This Is Our Warhammer Journey

After catching sight of the Emperor’s Angels, the morale of the 43rd Regiment received a noticeable boost.

But in Arthur’s perception, just judging from appearances, these dutiful soldiers didn’t look like they were in great condition.

After all, he wasn’t blind. Though he hadn’t felt any direct adverse effects from the Warp, he could still sense the intense, reality-breaking phenomena occurring here.

Because the strike cruiser’s outer armor had been breached by the Orks’ junkheap, what haunted this warship wasn’t limited to the grotesque horrors in the corridors.

The constant Warp corruption seeping into the ship was affecting not only the environment but all lifeforms within.

Even with the Gellar Field still active, these soldiers—exposed to massive amounts of Warp energy—were suffering. Mental fatigue, twitching muscles, and other involuntary reactions were common.

The more severe cases had visible mutations on their skin. Some of the wounded in the rear had armor fused into their flesh, and even the medics had no idea where to begin. In the end, they could only resort to brute-force cutting. Even Arthur felt a twinge in his heart at the horrific sight under the armor.

Other than a rough humanoid outline, it was hard to even tell they were still human.

Worse yet, in the surgical areas for the wounded, the body tissues that had been cut away didn’t lose activity. They fused with any inorganic matter they touched, looking like grotesque tumors growing on the surface.

Only after confirming the medics had burned the mutated flesh to ash did Arthur finally lower his ready-to-fire flamer and glance toward the massive breach on the skybridge.

If the Ork ship had rammed just a bit deeper, the very steel beneath their feet might have turned into a living thing.

The sounds of battle between the Imperium’s forces and the enemy still echoed in his ears. Even the howling of chain axes couldn’t drown out the loyal warriors' war cries—though it all carried a hint of fear being pushed aside.

Just brief exposure could cause this much physical mutation. It was hard to imagine what kind of devastation the Warp could inflict on the mind.

Having now experienced firsthand the unique brutality of Warhammer 40K, Arthur’s fear of the Warp deepened further. At the same time, his respect for the Astra Militarum—still able to hold the line in this hell—grew immensely.

He could only hope these soldiers would recover quickly. The success of the upcoming operation still depended on their strength.

While Arthur was lost in silent thought, the two arrived at the temporary command post inside the defensive line.

Before even entering, they heard a woman’s voice coming from within.

“Are you saying that, without confirming the enemy’s exact numbers, equipment composition, or battle deployment—and after losing contact with the Deathwatch team—we’re to lead the troops and break through to the Gellar Field generator?”

The voice was filled with doubt, though not fear of battle—it was a response to the dire situation.

“We should wait for that Ultramarine’s return, then rally the remaining mobile forces under his leadership for a proper assault. We can then secure key junctions and form a defensive line that allows mutual support and leads straight to the Gellar Field.”

“Indeed, but what we’ve dispatched isn’t the entire regiment—it’s a hand-picked squad of elites I selected from various units. The unknowns you mentioned are exactly what we must uncover. This is sacrifice for the Emperor. To die and return to the Golden Throne is an honor.”

In the face of doubt, the Commissar remained patient in his explanation.

In a place saturated with the evil of the Warp, any extreme emotion could be twisted by corruption. Only calm and unwavering faith in the Emperor could endure.

Of course, there were still those strong, cold Commissars who threw out firing squad threats at the drop of a hat—but they usually didn’t live long in places like this.

“But without you, how can we maintain morale for the entire regiment?”

The Canoness looked worried. She had fought on the front lines herself and was no stranger to the carnage there.

Against heretics and xenos, these battle-hardened warriors wouldn’t flinch—even if a bayonet pressed to their necks or flames engulfed them, they would still strike the enemy with entrenching tools.

But in the Warp, it was the mutations and the constant whispers that truly broke morale. That wasn’t something mortals were meant to endure.

“Look around us. The Warp's corruption gnaws at you and me without pause. Time is not on our side. Even if we fall, we must fall charging the Emperor’s foes.”

The Commissar spoke earnestly. Most of his face was covered in augmetics, showing no emotion—only his eyes still carried that grim resolve.

Time was running out. Even if they scouted a path and the main force reached the Gellar Field generator, their chance of success was less than one in ten thousand.

But clearly, this was the best breakthrough strategy he could come up with.

Sending soldiers to scout unknown territory and fight the enemy in close-quarters was a terrible risk to their lives. But war always forced them to make choices they didn’t want to.

“As for the elevator defense, I believe Colonel Kovek himself is more than capable of fulfilling that responsibility.”

“But...”

Clang~

Arthur and Romulus entered the command room just before the messenger arrived, breaking the escalating deadlock.

Under Warp interference, all communication devices had long since turned into blasphemous noise machines, forcing the regiment to rely on the inefficient method of using physical messengers.

The Astra Militarum didn’t reject technology. In standard operations, their integration of information systems could match any other force in the Imperium.

But with shipwide vox systems disabled and comms corrupted by scrapcode, this clunky method was all they had left in the face of cruel reality.

Arthur glanced around the room, silently impressed by how intact the command structure was, and finally rested his gaze on the silver-armored Sister who had just argued with the Commissar.

The emblem on her chest was a blooming Sacred Rose.

Ah, from the Order of the Sacred Rose—no wonder she was so composed.

The Order of the Sacred Rose emphasized discipline and self-restraint.

Even the righteous fury often preached by the Sisters of Battle was, in their case, expressed through calculated bursts of bolters and flame. Among the many wild and zealous Orders, they were among the most approachable.

“Milord.”

Noticing the gaze of an Angel of the Emperor, the Canoness looked visibly ashamed.

True, she had valid reasons to challenge the Commissar. But in the Imperium, no reason was ever a valid excuse to avoid battle. Sacrifice should never be feared.

