Chronicle, entry number forty-one.
New assignment: the Alpha Legion.
I was received in the hangar by an Astartes who introduced himself as Alpharius.
Ten minutes later, another, identical Astartes introduced himself as Alpharius.
At dinner, the cook told me that he was Alpharius too.
I asked the Chaplain how many Alphariuses there were on the ship.
He answered: “All of us.” I don’t know whether it was a metaphor.
This week I saw two conquests in which barely a shot was fired.
In one, it was enough to lie better than the enemy.
In the other, it was enough to offer a discount.
I.
Hydra Dominatus
The Alpha Legion was neither the largest nor the loudest.
It was the most patient.
Alpharius and Omegon, the twin Primarchs, had won entire wars without the enemy ever knowing whom they had lost to.
The world they arrived at resembled the Terra of millennia past, divided between two nations that eyed each other with distrust across a border: Ostania and Westalis.
A cold war on the verge of heating up.
“What do you think, brother?” asked Alpharius, looking at the map.
“What do you have in mind?”
“It would be very easy to make them fight each other,” Omegon replied.
“And if we arrive as saviors once they’re exhausted, this world will be ours without spending a single bullet.”
“Like a hydra. We strike from every direction.”
“We are Alpharius.”
“Hydra Dominatus.”
* * *
The pods fell by night over the forests of Ostania, silent as shooting stars.
No one saw them.
At dawn, life went on as before: people heading to work, bakeries opening, newspapers at the kiosks.
But among those people the operatives of the Alpha Legion were already walking, with false faces and perfect papers.
One was a ministry employee.
Another, a journalist.
Another, a servant in the house of Donovan Desmond, leader of the National Unity Party, the man who could tip the balance of the entire continent.
That servant was Alpharius.
No one suspected.
The records, the identity papers, even the memories of the other staff were adjusted so that his presence seemed normal.
Desmond began to receive, without knowing it, small suggestions.
Reports with a single detail changed.
Rumors planted at just the right moment.
* * *
One of the operatives had a specific task: to watch a psychiatrist in Berlint named Loid Forger.
The Legion’s analyses indicated that he was, in reality, the most famous spy in Westalis, the agent Twilight.
What they hadn’t expected was that he wouldn’t be alone.
“Family?” murmured the operative, pretending to tie his shoe as he watched Loid walk past with a dark-haired woman and a pink-haired little girl.
“I have visual on Twilight. He’s not alone. He’s with a woman and a child.”
“Watch them,” came Alpharius’s voice.
“Find out what role they play. If they’re a risk…”
The operative didn’t hear the rest of the order.
The little girl had turned around and was staring straight at him with a look of absolute panic.
Who is this guy?!
thought Anya Forger, who had been reading minds for as long as she could remember.
Why is he thinking such scary things?!
He’s thinking about Papa!
And Mama!
And about… about “elimination protocols”!
What’s a protocol?!
The operative felt, for the first time in years, a strange unease.
“Change of plans,” he said over the vox.
“The girl picked up on something.”
* * *
The next day, at the prestigious Eden Academy, a new janitor pushed his cart across the courtyard.
As he passed near Anya, who was chatting with her friend Becky, he thought, with full intent:
Let’s see if you can hear me, little one.
Anya froze mid-laugh.
We know what you are.
And we’re watching you.
Anya went pale and whipped her head from side to side.
“Anya?” asked Becky.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes! Anya just remembered something… spooky!”
The janitor smiled inwardly.
Confirmed.
She reads minds.
At lunchtime, the school cook—another Alpharius—dropped a thought onto her tray along with the mashed potatoes:
You’d better not get in our way, little one.
This is bigger than you can understand.
Anya’s spoon trembled.
And then she did something no adult would have done: instead of getting more scared, she started thinking like her favorite TV hero.
What would Bondman do in this situation?
After class, instead of going home, she snuck into the kitchen.
She looked the cook in the eye.
And she screamed at him with her mind:
WHO ARE YOU?
WHY ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME?
ANYA KNOWS!
YOU GUYS ARE BAD!
The cook stopped chopping carrots.
Interesting.
She can send, too.
Nosy little girl.
If you keep snooping around, you might regret it.
Anya backed away.
And then she realized the janitor was watching her from the hallway.
And the gardener from the window.
And the music teacher from the stairs.
And two sixth-graders from the drinking fountain.
We are everywhere, they all thought at once.
Like a hydra.
We are Alpharius.
Anya gulped.
She was surrounded.
