Embedded Files
THe Wonder
THe Wonder
The Future in Iron
The Future in Iron
The audience chamber of the Praetorium Imperialis bore the scars of the Blood Angels’ rampage. Though the worst of the damage had been cleared, the scent of scorched stone still clung to the air, mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the forges beyond the city walls. The banners of Ultramar hung once more, unstained but stiff from hasty repairs, while the sigils of the city’s governance remained torn and charred.
Delegatus Latulae stood at the center of the chamber, his blue and gold armor immaculate despite the ruin around him. Before him, seated upon a reinforced dais, was Governor Hieronymus Vhal, his once-ceremonial robes now those of a man at war with his own ruin. His voice, weary yet still commanding, filled the hall.
"We need more aid, Delegatus. The scavvy slums are nothing but ash, their occupants either slaughtered or fled. Our walls were torn open; the sick houses are overrun. The survivors need shelter. The forges require workers. If Novus Konorvilla is to endure, I must have more hands, more material—"
Latulae raised a gauntleted hand. The Governor fell silent, though frustration darkened his eyes. The Ultramarine's voice was calm, measured, absolute.
"The city endures, Governor, but it will not do so as a starving husk. The destruction here is tragic, yes, but focusing solely on what was lost blinds us to what must come next. The wounds of Novus Konorvilla will be healed in time—but only if the lifeblood of industry flows unhindered."
Vhal leaned forward, his knuckles tightening against the armrest of his seat. "And what, exactly, do you propose?"
Latulae turned, gesturing to a massive dataslate held by one of his aides. The hololithic projector activated, displaying a vast map of the Wastelands, dotted with the black marks of mining operations. A red line arced from the city, weaving through the wastes, linking the forges of Novus Konorvilla to the mines that had once sustained them.
"The Magna Ferrica Arteria," Latulae announced. "A great arterial transport link. The mines of the Wasteland yield iron and other metals of the highest grade, but the difficulties of transport limits our ability to fully exploit it. The herds of laborers, the unreliable convoys—they slow us. This rail will change that. It will run directly from the mines to the city’s metalworking districts, allowing a constant flow of refined ore to fuel industry, to fuel the city's rebirth. What we create here will outlast the scars of this war."
Governor Vhal exhaled, rubbing his forehead. "And you expect me to pull men from reconstruction for this? My people—"
"Will have no future if the forges fall silent," Latulae interrupted, his voice steel. "You ask for aid, but I offer you something greater—a foundation upon which this city will not merely survive, but ascend. The Magna Ferrica Arteria is not a choice, Governor. It is necessity."
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the hololith. Finally, Vhal sank back into his chair, a slow nod of reluctant acceptance.
"Then let it be done," he said. "But do not forget the living, Delegatus. This city must be more than just metal and war."
Latulae allowed himself the barest flicker of a smile. "The living will prosper when they have a future worth fighting for."
And with that, the work began.
The Calculus of Steel
The Calculus of Steel
The Mechanicum Surveys the Route of the Magna Ferrica Arteria
The Wastelands stretched out before them—an expanse of scorched earth and jagged rock, its veins of iron hidden beneath layers of ashen dust. The wind howled between the canyons, dry and electric, a whisper of past conflicts still embedded in the land. Magos Vortan Kall stood upon an outcropping of obsidian-like stone, his crimson robes caught in the wind, the mechanical tendrils of his servo-harness twitching with restless activity.
"Assessment." His voice, devoid of organic inflection, cut through the vox-link.
A dozen figures moved in concert below, their forms partially obscured by shifting clouds of dust and data projections—Thallax cohorts, their heavy augmetic limbs leaving deep impressions in the rock as they conducted their geomantic scans. Skull-drones flitted between them, red ocular sensors casting beams of light across the barren ground.
A burst of Binharic cant crackled through the vox as a survey officer responded.
"Tectonic stability within acceptable parameters. Ore density—optimal. Minor seismic instability detected along Route Sigma-23, requiring additional reinforcement protocols. Initial projection: efficient traversal of mass cargo transit within thirty-two cycles of completion."
Magos Kall processed the data as it streamed into his mind.
"Adjust reinforcement calculations. Load-bearing stratum must support Titan-class contingencies."
There was a brief pause before the Skitarii officer responded. "Titan-class contingencies?"
"Do not question."
Kall turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the ruined walls of Novus Konorvilla barely breached the dust-laden air. The Magna Ferrica Arteria would serve its stated purpose, of that he had no doubt. But its potential applications extended far beyond the Governor's limited scope. This was not simply a conduit for ore—it was a bridge for something greater. The Omnissiah's will would be realized in ways even the Ultramarines could not yet foresee.
As if sensing his unspoken commands, the Myrmidon Secutor standing beside him rumbled to life, his voice a mechanical growl.
"Shall we begin site preparation, Magos?"
Kall gave a curt nod. "Initiate excavation. The rail must be completed. And so must our work beneath it."
The Forge of Rebirth
The Forge of Rebirth
Ultramarine Oversight of the Labor Crews
The construction zone was a maelstrom of ordered chaos. Hundreds of Imperial laborers, cog-helmed Mechanicum overseers, and servo-constructs moved across the barren expanse, each assigned to a precise function in the grand task of laying the Magna Ferrica Arteria’s foundation. The clang of hammers, the hiss of plasma torches, and the grinding whir of heavy-lift servitors created an industrial symphony that rang across the Wasteland.
From an elevated command post, Delegatus Latulae surveyed the work. His Invictarus Suzerains stood at attention behind him, their gold-chased armor catching the light of the forge-fires below. Ancient Trifanum, the Dreadnought, loomed nearby, his massive chassis anchored in a resting posture, optics dimly glowing as he observed the work unfold.
Beside Tarquinus, Legate-Captain Drevan of the City Garrison wiped the sweat from his brow. Unlike the Ultramarines, who bore their armor in full, Drevan and his men had stripped down to their duty uniforms, their faces lined with exhaustion.
"I won’t lie to you, Delegatus," Drevan muttered, gazing down at the laborers struggling to unload a supply train of girders. "We lost too many good workers in the Night of Blood. The replacements are... less willing."
Latulae’s eyes followed the column of indentured workers, refugees pressed into Imperial service as part of their debt to the city. Their movements were sluggish, their shoulders hunched. The war had taken everything from them, and now they were tasked with building something they might never live to see completed.
The Hidden Arteries of the Omnissiah
The Hidden Arteries of the Omnissiah
Magos Kall and the Myrmidon Lord Begin Their Unseen Work Beneath the Magna Ferrica Arteria
Beneath the surface of the Wastelands, in the shifting gloom of dust and machine-lamp light, an entirely different kind of work was beginning. While the Ultramarines oversaw the great construction of the Magna Ferrica Arteria above, beneath the blasted rock and iron-rich soil, the Mechanicum labored for a purpose all their own.
Deep within a subterranean excavation chamber, Magos Vortan Kall stood motionless, his servo-claws folded before him, optics flickering as he processed the streams of data flooding his mind. He listened—not to the rhythmic pounding of surface laborers, nor to the rumble of industrial machinery—but to the voice of the Omnissiah speaking in cold, clinical logic.
To his right, a Myrmidon Secutor Lord loomed, a towering brute of war-forged augmetics and brutalist armor plating. His name had long since been purged from organic record—his designation was Prime-Executor Gheron-17, and he had shed his weak mortal concerns long before the compliance of this world.
"Excavation is proceeding on schedule," rumbled Gheron-17, his tri-vox emitter layering his words with an ironclad finality. "Your calculations were correct. The anomalies lie beneath this sector. The readings grow stronger."
Kall’s mechadendrites shifted, one of them extending to link with the floating auspex drones hovering around them. Information from deep-range seismic pulses scrolled across his visual overlay. The earth beneath their excavation zone was unnaturally dense, its mineral composition anomalous, its electromagnetic signatures distorted.
"This is not merely an ore deposit," Kall murmured. "This is something older."
The Mechanicum’s true objective had never been the mere construction of a rail line. The Magna Ferrica Arteria was an excuse, a project to justify their extended presence in this forsaken land. What they truly sought lay buried beneath the surface. Lost technology, ancient designs... perhaps even a fragment of the forgotten knowledge that could elevate the Omnissiah’s chosen to new heights.
Gheron-17’s phosphor-enhanced optics pulsed as he reviewed the data himself. His voice was calm, but laced with an undercurrent of hunger.
"We must proceed with greater discretion. The Ultramarines are disciplined, but they are not fools. Latulae will notice if too many of our assets are deployed beyond the rail’s necessities."
Kall did not shift his gaze. "The XIII are predictable. They believe in order, in the certainty of structure. As long as the Magna Ferrica Arteria rises, they will remain blind to what lies beneath."
One of the Thallax squads patrolling the dig-site marched into view, their massive augmented limbs shaking the cavern floor. They had been reassigned from the surface labor force to security detail within the excavation zone, their orders clear: No unauthorized personnel would descend into the tunnels beneath the rail line. None.
