Warp travel was a dimensional torture.
Even deep within the isolated cargo hold of a recruitment vessel, the sensation of weightlessness and disorientation that seeped through bone marrow despite the Geller field was enough to twist a normal person’s nerves into a pretzel.
The moment the hatch opened, Kaelen leaned against the cold bulkhead and dry-heaved a mouthful of sour liquid.
The extreme physical test left his face sallow, whereas the two “Ogryns” beside him clad in heavy dust coats maintained steady breathing.
The physiology of superhuman transhumans was indeed unreasonable at times.
Stepping onto the hard mesh gangway, a gale mixed with high concentrations of promethium exhaust gas surged straight down his throat.
Looking up, there was no warm star in the sky, nor the pitch black of deep space.
The entire sky was torn to shreds by a twisted, sickly purple-red glare.
This was the Eye of Terror.
The aftermath of warp storms transformed into nauseating auroras, writhing and pulsating greedily above the clouds like thick blood vessels possessing self-awareness.
This was Cadia.
Late M41, 998—the foremost fortress of the Imperium of Man guarding the gate of the Eye of Terror.
As far as the eye could see, the surface was filled with lifeless defensive positions.
Massive ceramite bunkers resembled skeletons of ancient leviathans fallen on the wasteland, cold and oppressive.
“Sir, identity verification.” At the end of the gangway, an emaciated Departmento Munitorum dispatch officer knocked on the desk, his attitude thoroughly perfunctory.
He glanced at the sergeant nametag on Kaelen’s chest, then looked up at the two mountain-like heavy Ogryns.
“Sergeant Kaelen.
You and your abhuman retainers are assigned to the Seventh Company, ‘Phoenix’ Infantry Regiment.
Second-line defense echelon.” The dispatch officer pointed vaguely in one direction.
“Follow Channel Seven all the way.
Don’t linger.
High command on Cadia is holding a massive review at Helipad Three today, and all newly arrived full-strength companies must immediately head to the assembly area to fill the formations.
Move it.
If you block the supply armor vehicles, you can use a shovel to scrape your own guts off the tracks!” Kaelen didn’t bother arguing with him.
Taking the transfer order, he led Horus and Cullen, along with their power armor and weapons concealed in mining gear, and blended into the crowd.
The entire surface of Cadia had turned into an overloaded war machine.
On both sides of the thoroughfare, hundreds of thousands of Astra Militarum soldiers were marching with heavy steps toward their positions.
Numbness and tension were written on everyone’s face.
They vaguely sensed that a bloody battle was about to erupt here.
Passing through a lengthy armored blast wall, the view suddenly opened up.
Helipad Three was absurdly large, enough to hold several heavy armored regiments.
The innermost core area was hosting a grand welcoming ceremony, with Ministorum loudspeakers blaring hymns and military bands playing at full blast.
Massive heavy dropships slowly lowered their ramps.
Heavy armored vehicles drove down in ranks, their tracks clanking against the metal deck.
Following them were elite infantry clad in gleaming armor, brimming with pomp.
As Kaelen observed these “aces,” Horus behind him suddenly came to a halt.
That massive body stopped so abruptly that Cullen, walking at the rear, instantly halted as well, the veteran’s fingers instinctively touching the grip of the bolter at his waist.
“What is it?” Kaelen stopped and asked in a low voice.
Horus lowered his head, his massive dust mask almost pressing against Kaelen’s shoulder.
“The air is dirty.” The Wolf God’s gaze pierced through the thick lenses, locking straight onto the heavy armored unit undergoing review far in the distance.
“It’s not the stench of promethium, nor gunsmoke.
It’s the sickly sweet stench of warp decay.” Horus’s perceptive abilities far exceeded those of ordinary Space Marines.
To him, who had briefly fallen ten thousand years ago and had his pure soul forcibly extracted by the system, that smell was like dark ink splashed on white paper—glaring and repulsive.
“Hiding within that unit are maggots serving Chaos.” Kaelen’s scalp tingled instantly.
Without a second’s hesitation, he summoned the system interface deep in his retina.
[Area scan initiated.
Target locked: Forward heavy armored regiment landing zone.] The next second, warning boxes dripping with blood-red text flashed frantically across his vision, nearly blinding him.
It wasn’t one or two traitors, but a full unit of corrupt scum!
Kaelen swallowed hard, staring dead at the Gothic regimental designation embroidered on the unit’s battle banner.
