Inside the room, one after another twisted, deformed creations appeared, things warped and fractured as if they belonged to the Warp itself.
They looked like beasts, yet still carried the skin of the material world. Some resembled machines that, once freed from suppression, began multiplying flesh; others were outright humanoid, mutating at a speed visible to the naked eye once their restraints fell away.
"Ramses really deserves to be called a medical student."
Even though creating soulless shells through materialization and using them for experiments was, in theory, no different from how med school students dissected white mice in their past life—something ordinary and routine—the bizarre environment of Warhammer 40k turned it into something grotesque and dark.
But Arthur still felt physically uncomfortable.
The shells they created through materialization, now inhabited by daemons, triggered a profound uncanny valley effect.
They were essentially donating souls to handcraft cadavers for research, a sacred act for humanity's future.
Yet Chaos twisted it all into the image of a mad scientist's abominable lab.
Truly, anything touched by Chaos became warped.
Warp-construct studies, cut-down versions of force-weapon enchantments, experiments on yellow-skin psy-link channels, daemon personality correction research, safehouse cloaking efficiency trials, and more…
Arthur narrowed his eyes, mind flashing through a long list of research projects.
Ramses could still carry out research in such conditions without a change in expression, and in less than fifteen days he had produced so much work. Clearly, med school students were a different breed.
Shhhrkk!
The black sword flared with a brilliant blue force field, erasing the nearest Chaos construct.
Arthur combed through his memory, carefully erasing all traces of this domain.
Studying Chaos, contacting daemons—in any era of the Imperium, such acts were unforgivable crimes.
This was their secret to keep.
Aboard the Nicole, Tyberos and the company captains stood around a massive hololithic tactical board.
All eyes were fixed on a warrior at the edge: skull-masked, clutching a long auramite staff.
Te Kahurangi, Chief Librarian of the Carcharodons, an ancient warrior who had served the Chapter for over a thousand years.
After cutting off the unusual communication, the uneasy officers once again sought his guidance—the one who had led them through countless threats.
The opposing side seemed to know far too much about them, even the Chapter Master's true name and titles never made public. Their fighting style too, apparently familiar.
"I drifted in the Warp and glimpsed the road ahead. It was a blank fog—no forms remained, only shards of death lingering at the edges. Terror thick and suffocating, disbelief and despair in the shadow of imminent death."
"Doesn't sound good," muttered Akia, captain of the Third Company, as he stared at the projection of two ships joined together on the board.
The blood-fury in his veins did not make him a thinker, but even he could sense the danger. This was no good omen.
"But I also glimpsed a light of hope. A flood of fervent emotion, uplifting, binding souls that should have perished and dragging them back from the abyss. The gaze of the Father of the Void rested there."
"Why such contradictions?"
Tyberos, who had worked with Kahurangi for years, allowed a hint of surprise in his normally icy tone.
For a Librarian adept in prophecy, Kahurangi usually didn't need the cryptic phrasing of lesser psykers. He spoke past and future plainly. Not like this.
"Because of something unseen?"
"Yes. It seems their Librarian's skills are formidable—blocking my sight."
Kahurangi admitted honestly. Other than that, he had no explanation for such a vast blank in his visions. Surely they couldn't all lack Warp reflections?
"Then what's our answer?"
Through the viewport, Tyberos watched the wounded strike cruiser's flank begin to flash with lights.
An invitation.
"The answer is unchanged."
Kahurangi opened his eyes.
"We will return laden with spoils."
"That's enough."
Ignoring the others, the hunger and slaughter in his twin lightning claws sparking, Tyberos gave the order.
"Ready the shuttles. First Company remains on the flagship. Third Company, with me."
Tyberos had not given up on scavenging. At worst, if the other side was truly struggling, he would take less.
He knew every choice carried risk, but such was the destiny of the Carcharodons. Even if it meant clashing, they had to tear off flesh to survive.
Because they never knew if they'd live to the next scrap of meat.
The Sharks knew this galaxy was never kind. Heretics, xenos—even the Imperium they protected never treated them warmly.
So they fought, stole, abandoned honor and reputation, choosing to be the most despised raiders in humanity's eyes.
Inside the shuttle, all Carcharodons sat in grim silence, tightening grips on battered chain-axes, feeding rounds into nearly worn-down bolters.
If this was to be a challenge, let it come.
But when the shuttle's melta beam tore through the still-closing blast doors and the silent warriors stormed out, the scene before them left them stunned.
Fully armed Terminators stood in neat formation, floodlights from massive vehicles behind them illuminating row upon row of ancient, powerful war machines.
And the air carried no scent of danger—only the aroma of sustenance.
This was supposed to be the desperate survivors they were "rescuing"?
That can't be right.
"…"
Watching the unbalanced mortals shielded behind a dozen Terminators, Tyberos wordlessly retracted his lightning claws.
"Kahurangi!"
His voice carried a note of reproach.
"I only said we would return laden with spoils."
Neatly deflecting the blame, Kahurangi followed the others into the chamber, halting the other shuttles with a gesture of his staff, sealing the leaking compartment with psychic power. His eyes betrayed awe at the Deathwatch Librarian before them.
Even now, he could not glimpse a single thread of their future.
"?"
Ramses, still lost in thoughts of his experiments, tilted his head in puzzlement at the respectful gaze directed at him.
"Welcome, brothers of the Carcharodons. I am Romulus, Kill-Team Leader of the Deathwatch."
Letting go of the support he'd been giving to Colonel Covick, Romulus introduced himself in fluent High Gothic, seemingly unfazed by their aggressive entrance.
The Carcharodons, once bristling like brigands, suddenly became restrained.
"…Hello."
Looking at Romulus—taller than most Astartes—Tyberos now felt as though he'd tried to mug a poor beggar, only to discover he'd jumped an armored bank truck.
This had turned awkward.
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