"And if the Ultramarines do look too closely?" Gheron-17 asked.
Kall did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned to the excavation site, watching as specialist servo-rigs drilled into the earth, their augers piercing into unknown depths.
The land beneath Novus Konorvilla had endured centuries of war, cataclysm, and decay. But some things—some secrets—never perished. They simply waited.
"Then we shall remind them why the Machine God’s will is eternal," Kall said at last, his voice devoid of emotion. "They have their mission. We have ours."
Beneath the Wasteland, the hidden arteries of the Omnissiah began to pulse once more.
The Bargain of Steel and Honor
The forge-temple deep within Novus Konorvilla hummed with a constant chorus of industry. The air was thick with the scent of burning oils and metallic dust, and the walls vibrated with the rhythmic pounding of servitor-operated hammers. Amidst the controlled chaos, Company Champion Tarquinus moved with purpose. His blue-and-gold armor, polished despite the scars of war, stood in stark contrast to the rust-red robes of the Mechanicum adepts who flitted about, adjusting controls, directing drones, and speaking in the harsh cant of Binharic.
At the heart of the chamber stood Magos Dominius Vortan Kall, a towering figure of bionics and esoteric machinery. His left arm had long since been replaced with a cluster of multi-jointed mechadendrites, each tipped with a different tool or weapon. His remaining organic eye, clouded and dull, barely moved as he regarded Tarquinus. The other eye—a glowing red augmetic—focused keenly on the Ultramarine.
Tarquinus halted before him, bringing his fist to his chest in the sign of the Aquila. “Magos Dominius Kall, I require your aid.”
The Magos did not respond immediately. Instead, a faint click and whir issued from his chestplate before his voice modulator crackled to life.
“Request: Clarify parameters.”
Tarquinus kept his stance firm. He was no diplomat, nor was he a scholar of the Mechanicum’s rituals, but he understood duty, and that would have to suffice.
“We march into Oligoterron Rex in search of vital knowledge—secrets locked away within the Peasant King’s domain. The Citadel in the sky remains an enigma, and we cannot allow its potential to remain in the hands of unworthy rulers. We must recover intelligence, and we must salvage anything of value.”
The Magos let out a series of static bursts, the Binary equivalent of contemplation. A few nearby adepts turned their heads, listening to the silent calculations running through their master’s noospheric cogitation.
After a moment, Kall inclined his head. “Hypothesis: The Peasant King has obtained fragments of Standard Template Constructs. Secondary Data: The Citadel may contain Dark Age technology. Logical Projection: Such knowledge must be secured.”
One of Kall’s mechadendrites twitched toward Tarquinus, its pincer claw opening and closing slowly. “Conditional Agreement: The Mechanicum shall march. Salvage obtained shall be assessed by Mechanicum personnel. Any technology deemed of greater significance to the Omnissiah shall be retained.”
Tarquinus exhaled slightly. He had expected as much. The Mechanicum would never march purely for Imperial ideals. They always required their price in knowledge.
“That will depend on what we find,” Tarquinus replied evenly. “I will not deny the Mechanicum its due, but relics of war that serve the Imperium belong to the Imperium.”
The Magos’s augmetic eye narrowed, whirring softly. “Clarification: What you deem ‘serviceable’ and what the Omnissiah decrees worthy are separate calculations.”
Tarquinus held his ground. “Then we will settle this as we always have. The will of the Emperor shall decide.”
A long pause followed. Then, with the slow grinding of servos, Kall extended a heavy claw. “Agreement: Terms accepted. The march to Oligoterron Rex begins.”
Tarquinus clasped the Magos’s claw in his gauntleted grip. There was no warmth in the gesture, no understanding beyond necessity. But it was done. The Ultramarines and the Mechanicum would march together. The hunt for knowledge—and for salvage—had begun.
The March of Steel
The March of Steel
Within the depths of the forge-temple, where the air shimmered with heat and the scent of burning metal, Magos Dominius Vortan Kall moved through his domain with the precision of a machine spirit. His mind pulsed with raw calculations, streams of data running through his noospheric cogitators. The mission had been agreed upon. Now came the assembly of his war assets.
He reached a towering command altar, a raised dais surrounded by control panels and hollowed-out servitor husks. Above him, vast manufactorum bays stretched into the darkness, the silhouettes of battle-automata looming in their rest states. As Kall interfaced with the control nexus, a surge of Binary crackled from his vocal modulator.
++Awaken the Cohorts.++
At once, the forge-altar responded. Mechanical arms detached from the ceiling, descending to grip the inert forms of the Thallax—heavily augmented cyborg warriors, their mortal frames long since stripped of weakness. Hydraulic clamps hissed as pressure seals disengaged, releasing the warriors from their charging alcoves. The cold blue glow of their ocular sensors flickered to life one by one.
The first Thallax to step forward was designated Alpha-DT92, a veteran of a thousand war zones, its battleplate a burnished brass with the red sigil of Kall’s forge-temple imprinted upon its chest. As it straightened, its heavy power bladed limbs whirred, recalibrating for deployment.
++Mission Parameters: Designated High Priority++ Kall transmitted, his thoughts cycling through the networked Thallax noospheres. ++Oligoterron Rex. Salvage and Secure. Additional Variables: Potential STC fragments. Potential Dark Age Relics. High probability of engagement with hostile biologics.++
The Thallax warriors received the data in perfect synchronization. No questions, no doubts—only obedience.
More warriors emerged from their alcoves, their weapons locking into place with heavy mechanical clicks. Lightning guns were powered up, linked into internal energy capacitors. Photon thrusters hummed to life, their deadly payloads primed. Heavy chainblades spun in rapid calibration tests, their teeth razor-sharp.
Beyond the Thallax, heavier constructs stirred. Castellax battle-automata, their hulking frames plated in Mechanicum-forged adamantium, began to lumber forward, their Mauler Bolt Cannons swiveling into deployment position. Their emotionless, red-lit sensor nodes pulsed as they synchronized with the Magos’s commands.
Kall turned from the awakening war-cohort, his mechadendrites flexing as he linked directly to the forge-temple’s fleet hanger.
++Deployment Order: Activate Transport Priority. Landers and Transports—Initiate Combat Readiness.++
In the void hangars above the city, great industrial cranes swung into motion, loading the Mechanicum’s war engines onto drop-ships and tracked Ordinatus transports. The great cogs of war turned, and the ancient engines of the Omnissiah prepared to march.
With one final glance at his assembled forces, Kall’s augmetic eye pulsed, and his voice modulator crackled once more.
++The Omnissiah wills it. We march.++
The Hidden Mandate
The Hidden Mandate
Deep within the vaults of the Mechanicum war-ark, where the hum of plasma reactors pulsed like a heartbeat, Magos Dominius Vortan Kall stood before a towering figure of iron and blood—Myrmidon Secutor Lord Varak Toleth.
Toleth loomed, his form a brutal fusion of flesh and war machinery. His armor, pitted and scarred from countless battles, bore the black and crimson sigils of the Ordo Reductor, his order of siege-breakers and annihilators. Four mechanical arms jutted from his frame, each armed with an executioner’s arsenal—graviton hammers, arc scourges, and twin-linked Volkite chargers. His augmetic faceplate, a death mask of polished brass, pulsed with the glow of internal reactors.
Neither warrior bowed. Such courtesies belonged to the weak-fleshed. Instead, they interfaced through the sacred language of the Omnissiah—streams of rapid Binaric Cant exchanged in flickering pulses of light and data across the noospheric network.
++The XIII seek salvage and knowledge of the citadel. This is their war. We are their tools.++ Kall transmitted.
++The XIII seek conquest. Their minds are trapped in linear purpose. They cannot grasp what lies hidden.++ Toleth replied, his vocoder crackling like static.
A long pause followed. Then Kall’s mechadendrites extended, their data-spikes piercing a nearby console. The screen before them flickered, revealing an encrypted feed—schematics drawn from the Darkest Dawn, the enigmatic citadel hanging in the sky above Oligoterron Rex.
++The Ultramarines desire access. We desire understanding.++
Toleth’s augmetic fingers twitched as he studied the data. Ancient corridors, buried vaults, power nodes long dormant. The Darkest Dawn was not simply a fortress—it was something far older, something built by hands beyond mortal knowledge.
++A prize worthy of the Omnissiah’s true children.++ Toleth finally conceded. ++The XIII will breach the gates. We shall walk beyond their sight.++
Kall’s optical lens pulsed. His mechadendrites flexed.
++Objectives designated. Secondary mission parameters initiated.++
A hidden command string was sent. Across the forge-temple, the Myrmidons received their new directive. Their role was twofold—aid the Ultramarines in their search, but above all else, uncover the citadel’s true secrets. If the XIII failed to claim them, the Mechanicum would.
And should the truth prove too dangerous for the warriors of Macragge to comprehend… the Myrmidons were more than willing to silence them.
