The world of Necromunda is forever shrouded in the roar of giant machinery, and the air is filled with the pungent smell of metal dust mixed with machine oil.
Groom had just finished his 12-hour shift and dragged his exhausted body out of the deafening stamping workshop.
His oil-stained work clothes clung to his unusually muscular body, hardened by years of labor. The lingering noise of the machines still echoed in his ears, and his eyes were somewhat unfocused with exhaustion.
A simple sampling station was set up in the temporary rest area next to the workshop entrance, with a line of workers of similar age standing in front of it.
"The foreman said it's the Imperial Fist selecting people," the young man at the front of the line said in a low voice, his tone filled with awe. "Those golden giants..."
Groom nodded silently and wiped the sweat and oil from his face with the rough cloth towel hanging around his neck.
To him, the Astartes were legends occasionally mentioned in mass-produced broadcasts, the ultimate embodiment of power and order, and living deities who protected humanity from countless terrors across the galaxy.
He never imagined that he could have any interaction with such a being.
His original destiny was clearly visible: to become a qualified craftsman amidst endless noise and labor, to marry and have children, and to repeat the life of his father.
If he were selected, it would mean breaking free from the shackles of his predetermined fate, and it would mean that his insignificant life might make a contribution to the empire that transcends the assembly line.
When it was his turn, he awkwardly stretched out his arm.
The tech priest's apprentice wiped a relatively clean patch of skin on his thick wrist with a sterile cotton swab before pressing the sensor onto it.
A slight stinging sensation came over me.
Groom stared at the rapidly scrolling genetic code on the data panel, his mind blank, filled only with a vague yet real expectation.
A few days later, the section chief personally informed him of the result in the workshop.
The middle-aged man, who usually had a stern face, patted him hard on the shoulder, his voice carrying a hint of barely perceptible excitement: "Good lad, Groom! You've been chosen!"
The roar of the surrounding machines seemed to suddenly fade away at that moment.
Groom stood there, stunned, for several seconds before a strong and pure emotion suddenly welled up in his heart.
His face, tanned dark by engine oil and the passage of time, and usually expressionless, slowly twitched, finally blossoming into an incredibly clear smile.
That smile was filled with unbelievable anticipation, as if a ray of sunlight pierced through the eternal gloom of Necromunda.
Osiris and Sigismund stood in the command center of Dorne Spear Fortress, with the huge observation window overlooking the layered hive landscape of Necromunda.
The two had just finished reviewing the genetic matching reports of 5,000 candidates, and the data board was casually placed on the tactical table.
"Five thousand genetically qualified individuals," Sigismund began, his gaze still fixed on the view outside the window, "but we all know that most of them will ultimately fail to obtain a seed."
Osiris' mechanical body emitted a slight whirring sound as he turned his gaze to the marshal of the Black Sanctuary: "The scarcity of the gene seed dictates that we must conduct the most rigorous selection process."
Every gene seed is crucial and should not be wasted on any imperfect carrier.
Sigismund slowly turned around, his black power armor gleaming coldly under the lights.
"Genetic matching is only the first step. What we need are warriors who can remain steadfast under immense pressure and never give up hope in dire straits. Strength is easy to acquire, but willpower is hard to find."
His voice grew even deeper. "The lessons of the Eighth Legion still serve as a warning to us today—even with perfect genetic matching, without unwavering will and loyalty, only twisted monsters will ultimately be born."
"This is precisely the significance of the second selection." Osiris' synthesized voice was steady and calm. "Through rigorous testing, we will find those candidates who not only match genetically, but more importantly, possess an iron will. Only they are worthy of receiving the gift of the genetic seed."
Sigismund nodded slightly, his right hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his sword: "Then proceed as planned. Let this desolate land become our furnace, forging true steel."
Their eyes met in the air, a silent understanding forming between them; no further words were needed.
In this dangerous galaxy, only the most resilient souls are worthy of becoming members of the Astartes Order, worthy of bearing the precious and weighty gift of the Gene Seed.
According to Osiris' plan, these 5,000 genetically qualified individuals were required to travel to a temporary assembly camp located in a designated desolate area outside the Hive City within a strictly defined timeframe.
The notice clearly states that this is an important part of the selection process, and those who fail to arrive on time will be considered to have automatically forfeited their eligibility.
This is an area partially contaminated by industrial waste and radioactive dust, with a harsh climate and complex terrain.
The camp facilities were extremely basic, with only the most basic shelter from the wind and rain and a limited supply of supplies.
Surveillance cameras and automated sentry towers from the Mechanicus stood like silent sentinels around the camp, recording everyone's every move.
Most of the young nobles arrived in armored ground vehicles provided by their families.
Despite the bumpy journey, it at least ensured relative comfort and safety.
When noblemen like Cesare stepped into this desolate land, their faces betrayed their discomfort and disdain for the environment.
Their powerful family background and the resources they invested in the early stages seem to give them a clear advantage at the starting line.
The survivors of the bottom hive, however, exhibited a completely different appearance.
Kax and his companions, thanks to the tracking, hiding, and wilderness survival skills they had learned in the bottom hive maze, were among the first to arrive at the camp.
They have a natural tolerance for harsh environments, and their eyes are filled with instinctive vigilance and remarkable adaptability.
The workers in the hive, such as Groom, relied on their simple perseverance and extraordinary physical strength, and most of them arrived on time.
They may not have the resources of nobles, nor the wild cunning of the bottom-hive inhabitants, but they possess astonishing endurance honed through long hours of labor and a deep-rooted obedience.
Five thousand young people, each with their own purpose, dreams, and anxieties, gathered in this wilderness, so different from the bustling metropolis.
They come from different worlds and have vastly different pasts, but now they stand on the same starting line.
No one knew what specific trials awaited them, but everyone understood that only by demonstrating extraordinary qualities could they traverse this wilderness, step into the fortress atop the hive city known as the Spear of Dorne, and touch the glimmer of light that could change their destiny.
The real brutal elimination process has only just begun.