Inside the metal pod of the training terminal, Forrix opened his eyes again.
The forty-seventh round of training.
He had lost count of how many times he had woken from this virtual battlefield — but the sensation of death remained horrifyingly vivid. Torn apart by bolt rounds. Beheaded by a power axe. Vaporised by artillery. Crushed beneath a Titan. Run through the heart by a traitor's power sword...
Every death was total annihilation. Every waking was a rebirth.
Forrix looked around. He was standing in a vast arena. The surrounding stands were empty, endless rows of seats stretching to the edge of his vision.
The arena floor was laid in black stone, etched with complex geometric patterns.
"Round forty-seven: face two hundred renegade Astartes alone, with no support of any kind."
"Enemy forces: Word Bearers Legion renegade Astartes."
"Training begins."
The words had barely faded when the gate on the far side of the arena swung open.
Two hundred Astartes in grey power armour covered with blasphemous runes filed out. Their armour was inscribed with cursed script. The Legion markings on their pauldrons had been twisted into demonic symbols. Their helmet visors had been reshaped into snarling faces. Unnatural red light burned in their eyes.
The nine at the front had swollen to three and a half metres — barely humanoid, suffused with desecration and malice.
These again.
Forrix had fought these traitors hundreds of times over recent weeks. In almost every large-scale simulated engagement, he had faced every renegade Legion's variant multiple times over.
He knew their weaknesses and capabilities the way he knew his own hands.
Possessed Warriors.
Formidable opponents. Even seasoned veterans from the Iron Warriors' Terminator assault companies would find them a serious match.
Forrix drew a slow breath. He did not step back. He did not hesitate. He simply drew the war hammer from his hip.
He was still clad in his custom Terminator armour — the configuration the Logic Engine had identified through repeated training analysis as the optimal fit for him.
Today his multi-barrel bolt cannon was absent. But the power fist on his right hand, comparable in force to a siege ram, remained enough to give anyone pause.
"Come on then, traitors."
Two hundred renegade Astartes let loose a frenzied roar and charged.
Forrix went straight at them.
The war hammer swung. The first enemy's skull shattered on impact. The power fist drove forward. The second enemy's upper body was obliterated.
Two more Possessed Warriors couldn't clear his arc in time — his hammer caved their chests in and sent them flying.
Every punch of the power fist broke apart one Chaos Marine, sometimes more.
Enemies were falling. But more kept coming.
They felt no fear of death, no pain. They attacked with frenzied abandon, every weapon aimed at his vitals, every fist hammering his body.
Forrix's Terminator armour began to crack. Blood welled from wounds across his frame. But his pace did not slow by a fraction.
The Furnace activated. His wounds began closing faster. His movements grew sharper.
One hour. Two hours. Five hours passed.
When the war hammer finally crushed the last Possessed Warrior's skull, Forrix was soaked in blood and barely standing.
The power fist had long since been rendered useless — his right arm had been severed at the shoulder. Both hearts and all three lungs had been punctured. The Furnace was burning its final reserves.
Forrix sank to his knees in the centre of the arena. Blood poured without stopping from his wounds and from his mouth and nose. His clotting factors had failed entirely. His consciousness was fading.
Two hundred renegade Astartes. All of them dead by his hand.
The price: mutual annihilation.
"Training concluded."
The voice rose in his mind, and Forrix fell back into darkness.
Outside the training terminal, Perturabo stood before a vast holographic display, watching the training data of every Iron Warrior.
Ten thousand points of light flickered on the screen. Each point was a warrior. Each line of data was a battle. Each fluctuation was a death.
His sister stood behind him. She could clearly sense the posture he was maintaining — the forced stoicism. His eyes were full of worry.
Calliphone felt an ache for these people. But she also understood what her brother was doing — forging a true iron Legion in the only way he knew how.
"Abo..."
She called to him softly, but he didn't respond this time, his attention locked entirely on the holographic display.
Calliphone sighed and walked to his side, setting a warm drink beside his hand.
Perturabo finally turned his head and looked at her.
Those eyes were still cold and melancholic. But deep within them, barely visible, was something tired.
"Sister — do you know how many times they've died in training?"
His voice was slightly hoarse.
Calliphone shook her head.
