Within the turbulent planetary atmosphere of the Rostov IV gas giant, inside the Ashen Knights Chapter's fortress-monastery, the Chapter's new recruits were undergoing the honorable arming ceremony, making their final preparations for deployment.
The cold, circulating air, carrying the mixed scent of promethium and sacred oils, permeated every pore of the new recruits.
Mikhail stood in the ranks of the Third Company's new recruits, clad only in a sweat-absorbing black training bodysuit, his bulging muscles taut in the dim light, like a bowstring poised to release.
On the wall, the colossal black and white Maltese cross emblem, illuminated by the cold light, seemed to float in the void, silently overseeing these warriors about to embark on their campaign.
An emotionless broadcast voice pierced the silence: "...Third Recruit Company, Serial Number: IX-03. Codename: 'Anvil'. Target Star System: Broken Tooth Star System. Mission: Coordinated eradication of Ork remnants. Readiness Level: Alpha. Arming ceremony, one hour later, to be held in the'Steadfast' Forge-Sanctum."
Mikhail instinctively straightened his spine.
The second son of a military noble family on the Rostov II planet—that was his sealed identity, a distant and blurry starting point.
The path to the Astartes Sanctum was by no means an ordinary one.
Fragments of memory, like a cold stream, glided through his consciousness: on the frozen tundra of Rostov II, every step was a challenge to the limits of life...
During Gene-Seed implantation, the pain of flesh and bone being reshaped nearly tore his soul apart...
On the training grounds, countless times he was knocked down by battle-hardened veterans, only to struggle back up from the ashes of his will, with dizziness and severe pain becoming the norm...
These rigorous trials, each stage a sacred crucible set by the Emperor, from which only an iron will and pure loyalty could be forged, becoming vessels to bear His grace.
He was a survivor who emerged from those refining flames, one chosen by the Emperor and the Chapter.
Now, this cold and sacred ceramite, which he was about to don, was the ultimate proof of his existence here and his supreme glory.
Orks... this word once lay dormant in cold training manuals, and now, under the roar of his Chainsword, it would transform into splattering, foul blood, becoming his first offering to the Emperor.
A mix of pure yearning for the sacred combat role and an indescribable tremor of first fulfilling his mission subtly pulsed deep within his chest, like the low hum before an engine starts.
Stepping into the "Steadfast" Forge-Sanctum, his senses were instantly enveloped by another reality.
servitor skulls hovered beneath the vaulted ceiling, their eerie blue light interweaving with the countless flickering golden candle flames of the altar, casting shifting shadows on walls adorned with pipes, gear reliefs, and holy runes. The air was hot and thick, filled with a mixture of incense, hot metal, and blessed machine oil. The low binary canticles, like the eternal meshing of gears in prayer, permeated his bones.
Mikhail's bare feet stepped onto the cold adamantium floor, walking towards the arming platform bathed in a central halo of light.
Priests, cloaked in scarlet robes and with mostly cold mechanical limbs, stood solemnly like holy icons.
Their servitor arms moved with precision, preparing the holy relics: silver basins holding consecrated machine oil, censers burning with an eerie blue flame, and Power Armor backpack connectors inscribed with prayers.
The Chief Priest slowly turned, his head mostly covered by metal and crystal sensors.
A multi-jointed mechanical arm silently lifted, a calibration laser sweeping Mikhail's chest like a cold gaze.
"New blood, Serial IX-03-47, Mikhail." The Priest's voice was a pure metallic synthesis, devoid of inflection, yet it held an unquestionable divine majesty, like a hammer striking adamantium, "Your mortal flesh is about to be clad in the Emperor's and omnissiah's sacred steel. Is your soul prepared to bear this supreme weight?"
"I am prepared, Esteemed Priest." Mikhail's voice was remarkably clear amidst the humming of the Sanctum, and he strove to maintain a rigid posture.
His past aristocratic sense of responsibility had entirely transformed into a burning loyalty to the Emperor and the Chapter; that characteristic belonging to the second son of a Rostov II military noble was now completely integrated into the iron torrent of the Ashes Knights.
"What is honor?" The Priest's question fell like a hammer of judgment.
"Honor is every battle scar on my armor, the foul blood of heretics on the edge of my Chainsword! It is fighting for the Emperor and humanity until death, my name eternally etched upon the immortal monument in the Chapter's sanctum!" Mikhail roared the creed etched into his soul.
"What is duty?" The scarlet light in the Priest's mechanical eyes focused, as if it could pierce his soul.
"Duty is to protect the silent billions behind us! It is to uphold the sacred integrity of the Imperium's territories! It is to fulfill the immortal oath of the Ash Knights—to burn all threats in the cosmos with our unquenchable flame!" Sweat seeped from Mikhail's taut forehead, dripping onto the cold adamantium platform, dissipating with a hiss into white smoke.
"This armor is more than just protection." One of the Priest's servitor arms pointed precisely at the suspended MK10 Power Armor.
Its newly painted black and white quartered livery was sharply defined in the light and shadow, and the black and white Maltese cross emblem in the center of the chest plate gleamed.
"This is your new skin, your mobile sanctuary! The sacred Machine Spirit slumbering within it thirsts for the blood of heretics! Are you willing to offer your life as a sacrifice, your loyalty as an oath, to serve its awakening?"
"I am willing! With my blood as the catalyst, my soul as the sacrifice, and my eternal loyalty as the oath, I shall serve!" Mikhail roared decisively.
"omnissiah Vult!" The Chief Priest uttered a high-pitched metallic synthesis chant, and all the Tech-Priests present echoed him.
The binary canticles' pitch abruptly rose, becoming rapid and grand, like the solemn roar of a battleship engine operating at full power during a sacred ritual.
The cold ceramite components were precisely fitted by servitor arms.
Leg armor clicked into place, immediately bringing a sense of weight, followed by the waist and chest armor.
Warm, consecrated machine oil was applied to the joints, accompanied by ancient prayers and binary blessings.
When the heavy, black and white quartered shoulder pads clicked into place, a profound sense of belonging welled up.
The back interface connected with the black and white quartered Power Armor backpack, a faint hum and hydraulic hiss sounded, and a sense of power spread along his spine.
Finally, the cold helmet, bearing a majestic Maltese cross relief, descended, sealing off the outside world.
The eyepieces lit up, tactical data streams washed across his vision, and the static of the comms channel and the sound of his own breathing were clearly audible.
He received his weapons: the cold Bolter, the savagely serrated Chainsword.
There was no ornate decoration, only basic tools of slaughter, bearing the heaviest of missions.
"Serial IX-03-47, Mikhail, arming complete! The Sacred Machine Spirit has been awakened! Fight for the Emperor and the omnissiah!" The Priest's declaration echoed in the lingering canticles, like fate's final seal.
"For the Emperor!" Mikhail's voice emerged from the helmet's vox-grille, deep, resolute, with a metallic resonance.
He turned, the ceramite rubbing together with subtle sounds as he moved, joining the iron ranks of those similarly armored, looking as if they had stepped from ancient mythical reliefs.
The distinct black and white Maltese cross shone on each chest plate, converging into a moving, silent wall of faith.
Mikhail, Serial IX-03-47, was about to write his first page as an Ash Knights in the blood and fire of the Orks.
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