This Is Our Warhammer Journey

“May I take a look?”

To ease their doubts, Kaul added, “I’m a Domineering Sage from Mars. I’ve worked with every Chapter’s gene-seed tithe, so there’s no need to worry about me leaking any secrets.”

In order to keep the Space Marines under a certain level of supervision and preserve the legacy of each Chapter so they’d have a chance to rebuild after total annihilation, nearly every Chapter periodically paid a gene-seed tithe to Mars.

Romulus turned to the Black Templar Chaplain with a surprised look.

No way, saying that out loud in front of other Chapters was one thing, but *in front of the Black Templars*?

Even this off-the-books guerilla unit had to pay gene-seed taxes?

The Chaplain seemed to think the elder was asking him to confirm the truth of it.

“The Black Templars also pay the gene-seed tithe.”

Even though the Black Templars never gave a d*mn about the Codex and regularly got the Departmento Munitorum and the Administratum lost in the Warp, they actually had decent relationships with other Imperial branches.

So yeah, they paid the gene-seed tithe too—maybe the numbers were a little off, but they still paid.

“Thank you.”

Romulus's mind instantly connected the dots with the known intel, and the mystery was solved.

“You're welcome.”

Then the wounded Son of Dorn spoke up.

His voice was as steely as his face—even when the movement pulled at his wounds, his breath didn’t waver.

Kaul didn’t stand on ceremony either. He went straight in to clean the wound.

Sprayed disinfectant, reached in with a set of fine medical forceps, and grabbed hold of the shattered toxic shard.

These rounds carried a lethal poison and inflicted pain well beyond the neural pain threshold—so intense that even Space Marines struggled to endure it.

*Pshk—*

The forceps yanked the fragment out, dragging with it a mass of nerve tissue stuck to the shard.

The Son of Dorn didn’t flinch.

Other than the slackening of muscle around the wound due to nerve loss, his face—like chiseled stone—remained completely expressionless.

Then came the disinfection and flushing, cellular patching, and blood filtration.

Marshal Orlando noticed the glowing toxic shards sitting on the surgical tray and looked at the other man’s unchanged expression with newfound respect.

What an unbreakable warrior!

The Sons of Dorn were known for their restraint and tolerance for pain.

In times of peace, they often trained themselves with something called a “pain glove.”

But even the Black Templars—those brothers he saw as the toughest of the tough—couldn’t stop themselves from reacting physically to the pain of toxic shard weapons.

With warriors like this, how could they not secure victory for the God-Emperor?!

As a fellow Son of Dorn, Orlando felt pride swell in his chest.

Morale soared once again.

Romulus smiled.

Mission accomplished.

“The acid neutralized the toxin in the shard nicely.”

Kaul said as he wrapped up the operation.

Marshal Orlando’s face changed instantly. The pride he’d felt just seconds ago froze, then melted into disbelief.

That stone-brained head finally caught up.

The Son of Dorn said nothing as he reattached his helmet and stood.

“Thank you for the treatment, Sage.”

Romulus said with gratitude.

“To preserve warriors like this for the Omnissiah is my sacred duty,”

The Great Sage replied in a low voice, then hauled his massive frame out of the room.

The servitors would automatically handle the bloodstains on the floor.

“Then we’ll take our leave.”

With everything finished, Romulus politely bid farewell to the others and left with the Devouring Sharks.

At last, no more unexpected interruptions.

The wide hangar platform was now left with just the two Black Templars, exchanging looks.

“Did you hear what the Sage just said?”

Marshal Orlando finally cracked.

No wonder—no wonder the elders were so unbelievably tough.

Sons of Dorn rarely speculated. They only made assertions when they had facts.

“Marshal!”

The Chaplain’s voice was filled with excitement.

He reached out and snatched one of the toxic shards from the servitor’s basket, examining the corroded marks on it.

“That elder—he has a Betcher’s Gland.”

If the Sage Kaul’s check was accurate, and the senses of a Space Marine hadn’t deceived him, then there was only one answer.

The one who had just stood before them was a true Son of Dorn.

That was a true Imperial Fist!

Tyrant-class cruiser.

At the hangar bay, the Stormbird slowly opened its hatch. Romulus and Rameses stepped down from the transport.

The Tyrant-class was named as such because it had one more set of primary weapons on each side compared to the similarly-sized Lunar-class cruiser, making it look a bit more slender by comparison.

Its structure wasn’t really built for ramming or melee-style engagements, so unlike the Imperial Navy, the Mechanicus preferred ships like these that didn’t need prow-mounted ram spikes and offered more room for modification.

In front of the Stormbird, the cruiser’s captain was waiting with the officers, ready to receive the arrival of the Angels.

‘Why does it feel like this ship is nervous… or maybe excited?’

The captain couldn’t help the thought.

The moment Romulus set foot on the deck, her long-standing link with the machine spirit told her something was off.

But then she pushed the thought away.

“Honored lord, Acting Captain Aurora von Carrox greets you.”

Aurora stepped forward, choosing to ignore the Emperor’s Angels who disembarked and immediately dispersed to other levels.

“Greetings, Captain Aurora. I’m Romulus, squad leader of the Deathwatch Kill-Team.”

“Please allow me to escort you to the bridge, and introduce the officers of this vessel.”

Romulus nodded politely, observing his surroundings as several pairs of eyes followed them, listening to Aurora’s report while he and his team followed the servitors toward the bridge elevator.

“The name of this ship?”

As they walked along a corridor high enough to overlook the lower levels of the ship, Romulus asked the question after Aurora had finished introducing the officers present.

“She now belongs to you.”

Captain Aurora replied with practiced deference—it was clear she’d been briefed.

“Mm.”

Romulus acknowledged.

He thought the ship’s environment was decent.

Clean, orderly, no over-the-top religious décor, and all the officers were already present—which meant the captain had solid command authority.

Even the techs on the lower levels had been arranged in tidy shifts. His senses picked up only cold, clean orders—no sound of whips cracking on flesh.

The hours on the duty rosters still looked a little crazy, but… it faintly reminded him of how things had been tens of thousands of years ago.

“Daddy!”

A voice full of sorrow cut through his thoughts.

Romulus turned his head.

His superhuman senses picked up the faint disturbance.

He stopped walking and stepped to the edge of the corridor, looking down at a transport zone near the bottom of the ship.

One of the Space Marines acting as his eyes and ears was stationed nearby.

“Daddy!”

It was a little girl pushing her way against the crowd.

“Daddy, let’s go home, Daddy.”

She called out to a servitor, but was quickly swallowed up by the tide of workers.

The Space Marine ‘struggled’ to part the crowd and picked up the girl, now bearing a few extra shoeprints on her clothes.

“Thank you.”

The little girl had no idea what an Emperor’s Angel was. She gave a simple thank-you and wriggled to stand up from the massive arms.

“Daddy, Mommy really misses you.”

She kept calling.

But the servitor just continued its heavy march, carrying cargo onto the transport elevator, vanishing from sight.

“......”

Hands on the window frame, Romulus said nothing for a long time.

Captain Aurora waited patiently—she could sense something about the atmosphere had shifted.

“Where were we?”

“The ship’s name, my lord.”

“Let’s call her the Dawn.”

Romulus replied. It was one of the names they’d discussed privately, symbolizing that the journey of the transmigrators had reached the dawn.

It also represented their faint hope of bringing light to the dark galaxy.

Their existence wasn’t meant to win just a war.

*Zzt~ Crack~*

The elevator lights flickered twice, as if responding.