"One hundred and twenty-three, on average."
Perturabo's gaze returned to the screen.
"The highest — Forrix — has died one hundred and ninety-seven times. He has died one hundred and ninety-seven times. Each one is real pain. Each one is total destruction. And he keeps going."
"He's resilient."
Calliphone had immense respect for that.
"Like a piece of iron."
"He doesn't want to disappoint me."
Perturabo's voice carried something complicated.
"Am I putting too much pressure on them, sister?"
A trace of doubt had entered him.
"They take my expectations very seriously."
Calliphone placed her hand on the back of that enormous hand — large enough to hold her whole.
"That's because you are worth it. And they know it."
Perturabo said nothing, only kept his eyes on the holographic display.
Then the Logic Engine's voice broke the silence.
"My Lord — the first phase of recruit selection is complete. From twenty-two academies across the Olympia system, two hundred and twenty-one thousand three hundred qualifying youths have been identified."
"Age range: ten to sixteen. Physical capability, intellectual level, and psychological resilience all meet optimal standard."
Perturabo's eyes sharpened.
"Gene-seed compatibility rates?"
"Preliminary testing indicates a compatibility rate above thirty-five percent. Of these, six thousand four hundred individuals show a match rate of ninety-five percent or higher and are suitable for immediate augmentation. Remaining candidates require further genetic calibration and adaptive training."
Perturabo nodded.
"Have them prepared. The first augmentation surgeries will begin in three days, running concurrently with the Iron Warriors' training."
"Yes, My Lord."
The Logic Engine began making arrangements.
"Three days? Abo — the oldest of these children is sixteen. The youngest is ten. Can they withstand the augmentation procedures?"
Calliphone didn't know the full danger of Astartes augmentation, but she remembered clearly what the process of augmenting the Iron Custodians had looked like.
Perturabo looked at her, and something complex moved behind his eyes.
"Sister — do you know how other Legions in the Imperium recruit?"
Calliphone shook her head.
"They recruit from home worlds. From the wastelands and war-ruins of Terra. From the high courts and palace grounds of distant worlds."
"They select children who survived brutal environments. Children who have already seen death, already experienced suffering."
"Some of those children may have killed for the first time at five years old. May have lost everything by twelve. They are tougher than their peers — but also colder, more warped."
"I don't want warriors like that."
Perturabo's voice steadied.
"I want real warriors. Not killing machines distorted by their circumstances. I want them to know why they fight, who they fight for, and what their sacrifices mean."
"From the age of four, I placed these children in academies. Not to make them cold killers — but to give them knowledge, to train their bodies, to cultivate their will. To teach them what honour means, what responsibility means, what sacrifice means."
Perturabo's gaze fell on the screen, where images of the selected children were cycling through.
"Fifty years have passed since then. They are spread across every corner of the Olympia system now, each filling their assigned role."
"They received the most complete education available. The healthiest possible bodies. The most resolute will. They know what they have been preparing for. They know what their destiny will be."
Calliphone looked at the faces of those children, and a complicated feeling rose inside her.
They were so young. So unformed. Their eyes still carried that peculiar brightness — the self-assurance that belongs only to youth. They didn't know what was waiting for them. Didn't know the pain of augmentation, the brutality of war, the face of death.
But she also understood. This was their destiny.
Even as brief as her time on Olympia had been, Calliphone could see clearly how many people dreamed of becoming an Astartes.
"They'll be proud."
She said it quietly.
"To become Iron Warriors. To become your sons."
Perturabo said nothing, only continued to look at the screen.
Three days later. Olympia. The Academy Headquarters Augmentation Centre.
It was a vast hemispherical structure in the deepest part of the academy complex. Its exterior was plain and unassuming. Inside, it housed the most advanced medical equipment and gene-modification technology in the entire Olympia system.
Ten thousand augmentation pods were arranged in neat rows across the great hall — each one resembling a metal coffin, lined with soft biological material. Dense clusters of neural connection probes hung suspended above the head position. Countless micro-injectors and monitoring devices lined the chest and limb sections.
In the great hall of the augmentation centre, the ten thousand pods stood arranged in rows — like metal sarcophagi waiting to be opened.
Cassius stood in the queue, looking up at the augmentation pods towering several times his own height.
