The next day;
The star over Yavin IV had risen to its zenith, and searing white light pierced the atmosphere, casting the newly built steel town in an amber halo.
Waves of heat flowed between the honeycomb-structured streets, distorting distant views in shimmering haze.
Gothic anti-air towers of the Imperial Fists "pierced" the sky, their black barrels barely visible amid the rising heat like the fingers of slumbering giants.
In the town's central plaza, over twenty thousand youths stood at attention in company formations.
Their brand-new black field uniforms gleamed matte beneath the scorching sun, each bearing the Imperial Fists insignia on the left shoulder.
But upon closer inspection, many still wore various tattered keepsakes.
There were broken bone pendants, charred cloth-woven bracelets, even blood-soaked and dried doll fragments.
These silent relics gently rose and fell with their breathing, as if whispering the names of those lost to Chaos's tide. Though the average age of these teens was just sixteen and their bodies still slight, their eyes were sharp as quenched steel nails.
"Board the ships!"
Ten Astartes drill officers—walking fortresses—moved through the ranks. The glowing lenses of their helmets cast eerie light, and their metallic voices carried clearly into every "recruit's" ears.
"Proceed according to number! Move now!"
The formation began to march with mechanical precision. The youths, bearing standard-issue packs, stepped forward with heavy, resolute strides.
Some glanced skyward—above them, the outlines of warships loomed like mountains of iron, casting shadows over half the town.
"Remember your oath!"
An Imperial Fists sergeant, clad in a crimson robe, stood beside the ramp of the main transport vessel. His voice, channeled through his helmet, rang with steel:
"From today on, you are no longer refugees. You are the Emperor's blade!
And when these doors open again, it will be on the battlefield—and this uniform—"
He slammed his fist against his chest plate, the sound echoing like a bell.
"—is not a gift. It is your forge!"
"YES, SIR!!"
This time, the youths didn't remain silent. Their voices rang out powerfully, and they quickly boarded the transport vessels.
Through the portholes, they cast one last look at this temporary "home."
It had sturdy walls, delicious meals, even entertainment they'd never known existed. But none of that dulled their desire for vengeance.
The transport's hatch closed slowly, sealing away the warmth—and tragedy—of Yavin IV, carrying them toward the ships in orbit.
In low orbit, the assembled fleet gleamed under the star's light.
Centered around an Emperor-class battleship, over a hundred warships hung motionless in formation.
Most bore the golden fist insignia of the Imperial Fists, shining on armor plating—Dorn's direct forces.
A dozen ships belonged to Sigismund's fleet.
Due to the immense resources needed to build a single ship, Sigismund's forces had only undergone repairs and resupply before being redeployed.
Aboard the Emperor-class ship—
Dorn stood at the central holotable. His towering figure was bathed in the projection's pale light. Every line of his unique Primarch armor shimmered with the cool glow of data streams.
A rotating 3D projection of Tatooine hovered before him. Dozens of strategic points were marked, only a few highlighted in red as ongoing threats.
He tapped the table's edge. Each touch sent ripples through the display.
Suddenly, the air shimmered as Aoi's holographic image coalesced at his side.
Her pale-gold hair floated softly, spirit-bone ornaments catching a pearlescent glint. The crystal rapier at her hip cast deep blue shadows across the floor.
"All 23,000 recruits have boarded."
Her voice retained the elven lilt, despite its electronic timbre.
"But the medics report most are mildly malnourished. After all, they've only been in recovery for less than a week."
Dorn didn't look away from the projection but nodded.
"They're in their growth years. Inform logistics to double their nutrient supplements and continue improving meals."
"The psychological assessments are more concerning."
Aoi's projection floated half a step forward. The sword's glow shifted with her.
"Last night's dream logs show 37% are still experiencing traumatic flashbacks."
This time, Dorn turned.
As a gene-Primarch, his face should have been eternally statuesque—but Aoi clearly saw the subtle lines at the corners of his eyes—
A fatigue he showed only before her.
She worried: were these children ready for war?
What would other legions say about such recruitment? Would it be politicized?
Most importantly—what would this do to their souls?
He responded patiently:
"This isn't a greenhouse selection. In the main universe, recruits are polished for years. But here—"
He pointed toward the stars beyond the window.
"Chaos creates new orphans every second."
The holomap expanded into a layered terrain map of Tatooine's surface.
Dorn's finger traced over deserts, canyons, and abandoned moisture farms, marking several key locations in green.
"They won't go to the front lines right away. Phase one is mop-up duty and garrisoning cleared zones. Each company will have two veteran Astartes for protection."
Then he pulled up footage from the refugee town.
In it, a gaunt youth clung to a recruiting officer's sleeve, screaming hoarsely:
"Give me a gun! I want to kill those butchers myself!"
The camera panned to the line behind him—hundreds of eyes burned with the same fire.
These youths had lost loved ones to Darth Vader's invasion of Tatooine.
Aoi was silent, then said: "Hatred corrodes the soul."
"But it also forges armor," Dorn replied, shutting off the footage.
"They'll continue training aboard the ship—replacing simulations with real missions. I'll personally vet the qualified, and make them true Imperial Fists.