She couldn’t fight.
She couldn’t run.
So she did the only thing she could think of, with the most serious face she had:
…HYDRA DOMINATUS.
There was a very long mental silence.
None of the operatives changed expression.
But in the Legion’s secret headquarters, when the report was read that night, Omegon had to leave the room for five minutes.
Those nearby swore they heard something like a laugh.
“The girl remains under surveillance,” Alpharius decided.
“Only surveillance. I like her.”
* * *
Loid Forger hadn’t become the best spy in Westalis by accident.
When a new colleague named Dr. Alphonse Riedel turned up at his clinic, he knew within five minutes that something didn’t fit.
Too calm.
Too perfect.
He never made a mistake.
So he set a trap for him.
“Dr. Riedel, what do you make of the patient in room 302?”
“Ah, yes. The anxiety disorder case.”
Mistake, thought Loid.
Room 302 had been empty for a week.
“Will you come with me to see him?”
“Of course… Twilight.”
Loid’s heart stopped.
He kept his face.
He walked to 302.
There was a patient in the bed.
With a medical history.
With medication.
With a name and three weeks since admission.
“It seems your memory failed you, Dr. Forger,” said Riedel, with a kindly smile.
“Perhaps you should take a break.”
* * *
Yor Forger noticed too.
Always the same man with the newspaper at the market.
Always the same woman in glasses at the school gate.
One afternoon, in an alley, she spun around and threw a blow capable of breaking a bear’s neck.
A hand stopped it.
A man in an office worker’s suit.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Twilight’s wife is more dangerous than she looks.”
He slipped her an envelope.
Inside were photos.
Loid on his way to work.
Anya in the park.
Yuri, her brother, in his office at the secret police.
And the last one: herself, dressed in black, with a bloodstained knife.
The Thorn Princess.
“What would your brother think if he knew?” said the man.
“Let us do our job, Yor. And maybe your secret will stay a secret.”
He melted into the crowd.
Yor stayed in the alley with the envelope trembling in her hands.
* * *
A month went by.
Everything was going wrong for Loid.
Informants vanished.
Documents stolen before he could lay a hand on them.
Meetings canceled at the last second.
There was always someone one step ahead.
There was never any proof.
And then came the international security summit.
Loid, paranoid and exhausted, spotted what looked like a clandestine meeting on a balcony.
He burst into the room to expose the conspirators… and every light came on.
It wasn’t a secret meeting.
It was the main press conference.
Politicians, generals, journalists, cameras.
“Mr. Forger?” said a minister.
“What are you doing here? And… armed?”
Loid couldn’t give his real name.
He couldn’t run without confirming their suspicions.
He couldn’t do anything.
In a corner of the room, a waiter with a tray of canapés smiled ever so slightly.
It was Alpharius.
Or Omegon.
No one would ever know.
INTERNATIONAL SCANDAL.
WESTALIS SPY STORMS SECURITY SUMMIT.
Ostania declared war the next day.
The bombing started along the border.
And in the midst of the escalation, just as Donovan Desmond was about to become absolute leader, his residence suffered “an accident.”
The war reached the point of no return.
Exactly where the twins wanted it.
* * *
Then the ships appeared in the skies over both capitals.
On every screen in the world, a figure in blue-green armor and a serpent-shaped helmet spoke in a firm voice.
“People of Ostania and Westalis. You have been manipulated. You were led into war with lies.”
The screens showed recordings of Desmond: secret meetings, bribes, orders.
All of them real.
Some of them very well edited.
“This man was not fighting for his nation. He was fighting for himself. But do not be afraid. The Emperor offers you peace. He offers you the truth.”
The soldiers on both sides lowered their weapons.
The whole world fell under the two-headed eagle within a month, without the Alpha Legion firing, officially, a single bullet.
When it was all over, the Forger family received a visit.
A bareheaded Astartes, with a kind and utterly forgettable face, turned up at their apartment.
“Mr. Forger.
Mrs. Forger.
Miss Anya.
The Imperium has a position for each of you.
Espionage, special operations and…” he looked at Anya, “telepathic consulting, with school hours respected.”
“And if we say no?” asked Loid.
“Then you’ll be a normal family, in a world at peace, with a very large dog.” The Astartes shrugged.
“That’s a good option too.”
Anya stared at him, reading his mind.
Then her face lit up.
He really means it.
He’s not lying!
“Anya wants to be a consultant,” she announced.
“And Anya wants peanuts.”