He was fifteen years old, from the Third Academy on Olympia's primary world. In ten years of academy life, every assessment he'd sat had been excellent. Physical performance tests, tactical planning exercises, weapons operations, psychological evaluation — his name had always appeared near the top of the honour roll.
But he had never been this nervous.
"You're trembling."
A calm voice came from beside him.
Cassius turned. He saw a youth roughly his own age — black hair, grey eyes, a cool, composed expression. Half a head taller than him, broader across the shoulders, standing with the stillness of a statue.
"I'm not trembling."
Cassius's instinct was to deny it, but even as he spoke, he noticed his fingers were indeed trembling slightly.
"You're trying to control the fear."
The other youth said, his voice still even.
"But fear doesn't disappear through control. You have to learn to accept it."
Cassius blinked, then asked.
"What's your name?"
"Danti'oc."
The youth answered.
"Fourth Academy."
Dantioch gave a slight nod.
"Third Academy. Cassius."
Dantioch said nothing further, only gave a brief acknowledging nod, then looked back toward the augmentation pods ahead.
Cassius studied this peer of his. He recalled the Fourth Academy's assessment results. Dantioch — first in physical testing, first in tactical planning, first in weapons operations, first in psychological evaluation. First in overall score.
"Are you afraid?"
Cassius asked.
Dantioch was quiet for a second.
"Yes."
The answer surprised Cassius.
"But fear is normal. If we weren't afraid, that would be strange."
"The instructors told us something the Father said: fear is not weakness. Being ruled by fear is weakness. A true warrior is not someone without fear — but someone who keeps moving forward with fear alongside them."
Cassius looked at him with mild surprise.
"You've met the Father?"
Dantioch shook his head.
"No. The academy instructors told us. They said it was something Father said himself."
Cassius was quiet for a moment, then said:
"I want to meet him."
Dantioch turned and looked at him briefly.
"Then survive. Complete the augmentation. Pass the training. Become a true Iron Warrior. Then you'll have the chance."
At that moment, the door at the front of the hall opened.
Ten thousand youths straightened at once, every gaze turning in that direction.
Perturabo walked in with long strides, Calliphone and Andros following behind him. His gaze swept across ten thousand young faces.
"Do you know what awaits you today?"
His voice resonated through the hall.
Ten thousand youths answered as one.
"Yes, My Lord."
The voices were perfectly uniform — like iron striking iron.
Perturabo nodded.
"You have each spent at least five years in the academies. You have studied, trained your bodies, cultivated your will."
"You know what honour is. What responsibility is. What sacrifice is."
"But you don't know what it means to become an Astartes. What you will face. What you may lose."
His gaze sharpened.
"You will no longer be mortal. You will possess bodies beyond the human scale."
"You will be capable of fighting for tens of hours without rest. You will be able to survive briefly in a vacuum. You will endure injuries that would be instantly fatal to an ordinary human and recover in a medicae pod. You will wield single-handed the heavy weapons that once required two hands to carry. You will charge in Terminator armour weighing several tonnes."
"You will become members of the Fourth Legion."
"You will become iron — passing through the fire's burning and the hammer's striking."
"The iron on the outside is masterwork power armour, bolt guns, Titans, warships — the equipment and firepower I give you. The iron on the inside is will, conviction, the resolve to keep your spine straight even in the face of death."
"The outer iron can be damaged, replaced, upgraded. The inner iron, once forged, is indestructible forever."
Perturabo's tone did not waver.
"The Imperium has twenty Legions. Some pursue glory. Some pursue perfection. Some pursue knowledge. Some pursue speed. Each has its own character, its own pride."
"The Fourth Legion has none of these. We will become humanity's thickest wall."
"We are the hammer that strikes first in the assault. We are the shield that holds last in the defence."
"Becoming an Iron Warrior is not a role. It is not an identity. It is a mission — a mission with no end."
"When you complete one campaign, another will be waiting. When you hold one defensive line, another will need you. When you protect one world, another will require your protection."
"There is no final achievement. No graceful retirement. No peaceful old age. You will fight until the day you die on a battlefield."
"No one will remember our names. No one will sing of our deeds. No one will erect monuments to us."