Without another word, the two warriors turned and strode away, their war-cohorts already preparing for deployment. The Omnissiah’s will was absolute.
Internal Monologue of Magos Vortan Kall
Internal Monologue of Magos Vortan Kall
Data-stream parsing… cross-referencing… probabilistic outcomes generated.
The Ultramarines believe themselves masters of war. Efficient. Disciplined. Predictable. Astartes are creatures of process, bound to doctrine and their rigid hierarchy. They see war as a tool of compliance. I see war as an inevitability—a sequence to be executed, a calculation to be resolved.
Company Champion Tarquinus approaches with the certainty of one who assumes loyalty. He believes he commands. He believes his request is an order.
I grant it.
Not out of deference, nor respect. But because it suits my parameters.
Oligoterron Rex—a failed experiment in governance, a rotting carcass of feudal inefficiency. The Peasant King and his flock of meat-things squabble over scraps, over words like power and legacy. Legacy? A corruption of priority. The weak seek monuments to their existence, foolishly believing their insignificance can be erased by stone and metal. The Omnissiah cares nothing for such trivialities.
But the Citadel in the Sky… that is of interest. Unknown origin. Unfathomable purpose. A riddle that defies immediate calculation. And within the ruins of this world, scattered fragments of knowledge—Standard Template Constructs degraded beyond recognition, locked away by a king who does not understand the weapon he holds.
The Ultramarines seek salvage and information.
I seek ownership.
Tarquinus speaks with the arrogance of his kind, but he is not a fool. He knows he requires us. The XIII Legion lacks the Mechanicum’s expertise in reclamation. They are warriors, not artisans. He asks for my Thallax, for my Myrmidons. He assumes cooperation, unaware that my objectives extend beyond his comprehension.
My true directives will not be shared.
Salvage retrieval: Prioritize any artifacts of pre-Imperial origin. The Astartes will not have them.
Citadel analysis: Data must be extracted and secured before the XIII Legion comprehends its significance.
The Peasant King: If he possesses knowledge that must be acquired, I will acquire it. If he resists, he will be excised.
Toleth will see to it. He requires no instruction. He requires no hesitation. My Myrmidons will operate within the shadows of the Ultramarines' campaign. They will execute their function.
Tarquinus leaves, believing this meeting a success.
Let him believe it.
Finalizing parameters… adjusting calculations… probability of divergence: 86.3%.
Conclusion: War is an inevitability.
It is only a matter of when.
Magos Dominius Vortan Kall – The Seeker of the Deep Code
Magos Dominius Vortan Kall – The Seeker of the Deep Code
Designation: Magos Dominius Vortan Kall
Order: Ordo Reductor, Divisio Cybernetica (Allied to Legio Cybernetica)
Forge World of Origin: Xana II (Classified)
Current Allegiance: Allied Mechanicum Forces supporting the Ultramarines in Oligoterron Rex
Origins & Ascent
Vortan Kall was not born—he was assembled. His flesh, what little remains, was grown in a vat on the secretive forge world of Xana II, a dark and isolated world known for its experimental war constructs and forbidden technology. From the moment of his first activation, Kall was raised within the cold logic of the Ordo Reductor—the Mechanicum's brutal siege-breakers, whose philosophy dictated that knowledge was to be won through devastation, not diplomacy.
Excelling in logic-construct warfare and the optimization of battle automata, Kall ascended rapidly within his order, proving himself a master of destructive calculus. Where others in the Mechanicum sought only maintenance of the status quo, Kall sought rediscovery. He believed that lost knowledge of the Omnissiah should not simply be protected but reclaimed, by force if necessary.
His fascination with ancient technologies led him to the ranks of the Divisio Cybernetica, where he began conducting experiments on self-replicating machine spirits and deep-code encryption—an obsession that would define his work in the years to come.
The Logic of War
Kall does not see war as a means to an end, but as a logical process—an equation that must be solved. To him, every engagement is a sequence of variables to be refined, optimized, and executed with brutal efficiency. Under his command, Thallax cohorts march with inhuman precision, and Thanatar siege engines crush enemy defenses with pinpoint annihilation.
He is methodical in his approach, believing that true power is not in the crude application of force, but in understanding—an enemy’s weaknesses, a battlefield’s hidden opportunities, or a system’s latent potential. It is this mindset that makes him a master manipulator in the political landscape of the Mechanicum.
Though outwardly an ally of the Ultramarines, he sees their rigid doctrine as an impediment to true progress. The XIII Legion enforces order, but order alone is insufficient. There is knowledge to be won—hidden deep within Oligoterron Rex, within the ruined databanks of the citadel in the sky. And Kall intends to be the one to claim it.
The Hidden Mandate
Kall’s true mission, sanctioned by his superiors within the Divisio Cybernetica, is twofold:
Secure and study the secrets of the Darkest Dawn citadel. The Ultramarines seek access, but Kall seeks understanding. If the citadel's knowledge is beyond their comprehension, he will ensure it is never placed in their hands.
Locate and recover lost STCs or advanced technological remnants. The Peasant King and his cultists may hold knowledge of forbidden Mechanicum technologies, particularly in Titan modifications and cybernetic warfare. Kall considers it his duty to reclaim these artifacts, even if it means eliminating those who possess them.
To achieve these goals, Kall relies on his Myrmidon Secutor Lord, Varak Toleth, and the brutal cybernetic warriors under his command. Their allegiance to the Ultramarines is a means to an end—nothing more.
Personality & Methods
Relentless: Kall is utterly unsentimental, driven only by logic and purpose. He does not tolerate inefficiency, nor does he see morality as relevant to the pursuit of knowledge.
Coldly Manipulative: He understands the value of alliances but considers them temporary constructs. The Ultramarines may be useful allies now, but if they stand in the way of the Omnissiah’s will, they will be discarded like all inefficient variables.
Devoted to the Machine-God: Though some among the Mechanicum waver in their faith, Kall's belief in the Omnissiah is absolute. To him, knowledge is divinity, and to uncover the mysteries of lost technology is to touch the sacred.
War Cohort of Magos Dominius Kall
Thallax Cohorts: Advanced cybernetic soldiers, once human, now built for war. Their cold logic and brutal effectiveness make them the perfect instruments for Kall’s campaigns.
Myrmidon Secutors: Led by Lord Varak Toleth, these heavily augmented warriors are Kall’s enforcers. They ensure the Magos’ objectives are met—by any means necessary.
Thanatar Siege Automata: Armed with devastating plasma mortars, these massive war constructs serve as Kall’s instruments of annihilation. Their purpose is simple: to clear a path where words and diplomacy fail.
Legio Cybernetica Support: Kall maintains hidden contingents of Castellax and Domitar-class battle automata, waiting to be unleashed should the mission require overwhelming force.
Final Calculus
Final Calculus
Magos Dominius Vortan Kall does not believe in fate—only data and outcome. The Darkest Dawn, the mysteries of the Peasant King’s kingdom, the shifting allegiances in Oligoterron Rex—all of these are equations waiting to be solved.
And Kall will solve them.
Not for the Imperium.
Not for the Ultramarines.
But for the Omnissiah.
And if the Ultramarines stand in the way of his discoveries?
Then they too shall be optimized.
The Myrmidon Secutors of Magos Dominius Vortan Kall
The Myrmidon Secutors of Magos Dominius Vortan Kall
"War is not an art. War is not a passion. War is an equation, and we are the solution."
— Lord Varak Toleth, Myrmidon Secutor Prime
Origins & Doctrine
Origins & Doctrine
The Myrmidons are the cybernetic warrior-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, fearsome enforcers of the Machine-God’s will and relentless executors of destruction. Unlike the cold, calculating Tech-Priests who oversee industry and technological study, Myrmidons are forged in battle and exist solely to wage war in the name of the Omnissiah.
The Myrmidon Secutors—the warrior-philosophers of this martial order—are experts in the optimization of firepower and attritional warfare. Unlike the more mobile Thallax or the towering Battle Automata, the Secutors are siege-breakers, trained in the annihilation of fortified positions and the overwhelming application of force. To them, war is not about strategy—it is about the elimination of all obstacles in the most efficient manner possible.
They do not debate doctrine. They do not question objectives. They simply execute destruction.
Each Secutor undergoes extensive neuromechanical augmentation, replacing much of their organic tissue with armored exoskeletons, secondary cortex processors, and extensive weapons integration. They are walking arsenals, their bodies fused with graviton imploders, volkite chargers, phased plasma fusils, and rad-emitters, all seamlessly interfaced with their machine-minds. To the Myrmidons, battle is not fought with instinct or emotion—it is a sequence of cold, logical calculations, executed in real-time by their augmentic processors.
Service to Magos Dominius Kall
Service to Magos Dominius Kall
Under Magos Dominius Vortan Kall, the Myrmidons have become the hidden blade of his operations. While the Ultramarines see Kall as a pragmatic ally, they are unaware that the Myrmidons operate with their own classified objectives, known only to Kall and his closest inner circle.
