Chapter 23: Echoes of the Emperor
The transport vessel, Sanctum's Will, drifted into low orbit above the ash-grey planet of Virex Prime, its hull groaning under the weight of incoming atmospheric drag. Inside, hundreds of Guardsmen—new recruits and seasoned veterans alike—braced themselves for deployment. Among them sat Lucien Artor Vale, silent, his gaze distant, the ring on his finger gleaming faintly beneath the dim interior lights.
He'd fought before. He'd killed before. But this was different. Virex Prime wasn't a rebellious Hive world or a frontier colony—this was an industrial lynchpin threatened by unknown xenos forces. Rumors spoke of shimmering beings that blinked in and out of existence, of entire squads vanishing mid-scream. The word "Necron" had not yet passed anyone's lips officially, but it hovered in the air like a curse.
Lucien flexed his hand, feeling the strange pull of fate coiling tighter around him. He had grown since his first battle—his body hardened, reflexes sharpened—but so too had his inner conflict. He never sought to be a warrior. The idea of peace was still a whisper in his soul, a dream chased by a reality painted in blood and gunmetal.
As the dropship shuddered to life and the red alert klaxon roared, Lucien whispered to himself, "One more time. Survive one more time."
---
The descent was a blur of motion and tension. The familiar roar of the engines masked the soldiers' fear, but Lucien felt it—the sting of probability unraveling. Something was wrong.
Their craft was struck mid-atmosphere. Not by anti-air or missile, but by a pulse—a green flash of unmaking that disintegrated another dropship in their squadron instantly. The hell was that? someone screamed. Lucien didn't need an answer.
Necrons.
The Sanctum's Will twisted hard, losing altitude fast. Lucien gripped the crash harness and closed his eyes. A pulse of warmth surged from the ring.
Luck... keep me alive.
The ship slammed into the ground with thunderous force. Metal screamed. Men screamed. But Lucien stood, unharmed. Around him, chaos reigned—his comrades bruised, bleeding, some lifeless. And yet, none of it touched him.
---
When the survivors regrouped, Lucien was no longer a boy soldier in their eyes. He had led the injured from the wreckage. He had rallied panicking troops. His voice was calm when it should have cracked. Some whispered the Emperor's name beside his. Others believed he'd made a pact with something far older.
He didn't dissuade them. Not because he agreed, but because he didn't know himself anymore.
Hours later, their unit, now barely operational, engaged the enemy.
And Lucien's luck began to shine.
Las-shots that should have struck him veered an inch off. A Necron Gauss Flayer exploded in the hands of its wielder. The ground collapsed under a pursuing xenos but held under Lucien's retreat. Again and again, the battlefield shifted subtly, always in his favor. Those closest to him survived. Those who hunted him stumbled. Chaos became his cloak, misfortune his dagger.
He no longer had to believe in the ring. The ring believed in him.
---
In the command tent of the 65th Virex Defense Corps, Inquisitor Kaela Vos watched the battle feed with narrowing eyes. She had reviewed hours of data. One soldier—a noble's son from a backwater planet—appeared in every skirmish report with uncanny survivability. Lucien Artor Vale.
"Find him," she ordered to her aide. "Discreetly. I want to know if we've found a saint…
…or a heretic."
---
By the end of the third day, Lucien's unit had pushed the enemy back from three critical power nodes. The Tech-Priests blessed him. Veterans deferred to his judgment. Officers cited his presence as the morale lynchpin.
Yet Lucien felt none of the glory.
He sat alone beside the ruins of a manufactorum, staring at the stars. His hand trembled slightly, the ring warm to the touch. The voices in his head weren't madness—they were memories, fragments of a life before this grim future. A boy who listened to Warhammer lore on YouTube. A fan who never dreamed he'd become a soldier in that nightmare.
"I was just a kid," he murmured. "Now I'm their shield. Their charm. Their hope."
The wind howled. The ring pulsed.
Somewhere in the galaxy, fate stirred.
And the legend of Lucien Artor Vale grew sharper.
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