"The only proof of your existence is a nameplate. From the moment you join the Fourth Legion, two are made — one stays with you, one stays with me."
"That is the last record that you were ever here."
Perturabo's words echoed through the hall, and the eyes of the youths blazed with light.
"This is the life you are choosing — the life of an Iron Warrior."
"No honour. No fame. No recognition. Only duty and conviction. Loyalty and guardianship."
Perturabo's voice settled back into its steady weight.
"And now — you will face the first threshold between life and death."
"It will be pain unlike anything you have experienced in your lives. A hundredfold — a thousandfold — more brutal than any training or any trial you have known. Your bodies will be cut open. Organs will be implanted. Your bones will be remade. Your genes will be rewritten."
"You will feel all of it while fully conscious. You will feel every incision as it is made. You will feel every organ as it enters your body. You will feel every bone as it is torn apart and rebuilt."
"This process will last two hundred and twenty hours. During this time you cannot lose consciousness, cannot retreat from it, must bear every second of pain in full awareness."
The hall went completely silent. Ten thousand youths' breathing became almost inaudible.
"But you must bear it."
Perturabo's voice grew heavy.
"Because only by bearing it will you become members of the Fourth Legion. Only then will you have the right to stand behind me, to fight alongside your brothers, to fight for humanity."
"If anyone wishes to withdraw, step forward now. You will still be citizens of Olympia. You will still be able to serve humanity in other capacities. No one will blame you. No one will look down on you."
He paused, letting his gaze pass over every face.
"Does anyone wish to withdraw?"
No one moved. No one spoke.
Ten thousand youths stood motionless, like ten thousand iron sculptures.
A flicker of satisfaction passed through Perturabo's eyes.
"Good."
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Begin."
Calliphone followed him out. At the threshold of the augmentation centre, she looked back at all those young faces. Her heart was full of worry.
The great doors slowly closed, sealing ten thousand faces behind them.
The youths watched Perturabo's silhouette disappear beyond the gate, and something beyond words rose inside them.
"Lie down."
A medical robot's flat voice issued from nearby.
Dantioch turned. Cassius was already walking toward the nearest augmentation pod, his frame trembling slightly.
Dantioch took a slow, deep breath and walked to his own pod.
Cold contact met his body. He felt the probes enter the back of his neck. His consciousness began to blur.
Then the pain began.
It defied description.
Dantioch felt his skull being cut open. A needle entered the back of his neck, pressing toward the area near the pituitary gland. An icy sting — then the sensation of something foreign being slowly introduced.
Not quite pain. A feeling of intrusion. His body being forcibly changed.
Then the pain spread outward from his skull — into his skeleton. It began at the spine and moved like fire along every single bone. Every bone was burning, being torn apart and reshaped by some invisible force.
He heard his own skeleton creaking. He heard the sound of muscle fibre tearing, healing, tearing again.
He wanted to scream, but could not make a sound. He wanted to struggle, but his body was completely immobile. All he could do was remain fully conscious, bearing every second of it, feeling his body being remade piece by piece.
Time ceased to have meaning.
After an unknowable interval, the pain finally eased slightly.
"First procedure complete."
A cold synthetic voice sounded in his mind.
"Magnificat implantation successful. Estimated recovery period: three hours. During this period, you will receive the second procedure."
Before Dantioch had even processed the words, he felt his chest cavity being opened.
Cold air made direct contact with his organs. The sensation of cold nearly broke him entirely. He felt the mechanical arms working inside his chest cavity. He felt the unfamiliar organ being placed slowly within him.
Two hundred and twenty hours. Just under ten days — and yet to those youths it felt like an eternity compressed into every minute.
Dantioch did not know how he had endured it. He only remembered the endless pain. The wounds cut open and sealed shut. The organs implanted and activated. The bones torn apart and rebuilt.
He remembered his consciousness approaching collapse time and time again in the pain, only to be pulled back each time by something deeper.
He remembered the cold synthetic voice sounding again and again in his mind, reporting the progress of each procedure.
"Furnace self-activation countdown..."
"Sinew Coil linking to nervous system..."
"Black carapace implantation prepared..."
He lost track of time entirely. When the last probe finally withdrew from the back of his neck, he no longer had any sense of how long had passed.
"Augmentation complete."