Their goals are twofold:
Recover Forbidden Knowledge
The Ultramarines seek to secure the secrets of the Darkest Dawn citadel, but the Myrmidons have been instructed to acquire and retain any forbidden technology for the Mechanicum alone. If the Ultramarines' quest for knowledge conflicts with Kall’s priorities, the Myrmidons will intervene—silently, violently, and without hesitation.
Eliminate Complications
If an asset cannot be controlled, it must be destroyed. The Peasant King's faction and their religious sect, the Broken Crown, are rumored to hold knowledge of Titan modifications and pre-Imperial cybernetic designs. If such knowledge cannot be retrieved peacefully, purging is an acceptable alternative.
Kall trusts the Myrmidon Secutor Prime, Varak Toleth, to see these objectives through.
Myrmidon Secutor Prime Varak Toleth
Myrmidon Secutor Prime Varak Toleth
A towering figure clad in heavy Mechanicum warplate, Varak Toleth is more construct than human, his body a fusion of adamantium, gravitic suspensors, and arcane cortex nodes.
Before his ascension into the ranks of the Secutors, Toleth was a forge-warmaster, responsible for securing lost technology from abandoned manufactorums and pre-Imperial ruins. His brutality in execution became legend among the Ordo Reductor, and it was said that his warriors never left survivors when reclaiming valuable assets. This history of ruthless efficiency caught the attention of Magos Kall, who saw in Toleth an enforcer who would not be bound by the Ultramarines’ rigid moral framework.
Toleth speaks rarely, preferring to communicate through bursts of binary cant and direct neural link uplinks. Unlike Kall, who revels in the intricacies of discovery, Toleth sees all knowledge as a weapon—one to be wielded by those strong enough to claim it. If an enemy holds something of value, they must be exterminated. If an ally becomes an obstacle, they must be removed.
His body is fused with triple cortex processors, allowing him to conduct real-time ballistic calculations, and he is armed with dual photon thruster lances—exotic weapons capable of burning through Terminator armor in an instant. His rad-saturated warplate makes him immune to pain, and his graviton destabilizer allows him to crush enemy fortifications in a matter of moments.
For Varak Toleth, there is no diplomacy. There is only war.
The Myrmidon Order Under Kall
The Myrmidon Order Under Kall
The Myrmidons under Kall’s command are divided into two primary sects:
Myrmidon Secutors – Heavy infantry specializing in advanced firepower, energy weapons, and fortress-breaking tactics. They march forward relentlessly, obliterating anything in their path with graviton, volkite, and phased plasma weapons. They are calm, remorseless, and optimized for destruction.
Myrmidon Destructors – Even more heavily modified than their Secutor counterparts, the Destructors are true siege specialists, armed with arcane volkite and radiation weapons, capable of reducing entire city blocks to irradiated ruin. Unlike the Secutors, who retain some degree of logical autonomy, the Destructors are near-mindless, their emotion centers long since burned out by their extensive augmentation.
Together, they form a merciless war cadre, answering only to Kall and their own brutal logic.
The Secret War in Oligoterron Rex
The Secret War in Oligoterron Rex
Though they fight alongside the Ultramarines, the Myrmidons hold their own agenda—one they do not intend to share with their so-called allies.
They will scour the ruins of Oligoterron Rex for any fragment of lost technology, disregarding all obstacles in their path.
They will observe the Ultramarines closely, ensuring that the Astartes do not claim technology that should rightfully belong to the Mechanicum.
They will determine whether the Peasant King, his followers, or any other faction holds forbidden knowledge that could compromise the Mechanicum’s control over its sacred lore.
And if the time comes, they will not hesitate to turn their weapons on those who stand in their way—Astartes or otherwise.
The Citadel in the Sky, the Peasant King’s secrets, and the final fate of the planet—all of these are variables. But in the end, the Myrmidons will see their mission calculated, executed, and completed with absolute finality.
Because that is their function.
And the Omnissiah’s will is absolute.
Strike Force Vindicta
Strike Force Vindicta
The city of Novus Konorvilla still bore the scars of the Night of Blood. Though its streets no longer ran crimson, and the guttural howls of the rampaging Blood Angels had long since faded, the air remained heavy with the weight of loss. From the heights of the Praetorium Imperialis, the smoke rising from scattered fires still caught in the wind like tattered prayers to uncaring gods.
Within the fortress-like walls of the city’s strategic command, Delegatus Latulae stood in silence before a reinforced glass viewport, arms folded behind his back. Behind him, cogitators whispered and relayed missives, logistical updates, and vox reports in a ceaseless litany of war. It was here, amid the low hum of order reborn, that Master of Armour Marius Lyx entered.
He came not with ceremony, but with the precision of a man who believed that discipline was its own announcement. Clad in his deep cobalt artificer plate, his helm mag-locked to his hip, Lyx carried the scent of unburnt promethium and fresh machine oil. He bowed his head only slightly—enough for respect, not submission.
"Strike Force Vindicta is operational," he said, voice clipped and mechanical through the vox amplifiers built into his gorget. "The column is ready to move."
Latulae nodded once, though his eyes remained on the horizon. “The Mechanicum are committed to the Magna Ferrica Arteria,” he began. “Their focus is on securing the lines of industry and transport. But for us... for the XIII... we must shape the wider region. The Peasant King spreads his shadow again, and the region cannot be left to fester.”
He turned to face Lyx fully. “You have command, Marius. Your methods are direct, and the hour calls for such measures.”
Marius inclined his head further this time. “Then I will bring order,” he replied, his voice calm and assured. “The Emperor’s steel, guided by Ultramar wisdom.”
Latulae handed him a data-slate—a strategic map marked with growing zones of unrest, suspected cult activity, and resource caches. “Strike for the heart of resistance. Burn out the roots of insurrection. Secure salvage and intelligence, especially anything related to the Citadel above.”
Behind the thick hulls of the city’s inner gates, Strike Force Vindicta stirred. The predator tank Vindicta, its Volkite Macro-Saker glowing with caged fire, rumbled with restrained violence. Rhinos purred low in readiness, their turrets swiveling like sentries seeking penance. The Suzerain, their indigo armor burnished like the blades at their hips, stood in a disciplined line beside their Land Raider Proteus, while Veteran Squad Bovanius reviewed weapons rituals within the belly of their Spartan.
Lyx marched past them all, inspecting every cable coupling, every armour plate. He demanded control, and his expectations were not suggestions—they were law. As he passed Company Champion Tarquinus, the warrior offered a sharp salute, which Lyx returned with a nod. There was tension between them—not distrust, but a divergence in style. Tarquinus led with inspiration; Lyx, with imposition.
And still, their goals aligned.
As the sun crept higher and the gates of Novus Konorvilla opened, Strike Force Vindicta rolled forward in phalanx formation. The city behind them began the slow work of rebuilding, its people struggling beneath toil and hope. But out here, in the fractured wilds of Oligoterron Rex, there was only war, salvage, and secrets buried in ash.
Marius Lyx sat within the command throne of his predator, fingers gripping the targeting cogitator controls, his eyes cold and fixed.
"Bring the storm," he muttered into the vox. "And let it be under our command."
"The Coil of Revelation"
"The Coil of Revelation"
The meeting chamber of the Serpent Lodge was deep within the ruined hab-tunnels beneath Sector Argelon, a place forgotten even by the scavvies and rats. The walls were smooth-cut ferrocrete, etched in symbols that shifted when not watched—Alpha Legion cipher, ancient warp sigils, truths twisted into riddles. Green flame from wall sconces danced with an unnatural cadence, casting warped shadows on the gathered figures.
Codicier Aquilonius stood in full plate, his helm held beneath his arm. He was the only Ultramarine present. Around him were robed figures in faded livery—Alpha Legion operatives, a Word Bearer clad in borrowed silence, and even a Blood Angel whose once-red armour had been scorched black and carved with forked serpents.
At the centre of the gathering, Commander Epsilon stepped forward, his voice a calm blade cutting through the air.
“Brothers,” he began, “we meet under the aegis of revelation. The Night of Blood was no accident, no mere madness. The Red Thirst was stoked, twisted. The Serpent whispered not just to mortals… but to gene-forged minds.”
Aquilonius stiffened. He said nothing, but his hand tightened slightly around the haft of his force staff.
Epsilon turned, gesturing to a hololith which activated, shimmering into focus. A slow, grainy loop of pict-footage played—blurry, flickering imagery from a ruined district of Novus Konorvilla. Through smoke and collapsing masonry, hulking figures moved. Their forms were grotesque mockeries of Astartes—not quite human, bodies bloated or thinned in unnatural ways, ceramite warped around veins of warp-born light, but their didn't stride, they slithered.
One of them turned to the lens. Its faceplate had been torn away, revealing a jaw disjointed, slavering, and very familiar.
“Brother Merodach,” whispered Aquilonius.
