"Father… there's been no word from him for ages. Damn it."
"What if it's because of what happened last time…"
"Shh! Don't let Lord Sevatar hear you!"
"Yeah, but the problem is—Lord Sevatar's been looking for Father too…"
"At this point, we need to wake this unlucky bastard up first."
"This new recruit doesn't know if he's lucky or cursed. He actually gets to meet Father."
…
Huh?
Listening to the chattering voices at his ear, Bruce slowly surfaced from sleep. Two sets of memories crashed into each other in his skull.
It felt like two friends in a group chat—two industrial-grade "poop-hauling machines"—spamming messages so hard the stench made his brain throb, nausea shooting straight up to his crown.
It also felt like his soul had been torn apart, glued back together, and then—before the adhesive could even set—stirred into a fresh knot of chaos.
I'm Bruce… and I'm a king… or… what was it again?
Bruce vaguely remembered he came from a world called Earth. He'd been obsessively hunting down some "Warhammer holy book" doujin—The Emperor X Warmaster— to sell to those Slanesh worshippers.
Then, out of nowhere, a "gentle catgirl" that had been heated to the point of exploding slammed into his face.
Reality check: the human skull cannot tank shrapnel impact at point-blank range. Not even if it's plastic and silicone.
The last thing Bruce saw was pure black.
And then—nothing.
At the same time, the memories that belonged to this world became clearer.
He was from Holy Terra. He'd answered the call of the great Master of Mankind, survived layers of selection and brutal training, and earned the honor of becoming an Astartes of the Eighth Legion.
Damn it! I volunteered for the Raven Guard—Legion XIX. How the hell did I get assigned to the Eighth? And the upperclassman who was supposed to join the Night Lords—Sigismund—ended up in the Imperial Fists, Legion VII?
"Where am I…" After forcing down both sets of soul-memories, Bruce finally opened his eyes.
For an Astartes, his recovery speed was honestly embarrassing. But it was understandable—his injury was psychological, not physical.
Still… if we're talking about how that mental trauma happened…
Bruce's last clear memory ended at the new recruit intake: he'd "accidentally" run into the Primarch, and then… nothing. The rest was blurred like it was behind a fog of the Warp.
"Recruit—Bruce Wayne? From Holy Terra?" A Legion Apothecary flipped through a file and questioned Bruce from the bedside with the tone of an interrogator.
Nearby, several Astartes had already opened a vox-link and were reporting that the recruit had regained consciousness.
"Yes…" Bruce's vision sharpened. Then he realized he was strapped to something that looked less like a hospital bed and more like a restraint chair.
Five Astartes in dark, midnight-blue power armor stared down at him. Lightning motifs crawled across their plate. Their helms featured prominent red bat-wing shapes, and their armor carried decorations that looked like fresh leather and bits of skull.
The look reminded Bruce of a game called The Forest—where you could skin cannibals and mutants for bone-and-hide armor.
Only this wasn't a game.
And compared to a game model, the men in front of him radiated a kind of primal, intimate horror that made your skin want to crawl off your body.
So… this is a hospital?
Bruce had thought so at first—the man questioning him was an Apothecary, after all. But the environment forced him to reconsider.
It was too dark. Instruments and tools stained with blood were everywhere. The only light came from an overhead surgical lamp.
Astartes had superhuman vision and could see without light—especially the Night Lords, masters of night warfare—but this place felt like a dungeon that had never heard of sanitation or mercy.
"Kid's scared."
"Throne of Terra—would you look at that? A son of Curze, afraid of his own battle-brothers?"
"Sounds like we should do a more thorough inspection of his brain."
"Even if we do, it's after Lord Sevatar's done questioning him."
"Our mighty First Captain will be here soon. Poor little thing. I'll pray for you."
The five Astartes traded comments back and forth. Bruce's enhanced mind snapped up information at high speed.
Good news: he hadn't been captured by an enemy, and his Legion brothers weren't skinning him alive—yet.