Weeks later, the Alpha Legion left that world in the hands of the Administratum and returned to Terra, where the Emperor had summoned it to relieve Dorn and Perturabo as guardians of the Throne.
In the final report, the last paragraph read:
Subject Anya Forger: classified as an asset of incalculable value.
Recommend she be protected at all costs.
Personal note: she was the only one who greeted us correctly.
II.
Seventy Percent
On another Terra, in another city, Magnus the Red walked among the people in the guise of an ordinary man: tall, red-haired, one-eyed, in a long coat.
He had hidden his psychic presence because he wanted to understand the world before conquering it, and because, deep down, he loved watching without being seen.
There were posters everywhere.
THE HERO ASSOCIATION PROTECTS YOU.
S-CLASS HEROES ARE THE SHIELD OF HUMANITY.
TRUST THE HEROES: THEY NEVER FAIL YOU.
“They never fail?” murmured Magnus.
He read a few minds in passing.
He found no trust.
He found fear, weariness and the general suspicion that the heroes only did a good job of protecting the neighborhoods that paid high taxes.
A tiny green-haired woman floated above the crowd, looking thoroughly unfriendly.
When Magnus accidentally brushed her shoulder, she looked at him with contempt.
“Watch where you’re walking, insect.”
“My apologies.”
“Pff. People like you just get in the way.”
“Curious,” said Magnus.
“Many of the heroes here think the same way you do. Do you truly believe yourselves superior?”
“Obviously. We’re heroes. And what are you? Nothing.”
Magnus smiled.
“If you knew who I was, you would tremble.”
Tatsumaki, the Terrible Tornado, frowned.
Something in that man’s gaze didn’t sit right with her.
But she left.
* * *
Magnus dropped the disguise that very afternoon, in the middle of the main square.
His body grew to its true form: a red-skinned giant, with a single eye that burned like a sun and wings of golden light at his back.
The psychic pressure drove the C-class heroes patrolling the area to their knees.
“This world has fallen into decadence,” said his voice, inside every head at once.
“Heroes without honor. Villains without purpose. A system built on inflated egos.”
The S-class heroes arrived within minutes.
Tatsumaki, Blast, Flashy Flash, Atomic Samurai, Bang, Bomb, Darkshine, Drive Knight, Zombieman.
“So these are your champions,” said Magnus.
“Let us see.”
Tatsumaki hurled a mountain of rubble at him.
Magnus snapped his fingers and the mountain came apart.
Then he turned her own telekinesis back on her and slammed her into the ground.
“Compared to me, you are an insect.”
“How slow you are,” whispered Magnus, who was already behind Flash.
Atomic Samurai attacked with a thousand cuts in a second.
When he was done, his sword crumbled to dust.
“The metal of this world is pathetic.”
Bang, Bomb and Darkshine attacked together.
A psychic wave put them to sleep.
Drive Knight was disassembled piece by piece with a thought.
Zombieman fired point-blank; Magnus sent the bullets back to him.
“You can keep coming back to life. But you will never win.”
* * *
Meanwhile, in a supermarket in City Z, a bald man in a white cape was going through a bargain bin with total concentration.
“Oh. Eggs are on sale today.”
* * *
When Saitama walked out of the supermarket with his shopping bag, the sky was full of ships and the streets were full of giants in red and gold armor.
“Hmm. Another weird day,” he murmured, scratching his head.
“People of this world!” Magnus thundered from the sky.
“Your hero system has failed! The Imperium of Man brings true order!”
“Great,” sighed Saitama.
“Another one with a villain speech.”
A Thousand Sons sorcerer stopped him at the corner.
An ordinary human strolling calmly through a secured zone was, at the very least, irregular.
“Halt. I am going to see who you really are.”
His psychic eye glowed.
He entered Saitama’s mind.
He found nothing.
Not a wall.
Not a defense.
Nothing.
A calm, peaceful void, in which, far in the background, floated the word “eggs.”
The sorcerer took a step back.
“What…?”
Saitama yawned and kept walking.
Magnus felt it from the sky.
For the first time in centuries, something didn’t fit his vision.
He descended in front of the bald man in a flash of psychic fire.
“You,” he said.
“You are not like the others.”
“Me?” Saitama pointed at himself.
“I can see through souls. Read thoughts. Sense the essence of every living being. But you… you are a void.”
“Look, pal, I’ve had a long day. If this isn’t urgent, can I go? I have to put the milk away before it goes bad.”
Magnus blinked his single eye.