Of course—"
His tone softened.
"If anyone wishes to return to a peaceful life, I'll remove them from the roster. After all, this is their choice."
"Good," Aoi said, offering no further argument.
She only hoped Dorn would not err. Then her image began to fade.
"Yavin IV and Jedha's defensive nodes are now synchronized. I'll guard the line. May the light of the Master of Mankind guide your path."
"Keep quantum comms open," Dorn nodded. "If calculations hold, we'll arrive in Tatooine's orbit in 24 hours."
"Understood."
As her image vanished, a stunning view appeared outside the viewport.
The last batch of transports soared through the atmosphere, their plasma trails painting auroras across Yavin IV's ionosphere.
These trails glimmered in harmony with the fleet's nav lights—a silent ballet in space.
"All ships ready."
"Engage jump sequence."
A crewman reported, and Dorn gave the order directly.
Whum—
The massive warp drives of the Emperor-class battleship began to hum. The prow's field generator flared with blinding blue light.
SHRREEE—
Reality itself tore open, a 120-kilometer warp rift yawning before the fleet, its edges laced with eerie blue spirals.
As the gate formed, the entire fleet surged forward like an arrow.
"Coordinates locked."
"All ships, jump."
With that, over a hundred vessels followed the Emperor-class ship into the Immaterium.
—
The warp gate slowly closed behind them. The starlight of realspace receded like a tide, replaced by ghostly waves of luminous ripples.
Inside a transport ship nearly two kilometers long—
The metallic slide of doors echoed through the corridor as recruits entered and exited their sleeping quarters.
These youths from Tatooine quietly packed their issued gear, tucking the few personal items they owned into storage compartments.
One gently caressed a faded family photo. Another sealed grains of desert sand in a pouch. These small tokens were their last links to the past.
The lighting and holosystems simulated planetary day-night rhythms—currently mimicking midday.
The announcement board on the bulkhead scrolled with training schedules:
"0600: Basic PT"
"0800: Weapon Maintenance"
"1300: Tactical Sign Language" and more—packed schedules heralding new lives.
As the first recruits entered the mess hall, hushed disbelief spread among them.
A hundred-meter-long serving line displayed delicacies from across agrarian worlds.
For desert-dwelling youths of Tatooine, such food was a luxury only moisture lords enjoyed during harvest season—and now, it was piled high before them.
"Line Seven offers spice-roasted meat."
A chef-hatted service droid moved among them, advising, "Recommended with Bountiful Star hot sauce."
The recruits sat carefully with alloy trays.
Some stared at their reflections in table knives. Others sampled each dish like rare treasures.
In the corner, a few boys fought tears.
The food was good. Life might get better.
But their friends and families were gone.
And so they steeled themselves—to train hard, become real warriors.
Meanwhile, aboard Dorn's Emperor-class flagship—in a senior officer's cabin:
"Ugh…"
A "military officer" awoke to the ship's warp tremors. He threw off his blanket—his messy blond hair stark against the dark cabin.
"Damn it…"
Groggy, he saw the warpscape outside and cursed under his breath. Barefoot, he stepped onto the cold metal floor.
Motion-sensitive lights gradually brightened. The small room, less than fifteen square meters, lit up with warm tones.
In-wall shelves held a few personal items: a well-maintained sidearm, an old leather wallet, and a slightly faded Inquisitor Division badge.
The "officer" shuffled to the lavatory. The door hissed open. Cold water on his face finally woke him up.
In the mirror, a chiseled face stared back. Blue eyes shadowed by heavy rings—scars from constant deployment.
The man wiping his face was none other than Leon S. Kennedy—elite agent of the Inquisition Division.
He tossed the towel aside, returned to the cabin, and chose his usual attire from neatly hung uniforms: cargo pants and a dark-gray combat tee.
Though simple-looking, the garments were reinforced to withstand close-range live fire.
Socks on, he donned his old combat boots. The tread was worn, but they held strong.
Finally, he checked the spare mags in his gear locker before leaving.
The corridor was much brighter than the cabin. Leon squinted until his eyes adjusted.
The scent of food wafted from the mess hall—his stomach rumbled on cue.
"Time to fill up," he muttered, walking toward the smell.
Leon was aboard Dorn's flagship due to Ada's latest assignment: lead a handful of Inquisition agents to rendezvous with the Spartans on Tatooine.
Having fought in the Scarif raid and the Death Star conflict, Leon had hoped for some rest. But Chaos gods had set their eyes on Universe 17, dashing those hopes.
After a brief rest, he and several agents—along with local "employees" recruited into the Inquisition—had traveled to Yavin IV, awaiting a stable Tatooine situation to meet the Spartans.
Their goal? A joint initiative between the Inquisition and Bio Division—to train Spartans in infiltration, espionage, and covert operations, expanding their versatility, while also serving as bodyguards for the agents.
The Inquisition would also send Leon's team to negotiate with the Kaminoans to secure their allegiance to the Empire.
And for Leon—one of the most experienced agents in Universe 17—this task was naturally unshirkable.
(End of Chapter)
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