## Chapter 1: Crying Like a Fart
Imperial Feudal World — Mawson Ryder
"If you ever find yourself in the Warhammer universe, you'll cry like a fart with a stubbed toe."
Taylor never forgot that line from the Hammer Bar. Now, he was living proof.
His squad stood frozen, eyes glued to the falling rain—so foreign, so strange.
Among them was their officer, a striking blonde with sharp blue eyes and a gentle hint of Asian blood in her features. Dressed in standard Imperial carapace armor, she rested her hands on her sacred lasgun like it was the only constant in a world gone mad.
Her father was said to come from Slav stock. Taylor shared a similar heritage; his mother hailed from the ancient Dragon Empire of Terra.
The officer's curiosity was palpable. Taylor obliged her with a patient explanation. "Water molecules build up until they fall as rain."
She tilted her head. "So… do we have to pay someone for that water?"
"Nope. It's a free gift from nature. Rain falls, nourishes soil, plants grow, evaporates, and cycles back."
One soldier piped up, "So the Hive Lord's in charge? We pay taxes?"
"Or maybe the Hive Master here is called Nature?" she added, proud of her deduction.
Taylor fought back a grin. "No taxing the rain, I promise."
The officer whispered, "This world is truly strange."
Taylor glanced at villagers watching them from their homes, suspicion etched on every face. The locals didn't understand their green armor or the fear in their eyes at raindrops. Magic sticks that spat fire only deepened their suspicion—'wizards', 'witches', 'pests' whispered in Low Gothic.
"We're the weird ones here," Taylor muttered with a wry smile.
He sniffed the sharp scent of rust and gunpowder hanging in the air. The front was dangerously close.
"Corporal, rally the squad. Move out before a Knight Mech squashes us."
"Katie, tell that brat Leitling to stop swiping my boots. Ten soldiers isn't a lot—if a fork goes missing, everyone knows. But that girl's got a hoarding problem."
Katie gave a crisp salute and led them from the mill they'd grabbed for shelter.
Wrapped in plastic sheets, the hive-born soldiers moved swiftly, though raindrops bewildered them. Some reached out to catch water, only to jerk back, afraid the Nest Lord would punish them.
Taylor shook his head. Warriors of the Emperor afraid of rain.
He raised his telescope to the east.
A crimson Knight Mech roared, chainsaw biting deep, but three green-painted death machines held it down, their iron claws tearing mercilessly.
The line slipped again.
Taylor's gaze drifted to farmers armed with hoes and pitchforks.
Evacuate civilians? Not his call.
***
Three hours later, inside an ancient stone keep, Taylor stood rigid as his commander unloaded fury.
The man's mechanical arm gleamed under torchlight, and his Imperial eagle hat sat proud.
"Taylor Kyle Anchor! Soft-hearted fool again? Refugees you saved wrecked our HQ! You rescued Genestealers! If you weren't skilled, I'd've blown your head off by now!"
He exhaled, frustrated. "You should be a lieutenant. Stop this kindness. It's useless."
"They're burdens," Taylor shot back. "But still the Emperor's people."
The officer's scowl deepened. "Interrupting me's a worse offense!"
"Six lashes, by regulation," Taylor said.
The officer groaned. "Enough. You've earned trust—rest and supplies at last."
"I don't get why those driving knight mechs care about 'morality.' But you? You're the plague of the Skadi 36th."
"Those civilians will doom us all, I swear on the Emperor!"
Taylor saluted and walked away.
Soldiers of the 36th saluted him—legendary for "single-handedly" destroying cultist forces in the Void Hive at Rogue Bay.
Taylor knew it was luck: falling into a tunnel and tossing a grenade.
Still, a legend suited him better.
Exhausted, he collapsed beside comrades.
Katie handed him a bottle of Karantis—lemony, sparkling, a brief comfort.
"Mr. Cervical Spondylosis is as annoying as ever," Taylor muttered.
Katie smiled. "Don't say that aloud, sir."
Political Commissar Tychus was rigid, legendary, his neck always stiff as iron. The nickname stuck.
Taylor smiled wryly.
Three years since crossing over, one year in the Guard.
Four more to retirement, if he lived that long.
Eyes clouded with experience, he raised his lasgun as a distant cannon blast shook the castle.
"Find cover," he ordered. "Then fall back."
Katie called out crisply, "Shoot once, move fast. You can run backward, never forward."
"When they advance, retreat. When they fall back, still retreat."
Taylor nodded. Katie was no longer the rookie from six months ago—she was nearly masterful.
Outside, rain hammered down, washing away more than dirt.
The Skadi 36th braced once more—for the Emperor, for survival, for tomorrow.
***