A name from the Pectus Tactical Squad, one of the brothers who had gone missing that night. A loyal son of Macragge. Now, consumed.
“Your brothers,” said Epsilon, “alongside ours. They were not lost to death, but transformed. A ritual buried in the substrata of the city. A pact made by other hands. The Snake did not devour them—it made them vessels.”
Aquilonius could barely breathe. The room spun. The lodge meeting continued, voices murmuring about how these possessed monstrosities were being kept near Terra Regis, deep within sanctified vaults of the Broken Crown. The Alpha Legion had allowed the rampage. Directed it. Shepherded it. All for what? To tear down the Peasant King and create .... order...?
The meeting adjourned.
He left in silence.
Outside, beneath the dying stars and the flickering lights of the city’s battered spires, Aquilonius walked alone. His breath came in slow, ragged pulls. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the snake-sigil pendant around his neck.
He wanted to tear it off.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stared down a rusted thoroughfare, toward the sprawl of Novus Konorvilla’s fractured skyline. His mind swirled.
His brothers lived, in a sense. If that word could be used for what they had become.
He could not tell Latulae. Not yet. He needed proof. Needed understanding. If there was a way to reverse it—to save any of them—he would find it.
And if not…
He would burn the creatures himself.
He looked up to the stars again. For a moment, he thought he saw them shift, like serpents coiling behind the void.
“Knowledge is the path,” he whispered to himself. “But truth... may be poison.”
He turned, and walked back into the shadows.
“No Way Back”
“No Way Back”
Subterranean Lair, Beneath Sector Argelon – Novus Konorvilla
Codicier Aquilonius stepped into the cold dark once more, the serpentine archway behind him closing with a hiss of static and encrypted servos. This time he did not hesitate. His footsteps rang harder on the stone.
Commander Epsilon stood waiting, arms folded, flanked by two Alpha Legionnaires whose armour shimmered with chameleonic distortion. The green flame of the wall sconces bathed the chamber in an oily glow.
"You shouldn't be here again, Codicier," Epsilon said calmly. "You're unraveling. Everyone can see it."
"I'm here because I need answers," Aquilonius snapped. His voice echoed, cracking with suppressed fury. "You said this was for understanding. For control. But you’ve created monsters—my brothers turned into blasphemies! I saw what’s locked beneath the Broken Crown. You let them become that."
Epsilon gave a slow sigh, like a tutor disappointed in a once-promising student.
"And yet, you're still here," he replied. "Still speaking the tongue of the Serpent. Still carrying the weight of truths the others would flinch from."
"I came...," Aquilonius growled, "for the safety of my Legion. Not to become part of this… perversion."
Epsilon stepped forward, lowering his voice like a dagger to the heart. “You think your Delegatus can protect you? Latulae is many things—honourable, dutiful—but he cannot win this war by virtue alone. You’ve seen what’s coming. The Peasant King, the Citadel, the fracture between Legions. This isn’t about corruption. It’s about control."
"You used me," Aquilonius snarled.
"No," said Epsilon, voice as calm as ever. "We gave you the only truth that matters. And now you want out. I understand. But let me be clear—speak a word of this to Latulae, and everything you've done—everything you've touched—will fall under suspicion. The truth will not save you. It will bury you."
Aquilonius stared long at him. No retort came. No righteous fury. Just silence.
Epsilon turned away. "Go. But choose your path carefully, Codicier. There is no neutral ground now."
Beneath the Damaged Vox Tower, Eastern Sector – Novus Konorvilla
Beneath the Damaged Vox Tower, Eastern Sector – Novus Konorvilla
The vox-link crackled to life, ghosting through emergency channels. He couldn’t go to Latulae. Not yet. But Champion Tarquinus—Tarquinus was pragmatic. Brutal. Loyal. And he still remembered the fallen.
“—Tarquinus. It’s Aquilonius,” he said through clenched teeth. “We need to speak. Off-record. Privately.”
A long pause followed. Then the signal clicked in reply.
“This had best be worth the breath, Librarian.”
Aquilonius hesitated, then spoke the words he had no hope of unsaying.
“I know what happened to Pectus Squad. I know what became of Merodach. And it was no madness. No Red Thirst. They live… changed. Controlled. By the Alpha Legion. The Snake Lodge. And I was part of it.”
The line went dead for a moment. Then Tarquinus came back—cold, measured, but seething with restrained wrath.
“How do you know this?”
“I was in too deep,” Aquilonius admitted. “It started with seeking information. It became… something else. But the time for silence has passed.”
Another long silence. Tarquinus finally spoke, voice heavy with disgust.
“No brother should suffer this fate. Not under your watch. Not under mine.”
Then the line cut.
Aquilonius exhaled. He felt nothing. No relief. No dread. Just the deep, cold certainty that the storm was coming—and he had just pointed its fury at the Serpent’s heart.
“Monsters in the Ash”
“Monsters in the Ash”
Strike Force Vindicta – En route aboard Spartan “Valour of Argelon” – Outskirts of Novus Konorvilla
The engines of the Valour of Argelon droned with mechanical constancy, like the heartbeat of a war god stirring beneath the armour of the earth. Dust curled in the treads’ wake, rising into grey clouds that hung behind the strike force like the banners of a funeral procession.
Inside the Spartan’s iron belly, there was no such sound. The muffled thrum of the engine faded into the silence of contemplation and readiness. Veteran Squad Bovanius sat in perfect order, helms off, blades and bolters laid across their laps. A communion of warriors in the moments before something sacred — or something tragic.
Champion Tarquinus stood at the front of the hold, resting one hand against the mag-clamped frame, the other grasping the support bar overhead. The stabilisers hissed softly with each lurch of the terrain, but Tarquinus remained still. Watching. Thinking.
He had always been a man of discipline, of clean battle lines and ironclad codes. But since the message from Aquilonius, the world no longer seemed so clean.
"We ride for more than salvage," he finally said, his voice cutting through the recycled air. "And this mission is not what Master Lyx believes it to be."
The warriors looked up. No questions yet, but sharp eyes and steady minds.
"There is truth hidden in shadow, brothers. Delivered to me by Codicier Aquilonius, who has taken upon himself burdens he never should have borne." His gaze darkened. "I now know the fate of those lost to us on the Night of Blood."
He let the silence settle.
"Five of our own. Five of the Blood Angels. They did not fall. They did not die. They were taken."
From his belt, Tarquinus unrolled a slate, flicked it alive, and read aloud:
Brother-Decurion Castor Lyle
Brother Palatine Antonas Grecchus
Brother Maximus Drakon
Brother Jorien Arcastes
Brother-Apothecary Damos Kel
"All five unaccounted for after the chaos. Blood-streaked vox chatter. Bio-signs lost. We believed they were consumed in the carnage the Angels brought upon the city."
He swallowed hard.
"But they were not alone."
Another flick of the slate.
Brother-Sergeant Thalor of the Blood Angels
Brother Sevian Korr of the Blood Angels
Brother-Lexicanum Maertes
Brother Remus Andrek
Brother Thaniel Grael
"They too disappeared, without trace. Not dead. Not buried. Now… they are something else. Twisted things, Aquilonius says. Bodies still clad in the armour of the Legiones Astartes, but… slithering, half-reptilian, bound in filth and scarred with brands of sorcery. Creatures that coil like serpents through the undercity, neither fully Astartes nor entirely Daemon."
A silence fell like a tomb lid.
"They are not just corrupted, they are possessed."
Veteran Achellus spoke first, voice low and iron-edged. "Are our brothers still within?"
Tarquinus didn’t answer immediately. He looked each of them in the eye — men who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with those lost. Men who had bled beside Castor, laughed with Grecchus, trained under Arcastes.
"I don’t know," he said at last. "But we must hope. For what else can we do?"
He paced slowly, armoured boots clanking softly against the deck.
"This mission continues as Master Lyx believes. Officially. We secure salvage. We search for answers about the Citadel in the Sky. But our true purpose is this: we find our fallen, and we deliver them either salvation… or peace."
A scoff. "And Lyx?" asked Brother Caedmon, one of Bovanius' veterans. "What if he discovers the truth?"
Tarquinus paused. Then: "Marius Lyx is a man of principle. But also of pragmatism. He would see monsters where we see fallen brothers. Until we have proof — hope — we do not tell him."
"Are we so sure this is not falsehood?" Achellus asked. "Aquilonius has changed. Since his dealings with Epsilon and the Lodge."
"I know," Tarquinus replied, his voice heavy. "But I believe him. Because I must. Because what if he’s right?"
He turned, planting his hand against the side of the hold, his tone sharpening.
"I will not allow our brothers to be left in darkness. I will not allow their names to pass into silence as abominations crawl in their stead."
The veterans stood, solemn nods echoing through the cabin. Their blades slid back into scabbards. Bolters rechecked. Helms locked into place.
As the Valour of Argelon rumbled ever onward into the wasteland, Tarquinus placed his helm beneath his arm and whispered to himself:
“Forgive me, Castor. I come for you.”
