"Karna, my lord!"
After wandering the ship for a whole day, Karna returned to the central elevator section.
The moment his iron boots stepped into the area, he was greeted by a harmonious sight.
Astartes in Cataphractii-pattern Terminator armor patrolled the perimeter, accompanied by a squad of Cadian Guardsmen clad in void armor.
Across the square, in front of the mess hall, an orderly line had formed. At the varied tables, Astartes and mortals alike sat together sharing food.
Unlike half a month ago, when this place was merely a fortified defensive point, it had now been converted into a communal dining area for both the Imperial Guard and the Astartes.
"Same as usual."
Handing over his mess tin to the cook, Karna swept his gaze across the hall.
A Sister of Battle saying grace before her meal—check.
A few comrades who had already started eating—check.
Today's duty officer for the meal shift, Colonel Kovek—check.
The Tech-Priest… hm? Where'd he go?
Karna narrowed his eyes and finally spotted the orange-robed cogboy below deck, swinging his censer and bowing fervently before a massive aircraft.
Ah, today he's worshiping the Stormbird.
Ever since he found out that the team had just handed over vehicles and equipment directly to the Imperial Guard, the Tech-Priest had gone into shock, sputtering about how such things belonged in a reliquary and that letting mere Guardsmen use them was a sacrilege.
But that's just Hachimi for you.
Like hell we're going to stash them away—better to burn through them now than leave them rotting when we're crushed in some attrition battle.
After Romulus bluntly refused to return the gifts, the Tech-Priest had resorted to bowing before the machines every day, hoping to coax the machine spirits into forgiving them.
Still at it—check.
"Thanks."
Taking back his now-filled tin, Karna made his way to the Astartes' table.
The other three, their armor now repainted in Deathwatch colors, had already finished eating long ago.
"Find anything good today?" Romulus asked as soon as Karna sat down.
"Nothing left. We've combed through every corner of the ship. Even checked the Ork sector, but their tech level isn't high enough. Small components still need Waaagh! energy, so they're useless to us."
"Fair enough. At least we've finished our cataloging before reinforcements arrive. Worth celebrating."
"Worth celebrating? We've eaten so much corpse-starch that we're tasting rainbows by now."
Sprinkling a handful of ceramic-steel powder into his tin, Karna speared a chunk of meat and shoved it into his mouth.
"Thank the Emperor for advanced Imperial tech, or I'd gladly torch a few more daemons just to trade for some fried chicken and cola."
Ramesses, already finished, wiped his mouth.
Right now, they were feasting on one of the most famous dishes of the Imperium, known across the multiverse—
Soylens Viridians.
Also called corpse-starch.
At its core, it was a high-nutrition byproduct from promethium refinement, the only food source for most Imperial citizens.
It had almost no taste on its own. Depending on additives, it could look and feel different, usually ending up as a sticky paste.
As for how it became what they were eating now—
Well, let's just say only a civilization as extreme as the Imperium could produce such equally extreme culinary technology.
Using nutrient formulation methods from that Tech-Priest, food-texture customization stolen from a fleet officer's quarters, and endless corpse-starch processed from promethium, they had cobbled together a meal that was both flavorful and balanced.
And the best part—
Like corpse-starch itself, it was cheap and abundant, enough to keep every living soul on the ship fed for a year.
Say what you will, but Imperial civilian tech was impressive—it just never got used on the civilians themselves.
"By the way, why do you two keep staring at toilet paper?"
Karna noticed Romulus and Arthur reading the Codex Astartes again.
"Stripped of its restrictions on Astartes, the Regent's advice is still valuable," Arthur replied without looking up. "And we don't know this universe's details well. The Codex fills in gaps in our knowledge. It's worth studying."
"It literally teaches you how to fight wars, how to run a Chapter, down to who does what in battle and how to adapt to different environments. It's been very helpful for my command." Romulus added, eyes glued to the book.
To be fair, the Codex Astartes was top-tier as a reference. It covered nearly every situation an Astartes might face. Just follow it, and you'd become competent.
Forget the 'toilet paper' jokes and outdated calls—it was a good book. Guilliman clearly poured his soul into writing it.
"Two nerds grinding us again." Ramesses couldn't help but mutter.
"If they don't grind, then you'd have to," Karna replied, snapping his ceramic chopsticks.
"Yeah, let the nerds handle it," Ramesses surrendered instantly.
"But seriously, are we just going to let this misunderstanding continue?" Karna glanced at the Sisters of Battle at the next table, already done eating but still sitting, watching them intently.
"Feels like they're treating us like relics."
Since handing over that pile of equipment, the 26 Sisters had hardly left their side.
Only Karna, thanks to his solo excursions, escaped constant surveillance. The others couldn't leave their quarters without Sisterly eyes following.
"That's better than them suspecting we're renegades." Romulus reasoned.
"If it's to our advantage, let it be. Arthur and Ramesses, just claim you're elite warriors. Let the rest fill in the blanks with their own imagination."
"But won't they notice inconsistencies eventually?" Karna said, doubting his own acting skills.
"Why pretend? The gear's real, our oddness is real. Like that saying goes—'our clumsy imitation…'" Ramesses trailed off, forgetting the line.
"…can't compare to a son's single moment of genuine devotion," Karna finished.
"Feels more like M3 Earth," Romulus quipped without missing a beat.
"See? No need to force it," Ramesses nodded.
Arthur just grimaced. But he had to admit, whether it was them from M3 or Guilliman from M31, both saw the Imperium the same way: a mess.
Just look at the Regent, drowning in regret after waking up. No difference at all.
"My lord, incoming communication from an Imperial warship."
Their post-meal study was cut short by the herald's report.
"Encryption?"
"Verified."
"Designation?"
"They identify themselves as the Flesh Tearers."
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