The cold synthetic voice.
Dantioch lost consciousness.
Dantioch opened his eyes.
The familiar blinding surgical light greeted him. The mechanical arms had retracted into the ceiling. The medical robot's optical lens was pointed at him.
He sat up in the augmentation pod and took stock of his body.
His eyeline was higher. The pod seemed to have gotten smaller. The ceiling seemed closer.
He stood. He had indeed grown — from one metre seventy to approximately two metres eighty.
A powerful frame. Strong, clean lines. Dense, fully developed muscle.
He closed his fist, and felt a force he had never known before moving through him.
Dantioch stood beside the augmentation pod and looked at the others still sealed shut — his comrades in the final stages of their own procedures.
Cassius was nearby, still lying in his pod, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed — clearly enduring the last of the pain.
Dantioch said nothing. He simply stood and waited.
Three hours later, Cassius opened his eyes.
He sat up in the pod, and the first thing his gaze found was the young giant standing beside him.
"You're awake."
Cassius's voice was saturated with exhaustion.
Dantioch nodded.
They looked at each other — taking in the other's visibly larger, broader frame, the depth in each other's eyes that comes only after extreme suffering.
"How do you feel?"
Dantioch asked.
Cassius was quiet for a second.
"Like I died once."
"That's exactly right."
Cassius stood, worked his body through a few movements, and felt the newborn strength in him.
When they walked out of the augmentation centre, they found two Iron Warriors waiting outside — far taller and more powerful than either of them.
Both wore custom Terminator armour. The foremost had armour that was almost absurdly large — immense and thick, the power fist comparable in scale to a Dreadnought's siege ram.
Forrix and Berossus stood in front of them, their gazes passing over the two new faces. They gave brief nods.
Dantioch and Cassius stood before the two senior warriors, and the excitement they felt was impossible to completely conceal.
The new recruits emerged one by one, awakening and coming outside, forming neat queues, waiting in silence.
Ten thousand candidates had survived what would normally have been a multi-year augmentation process. But only two thousand two hundred of them had truly become Astartes.
"Welcome to the Fourth Legion."
Forrix's voice was quiet.
"I am Forrix, Warsmith of the First Grand Company. This is Berossus, Warsmith of the Second Grand Company. From this point forward, you will train alongside us. The training will be brutal — more brutal than the augmentation procedures you just endured."
"You will experience countless deaths, countless suffering, countless collapses — but you must endure all of it. Because only then will you become true Iron Warriors."
"Now — follow the Iron Circle to the training terminals."
Dantioch and Cassius exchanged a glance, then followed the queue forward.
Dantioch and Cassius's performance was exceptional. From their very first training scenario, they demonstrated combat capability and tactical command on par with veteran Iron Warriors.
Dantioch in particular was not only outstanding in command — in defensive operations and siege warfare he was simply in a class of his own.
Outside the training terminal, Perturabo stood before the holographic display, watching the training data of every recruit.
Two hundred and twenty-one thousand three hundred youths. Twenty-two stages of genetic surgery. Twenty-two thousand had succeeded in the end.
The rest had survived. Over the months ahead they would undergo genetic calibration and adaptive training, then be integrated in batches into the auxiliary forces and Iron Custodian system.
And these twenty-two thousand were dying, again and again, under his watch.
Forrix and Berossus stood behind him, watching the data alongside him.
"Father — their performance has exceeded my expectations."
A note of genuine surprise ran through Forrix's voice.
"I assumed the new recruits would need a long time to adapt to this kind of training. But some of them have already matched the veterans' pace."
"Especially Dantioch and Cassius — they were the first to survive the augmentation, and their performance since has been exceptional."
Berossus added from nearby.
Perturabo nodded.
"The youngest of them entered the academies at four years old. The education they received was more complete, more systematic, than anything you had when you were young. They know what discipline is. What obedience means. What sacrifice costs."
He paused, eyes resting on the constantly shifting numbers across the display.
"But this is only the beginning. The real tests are ahead."
Forrix was quiet for a second, then asked:
"Father — do you truly intend to send them back to the Great Crusade in three months?"
Perturabo turned his head and looked at him.
Forrix hesitated slightly.
