The first round of tests ended, and neither Osiris nor Sigismund paid much emotional attention to the 3,127 qualified candidates who passed the first round.
Those figures struggling, persevering, and even clashing with each other in the wasteland have been reduced to cold, lifeless markers on the data board.
Their performance merely demonstrated that they possessed the basic willpower and survival instinct to endure hardship, reaching the minimum threshold for entering the next stage.
This is far from the end, and it's not even the beginning.
The real selection process has only just begun.
The surviving candidates were led away from the finish line area by the Faith Guard soldiers to a dedicated training camp a few kilometers away from Dornespear Fortress.
This place is constructed from prefabricated alloy panels and reinforced canvas, with a neat and cold layout, surrounded by electrified wire mesh and automatic warning towers.
It's less of a camp and more of a fully-fledged detention and training complex.
They were first sent to the purification zone.
High-pressure water jets washed away the grime and radioactive dust that had accumulated on their bodies over the past three days, and then the mechanical priest's assistant thoroughly treated their skin with disinfectant spray.
Simple wounds were sutured and bandaged, while severe injuries were treated with a bio-gel to promote healing.
The entire process was efficient and indifferent, with no unnecessary contact or care.
After completing the purification process, they were allowed to enter the cafeteria—a spacious but undecorated hall.
Here, they received their first proper meal in seventy-two hours: a high-energy nutritional paste, synthetic meat patties rich in protein and electrolytes, and unlimited purified water.
Many candidates practically wolfed down their food, their instincts from prolonged hunger overriding all formalities.
Cesare forced himself to maintain basic table manners, but his eating speed was no slower than others; Kax sat in the corner, eating quickly while vigilantly observing his new surroundings; Groom ate silently and attentively, as if he were completing a necessary task to restore his strength.
After the meal, they were assigned to the barracks.
Each room accommodates twenty people and has only the most basic metal-framed beds and thin mattresses, but compared to the wasteland ground, it is already paradise.
The permitted rest lasted for about twenty hours, during which mechanical slaves regularly brought water and nutrients.
During this time, most candidates were asleep, trying to repair their overworked bodies. Some, when awake, silently examined their blistered and injured hands and feet, or had brief, uncertain conversations with the people in the next bunks.
However, the recovery period was cruelly short.
When the bugle call suddenly sounded in the center of the camp, everyone's rest period came to an end.
They were quickly herded to the training ground—a vast area that had been leveled and paved with special impact-resistant material.
There were no welcoming slogans or inspiring statues around, only cold training equipment and solemn black-clad instructors.
Next, they will undergo three months of rigorous training, which will be conducted entirely according to the standards for Astartes recruits.
This is not training, but a more intense process of elimination.
Its core purpose is to refine the most perfect weapon blanks under extreme pressure—it requires not only a body of steel, but also absolute discipline, flawless loyalty, a fighting instinct imprinted deep in the soul, and... the potential to stand out from the group and lead others.
The training then proceeded with near-brutal efficiency.
There was no mobilization, no explanation, only the instructor's unquestionable first command through the loudspeaker, followed by seemingly endless physical limits testing.
The camp gates slowly closed and locked behind them.
The initial lessons had nothing to do with physical fitness, yet they were more suffocating than any physical training.
Training begins with instilling the most basic military discipline and operational norms.
Candidates were required to memorize the hundreds of articles in the Basic Code of Conduct, the complex and tedious Standard Tactical Operations Guidelines, and lengthy materials on the Imperial military structure, the organizational structure of the Astartes, and its glorious military history.
Any minor mistake—a mispronunciation, confusion of regulation numbers, hesitation when answering beyond the allotted time, or even a fleeting lack of focus in one's eyes—will immediately result in severe punishment.
The punishments were immediate and unquestionable: extra weighted runs until vomiting, endless push-ups under the watchful eyes of everyone, or being ordered to kneel for hours on a cold, hard alloy floor.
The purpose of these punishments is not merely physical torture, but to systematically destroy an individual's willfulness, driving the ironclad rules of "absolute obedience" and "unconditional execution" inch by inch into their consciousness, like hammering a wedge with a heavy hammer, until they become instincts.
Kax from the bottom hive showed a strong aversion to this indoctrination-style discipline training.
As the instructor read out the rigid "Basic Code of Conduct" in a cold voice, his furrowed brows and unconsciously twitching nostrils revealed his indifference.
During a tactical instruction session, when the instructor emphasized that "when encountering an unknown threat, the priority should be to maintain a defensive formation and await further instructions," Kax almost blurted out: "Wait for instructions? Wait to die?"
This sentence immediately punished him by making him run around the training field with weights until his vomit mixed with sweat soaked through his shirt.
When he dragged his exhausted body back, the arrogance in his eyes had not disappeared, but had instead settled into a deeper gloom.
Each punishment left new scars on him, making him realize more clearly that here, independent thinking was not only useless, but also dangerous.
He began to learn to remain silent when asked questions, but the questioning gaze still flickered beneath his lowered eyelids.
Cesare Visconti, on the other hand, displayed a completely different approach.
He stood up straight, his hands neatly placed on his knees, as if attending a noble salon.
When he needed to repeat the rules, his clear and accurate pronunciation and perfect rhythm even made the rigid instructor nod slightly.
He could quickly memorize complex tactical numbers and equipment maintenance procedures, and always maintained an impeccable military posture in the ranks.
However, beneath this superficial compliance lies a gradually accumulating sense of suffocation.
Late at night, lying on his hard bed, he would unconsciously massage his shoulders, which were stiff from maintaining a fixed posture for a long time.
This training method, which requires the complete dissolution of individual will into collective instructions, is completely different from the aristocratic philosophy of life he had learned in the past, which taught him how to skillfully maneuver within the rules to maximize his own interests.
He felt like an object whose edges were being forcibly smoothed away, his inner discomfort perfectly hidden beneath a mask of submissiveness.
Groom, on the other hand, seemed to be born to adapt to this environment.
When the command is given, his body reacts before his mind does.
The instructors required him to maintain a certain gun-holding position for an hour, and he could remain motionless like a statue until the bell rang signaling the end of the time.
When he needs to recite regulations, he may not be as elegant and fluent as Cesare, but he can always repeat them word for word, as accurately as a broken record.
He never questioned why weapons had to be checked three times before meals, nor did he care about the logic behind tactical guidelines; he simply regarded these requirements as new operational steps on an assembly line—more complex, more laborious, but essentially the same.
This trait of completely surrendering himself to instructions meant that he was almost never punished in the early stages of disciplinary training.
While others struggled with punishment, he would often have already completed his extra equipment maintenance tasks, sitting silently in a corner, recovering his strength, and preparing to face the next unknown order.
His success did not stem from intelligence or skill, but from an almost instinctive and thorough practice of the word "obedience".