Chapter 3: This Is Fate
The Emperor heard his prayer. Rain fell heavily the next morning—wetter, thicker than before.
But the Emperor underestimated Taylor's resolve.
Imperial Guards were no stonemasons.
Castle walls were tough, yes—but also brittle. A few dog holes, dug in desperate haste, caused a century-old fortress to partially collapse with a tremendous crash. Screams echoed from the 36th squad of the 3rd platoon, 15th Skadi Regiment.
Commissar Tychus finally stirred, dark circles marking his weary eyes.
Later that day, Taylor was escorted to the highest floor inside the ancient castle. Huge stained Gothic windows framed somber nobles clad in ornate armor, their chests bearing giant red dragon crests.
Like medieval knights come to life.
Taylor's eyes drank it in. Their armor was a marvel—prized artifacts, though no match for his lasgun's searing beam.
Finally, Tychus led him to a metal throne where an old man sat, crowned, his pale skin stretched tight like a mummy's.
Draped in a crimson robe, his limbs withered with age and hidden beneath fine cloth, but his voice rang clear and sonorous.
Mechanicus servitors swarmed about, their grotesque half-machine forms wielding strange life-preserving devices.
Taylor guessed the man was centuries old—perhaps hundreds.
"This fortress is twelve millennia old," the old man declared, his voice measured yet commanding. "Built before our ancestors pledged loyalty to the Imperium."
"And you destroyed a section of it! I gave you shelter and aid... yet you have inflicted damage greater than the green-skinned barbarians ever dared."
Tychus snapped a salute. "It will fall to the greenskins eventually, anyway."
Taylor was taken aback—his commander was defending him?
A harsh palm landed on his back.
Tychus continued, "If you, High King, believe such a defense can hold, then test it by all means."
His metal arm locked Taylor's shoulder, as if fearing escape.
The Supreme King's thin smile revealed sharp teeth.
"Warrior of the Emperor… do you insult my bloodline?"
"Since the Great Crusade, I have never before faced such insolence."
Tychus shoved Taylor forward.
"This is Taylor Kyle Anchor."
At the name, the ancient king's expression softened.
"He is yours to command until war's end—as compensation for the fortress."
The king smiled. "Why this soldier? Why him worth such trust?"
"If it's about character, I could pick any from the Knights Templar," Tychus replied.
"This man killed thirty cultists alone, destroyed an enemy command center, and foiled a surprise attack that turned foes on each other."
"If such deeds count for nothing, my army offers no better recompense."
Tychus hesitated, then added, "He is stationed at the Collapse Point."
The king's gaze turned cold, indifferent, even angry.
Taylor realized then: he was a scapegoat.
Or was it a reward?
He opened his mouth to protest, but the High King spoke.
"My niece, Lady Freeblade Elena, needs attendants. Let this hero serve her."
The emphasis on "hero" was sharp.
Taylor offered a wry smile. "At your Majesty's service."
Several hours later, regret settled in.
Taylor regretted even praying for the rain.
The Freeblade's base lay beyond the castle walls. To reach it, he and his squad had no armored transports—only their own legs.
He apologized to his brothers. "It's on me. We lost the fortress comfort."
Leitling, the short, quirky girl, eyed Taylor's worn boots and said in a creepy voice, "It's okay, boss. It tastes better this way."
Taylor cursed. "I'll tolerate quirks... but that's not one of 'em!"
He quickened his pace, sensing the cook-medic-sniper's excitement growing.
Crossing muddy medieval roads, they entered a city where towering red giant mechs stood sentinel.
One, thirteen meters tall, brandished a storm shield in its right hand and a massive chainsaw sword in its left.
Countless Mechanicus tech-servitors swarmed around, tirelessly maintaining the behemoth.
Among the chaos, Taylor's small group went unnoticed.
Ruffling his jet-black hair, Taylor smiled. "Looks like we might get a break—maybe trade some rations for bacon."
Away from the harsh eye of Tychus for the first time in ages, Taylor savored the prospect.
But then a voice cut through the quiet.
"Mr. Taylor Kyle Anchor, are you planning to run away?"
An elegant, high-pitched tone.
A white-haired lady in fine formal dress stepped forward.
Her skin was fair, her features flawless, and her bearing regal—a stark contrast to the rough female pervert and tomboy in Taylor's squad.
Taylor responded politely, "Do we know each other, ma'am?"
"My name is Elena, Freeblade," she said, voice cool but commanding. "I am your master."
"Go wash yourself, servant."
"Then wait in my room. And remember—have clean skin. I despise the smell of sweat."
Taylor drew a deep breath.
"At your service, my lord."