He wouldn't have framed a question this way before. An Astartes wouldn't ordinarily feel this kind of emotion. But since Perturabo's return, something new had grown inside the Iron Warriors.
"I'm worried they won't be ready yet..."
"You understand better than almost anyone what comes after becoming an Astartes."
Perturabo said nothing more.
But Forrix and Berossus both lowered their heads. It was the first time they had ever quietly, wordlessly, pushed back against him — even this slightly.
"They will die. Wherever there is war, death is unavoidable."
Perturabo turned to face them both.
"That is precisely why I am putting them through this training — not to torment them, but to make them stronger, more resilient, more capable of surviving on a real battlefield."
"Three months is sufficient. You went to war without even having time to adjust first."
"You had no choice then. But now, everything is different."
"Forrix. Berossus. Don't forget the Iron Warriors' duty. Humanity needs you."
The two of them were quiet for a long moment. Then they raised their heads, gave Perturabo a salute, and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?"
Forrix looked back.
"Father — our rest period ended a while ago. We need to get back to training. We can't let a bunch of new recruits outperform us."
The corner of Perturabo's mouth shifted — barely upward.
Calliphone had rarely seen that expression on his face.
Training continued. The veterans, now two months in, began training alongside the recruits.
Forrix served as overall commander. Berossus was his deputy. Their opponents: renegade Astartes Legions.
Nineteen renegade Legions. Three hundred and fifty thousand traitor Astartes, equipped with heavy weapons, armoured assets, and Titan support.
The Iron Warriors, veterans and recruits combined, numbered only thirty-two thousand — also equipped with heavy weapons, armour, and Titan support. But compared to the traitors, their firepower was a fraction of what faced them.
They were about to begin a gruelling defensive campaign.
Cassius and Dantioch were assigned to Forrix's assault company.
"This campaign's difficulty is at least a hundredfold what came before."
Forrix stood in the temporary command post, looking out at the twenty-two officers assembled before him.
His gaze fell to the tactical map.
"Our advantage is that we know their tactical patterns. We know their weaknesses. We know how to counter their assaults. And we are on the defensive."
"But we need to hold for three years — and reinforcements may never arrive."
Forrix stated the central problem plainly. This simulated campaign was as close to a hopeless scenario as training got.
They hadn't even had time to construct a proper fortress. The traitors had already encircled them.
Holding out for a month in these conditions would be the absolute limit. Three years was simply impossible.
Forrix issued rapid orders to the assembled officers.
Twenty-two officers answered in unison, then turned and left.
Cassius and Dantioch were on their way to their assigned position.
"How are you feeling?"
Dantioch asked.
"Like I'm in a dream."
Cassius replied.
"What kind of dream?"
"A real one."
Cassius's expression deepened.
"I can no longer tell what is real and what is virtual. These battles, these deaths, this pain — it's all too real. Sometimes when I wake up, I wonder whether I'm still inside a training scenario, whether this is just another rebirth after another death."
Dantioch said nothing. He felt the same.
"Father said that's the point."
Dantioch said.
"To make us unable to tell the difference. To have us experience death countless times in the virtual — so that in the real world we value life more, guard against death more, hold on to survival with greater conviction."
Dantioch looked out over a battlefield already hazed with smoke, then turned to Cassius, a faint trace of a smile on his face.
"Perhaps one day the two of us will die on a battlefield just like this one."
"Then let's hope we die for something worth dying for."
The campaign had been running for seventy-two hours.
The assault company had lost a third of its strength on the first day.
They had slashed through the enemy's lines, destroying three artillery positions, blowing apart two Titans, and killing more than two thousand renegade Astartes. But on the fourth day, they were surrounded.
Five thousand renegade Astartes closed in from every direction, trapping them in a stretch of rubble. No reinforcements. No resupply. No route out.
Dantioch stood at the highest point of the ruins, watching the frenzied tide of enemies approaching, watching his brothers falling one by one. A sense of powerlessness welled inside him.
The five-hundred-strong assault company was down to fewer than two hundred.
But he did not retreat.
"Brothers."
His voice carried through the company's vox-network.
"This is our final hour. But we will not surrender. We will not flee. We will not give up. We will fight to the last moment, kill as many of the enemy as we can, and make our deaths count for something."
"We are Iron Warriors!"