“Your power is unfathomable. What are you, really?”
“I’m a hero for fun.”
“For… fun?”
“Yeah.” Saitama shrugged.
“I started working out, I went bald, and now I’m the strongest.”
For the first time in centuries, Magnus the Red was at a loss for words.
* * *
The negotiation took place in the kitchen of Saitama’s apartment, because the milk did, in fact, need putting away.
Magnus, bent double to fit under the ceiling, spoke to him of the Imperium, of glory, of a purpose worthy of his power.
Saitama ate a banana.
“Here, no one respects you,” said Magnus.
“No one recognizes your strength. In the Imperium you would stand beside the greatest warriors of humanity.”
“Hmm. And what do I get?”
Magnus smiled.
He had read enough of that void to find the one thing floating in it.
“When I conquer this world, I can guarantee you something I know you value.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Seventy percent off in every store.”
Absolute silence.
Saitama stopped chewing.
“…Seventy?”
“Clothing, food, appliances. Whatever you like.”
Saitama crossed his arms.
He thought about it.
He thought about it seriously, something he had never done in any fight of his life.
“Sounds good,” he said.
“But there’s a problem.”
“Which is?”
“If you conquer the world and take over the economy… what happens to the stores? Do they keep selling stuff? Because if you destroy them, what good is seventy percent to me?”
Magnus the Red, the wisest son of the Emperor, the man who had read more books than anyone else in the galaxy, opened his mouth.
He closed it.
“…You have a point.”
“Think it over,” said Saitama.
“Meanwhile, I’m running out of shampoo.”
* * *
And that is how the conquest of that world became the first in Imperial history in which the Mechanicus received orders to protect the retail supply chain as a priority objective.
The factories were rebuilt.
The stores stayed open.
And a single card was printed bearing the seal of the Imperium: Imperial Discount Card — 70% — Holder: Saitama.
When Saitama used it for the first time and saw that it was real, he nodded, satisfied.
“Okay. I guess this Magnus guy isn’t so bad.”
Magnus, watching him from his floating throne, felt a satisfaction no conquest had ever given him.
“The Imperium keeps its promises,” he said.
* * *
There was one last resistance.
Blast, Tatsumaki, Flashy Flash, Metal Bat and Zombieman attempted a final ambush.
Magnus stopped time before it began.
Blast was locked in a dimensional loop in which he kept opening portals that always brought him back to the same spot.
Flashy Flash was left running down an endless corridor; according to the reports, he “appears to be enjoying it.” Tatsumaki was sealed in a psychic bubble, screaming insults no one could hear.
Metal Bat lost his bat and, without his bat, lost the will to fight.
Zombieman was sent to a Mechanicus laboratory, where he regenerates nonstop “for the benefit of science,” and complains a lot.
Fubuki, on the other hand, asked to talk.
Magnus listened to her.
And instead of locking her up, he took her on as an apprentice.
Now she studied true psychic power with him and was, according to the rumors, one of the most dangerous women in the Imperium.
Her loyalty, according to those same rumors, remained somewhat divided.
And that left King.
When the soldiers surrounded him, King—the “strongest man in the world,” owner of the legendary “King Engine”—fainted from fear, as always.
But his heart was pounding so hard that the Mechanicus sensors registered it as “anomalous-level combat activity.” The guards looked at one another.
The Commissar gulped.
“It’s him,” one of them whispered.
“The strongest.”
Magnus studied him with his psychic eye.
He found no power.
He found nothing extraordinary.
But he found something rarer: a legend growing all by itself around a man who had done absolutely nothing.
“Leave him alive,” he ordered, amused.
“And give him a post.”
King woke up in a bed with silk sheets and a new uniform on the chair.
The title read: Supreme Strategist of the Sector.
No one explained anything to him.
He didn’t ask.
For the rest of his life, he would be the most feared person in the Imperium without the slightest idea why.
* * *
Chronicle, entry number forty-five.
I met King.
My legs shook.
I asked him what the secret of his power was.
He looked at me with terrible seriousness for almost a minute and then told me: “Never give up… in video games.” I wrote it down.
I still don’t know what it means.
The Mechanicus asked me for a copy to analyze.
When I came out of the interview, a red and gold shuttle was waiting for me with a message from the IX Legion: “The Primarch Sanguinius requests a chronicler for a world where people fight for fun.” I wondered whether the chroniclers fight too.
I hope not.
Release Schedule: 2 chapters per day until the final 10 chapters, then 1 chapter per day.