For those who faltered, the results were catastrophic. Some lost themselves within the endless battles of the past, unable to discern reality from the echoes of history. Others succumbed entirely, their minds twisted into gibbering madness or dulled into idiocy. At worst, they became berserk monstrosities, driven solely by an insatiable urge to kill. And in rare cases—so rare that it had become the subject of whispered legend—an aspirant might glimpse something far greater.
The strongest, those with wills like iron, might experience the memories of the Primarchs themselves. To stand, even in a dream, upon the battlefields of the Great Crusade was a sacred honor. But the odds of surviving such an experience were near non-existent. Those who did rarely returned as the same men they once were. Kayvaan sighed, rubbing his temple. "So, we've barely begun and already lost eleven."
"From a statistical standpoint, this is a remarkable success," Bell countered. "Even among the oldest Chapters, failure rates are significantly higher. You should not be disappointed."
"I'm not disappointed," Kayvaan replied. "Just cautious. This is only the first step. There will be more losses in the months to come. The surgeries, the enhancements… even with our adjustments, death is inevitable."
"Tribulation and hardship are necessary," Chaplain Marius intoned. "Loss and pain are part of the path to glory. It is the Emperor's will, and we must bear it."
Kayvaan nodded, exhaling slowly before shifting his focus. "What about the warriors we just brought back? How are they faring?"
Bell's augmetic eye whirred as he reviewed the data. "Zero casualties. Their performance has exceeded expectations. Their mental fortitude is exceptional. Based on all available metrics, they are ideal candidates. I strongly recommend formalizing recruitment efforts in that planet—establishing a permanent outpost would significantly strengthen our Chapter's foundation."
Kayvaan gave a small nod. "Marius and I have already started laying the groundwork. It's clear now—recruiting from advanced worlds is a mistake. Civilized warfare is too sanitized. Modern soldiers kill by pulling a trigger, by pressing a button from the safety of a command center. They don't smell blood. They don't earn their kills. A warrior must struggle, must bleed, must understand battle in its purest form. We'll adjust our recruitment ratios accordingly." He then turned his gaze toward Captain Grant. "And our ship?"
"The vessel itself is sound," Grant replied crisply. "Minor technical issues have been dealt with, and the crew is beginning to acclimate. However, combat readiness remains a concern. The gunners lack live-fire experience. If we were to engage in a fleet battle, our chances of victory would be slim. We need training simulations—preferably live drills."
Kayvaan exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. He could already feel the impending headache. He understood the issue well enough—funding. It was always funding. Launching both the Ebony Shadow and Black Rose had already placed a severe strain on their resources. The Black Rose, a small exploration vessel, was relatively manageable, but the Ebony Shadow—a Lunar-class cruiser—was a different beast entirely. Its operational costs were astronomical, even in routine void travel. Once they engaged the warp drive, every moment spent navigating the Immaterium drained colossal amounts of energy, and that was before even considering battle.
War was a hungry machine, and its appetite was measured in shells, plasma charges, and voidship-grade ordnance. Every round fired was a mountain of Thrones burned away. The Age of the Imperium was no different—every cannon blast was a king's ransom in raw material and manpower. And yet, they couldn't afford not to train. Elite gunners were forged through endless practice, honed by firing round after round until their instincts were sharpened to perfection. Without live drills, their gunners would be untested, and untested men died quickly in real engagements. Kayvaan sighed. "Once we return, I'll arrange for a resupply," he said. "But I'll be frank, Captain—at our current financial state, I can only authorize a base-level ammunition allotment for the next six months."
Grant's expression tightened. "With all due respect, my Lord, that's not nearly enough," he said, irritation creeping into his otherwise measured tone. "Training requires live fire. A lot of live fire."
"I know, Captain, but we're stretched thin. Right now, our only viable source of revenue is Reach, and it's a garden world—not exactly an economic powerhouse. It lacks commercial infrastructure, and heavy industry is practically nonexistent. The only real commodity it has is picturesque scenery." Kayvaan leaned forward, meeting Grant's gaze. "I need you to be patient. The next few years will be dedicated to industrializing the sector, but we have to start with infrastructure. Until then, every resource we gain will be funneled back home to bolster its production capabilities. Once that's in place, we'll begin large-scale arms manufacturing, shipbuilding, and munitions production. When that happens, you'll have more shells than you know what to do with."
Grant exhaled sharply but nodded. "Understood, my Lord," he said. "I look forward to that day."
That day, as it turned out, was still years away. For the next decade, Kayvaan poured his focus into the twin pillars of industrialization and militarization. Under his guidance, the Reach system underwent a total transformation. The Ferrum United Metallurgical & Mining Corporation became a colossus of industry, dominating the system's asteroid belt and extracting vast quantities of raw materials. More mines meant more metal. More factories meant more weapons. More people meant a larger workforce. And a stronger government meant tighter control over it all.
Under Kayvaan's iron will, his territory evolved into a single, vast, efficient war machine. It was not a fast process. But by the dawn of the 40th Millennium, far away from the Terra, a new power stirred—the rumbling engine of a warband preparing for the battles yet to come.
***
A slender leg, its elegant curves accentuated by the intricate embroidery of the fabric, stepped out from the spacecraft's hatch. Without hesitation, the rest of the figure followed—a young woman draped in opulent, layered garments that had no place in a backwater like Muddrift Hive. As Anjie's foot touched the ground, the recent rainfall made itself known. The damp, unstable soil swallowed the heel of her shoes, sinking it into the muck. Her already sour mood darkened. "What a miserable place!" she huffed, taking another step with obvious displeasure. "It's nothing but a filthy, festering mud pit. My shoes are going to rot in this sludge! And these are new! The master gave them to me!"
"This is Muddrift Hive, Anjie—a festering mud pit drifting through the void. Maybe next time, you'll remember not to wear high heels." The voice came from the woman stepping down behind her, clad in the simple white robes of a Sister of the Adepta Sororitas.
"You could have landed somewhere dry—like, I don't know, a spaceport?" Anjie shot back.
"There are no spaceports on Muddrift Hive." Elizabeth shrugged.