Dantioch charged first, straight into the traitors.
"Steel without and steel within!"
The remaining warriors roared together and threw themselves at the oncoming tide.
Cassius and Dantioch fought side by side.
Their bolt guns had run dry long ago. They were reduced to power swords and axes, fighting hand to hand. Their power armour was fractured across its entire surface. Blood ran from countless wounds. Their bodies had reached the absolute limit — only the Furnace's activation kept them upright.
But they kept fighting.
"Dantioch!"
Cassius shouted.
Dantioch turned. A Possessed Warrior was lunging at him — its bloated three-and-a-half-metre frame radiating malign energy, power axe raised high.
Dantioch didn't hesitate. He threw himself at it.
The power axe came down onto his shoulder, nearly severing his entire left arm. But simultaneously, his power sword drove into the Possessed Warrior's heart.
"Die, traitor!"
He roared and twisted the blade, shredding the thing's chest cavity entirely.
More enemies pressed in. Dantioch watched his brothers fall one by one. Four Gastrin-pattern warriors tore Cassius apart.
An Imperial Fists centurion drove a power fist into Dantioch and knocked him flat — but in his final moment Dantioch drove his power sword through the centurion's chest.
He lay on the ground, looking up at a blood-red sky, feeling life draining out of him. The Furnace's last reserves had been spent.
The bodies of traitors were heaped around him.
"Steel with... out... and..."
He tried to force the words out, broken syllable by syllable — but a surge of traitors screamed forward and beat him into nothing.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back outside the training terminal. A medical robot was injecting something into the back of his neck.
He stood. Cassius was nearby, also newly awake.
"Looks like we lost."
Dantioch said.
"The commander is still fighting. We haven't lost yet."
Cassius replied.
"Fair point."
The two looked at each other, and suddenly, unexpectedly, they laughed.
The third month. The veterans' training entered its final phase.
No longer purely combat — the scenarios were more complex now.
Perturabo stood before the holographic display, watching the training data of every son.
Their training assignments varied widely. Infiltration and reconnaissance for some. Decapitation strikes for others. Defensive actions, rear-guard withdrawals — the Logic Engine had designed bespoke training programmes tailored to each individual's profile.
"My Lord."
The Logic Engine's voice broke the silence.
"Recruit Dantioch has completed his twenty-second training round. Comprehensive score exceeds the veteran average. Recommend placement into the officer development track."
Perturabo's gaze moved to Dantioch's training data.
Twenty-two rounds. Average deaths per round: three point five. Average kills per round: one hundred and forty-seven. Tactical decision accuracy rate: ninety-three point five percent. Command capability and close-combat capability assessment: both rated S.
A born commander.
"Recruit Cassius has completed his twenty-second training round. Comprehensive score approaches the veteran average. Recommend placement into Terminator assault company priority development track."
Perturabo looked further.
Cassius. Twenty-two rounds. Average deaths per round: five point two. Average kills per round: one hundred and fifty-three. Tactical decision accuracy rate: seventy-six percent. Command capability: B-plus. Close-combat capability assessment: S.
"Continue observation."
"Yes, My Lord."
Calliphone came to stand beside him.
"They're exceptional."
Perturabo nodded, his expression distant.
"In two months, they will return to the Great Crusade. When they do, they will face real enemies and real battlefields. Some of them will die. Some will survive. Some will become heroes. Some will die without a name to their death."
"But whatever the outcome — under the name Iron Warriors, they will campaign across the galaxy and save humanity."
Calliphone looked at Perturabo. The lines of his face were softer than she expected.
"You've changed so much, Abo."
Perturabo turned his head.
"The you from before wouldn't have cared about any of this. You would only have focused on your own research and creation, your own plans."
"You wouldn't have cared about people's feelings, wouldn't have cared about their fear, wouldn't have cared about their deaths."
"Apart from me and Andros, you almost never paid attention to anyone at all."
She paused, eyes resting on the training data.
"But now you finally have these feelings."
Perturabo was quiet for a long time.
"I simply don't want my Legion to be outdone in the Great Crusade."
"I don't want my brothers looking down on me in that regard. They are my sons. I dislike embarrassment."
Calliphone said nothing. She simply reached over and gently took his hand.