And behind them, the city burned.
Chapter I: Drop Site Carnage
Chapter I: Drop Site Carnage
Slums of Terra Regis
Master of Armour Marius Lyx, 4th Company, Ultramarines
Smoke lingered over the slums like an accusing finger. Filth-slicked streets narrowed between leaning shanties and haphazard scaffolds, the twisted skeleton of a once-honest industrial district swallowed by the desperation of thousands. The Vindicta predator tank crushed refuse under its treads with every measured turn, plowing through the heart of a rotting city.
Inside the command throne, Master of Armour Marius Lyx brooded in silence.
His eyes were fixed on the data scrolling across his retinal overlay. Auspex readings were steady, if unpredictable—just as expected in a zone choked with thermal bleed and erratic bio-signs. Refugees still flooded the outer rings of Terra Regis, scattering before the march of armoured columns. Slum-born children peered out from behind rusted barricades, eyes wide with silent awe as ceramite war machines passed them by. Lyx paid them no mind. There was a mission.
Strike Force Vindicta was spread through the district in a tight formation. Rhinos rumbled behind him, flanked by Javelins, their engines humming with purpose. Further back rolled the Spartan bearing Company Champion Tarquinus and his veterans—pride of the 4th. The Typhon, massive and implacable, followed like a leviathan in a sea of ash.
His vox crackled to life.
:: <Multiple readings. Atmospheric disturbance.> ::
:: <Unknown signatures. Bearing 019 by 045. Descent trajectory confirmed.> ::
:: <Drop pods inbound. Seven. High-velocity impact in T-minus 11 seconds.> ::
Lyx’s fists clenched. No hesitation.
“Action stations,” he ordered with flat authority, feeding the command across the company net. “Weapons hot. Target patterns Alpha-Bravo through Delta-Three. Clear fields of fire.”
Outside, the sky howled. Drop pods ripped through the clouds—gleaming black and red, their hulls marked with Word Bearers runes. The traitors slammed into the surrounding blocks with seismic force, pulverizing hab-units and sending a cloud of detritus into the air. The impact rocked the column.
Pod doors blasted open. Out came Breachers in ranks—shields raised, muzzles sweeping. Another pod disgorged a plasma support squad, heat venting from their barrels before they even fired. A final crash, deeper behind, heralded the appearance of not one but two Contemptors, wreathed in smoke.
Inside Vindicta, Lyx’s targeting array lit up with hostile tags. The moment froze in his mind.
The nearest pod had landed directly ahead — thirty metres. The Breachers were still moving into position, shouting orders. Lyx could make out their faces behind the crimson visors—grim, fanatical, murderers one and all. He drew in a breath, then acted.
“Turret. Primary arc. Fire.”
“Sponsons. Sweep the line. High saturation.”
“Multimelta—manual aim. Last man standing.”
The Macro-Saker charged with a rising hum. With a shriek of electromagnetic fury, it unleashed a barrage of coruscating volkite energy. The first four Breachers vanished in a series of implosions, their torsos flash-vaporised. A shield clattered to the floor, the hand still fused to the handle.
The Calivers swept left and right, burning through plate and flesh alike. One Breacher screamed as his entire upper half vanished in a wash of energy, only for the sponsons to chew the rest of him apart. The survivors staggered, trying to raise their shields in a defensive phalanx. Too slow.
Lyx braced, swung the multimelta up, and squeezed the trigger. A beam of liquid sun punched through the last Breacher’s chest, igniting his power core. The explosion scattered blackened limbs across the street.
:: <Squad Capet under fire, left flank. Dreadnought contact.> ::
:: <Proteus wrecked. Suzerain disembarked. Hostile plasma squads engaging.> ::
:: <Champion Tarquinus advancing. Esoterist sighted. Warp anomaly forming—> ::
The vox was a storm of alarms. A new voice cut through the din:
“It’s opening a gate. Warp entity emerging. Emperor protect us—!”
The temperature dropped. Lyx looked up and saw it—an oily rift tearing open within the Word Bearer lines. Shadows crawled out of it. Not men. Daemons.
Tactical Squad Pectus turned, bolters barking furiously. The horrors tore toward them, screaming with mouths that weren’t mouths. A man died, then another. Sergeant Calix was dragged down but took a daemon with him. Still, they held the line, guns roaring. The squad was decimated, but the daemons eventually dispersed, their grasp on realspace faltering.
Another explosion shook the ground. A Contemptor’s power claw smashed through a Javelin’s flank. The second Javelin responded with a precise lascannon blast to the reactor, detonating the traitor Dreadnought in a geyser of flame.
Meanwhile, the Spartan surged forward. Lyx caught a glimpse of it through the smoke, carving a line through the slums like a righteous blade. Champion Tarquinus stood tall atop its hull, sword raised, his voice lost in the chaos.
When it reached the rear of the Word Bearers’ line, its ramp dropped—and Tarquinus led the charge.
The Veterans of Bovanius followed without hesitation, crashing into the command squad of the traitors. Bolt pistols and combi-melta roared. Blades clashed. Tarquinus closed on the Standard Bearer and struck him down in a storm of blows—but a Praetor’s power fist crashed into the Champion’s shoulder, sending him flying into a crumbling wall. The Veterans scrambled to pull him free. They fell back under pressure, carrying their wounded with grim resolve.
Lyx surveyed the carnage from Vindicta. The Word Bearers were beginning to falter. Their surprise had yielded pain—but the line had held. His mind calculated retreat angles, terrain advantage, wounded locations.
“Initiate fallback protocol. Column—by section, rearward advance. Spartan—cover the extraction. Typhon, suppressing fire, eastern quadrant. We move.”
The Ultramarines executed the order with precision. Bloodied. Exhausted. But not broken.
As Vindicta reversed through the shattered ruins, Lyx’s mind ticked through every frame of the battle. Every movement catalogued. Every loss weighed. Tarquinus lived. The Suzerain were bloodied but operational. The slums were behind them—for now.
The worst part?
This wasn’t the mission. This was a distraction.
“They knew we were coming,” he murmured, activating encrypted channels.
“The real war has yet to begin.”
Chapter II: The Industrial Gauntlet
Chapter II: The Industrial Gauntlet
Western Approach to Sector Ferrum, Terra Regis
Master of Armour Marius Lyx, 4th Company, Ultramarines
The column moved through smoke and ruin, trailing fire and silence.
Rhinos limped forward, hulls scorched and pitted, some riding lower on their suspensions than when they’d left Novus Konorvilla. Infantry rode atop them where possible—helmeted silhouettes standing sentry against the haze, bolters mag-locked to worn blue plates, eyes scanning windows and alleyways for lingering traitors.
Strike Force Vindicta was bloodied. The ambush had cost them dearly. But it had not broken them.
At the head of the column, Vindicta rumbled on, smoke swirling around its chassis like a war-cowl. Inside, Marius Lyx reviewed the vox traffic. His fingers glided across the control console, routing updates and reinforcing orders as auspex sweeps mapped the safest corridor toward the Sector Ferrum industrial complex ahead.
It was the only option left. If the column didn’t regroup and conduct repairs soon, they’d be at risk of encirclement.
His voice cut across the net, firm but even.
“Strike Force Vindicta, this is Lyx. You’ve performed with distinction. You held when the traitors thought us weak. We now move with purpose. Form into convoy Omega-7. Column-wide systems diagnostic—initiate.”
“We regroup in Sector Ferrum. Prioritise machine rites. Infantry will establish outer pickets and cover the armour. No sloppiness. We are still under threat.”
He glanced to his left auspex screen and keyed into a direct line.
“Caelictus. Status.”
The voice that answered was tight with exhaustion but steady.
“Master Lyx. Scorpius battle-ready. Ammunition expenditure: 83%. Coil integrity stable. We’ll need downtime, but we’re still in the fight.”
Lyx nodded. The Whirlwind Scorpius, Caelicuts, had been the silent hammer of the counterstrike. Even during the worst of the daemonic surge, its barrage had not faltered—its rockets scything into Word Bearer formations, hammering their rear and denying reinforcement lanes. The Scorpius had become the storm behind their wall.
“Well-fought, Caelicuts. Your barrage was decisive. The traitors didn’t get a moment’s rest. Commendations noted.”
He switched channels again.
“Lancer One, Lancer Two—report.”
The reply came quickly. Crisp. Disciplined.
“Caelus Lancers intact, Master Lyx. Minimal damage. Confirming two confirmed Dreadnought kills. Primary weapons nominal. Engines hot.”
Lyx allowed himself a grim smile. The Javelin speeders, fast-attack craft of the Caelus Lancers, had darted between wrecked habs and smoke-streaked overpasses like steel wraiths, their las-talons and multi-melta gutting the traitor Dreadnoughts before they could exploit the Proteus’ destruction. One had drawn a Contemptor’s wrath into a trap—leading it into the Spartan's kill-zone, where a lascannon salvo turned the walker into a crater.
