The body count was over twenty Flayed Ones when Luka and Gutress finally climbed out of the sewers, craving fresh air. Their Inquisitor and Forge Master pieces could shrug off a month in those fetid tunnels, but for the two former civilians behind the roles, the suffocating darkness and relentless fighting gnawed at their nerves. The constant alertness, the slashing claws of xenos—it wore them down, leaving a faint mental haze.
On the surface, they shed their casual chatter, slipping back into their personas with practiced ease. "Lord Governor!" Rachel, the ex-commissar turned chamberlain, hurried forward. Her face was etched with dark circles, a testament to sleepless days juggling planetary duties and the A7-012 lockdown. In the grim reality of 40K, skipping sleep was nothing—corpo drones in 2077 could be drugged to work seventy-two hours straight, and Warhammer's standards were harsher. Still, Rachel held up without stimulants, just stretched thin.
"We've culled some Flayed Ones," Luka said, his tone clipped and authoritative. "Send men to haul up their scraps. The Sisters will back you."
Rachel nodded, no hesitation, and turned to relay orders. No complaints, no fuss—just duty. Luka and Gutress, keeping up their formal facade, shifted to the mission. "Cleared about a third of the sewers," Gutress reported, his voice low. "More xenos than we thought."
"They're down to a level we can handle," Luka replied. "Let the PDF take the rest. They need to cut their teeth."
General Grigori, a weathered Valhallan veteran from the Astra Militarum, stood nearby, clad in carapace armor, absorbing every word. He knew xenos, knew how to kill them, but his PDF weren't the crack Guardsmen he'd once commanded. Strategies that flowed seamlessly for the Militarum fell apart in the hands of green recruits. Surviving the Guard's brutal fifteen-hour average lifespan made Grigori no stranger to war's demands—he wasn't one to underestimate.
"The lads need blooding," he growled, agreeing. Rostov II's first settlers were Militarum retirees, but their PDF were untested. "This planet's a quiet rock. No wars, barely a riot in decades. These boys have only scrapped with prison scum—hardly counts," Grigori said, his voice heavy with experience. "Sending them against xenos will cost lives, sure, but it's better than tossing them into a real war blind. The Imperium's drowning in enemies. Rostov's peace is a lie. If they can't hold the line, they'll learn soldiering through blood and ashes."
Valhalla's scars shaped Grigori's resolve. Once a verdant world, it was plunged into ice by a meteor and nearly lost to Orks. Only grit and sacrifice saved it. For him, throwing the PDF into the fire was no cruelty—it was survival. Training and gear were critical, but without combat, even elite troops could crumble when death stared them down.
In 40K, enemies were endless, experience a brutal teacher. Commissar Yarrick forged hive gangers into Ork-slayers through sheer attrition. Rostov's PDF, drilled by Valhallan veterans, lacked that forge. The system's backwater status offered no real fights—until the Flayed Ones. Facing them was suicide for some, but Grigori saw it as a crucible.
"The other two-thirds are yours, General," Luka said, nodding approval. "Deliver results."
Truth was, Luka's approach—leading elites into the fray—wasn't the Imperial way. A proper governor would flood the sewers with PDF bodies, drowning the xenos in blood. That was 40K's grim arithmetic, not surgical strikes. Still adjusting to this meat-grinder mindset, Luka greenlit Grigori's plan but sent backup—not his ten-strong Sister squad, but the first wave of trainees stepping into the Sororitas' ranks.
(To be continued)