Leon's boots thudded against the metal ramp of the Rui Zhou, each step sending a low, resonant echo across the sunbaked landing pad.
Tatooine's scorching air hit him like a wall, carrying with it the faint rasp of sand grains scraping against his armor. He squinted slightly, eyes sweeping over the rows of neatly assembled Spartans ahead.
These towering super-soldiers—each averaging over two meters in height—stood motionless beneath the twin suns. The desert heat distorted the air around their MJOLNIR armor, forming shimmering halos of haze.
The ceramic-composite plating of their armor, matte beneath the harsh light, bore the rhythm of hydraulic systems gently pulsing with each breath.
Leon noticed a few of them subtly shifting posture. The servo-motors in their suits gave off quiet zzzz sounds—tiny giveaways of nervousness that only came from the very young.
"By the Emperor…"
Three paces behind Leon, David leaned in and whispered to Lucy, keeping his voice low. "Are these really kids in their teens?"
His eyes swept across the Spartans' broad shoulder pauldrons. "Some of them look even more jacked than the new recruits from the Imperial Fists."
Lucy's electronic eye pulsed faintly with blue light. Her iris reflected cascading data—she was silently recording parameters from each Spartan.
She gave no verbal reply, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth was unmistakable: silent agreement.
Leon moved straight toward the scarred figure at the front of the formation.
John-117's armor bore the brutal marks of real combat.
His left pauldron showed webbed cracks from a high-energy impact. The chest plate was riddled with dents. Most striking of all: three parallel claw marks slashed across his visor—like something from a Chaos daemon.
Though this stranded force on Tatooine had received some support, clearly they hadn't had time for the Engineering Division to properly restore their gear.
"Master Chief," Leon nodded, producing his personal terminal. A translucent holoprojection blinked into existence between them.
On the data stream that unfolded—a list of Spartan serial numbers pulsing softly—each identifier shimmered in a soft rhythm.
"Halsey should've briefed you all on the nature of this assignment."
A calm, firm voice issued from John's helmet speaker. "Yes, sir. All Spartans are standing by."
Leon's fingers glided across the list, but in truth, his mind was already made up.
Red Team's trio had shown near-flawless coordination both in tactical simulations and recent engagements.
Douglas-042's melee rating peaked at 98.7%. Jerome-092's command aptitude rivaled that of a ten-year veteran. And Alice-130, in a recent battle, had manually dismantled three corrupted AT-STs—barehanded.
Then the list scrolled to Spartan-141, Ko'r.
Next to her profile:
4800-meter extreme-range marksmanship: 99.3% accuracy
Longest stealth duration: 240 hours
Top marks in all camouflage and recon courses
Her profile photo revealed rare amber eyes—a side effect of specific gene edits.
Finally, his finger paused at one wildly active serial number: Malon-1337.
In the dossier video, the young Spartan walked on his hands while shooting moving targets—each shot bullseye.
Beside it, a handwritten note from Dr. Halsey: "Excessively energetic, but battlefield instincts rated S-class."
Leon began reading names aloud.
When he reached "1337. Malon," the entire formation rippled like it had been shocked.
"Whoohoo!!"
A hulking Spartan, taller than the rest, sprang up with a roar. His magnetic boots scraped sparks across the metal deck.
"Ha! Knew it!" Malon's voice boomed through the helmet speaker, echoing across the landing pad.
He turned and slapped the shoulder of a nearby teammate, the impact ringing out with a deep clang. "Jason! You see that?! The legendary agent picked me personally!"
The one called Jason staggered from the blow—likely wearing a deeply exasperated expression behind his visor.
John gave a slow shake of the head. As Malon's commanding officer—and, by now, practically his babysitter—he'd long since gotten used to the antics of this "problem child."
Leon watched the scene with a flicker of nostalgia. He remembered when he'd first joined the Inquisition—eager, determined, idealistic.
But unlike Malon, he'd never worn that excitement so openly.
"I need all selected personnel to have their gear and weapons delivered to Compartment B of the Rui Zhou within thirty minutes," Leon turned to John, voice regaining his usual cold precision. "This includes but is not limited to standard armaments, special modules, and MJOLNIR suits."
"Yes, sir."
John nodded and barked the command:
"Douglas, Jerome, Alice, Ko'r, Malon—step forward!"
The five Spartans took one synchronized step out. The clang of magnetic boots hitting metal was sharp, like a war drum. Even Malon instantly snapped into professional mode.
Leon scanned the five, then swiped across his terminal. A mission brief unfolded above them.
"You'll be assigned to infiltration, surveillance, and security support missions. You'll assist our department in sensitive operations."
His voice dropped a register.
"That means—for most of the mission—"
He paused, letting silence settle like a lead weight.
Somewhere in the distance, a transport's engine rumbled, making the stillness even more pronounced.
"You'll need to remove your MJOLNIR armor."
Jerome-092 leaned forward slightly, a Spartan sign of full attention. He spoke with the group's consent:
"Understood, sir."
"Good."
Leon dismissed the projection and tucked his terminal away.
"Half an hour. Assemble in the Rui Zhou's Compartment B. Anyone late will be responsible for maintaining everyone's equipment for the entire op."
"YES, SIR!"
The five Spartans replied in unison, their tone crisp and powerful.
Leon, David, and Lucy turned to return to the ship.
As Leon stepped into the airlock, Malon's voice rang out once again—cutting through the heat and wind:
"Hey! Do you think we'll run into any Sith Lords? Or maybe even that Yoda guy Intel keeps whispering about?!"
"1337!" John's reprimand was instant. "Get your gear. Now."