“Lancers. Without you, the column would have stalled. Your kills gave us the retreat vector. Your timing was perfection.”
“Acknowledged, Master. Glory to Macragge.”
"Work is not complete, I need you scouting our column. Keep us safe"
He cut the channel and leaned back into the command throne.
His attention turned briefly to the internal vid-feed. He watched the Rhino of Squad Pectus, battered but moving. Of the ten that deployed, five had survived. Sergeant Icarion was among the living, his arm in a sling but refusing evacuation. Lyx’s eyes narrowed. That kind of endurance made warriors into legends—but legends rarely lived long.
Another display chimed. The Spartan, Ferrata Invictus, crawled forward at reduced speed. Tarquinus was awake—concussed, but already up and laughing with his Veterans to “clear the haze.” Typical.
No more drop pods had come, but Lyx didn’t believe for a moment that they’d seen the last of the Word Bearers. Their attack had been deliberate, pointed—meant to wound and stall.
He activated the fleet channel again.
“All units—Sector Ferrum in range. Dismount by rotation. Priority to Squad Pectus, Suzerain, and the Veterans of Bovanius. All Techmarines to repair detail. Astartes to picket and patrol grids C through G. No civilian contact. Expect presence.”
A moment passed before the Scorpius spoke up again.
“Sector Ferrum is intact, Master. Automated vox-cogitators still transmitting. No sign of enemy claim. It's dirty, but it’ll hold.”
Lyx exhaled. “It will do.”
The column turned off the main thoroughfare and disappeared into the rust-choked corridors of Sector Ferrum—half-assembled manufactora, broken cogitator towers, and abandoned utility rails surrounded them. It was once an engine of industry, now a graveyard of potential.
Perfect for what came next.
The repairs would be slow. They’d need to scavenge, reinforce, and reroute. But Strike Force Vindicta had survived the Word Bearers. That meant they would fight another day.
And soon… they would hunt.
Gears Without Origin
Gears Without Origin
Location: Eastern Platform, Node Theta — Magna Ferrica Arteria Construction Site
Perspective: Magos Vortan Kall
The rising sun spread its amber hue over the scorched wastelands east of Novus Konorvilla, casting long shadows across the skeletal latticework of the Magna Ferrica Arteria. A chorus of servo-arms, hydraulic presses, and static-choked binaric cant formed the morning hymn of progress as the Mechanicum’s servitors toiled in rhythmic precision.
Magos Vortan Kall stood at the apex of Node Theta, his cowl swept back in the dry wind. Around him, Thallax hovered in idle formations, sensor arrays pulsing in faint readiness. Deep beneath the scaffolds, the Myrmidon Secutorii continued their grim rites—constructing the arterial infrastructure that would eventually bind Novus Konorvilla to the northern mining enclaves.
The Arteria was weeks behind schedule. The Night of Blood had drained local manpower and strained city resources. Kall had calculated a 42% likelihood the project would require external requisitions.
So when the column of hauler-crawlers and flatbed transports appeared from the southern ridgeline—marked with ident-codes not logged in his latest communiqués—Kall’s logic routines initiated a minor recursive loop.
++UNSCHEDULED DELIVERY: INBOUND++
++IDENT-CODE: NOV-KON//SUBSIGMA-7-BETA++
++SOURCE: UNKNOWN++
“This was not in the sequence,” he muttered aloud.
The lead crawler bore the sigil of Novus Konorvilla, but painted hastily, with application marks inconsistent with standard stencil alignment. Not sloppily done, but... hurried.
As it trundled to a halt, the container locks disengaged with a mechanical sigh, revealing spools of adamantine cabling, reinforced ferrocrete support girders, rail channeling, and crates of mag-seal couplings—all precision-forged and stamped with the correct lot numbers.
Correct—but wrong.
Kall descended from Node Theta on a gravity-sled, his entourage of data-serfs trailing behind, binharic tongues clicking as they began inventory rituals. A quartet of haulers had arrived, more than enough to advance construction through the next major phase. Too convenient.
He turned to Secutor-Lord Belkan Irr, who had watched the arrival from the shadow of a half-built signal relay.
“It is within statistical anomaly,” Irr said, flatly. “But it warrants inquiry. You will investigate.”
“I have already initiated provenance scans,” Kall replied. “There is integrity in the materiel, but none in its source. Subroutine Trust/0 activated.”
He looked out over the worksite. Already, the servitors had begun to integrate the new supplies—autonomously interpreting the arrival as sanctioned. The Mechanicum always moved forward. But Kall could not shake the uncertainty gnawing at the corners of his logic core.
“If this is duplicity,” Irr stated, “the contamination is already within our construct.”
“Perhaps. But the Arteria must rise,” Kall replied. “Even if it grows over poisoned roots.”
The wind picked up, carrying with it the howl of distant engines. Somewhere beyond the city walls, Strike Force Vindicta battled for the soul of Terra Regis.
And here, at the edge of ambition, the foundations of betrayal were being laid beneath their feet.
The Fault in the Pattern
The Fault in the Pattern
Location: Node Theta — Magna Ferrica Arteria Construction Site
Perspective: Secutor-Lord Belkan Irr
The screech of grav-lifts echoed like predatory cries between the ferrocrete skeletons of the rising rail structure. At the heart of Node Theta, a Tech-Thrall cohort, their augmetics crusted with dust and machine grease, unloaded the last crate from the unscheduled delivery. Sparks danced from plasma cutters, illuminating the gloom with strobing white-blue light. Enginseers chanted binharic litanies while servo-skulls floated overhead, silently logging every movement.
Secutor-Lord Belkan Irr watched from a parapet, his three mechanical limbs folded behind his robes like a war-scarred statue of the Omnissiah. His organic eye was closed—meditating. His three augmetic lenses scrolled through data feeds, multispectral overlays, and correlation protocols, each analyzing the newly arrived materiel for inconsistencies.
Below, a triad of sub-engineers ran their auspex over a crate stamped with Ferroclave Foundry 62.
“Code integrity 97.4%,” one voxed aloud.
“Forge-marks check against the Forge Helix of Phaeton Secundus,” another confirmed.
“But...” the third hesitated, tilting their sensor array. “Power resonance modulation in the mag-seals is off-standard. 12.3 nanoseconds delay in harmonics. Could be counterfeit.”
Irr's fingers twitched.
He descended in three strides, augmetic limbs unfolding as he neared. His vox-emitter crackled.
“Send the coil samples to Sub-Node Omicron for material purity verification. Priority: High. Scrub for isotopic anomalies.”
As the tech-thralls moved to comply, a low chime signaled the approach of an Astartes.
Towering in blue and gold, Brother-Sergeant Messor of the Ultramarines strode toward the platform with two battle-brothers in tow, all helms off, the gold trim of their armor catching the sunlight. Messor's features were sharp, composed, his bearing impeccable.
“Secutor-Lord,” Messor intoned in calm, baritone High Gothic. “Your request for oversight has been acknowledged. We are your assigned perimeter.”
“Compliance,” Irr replied, gaze unwavering. “Remain vigilant. Sabotage potential: elevated.”
Messor inclined his head respectfully.
But Irr didn’t dismiss him. He stared.
Too clean. Too poised. Too precise.
Something about Messor’s movement, his gait. Perfect in a way only simulacra could be. Pattern recognition alert 71.22%.
Behind his back, Irr keyed a silent transmission to Magos Vortan Kall:
++POTENTIAL SUBVERSION DETECTED: ASSET ULTRA//SIGMA-MESSOR++
++RECOMMEND PASSIVE OBSERVATION. DEEP-VENEER PROTOCOLS ACTIVATED++
The Magos returned no reply, but the signal was received.
As the Astartes moved through the scaffold lines, issuing quiet orders to ensure civilian workers avoided sensitive sections, none noticed the way Messor’s left pauldron scanner pinged a private vox signal back into the wastelands. None but Irr.
The investigation continued.
Another crate opened—inside were servitor-coil arrays laced with an unknown alloy. Not harmful. Not even detectable to most scans, certainly not to any base tech-thrall or Astartes. But it wasn’t Phaeton-standard.
“We are building with untruth,” Irr muttered, his vox barely above machine static.
And somewhere behind them, Messor, who was not Messor, gazed into the horizon. His mind—layered in identities like armor plates—considered the growing complexity of the web.
The Snake Cult's seeds had already taken root.
And still, the rail grew longer.
The Coil Beneath Iron
Perspective: Brother Messor, Alpha Legion Infiltrator
The hum of servo-claws and pile drivers droned across the valley floor, echoing against the wind-scoured plateaus that framed the horizon. The Magna Ferrata Arteria stretched like a steel serpent across the wastelands, a gleaming lifeline between the mineral-rich north and the battered city of Novus Konorvilla.
Brother Messor stood at the edge of a scaffold gantry, motionless as another support strut was lowered into place beneath him. His armor bore the cobalt of the XIII, his pauldrons marked by the sigils of Squad Capet. To any observer—Mechanicus overseer, Ultramarine watch-sergeant, or servitor-logged sensor sweep—he was just another son of Guilliman, dutiful and stoic.