Bad news: he probably wasn't far from being skinned anyway, because they'd said it plainly: he was about to be interrogated, and Sevatar himself was coming.
The Night Lords' First Captain—the Legion's de facto voice when their Primarch was absent—could kill him effortlessly, even without torture.
So we're going full difficulty right after I spawn in, huh? This Warhammer universe is unreal. If I get a next life, please—please let me isekai into Terra the other Terra, where I can play with cute animals.
"I… I was attacked… by the Primarch." Bruce tried to organize the blurry memories and spoke carefully.
"Primarch?" The Apothecary arched a brow, repeating the word.
Bruce nodded quickly. "Yes. By 'Primarch,' I mean our gene-father—Konrad Curze…"
The instant he finished speaking, a faint but distinct set of footsteps sounded.
The heavy tread of power armor on stone.
In the next second, a man with a prominent facial scar stepped into Bruce's line of sight.
"You're saying our father attacked you? And other battle-brothers?" The scarred man's voice was cold, controlled.
"L-Lord Sevatar!" The five Night Lords snapped to attention and saluted.
"Leave." Sevatar didn't bother acknowledging their salute. "I'm questioning him alone. Don't interrupt."
"Yes!"
The chamber cleared quickly, leaving only Bruce—bound to the chair—and Sevatar, whose lightning claws were already extended.
"Lord Sevatar… I—"
"The Primarch has been missing for a long time. I'm searching for him." Sevatar looked at the new recruit, and his attitude—unexpectedly—softened.
"Tell me everything you know. I don't want this to get worse. Understand?"
Sevatar wasn't a good man. But if this could be handled cleanly, that was best for everyone.
Besides—any recruit who survived a Primarch's attack either had real talent… or the Primarch had held back on purpose.
Otherwise, with a Primarch's combat power, a fresh recruit like Bruce would not still be breathing.
"I only know that day the lander's ramp had just dropped…" Bruce swallowed. "And then—Father—he charged right inside, and started attacking us like he'd gone mad."
"He was too fast. I couldn't see clearly."
"Then what? When you went down, did you see where he went?" Sevatar asked, and at the same time he triggered his psychic gift, probing for deception.
If he detected even the hint of a lie, he wouldn't hesitate to switch into "interrogation mode." It didn't matter if Bruce was a brother of the Legion. Compared to the Primarch's whereabouts, everything else was disposable.
"I don't know. I didn't even have time to react before I went down…" Bruce answered, ashamed.
Even as a recruit, he was still an Astartes. And yet he'd gone down without even seeing the enemy clearly. It was humiliating.
"Worst reincarnator" didn't even feel like an exaggeration.
What kind of protagonist gets beaten unconscious in the opening cutscene of the tutorial?
"Is that so?" Sevatar deliberately drew out the words, staring at Bruce.
Less than half a second later, he made his decision.
His lightning claws powered up.
Bzzzt—
A weak arc-light illuminated his scarred face—emotionless, predatory—before he started walking toward Bruce.
After thinking it over, Sevatar decided a proper interrogation was the only safe option.
If necessary…
He would personally eat the recruit's brain and extract the complete memory.
For the Primarch's location, it would be worth it.
"Lord Sevatar?! I really told you everything I know!" Bruce watched Sevatar closing in, face like ice, and panicked.
Back on Earth, Bruce had admired this man—the "Prince of Crows," a loyal, capable hardliner who carried much of the Night Lords' reputation on his shoulders.
But that was the problem.
A loyal action man like this, in the name of the Legion and the Night Haunter, could do anything.
"I'm sorry, recruit." Sevatar's tone carried pity—and absolute conviction. "To me, the Primarch's value outweighs everything. Including my own life."
It was his last mercy: letting Bruce know why he was about to die.
You could've been a fine warrior, but for the Legion… for the Night Lord… I have to—
Thump.
A soft, dull impact.
Then the sound of fabric whipping through air.
In the next second, Sevatar collapsed.
His heavy armor slammed into brick slick with dried residue, cracking the stone.