The Volscani Cataphracts.
Taking in that regimental number, Kaelen sucked in a sharp breath.
Volscani.
He remembered from the records of the Cadian campaign that this was a decorated elite force regarded by the entire sector as an iron shield.
Cadia’s high command had placed immense hopes on them.
And then?
At the critical juncture of the Thirteenth Black Crusade, this highly anticipated ace unit launched a rebellion directly against Cadia’s supreme command.
They turned their guns around; heavy tank cannons blew the loyalist bunkers to pieces at point-blank range, slaughtering whole echelons of senior officers.
That betrayal shattered the backbone of Cadia’s ground defenses.
However, it also created the opportunity for Lord Castellan Creed’s subsequent rise.
And now, this group of scum who had sold their souls to the Chaos Gods long ago was walking off transport ships in glory, receiving flowers, applause, and the open-armed, unguarded embrace of Cadia’s high command.
The cold wind remained bitter, yet Kaelen felt his back drenched in sweat.
The louder the military music on the helipad played, the more this grand gathering felt like a ludicrous and deadly prelude to a funeral.
“Spotted a problem?” Cullen edged half a step closer, his voice low and raspy under the hood.
The veteran knight had keenly picked up on the irregular rhythm of Kaelen’s breathing.
“Big trouble,” Kaelen said at a volume only the three of them could hear.
“That ace armored regiment being welcomed as heroes ahead—every single one of them is a heretic.” Cullen’s eyes behind his mask narrowed in an instant, murder intent seeping out unreservedly.
“They have entered the core defensive zone,” Horus made a precise judgment with his supreme tactical acumen after just one glance at the layout.
“Once they strike after the defensive grid takes shape, Cadia’s flank and rear will be torn completely open.
Whoever is commanding this campaign will be plunged into desperate straits.” The Wolf God suggested to Kaelen: “We must eliminate this threat before they enter their assigned permanent fortifications.” Easier said than done.
Kaelen had a massive headache.
He was currently just an uninfluential second-line sergeant.
Charge over and report them directly?
Walk up to the Governor of Cadia or those high-and-mighty Inquisitors and shout, “The Volscani Cataphracts are traitors”?
Without a shred of evidence for such an accusation, before the Volscani even needed to move, the internal security commissars or Ministorum priests would blow his head into a soggy watermelon with a bolt pistol.
Along with sending those two origin-unknown “Ogryns” beside him to see the Emperor.
Stand by and do nothing?
That wouldn’t work either.
If the Volscani Cataphracts were allowed to launch their rebellion according to the original timeline, far more Astra Militarum soldiers would die, and the loss of high-level command would cause the collapse of subsequent defense lines.
Around them, countless Cadian recruits in rough carapace armor were craning their necks, gazing at the ace unit with reverent and fanatical eyes.
They had no idea that a poisoned blade had already been silently pressed against their backs.
Kaelen gritted his teeth.
Even knowing this damned universe was rotten to the core, even understanding that nosing into trouble usually led to the grimmest death, and even though a transmigrator feared nothing more than overflowing self-righteousness, he was ultimately a human being with a normal conscience.
Watching thousands upon thousands of loyal kin slaughtered from behind by traitors was something he couldn’t stomach.
“We can’t brute-force this,” Kaelen quickly weighed the pros and cons and made a decision.
“We have no physical evidence.
Standing out now will only turn us into live targets for Cadia’s military discipline office.” “Leave it unchecked then?” Cullen’s tone was stern.
“Of course not.” Kaelen turned around, his eyes following the assembly area signs and locking onto a zone filled with dark green march tents at the edge.
That was the station for their assigned ‘Phoenix’ Infantry Regiment.
“The only way is to find our regiment’s commissar.” His sole direct superior was the only person in the Imperial system obligated to hear him out, authorized to handle heresy accusations, and equipped with channels to safely pass intelligence to the command level.
Even if there was only a one-in-a-thousand chance the commissar would believe it, it was better than dying on the spot and dragging all of Cadia down with them.
“We need to visit our infantry regiment’s commissar and inform him about the potential traitors.” “He won’t believe it,” Horus said.
“A unit receiving such a welcome must hold immense prestige in the military.
Without concrete proof, we will be branded as slanderers.” “But…” Horus changed his tone.
“Even if it risks revealing our identities, we must stop this rebellion from happening in time.” “Let’s move, Kaelen.”