Inside the Rui Zhou's corridor, David rubbed sand from his eyes and leaned toward Lucy, teasing:
"Be honest, think that guy—1337—can stay in disguise for the minimum mission duration?"
Lucy's synthetic eye blinked. She tapped something on her private display.
A report flashed into David's retinal overlay.
Her voice was as calm as if discussing weather:
"Data shows that in real combat, 1337 Malon's mission completion rate is 302% higher than in training."
"Ha! So he's one of those." David chuckled, miming a pistol gesture. "Gun to his head, and he's at peak focus."
Lucy didn't answer immediately.
Her gaze shifted through the porthole—where Malon was skipping toward the armory, practically bouncing despite the half-ton suit.
She shrugged—just a tiny one—but it said everything.
In any unit, action spoke louder than words.
And if Leon had picked him, it meant the agent saw something in Malon few others did.
—
Elsewhere—
Tatooine's twin suns cast twisting shadows down the canyon walls. The engine nozzles of a Thunderhawk gunship glowed softly as it settled on the landing pad, kicking up whirlwinds of hot sand.
The black-painted craft touched down alongside the Rui Zhou.
Hydraulics hissed as the forward ramp descended.
Rogal Dorn appeared in the opening.
He wore no helmet.
White hair fluttered faintly in the heat. His weathered, unflinching face carried traces of long travel. The golden pauldrons of his custom armor gleamed under the suns, the Imperial Fists insignia radiant.
Twelve Terminator-clad Honor Guard followed, their thunderous steps like distant artillery.
Sigismund waited with a group of veteran Astartes already in formation.
Seeing the Primarch, they raised their right arms as one—armor clanging in perfect synchrony.
"Father," Sigismund's voice came through his speaker, eyes burning behind his visor.
Dorn raised a hand to signal them to lower their arms and strode calmly down the ramp.
"No need for ceremony," his voice was steady, like a boulder in the desert. "Once Tatooine is fully purged of Chaos, your forces will be the first to receive the Mk IX Titan-pattern armor and new weaponry."
As he spoke, Dorn's gaze drifted over Sigismund's shoulder—toward two figures across the landing pad.
Athena had shed her radiant armor, now wearing a simple white linen gown fluttering in the breeze. She looked like an ordinary woman—
If you ignored the subtle divine aura rippling around her.
Beside her stood Hera, exuding the opposite air—dark red silk robes adorned with golden runes. In her arms, wrapped in a silvery swaddle, was a baby.
Dorn's pupils contracted slightly.
Even from dozens of meters away, his superhuman eyes could clearly see the infant—Ferrus, the newborn Primarch—gripping a strand of Hera's hair, blinking curiously at this unknown "brother."
"Father," Sigismund gently reminded, "Goddess Hera said she's ready to hand the newborn over to the medical division."
Dorn nodded almost imperceptibly, eyes narrowing as he noticed the runes on Hera's robe subtly flowing—an ancient protective enchantment.
Athena kept the perfect respectful distance—neither overly familiar nor cold. She seemed to understand exactly how to handle Primarchs.
Even without psychic ability, Dorn could feel Athena radiating maternal warmth toward the child.
"Let's go."
Dorn gave the order.
His Honor Guard gestured for a protective formation.
He walked toward the goddesses, Sigismund and the veterans following.
Hera's crimson lips curved in a meaningful smile as Dorn approached. Ferrus gurgled softly, reaching toward Dorn.
That innocent motion softened the Primarch's iron expression.
"He knows you," Hera's voice was silken, with an echo that lingered, "Blood calls to blood."
Athena stepped forward slightly, gown brushing the sand. "The child is strong. Her Majesty has been nursing him herself."
Dorn's gaze flicked between the two, then rested on the baby.
He extended a gauntleted finger, which Ferrus instantly gripped.
That tiny grasp made Dorn's breath hitch.
"I'll care for him." His voice warmed, almost imperceptibly. "The dust of this world isn't fit for a newborn."
He gently took the bundle from Hera and turned toward his waiting Thunderhawk.
Across the landing pad, the Imperial Fists visibly relaxed.
Many of them were seeing a new Primarch for the first time—their expressions behind helmets a mix of awe and wonder.
As the Thunderhawk's doors sealed behind Dorn, Hera's robes whipped in the rising thermal currents. Her fingers curled involuntarily, nails cutting crescent marks into her palms.
A rare loss of composure from a goddess.
Athena stood beside her, flawless and unmoved.
Yet in her jewel-like eyes, the departing gunship glinted with a flicker of... longing.
"He'll be well cared for," Athena whispered—barely audible over the roaring engines.
Hera's smile cracked.
She remembered Ares—her proud son standing defiantly between her and the Chaos horde. His war-god armor corroded, body broken, never to return.
"Every mother believes that," Hera murmured, stroking the last strand of hair the infant had pulled free. "Until fate proves her wrong."
The gunship vanished into the sky.
Athena pressed a hand to her chest, startled by a sudden ache.
A strange thought invaded her mind—of a child born from her and the human Emperor, Samuel Young.
The thought sent a tremor through her divine core. Her gown stirred without wind.
Hera noticed.
She smirked, "Careful, wise one."
She tapped Athena's chest.
"Once there's a crack in here, it's hard to seal again."
Meanwhile—
Inside the Rui Zhou, Jerome, Douglas, Alice, Ko'r, and Malon had finished gathering their gear and reported in.
The transport lifted off, engines flaring.
And like the Thunderhawk before it, it soared toward the edge of Tatooine's atmosphere—toward the next stage of the campaign.
(End of Chapter)
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