Chapter 14: Machine God's Malfunction
The battlefield stank of ozone, scorched metal, and death.
Lucien Artor Vale crouched in a crater of broken ferrocrete, dust clinging to his armor, his lungs burning with every breath. Shouts echoed over the vox—orders, screams, and the ever-present prayers to the Emperor. The air shimmered with heat and static. Somewhere in the distance, a Warlord Titan roared its defiance, the deep thrum of its plasma annihilator pulsing like a second heartbeat in Lucien's chest.
The enemy had pushed harder than expected. A splinter of Chaos forces—traitor Guardsmen backed by a corrupted Knight-class war machine—had ambushed their convoy en route to Hive Naranth. What was meant to be a routine reinforcement assignment had turned into a nightmare.
Lucien had been sent forward with the vanguard, a symbol of youthful confidence and increasingly well-earned respect. Though only eighteen, many already whispered that the young noble had the Emperor's favor—or at least remarkable instincts. Bullets seemed to miss him by inches. Mines failed to detonate. Allies caught in crossfire lived just long enough for him to pull them to safety.
He never corrected them.
He couldn't explain that his success wasn't training or divine will—it was his curse, his mystery, his secret.
It was luck.
He had first noticed it as a child, during falls that should have broken bones but didn't, or when a house fire narrowly missed him but destroyed everything else. It had grown more noticeable in his teens—freak accidents that protected him, coincidences too perfect to dismiss. Now, on the battlefield, it was undeniable.
The stronger his enemies, the more his luck surged. As if the universe itself refused to let him die easily.
And his enemies? They paid the price.
The corrupted Knight moved with lumbering menace across the valley, its armor stitched with runes of blasphemy and wires of bleeding flesh. Even the ground seemed to cry under its weight. It unleashed a storm of missiles that struck true—except Lucien had moved his squad seconds before. The rocks where they had been exploded into fiery shards.
Sergeant Demos barked over the vox, "Cassian! The traitors are targeting the Titan's knee actuator. We need that thing operational!"
Cassian. The name still felt strange, though it had become second nature in the Guard. It was a title—a masking identity he accepted for survival. Lucien Artor Vale was a noble's name, tied to politics and inheritance. Cassian was the soldier. The survivor. The one who bore luck like armor.
He peeked from cover and saw the chaos-warped Knight leveling its thermal lance at the leg of the Imperium's Titan—a Warlord-class behemoth that could turn cities to ash. If that actuator was destroyed, the Titan would fall, crushing their entire flank.
And Lucien knew one thing: it was up to him.
He sprinted.
Across open ground, past the ruined bodies of allies and foes alike, Lucien ran as if the Emperor Himself had commanded it. Bolter rounds cracked past him. A stray las-beam burned across his shoulder plate. Still, he moved—drawn forward by the sense, the pulse, the surge of his mysterious power. Every moment of danger fed it. His thoughts quieted. The battlefield bent slightly around him.
A cultist's flamer sputtered and died just as it turned to him.
A frag grenade thrown at his feet landed... and didn't detonate.
He slid behind a twisted Leman Russ chassis, heart hammering. He didn't stop to question it anymore. He only moved.
Then, the Knight's cannon ignited.
Lucien's eyes locked onto the plasma coil glowing deep crimson as it prepared to fire. He didn't know what possessed him, only that he rose and aimed. His standard-issue lasgun shouldn't have done anything against a Knight's exposed energy weapon.
He fired.
One shot.
The beam sparked off a loose plate—ricocheting up, skipping across armor, and—impossibly—slamming into the Knight's sensory array. The corrupted war engine jerked, firing early.
The plasma bolt screamed wide, sailing far from the Titan's leg.
And into a nearby Chaos bunker filled with munitions.
The explosion was biblical. The shockwave knocked Lucien off his feet. The bunker detonated, shrapnel flaying the Knight's upper limbs. It staggered, cursed by machine spirits long since twisted. Then its primary coolant tank ruptured.
The Knight exploded in a brilliant bloom of warpfire.
The Titan's deep vox amplifier rang out across the battlefield, a booming hymn of victory.
Lucien lay in the dirt, ears ringing, chest heaving.
"Cassian!" Demos roared, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright. "What in the Emperor's name—how did you—"
Lucien blinked through the smoke. Around him, soldiers of the Astra Militarum stared at him—not in admiration, but awe. A few crossed themselves.
A legend was being born. Not forged by design, but by accident.
The commander of the Titan, a Tech-Priest with more augmetics than flesh, approached with heavy steps. His voice rasped through filters: "The Omnissiah protects. But today... it seems the fleshling aided Him."
Lucien tried to speak, but only coughed.
The priest nodded. "Your presence is recorded. Name?"
Lucien hesitated. Then answered with a voice steadier than he felt. "Cassian."
The Tech-Priest stared, and then, surprisingly, saluted.
Behind Lucien, others began to whisper again.
"The Lucky Cassian..."
"The boy who walked through fire."
"He makes the machine spirits smile."
Lucien said nothing.
He didn't want this.
He only wanted to live. But something in the stars... something in the ring burned in his chest.
Fate had no intention of letting him hide.
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