“......”

Arthur gave a slight shake of his head to signal it was fine, keeping silent.

He still wasn’t fully fluent in Low Gothic.

And he held no ill will toward the Sisters' caution—after all, they were far more familiar with the Warp than a Commissar from the Schola Progenium, given their close ties to the Inquisition.

Arthur had seen the horrors on the frontline himself. In this kind of environment, it wasn’t just cultists and xenos that posed a threat—corridor walls made of flesh, sharp protrusions, even the ship itself could become a weapon.

Leading a squad of mortals into uncharted territory was basically a death sentence. They likely wouldn’t survive long enough to reach the Gellar Field generator.

“Milord.”

Colonel Kovek, who had remained focused on coordinating the battle without getting involved in the debate, finally stood and saluted. His signature violet eyes revealed his origins.

“43rd Cadian Regiment, ‘Broken Sword,’ salutes you!”

Arthur and Romulus responded with a chest-thump salute.

Neither of them carried themselves like lofty angels—after all, just hours ago, they had been ordinary humans from the M3 era.

Their arrival naturally dissolved the disagreement within the command room.

All the arguments just now were based on the assumption that the Angels hadn’t arrived. Now that they had, everything proposed earlier was effectively off the table.

Even the morale problem everyone had been worried about no longer needed attention. Just having an Astartes standing there was more effective than a Commissar roaring a thousand times atop the front lines.

All eyes were fixed on the two Angels—a gaze of people who felt powerless, finally finding something to hold onto. In their eyes, the Astartes could surely lead them to victory for the Emperor.

This was the weight Astartes carried in the hearts of the Imperium’s citizens.

Arthur exchanged a glance with Romulus at his side, and both felt the pressure in each other’s eyes.

Completely different from their past lives—now, when facing a crisis, they were the tallest ones around, the ones expected to hold up the sky.

“Forgive me, milord.”

The Commissar bowed to the Angels.

“Thank the Emperor for His guidance, preventing me from making a wrong decision.”

Arthur silently stepped aside. He still didn’t fully understand the situation, and Romulus was clearly the better one to interact with the soldiers.

“There’s no need to apologize, Commissar. I spent too much time searching for my comrades, and wasted the preparations you all made to purge the Emperor’s enemies.”

Romulus nodded gently, his voice solemn and steady, easing the tension in the room.

He reached out, smoothing the wrinkles on the map with his metal-covered fingers, waiting for the eyes behind him to fall upon the carefully plotted routes. In his helmet’s display, various paths began to unfold.

“Hm?”

The Tech-Priest accompanying the squad noticed the map covering the projection device, a look of surprise flashing beneath his goggles.

One of the machine spirits corrupted by scrapcode seemed to show signs of recovery.

The tactical planning discussed in the command room took shape in Romulus’ mind, and within moments, the optimal configuration had been assembled. The image in his helmet display instantly narrowed into the most efficient route.

“Colonel Kovek, is the command post’s augur still operational?”

To mortals, it looked like Romulus had only paused for three seconds. Then he stood up.

The colonel reversed the grip on his chainsword and picked up the augur hanging at his waist.

“It’s functioning.”

He gave a firm answer.

“That means the Emperor is watching us.”

Retracting his gaze from the augur’s data, Romulus didn’t miss the opportunity to boost morale. He turned to everyone present.

“The Space Marines will launch a high-speed assault as the vanguard, drawing enemy forces in the area toward us. The Sisters of Battle and Astra Militarum fireteams will be responsible for clearing and establishing defense nodes.”

With the briefing done, Romulus swept his gaze around the room.

“Now, I ask all of you to move forward with us. My brother and I will lead the charge and carve a path to victory for you.”

There was no lengthy motivational speech. Though it was his first time in a real battlefield, Romulus had learned the spirit of war through years of study—action was the best example to set.

This warrior, wearing a golden laurel crown, rose after confirming the mission objective and picked up his heavy bolter from beside him.

Click—

The bolter chambered a round.

“For the Emperor!”

Standing tall among the troops, the Commissar solemnly shouted the phrase always on the lips of the Imperium’s people.

“For the Emperor!”

The assault units had long since assembled, ready for the final offensive. Gripping their weapons, brimming with fury toward the enemy, they roared in reply.

They had already sworn to the Emperor—today, they would slaughter every heretical cur that dared to defile the glory of mankind.

Failure?

Arthur scanned the soldiers radiating battle spirit.

They weren’t pristine. The brutal intensity of the war had left even these reserve strike troops soaked in blood. Their armor was smeared with grime, dark undersuits stained with seeping blood.

But he could clearly feel the difference from when he first entered the camp. It was like the crushing pressure that once surrounded them had completely vanished.

Under the dim lights, only their sharp eyes and the Aquila on their chestplates still gleamed brightly.

The doubt was gone. Only courage remained.

Faced with the scene before him, even Arthur—newly arrived—couldn’t help but feel awe.

He turned, stepping into the previously sealed corridor ahead.

Once lined with fine engravings and statues, it was now defiled by heretical symbols and fused flesh monstrosities.

The enhanced hearing of a Lyman’s Ear and his helmet’s internal receiver picked up the smallest sounds along the corridor—quick, panicked, disordered footsteps—painting outline after outline for him in the dark.

Shrrrip!

The sword sliced. A body hit the ground.

It was a statue possessed by a daemon, stuffed with pulverized flesh.

Behind him came rustling noises—more enemies drawn in by the sudden commotion were swarming forward.

Arthur didn’t look back.

Lasfire and bolter rounds flew past him, and the twisted heretics were eliminated at the same pace mortals pulled a trigger.

Facing those chaos-blessed, bullet-immune freaks, Arthur whispered softly:

“Only victory.”