The medical examination ended quickly.
Or rather, Alex’s “value” was quickly assessed.
Two servo-skulls floated ahead, leading the way.
The red lens lights in their eye sockets scanned the walls, illuminating wax seals and prayers like blood-written scripts.
They emitted a faint, putrid stench of embalming fluid.
Alex followed behind, escorted by two Armed Attendants on his left and right.
The corridor was long, filled with an oppressive industrial atmosphere.
The pipes overhead occasionally made clicking sounds of metal contraction, as if the entire ship were breathing.
A squad of servitors ran in from a side passage, pushing a massive containment crate.
Alex instinctively turned his head to look— The crate was covered in yellow and black biohazard symbols, with white cloth strips covered in prayers wrapped around the edges.
Through the metal casing, he could even feel something inside pulsating slightly.
“Move forward.” A rifle butt tapped him neither lightly nor heavily on his shoulder blade.
Alex withdrew his gaze and continued walking.
“ID confirmed.” The Armed Attendant behind him spoke into the communicator on his wrist, his tone as flat as if he were reading a report.
“No obvious infection reaction.
Returning to quarantine.” “Locked back up as soon as the check is over…” Alex muttered under his breath, “You people are quite practiced in this routine.” No one paid him any attention.
The airtight door of the quarantine zone opened before him.
Alex stepped inside, and the heavy metal door slowly closed behind him.
Click— Hum— The sound of several mechanical locks engaging vibrated through the metal, sounding like a sentence being passed.
Tros and the other veterans looked up from the corner, watching him with questioning eyes.
Alex shrugged.
“Don’t ask.
They just wanted to make sure I hadn’t grown a second head.” He slid down against the wall and sat, closing his eyes.
The world outside the door had nothing to do with him.
He wasn’t qualified to know more…
Meanwhile, in a place Alex might never set foot, a meeting that would decide the fate of several planets was underway.
Strategic Deck of the Doomsday.
This was a massive domed space, with a tactical table at the center displaying a floating star map.
The surrounding walls were embedded with flickering rune screens and hanging data scrolls.
There were no extra people.
Only three massive red figures stood by the tactical table.
Tarkus.
Matellus.
Gordian.
Cyrus and Avitus were on the lower deck supervising ammunition resupply.
Thaddeus stood guard outside Captain Tuer’s life-support pod—a task he had volunteered for.
The three at the tactical table did not speak.
The only sounds in the air were the low hum of servos and the metallic grinding of power armor as it made slight posture adjustments.
On the tactical table, a holographic projection of the Aurelia Sector slowly rotated.
Several planets were lit up in sequence: Calderis…
Typhon…
Meridian…
The edges of each planet were constantly pulsing with red warning runes.
Those were the markers of the Tyranid Swarm invasion.
Matellus stepped forward and placed a metal crate covered in prayers on the tactical table.
“Tyranid xenos corpse secured.
Force field stable.” The Techmarine’s voice was as cold and hard as iron.
Gordian’s eyepieces scanned the readings on the crate, a green light flashing.
“Contaminated sample.” The Apothecary’s assessment was equally brief.
“Suitable for comparison.
Not for mass production.” Tarkus’s helmet tilted slightly toward the crate.
“We need more.” The runes on the tactical table suddenly flickered violently.
A new communication channel was patching in.
Everyone went still.
A few seconds later, a voice came from the speakers above the tactical table.
That voice was steadier than Tarkus’s, carrying the weight of a veteran tempered by countless brushes with death.
“This is the Litany of Fury.” “I have heard your distress call.” Gabriel Angelos.
The future Chapter Master of the Blood Ravens Chapter.
No one shouted slogans, and no one knelt on one knee.
Tarkus, Matellus, and Gordian’s helmets simply tilted slightly at the same time—a silent gesture of acknowledging a superior among Astartes.
Gabriel did not exchange pleasantries, nor did he preach grand principles like some leader might.
He simply issued three orders.
“Typhon.” On the tactical table, the planet marked as Typhon zoomed in, showing the outline of an ancient ruin.
“Locate the ancient astronomical array.
I want a reading that can lock onto the hive’s weakness.” “Pure samples.” “We need a clean source for toxin synthesis.” “Meridian.” The tactical table switched to another planet, where the icon of a massive industrial facility flickered—the Angel Forge.
“Proceed to the Angel Forge.
Without the forge, your toxins are meaningless.” Three orders.
Three objectives.
Three planets.
Tarkus’s reply was only two words: “Understood.” There was a second of silence on the comm channel.
Then came Gabriel’s final words.
“Do not let me find only an empty hull when I arrive.” Communication cut.
The runes on the tactical table returned to their normal pulsing rhythm.
Tarkus turned and issued an order to Matellus: “Prepare the strike sequence.
Typhon.” Matellus nodded, his fingers moving rapidly over the tactical table.
Suddenly, he paused.
“That mortal turret gunner.” The Techmarine’s voice carried a hint of contemplation.
“His reaction time data…
meets the standard.” “And there are no traces of corruption.
With his combat aptitude, he should have been picked up by the Astra Militarum.” Gordian simultaneously reported on Alex’s physical report.
Tarkus’s helmet turned toward him.
“Assign him to the hangar vehicle group,” Matellus decided.
“And get him some new gear.” …The quarantine door lock disengaged once more.
Click— Hum— But it wasn’t Armed Attendants standing outside.
It was two…
things he didn’t know how to describe.
They still maintained a human shape—but only barely.
Skin was covered in metal, spines replaced by cables, and hands had become multi-functional mechanical claws.
If not for the red robes, Alex would have thought he was looking at malfunctioning robots.
servo-skulls floated beside them, their red lens lights scanning Alex.
Bzzzt— A red beam shot out from a device in one of the red robes’ hands, scanning from Alex’s Adam’s apple down to his boots.
There was no inquiry, no communication, not even eye contact.
After the scan finished, one of the red robes raised an arm, a mechanical claw extending from the sleeve, and tossed a pile of items into the quarantine area.
Alex looked down.
A set of modified lightweight boarding armor—a breastplate and two pauldrons.
The grey-black ceramite plates were coated in a layer of rough consecrated paint, with sealing strips at the edges and a matching respirator.
A subcutaneous encrypted vox-bead, as short as a bullet head, with a green light flickering faintly at the end.
Finally, there was a metal case tightly wrapped in prayer seals.
Alex tore off the seals, and the lid popped open.
Inside lay an Accatran-pattern melta carbine.
The weapon’s lines were clean, the metal parts almost devoid of extra patterns, save for a serial number carved by a smith and a small gear insignia.
“You’ve been promoted, Soldier.”