In the darkness, a small figure and a pair of crimson eyes slowly emerged.
"…?" Bruce stared at the frilly, bat-winged girl in a dress and froze for a long moment.
The… Primarch?
No—no, that can't be right—
The shock was so intense that even an Astartes' reinforced body couldn't keep his mind stable. It felt like his soul had been washed clean by a psychic shockwave. He couldn't process what he was seeing.
But in his blurred memories, the one who attacked him that day really was her.
And the gene-level instinct inside him was screaming that she was the Night Lords' Primarch.
The problem was—
Why is it Remilia Scarlet?!
That's a character from Touhou!
This is supposed to be Warhammer!
"Recruit. Answer my question." The dignified Night Lord planted one foot on Sevatar's armor, hands on hips, working hard to maintain a commanding tone.
"You don't belong to this world. Do you?"
"Y-Yes! Father!" Bruce answered instantly, crushed by bloodline dominance and raw survival instinct.
"Good. Thank you for your cooperation." The girl gave a slight nod, then her expression shifted. "Also… I'm not your father."
The blue-haired girl in a pink-and-white princess dress smiled faintly, sharp fangs showing. Her already crimson eyes glowed even darker in the void.
"But I need an agent. And you're suitable."
Curze—no. The one who was now Remilia—lifted a hand and released a strange psychic force that instantly destroyed the specialized restraints holding Bruce in place.
The moment his boots touched the ground and he was free, Bruce didn't hesitate.
He jogged forward, dropped to one knee, and slid into a kneel at the Night Lord's feet.
"I am Bruce Wayne! I will go through fire and blood for you, my lady—without hesitation!"
Yes! Being my lady's dog is the greatest honor of my life!
"Interesting." She was clearly pleased by the loyalty Bruce offered.
Whether it was sincere didn't even matter—she could see through it at a glance. In both words and soul, there wasn't the slightest trace of deception.
More importantly…
Her visions had already declared it: this boy was the key to breaking the deadlock. The only key.
"My lady! There's something I don't understand—please hear me out before you decide!" Bruce blurted.
"Speak." She nodded.
"If I'm going to act as your agent, I need something that can intimidate these people, right? You know I don't have the strength to match this loyalty, so—"
"Catch."
Before Bruce could finish, she casually tossed him a crown.
A blood-red gem was set into it. The crown itself was carved from black adamantine, plain at first glance. On her, it would've been the size of a belt. On an Astartes, it was a slightly oversized coronet.
"This—this—" Bruce caught it and swallowed hard.
It looked simple, but it represented her authority and the Legion's inheritance—an internal "seal of succession" for the Night Lords.
And she'd thrown it like she didn't care if it shattered.
"I've given you your chance." She crooked a finger, signaling him closer. "The rest depends on you."
Bruce obeyed immediately.
She stepped on Sevatar's back, gave a small hop, and landed lightly on Bruce's shoulder. Her wings beat softly as she settled in.
She's—she's not wearing anything under?!
The slightly bony softness against his shoulder told Bruce everything in an instant, and he absolutely did not dare confirm it out loud.
If he made it explicit, he would die. Immediately.
"Go." She draped an arm over Bruce's head, looked toward the cell door, and bared her fangs in a grin. "Don't disappoint me."
"If my sons discover I've turned into this ridiculous form… you and they will all die."
"So you know what to do, yes?"
Damn…
Bruce shivered.
So just because she doesn't want her Legion to see her as a petite girl, she's ready to slaughter them all?
That's both very Curze… and very Remilia.
"Do you have objections, Bruce?" She pinched his head, forcing him to look at her.
"No objections! I'm honored to serve you, my lady!"
"Good. Go." She smiled wide. "My proud son."
"Make the Night Lords great again!" Bruce roared back.
[1 Of 3 New Fanfics For The Poll Event!!]
[Use Your Power Stones On Your Favorite For It To Be Picked UP!!]
[Power Stones+Reviews Are Counted!!]
[Comments On Chapters Are Also Counted!!]
[Thanks For Your Support!!]