already come to blows over a genuine natural fruit.
Watching these vital, hardened troops, Duvette ran through his next plans.
Since the Marshal wanted him as a blade, he could demand more resources. He thought he could convince the Marshal to approve several categories of special equipment.
First: a batch of grav-chutes, normally only issued to Storm Troopers or Elysian Drop Troops. These would give the 112th an extremely lethal vertical assault capability in future battle zones.
Second: new weapons. Anderson's power maul had shattered completely in the fight against the Greater Daemon. He might be able to request a high-tier thunder hammer forged by Mars Tech-Priests.
Third: more powerful armoured vehicles with heavier frames.
In the middle of these calculations, Duvette raised his head and looked quietly at the deep, cold starfield overhead.
The crusade's fires would not stop because one upper hive had been cleared. The battles ahead would only become more brutal.
According to the memories of this history he carried, the Formal Prime campaign was only the beginning. They would be split apart and pushed deeper into the Sabbat Sector, until two years from now when they converged for the turning point that would decide the entire sector's fate: the Battle of Balhaut.
A battle that would bury countless heroes. Including Marshal Slaydo himself.
He had to arm the 112th to the teeth before that day came.
He understood it too well. In this cruel starfield, only those who held absolute power could take more from it, and survive to the last.
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