"Alright, so what's next? Are we still building that safehouse or not?"
After leaving the warehouse, the four of them found a quiet corner to finalize their preparations.
"I think it's expensive, yes, but it's still a means of protecting humanity. Until we find something more cost-effective, we should stick with it."
It was like so many projects they'd known in the past: on paper the construction costs were a loss, but when it was for the sake of people, it had to be built. Life couldn't be measured purely in terms of value.
Romulus thought for a while.
"Here's the plan. From now on, whenever we gain soul energy, we'll allocate five percent toward expanding the safehouse. Keep building until it can shelter the natural death population of an entire hive world."
They had ambition. The first step was getting their "first pot of gold." Then they'd fix their identity issues, and once that was resolved, their next move would be securing a recruiting world for development.
After all, with their abilities, they'd never lack equipment or production capacity. What they lacked were void fleets and the manpower to use all that gear. Which meant a stable, Chaos-free world was essential.
"Alright then, I'll leave the books in your hands."
Ramses had no objections.
"Okay. I'll focus on monitoring the Warp and its star-speech links. I'll harass Old Huang, set traps for demons elsewhere, and even if I can't pin Old Huang, I'll try stuffing a demon in there instead. I'll also keep expanding the catalog… damn, I've got a lot on my plate."
"Yeah, Ramses, your workload is heavier. Thanks for carrying it."
"No problem, honestly I like it."
For now, Ramses was the only one actively interfacing with the Warp. Until they knew how dangerous it truly was, no second member would share the risk. That was their shared agreement.
"I'll take care of operations, diplomacy, and get familiar with battlefield command." Arthur spoke up.
"You handle frontline combat, squad leadership, and mastering Astartes combat knowledge. Also, dig deeper into your natural talent for fighting. In theory, the risky stuff is our job. Your responsibility is to keep an eye on every single one of us."
Arthur had always been the steady one, the guy who cared about winning and losing but didn't jump to crazy ideas. Back when they gamed together, whenever the others started messing around, Arthur was the one covering their backs.
Now—Romulus glanced at Ramses, who already looked like he was cooking up wild schemes again.
Even more necessary.
"Understood." Arthur nodded.
The real hidden risks were their powers and their Warp contact. Until those two were proven safe, Arthur had no interest in touching them. Ramses' flashy tricks weren't his style.
"So… I'll go wander around?" Karna asked, seeing he had nothing assigned.
"Sure, go wander." Romulus didn't mind.
Karna wasn't idle. His role was observer, gathering details others overlooked, then taking part in the full debrief. Back when the group had acted as "strategists" helping a roommate chase a girlfriend, Karna was always the one digging up missing intel.
"You've got thirty minutes to get comfortable, then we start the real work."
After laying out the tasks, Romulus clapped his hands.
"Dismissed!"
"Got it."
They scattered quickly, already slipping into character, looking sharp and professional.
The truth was, this wasn't hard for them. The only difference was that before, they'd done all this to live better.
Now, they did it to survive.
Inside the wide chamber, the three others finally calmed down and began carefully examining the weapons.
They didn't feel guilty about prioritizing themselves. The Imperium's laws were clear: commanders at regiment level and above had the right to distribute spoils in the absence of higher orders.
Everyone knew how unreliable Munitorum logistics could be. Without such rights, half the Astra Militarum would starve, and the rest would be charging enemy lines with bayonets only.
But after inspecting the gear, they all fell into doubt.
Were these weapons really meant for them?
"These are… not ordinary." Colonel Kovek swallowed as he lifted a power weapon.
The religious markings common since the Age of Apostasy were missing, but the ornate decorations and engraved lines spoke of something else entirely. Even the wealthiest planetary governors usually couldn't bring a blade like this when seeking audience.
"Not ordinary? To call them that is already blasphemy."
"My apologies, Canoness."
"No harm done."
Arabella shook her head slightly. She wasn't like the Tomb Guard zealots obsessed with relics. She simply wanted to correct the wording.
She respected Cadia's loyalty and courage. Not every mortal could, stripped of heavy weapons, respond swiftly to an alien-demon ambush, tear open a gap, and hold the central lift until the Astartes arrived.
As for the weak, the chemical dogs of Savlar—now reduced to deck ornaments—were proof enough of their fate.
"These are relics, the inheritance of the Imperium's most glorious era."
She moved to the supplies prepared by the Angels for the Sisters. Among them she recognized suits resembling the feedback-linked power armor of the Sororitas. Kneeling, she prayed devoutly and recounted their origin.
"Beside the Emperor's golden-armored Custodes once stood the Silent Sisters, voiceless, dragging intruding spirits into the abyss of silence."
"But I've never seen them."
The Commissar recalled his return to Terra. The Custodes weren't rare. Standing guard at the Imperial Palace gates, their tall, regal forms were often visible.
Only…
The Commissar's face twisted oddly. Truth be told, his feelings were complicated about the Custodian who once forced him to recite a Terran-standard name aloud at the palace gates.
"Of course you've never seen them."
Arabella caressed the silvered armor, a rare fervor sparking in her normally rational eyes.
"They fought for the Imperium when He still walked among men."
Hearing this, Kovek seemed to realize something. He moved to a suit of armor and studied it closely, only to find that all traces of dates or time had been deliberately erased.
His eyes went wide.
"Kovek, don't think too hard."
A steady hand pressed his shoulder. It was Commissar Alex's voice.
"Our mission is simple: wear the gear, obey orders, and fight to the death."
He drew a masterfully crafted power sword from the racks. The serial number had been deliberately removed, but Alex fastened it at his side without hesitation.
"Some things are not ours to think about."
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