But beneath the plasteel, beneath the lies lacquered in blue, the serpent whispered.
He keyed the code with the blink of a subdermal optic pulse—four millisecond intervals, blink, blink-blink. He shifted his weight, resting his gauntlet on the railing in what looked like casual posture. In truth, his fingers tapped out a rhythm only a soul trained in the Ophidian Cipher could recognize.
:: LOCUS VERIFIED. OBJECTIVE PROCEEDING. ::
The reply came as a subtle surge through the resonance node implanted in his collarbone. A frequency so narrow and so buried it mimicked environmental static to even the most sensitive Mechanicus auspex. Only a true brother would hear it.
:: ACKNOWLEDGED. REPORT. ::
Messor gazed across the expanse.
Below him, the Mechanicus toiled. Magos Vortan Kall was deep in communion with the schemata, issuing machine-blessings to the support engines and praising the Omnissiah as the arterial frame expanded kilometre by kilometre. Tech-thralls walked in perfect rhythm, and across the gantries above, Ultramarines in heavy plate stood vigil—visible deterrents, yet blind to the truth beneath their boots.
“The serpent grows,” Messor muttered aloud, disguising the words beneath a low static-laced vox test. The signal carried outward in a false diagnostic.
:: THE SERPENT WRITHES THROUGH THE EARTH. ::
:: THE COIL IS LAID. ::
Every support beam, every cogitator node installed by their hands—yet within them were hidden glyphs, inscriptions beneath plasteel, and quantum-pulse etchings that no loyalist mind could ever see. Every time a section was activated, every click of power transfer or magnetic lock, it pulsed with a whisper to those who knew the tune.
This was no longer simply a monorail.
This was a conduit.
A sacred pathway.
A vessel for the rise to come.
“In time,” he whispered, “from this iron womb will come the next children of the serpent. Born beneath the guise of industry, but suckled on secrecy.”
He turned as a squad of Ultramarines passed by overhead, one of them nodding to him. Messor returned the gesture with practiced ease. He even checked a schematic slate for effect, muttering into his helm about structural tolerances.
But his mind was elsewhere.
The Arteria was the gift. The enduring testament. The Alpha Legion did not destroy to rule. They infiltrated, seeded, and watched civilizations evolve into what they needed them to be.
And this world—Oligoterron Rex—was a blank slate.
In years to come, they would not remember when the corruption began. Only that it was. A creeping inevitability. The snake had always been in the soil, waiting for warmth.
:: THE TEMPLE IS LAID. ::
:: THE CHILDREN WILL RISE. ::
Messor moved away from the gantry, blending into the workforce once again. Another nameless brother among thousands.
But within his chest, his second heart beat with purpose.
Yet not all eyes were blind.
High atop the Arteria’s western scaffold, Secutor Lord Irr observed the construction in silence, his form motionless, the crimson glow of his ocular augmetics painting ghostly flares across the datascreens before him. While his subordinate enginseers compiled progress logs and ran devotional algorithms, Irr's mind was busy on a separate circuit—one entirely isolated from the main dataflow.
He had noticed the anomalies.
Subtle power fluctuations in relay nodes. Unregistered maintenance routines executed without official timestamps. Non-standard glyphs etched in shielding plates, unreadable to standard lexmech protocols. And always… always the signs clustered around the same labor groups—ones attached to Ultramarine squads whose records were clean but strangely incomplete.
He said nothing—yet.
Instead, he compiled a private data-vault, air-gapped and ciphered with a logic-string known only to him and the Omnissiah. His logic engines could not yet assign purpose to the irregularities. No weapon, no virus, no immediately detectable subroutine. Merely whispers in the machine—an unease that grew with each completed kilometre.
He would watch. He would test. And when the time came, the fire of Mars would scour the serpent's den—if one truly coiled beneath their feet.
The Streets of Terra Regis
Perspective: Master of Armour, Marius Lyx
The distant thrum of engines echoes through the shattered tenements of Terra Regis as Strike Force Vindicta rumbles back into motion. The respite has been short, the work of recovery relentless. Armour repaired, wounds bound, morale reinforced with the same discipline that has held the XIII Legion since Calth and beyond.
Marius Lyx stands atop Vindicta, his command Predator tank, scanning the smoky horizon. His mind parses the topography of war like a puzzle to be cracked. The advance must continue. Time cannot be surrendered to uncertainty. His vox crackles with incoming contact reports, relayed from recon servitors scouring the outer fringes of the sector.
“Sons of Horus.” The words are as bitter as oil on his tongue. “Markings match those encountered by Armistos Etrusca.”
He does not curse. He does not clench his fists or bellow orders. Instead, his eyes narrow behind the lens of his helm, mentally assembling the battlefield. Data streams across his visor—proximity scans, loadout readings, route projections. He scours his memory of the reports from Etrusca. With pings of aerial activity, slow speed vectors, this all points toward one conclusion: a supply drop zone, and the Sons of Horus are already en route.
“We intercept,” Lyx declares into the command vox. “Deploy the column. Armour forward. Infantry behind plating. We take what we can and deny the rest.”
The column snakes through the hab-block ruins, the Typhon leading with its thunderous tread, followed by the Spartan bearing the Company Veterans, then the Land Raider Proteus with the Suzerain guard. Rhinos bearing Tactical Squads Pectus and Venter follow in formation, flanked by the nimble Javelins of the Caelus Lancers. The Scorpius Caelicuts takes up rear overwatch, ready to saturate any hostile movement with precision shelling.
The streets constrict as they move through the industrial quarter. Cracked ferrocrete and rebar-strewn intersections make for poor lines of fire and worse mobility. Ahead, auspex contacts bloom red—Sons of Horus armour and infantry moving to rendezvous with the descending supply capsules, suspended from grav-chutes and trailing contrails of dust.
“Justaerin dreadnought—centre lane.” The vox pings again.
“Neutralise it,” Lyx replies instantly.
From Vindicta and Caelus Lancers, the opening salvo screams forward. lasbeams lance through the industrial haze, melting armour plating with radiant fury. The weapons train left, targetting the Sicaran Punisher, dealing it a catastrophic wound, removing it as a threat.
“Scimitars—left flank. Engaging.”
Lyx doesn’t even glance. He knows what the Typhon will do.
The blast is like the judgment of an angry god. In one immense concussion, the street is cleared—three jetbikes vanish beneath the rolling plasma-flame of the Typhon’s gun. Nothing remains but scorched wreckage and the echo of their destruction.
But the terrain turns traitor.
The Spartan, attempting to flank through the ruins to push deeper toward the drop site, catches on a collapsed overhang. Screeching to a halt, the veterans of Squad Bovanius disembark, fanning out through the wreckage with bolters primed.
“Western street: Sons of Horus Land Raider, marked with Justaerin,” one of the Caelus Lancers calls out.
The Proteus disgorges its payload—the Invictus Suzerain—led by Tarquinus himself, his crimson-plumed helm catching the light of distant fires. His sword gleams with purpose.
“Engage. Close the gap. Do not let the Justaerin breach our line.”
The two elite forces crash into each other in the heart of the manufactorum avenue. It is less a battle than a trial by ordeal. Justaerin power claws rake and rend, but the Suzerain’s axes strike with measured fury, every motion disciplined and brutal.
At the forefront, Tarquinus meets the Justaerin sergeant. Their duel is as old as the Great Crusade—a test of skill and will. They circle, blades clashing, fists pounding ceramite. Tarquinus feints low, then brings his sword down in a precise arc, severing the sergeant’s arm. A second stroke ends the matter.
Across the battlefield, the Scorpius Caelicuts paints the skies with flak trails. Any Sons of Horus making a move toward the supply drops find themselves met by a rain of explosive ordnance. Many turn back. Others fall in place, limbs shattered and armour torn, but the Sons of Horus are nothing if not relentless. With the streets blocked by armoured hulks, both cobalt blue and deep sea green, the Sons of Horus marines are able to clear many of the supply caches.
Veteran Squad Bovanius, moving through the ruins, comes upon a contingent of Sons of Horus Tactical Marines. The clash is short and decisive—bolter fire echoing in the gloom as the veterans clear the position, power spears darting forward. One drop secured, they press on toward another.
When the battle finally begins to ebb, Lyx calls the command net to silence. Across the feed, he listens to the reports: Suzerain standing firm, the Veterans rejoining the line, casualties minimal, ammunition reduced but not critical.
The enemy is withdrawing. They have claimed some of the supplies. So have the Ultramarines.
“We disengage,” Lyx announces.
The column peels away, leaving behind wreckage, the wounded, and scorched earth. The narrow streets have been drenched in blood and fire. The fighting is far from over, but the Ultramarines remain intact, driven not just by duty—but by justice.
And Marius Lyx—dour, unshakable—knows the mission continues.
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