Space itself protested the violation.
Accompanied by violent buzzing that resonated through dimensions, reality strained under forces it was never meant to contain. The air in the underground chamber vibrated with frequencies that made unaugmented humans nauseous, that set teeth on edge, that suggested things breaking that shouldn't be able to break.
Trembling followed, not just of physical matter but of space-time itself.
The distortion was visible even to normal perception, like heat shimmer amplified a thousandfold. Reality rippled, bent, folded in ways that defied three-dimensional geometry. The underground space deep in the Primogenitor Isle base became the focal point of cosmic forces bridging universes.
A spatial crack slowly opened against the darkness.
Not all at once. The tear formed gradually, edges crawling across empty air like crystalline fractures spreading through glass. Light bled from the opening, but not light from any source present in the chamber. This illumination came from elsewhere, another reality entirely.
The Pharos Lighthouse completing its function, delivering its passengers home.
A few seconds later, two figures emerged.
Nolan driving the Six-Armed Iron Cavalry stepped through first, his damaged Terminator armor immediately registering the change in atmosphere. Different gravity. Different air composition. Different fundamental constants of physics subtly shifted.
David wearing his Blood Angels power armor followed immediately after, the ancient Man of Iron's sensors cataloging the transition with machine precision.
They appeared again on the metal floor where they'd left thirty days and three days ago, depending on which universe's timeline you measured.
Before Nolan could turn around to check the portal's status, to verify stable transition, to confirm they were truly home...
The space crack disappeared instantly without a trace.
Gone. As if it had never existed. Reality sealed itself with finality that suggested the opening had been temporary by design, not accident. No residual distortion. No lingering effects. Just solid space where moments before a hole between universes had yawned.
The next second, something manifested in the air before Nolan.
A palm-sized gold coin appeared out of thin air, materializing from nothing.
The object spun slowly, catching light that had no visible source. Its surface was polished to mirror brightness, inscribed with symbols that hurt to look at directly. Imperial iconography mixed with something older, more fundamental. The eagle and lightning bolt surrounded by script that predated humanity.
"David, can you see this thing?"
At this moment, Nolan squinted at the floating coin, studying it carefully.
He suddenly asked David, who stood beside him and had just taken off his metal helmet. The ancient Man of Iron's bronze face was revealed, optical sensors glowing with soft blue light.
"My lord, if I am not mistaken, this should be a throne coin that has been enlarged several times in size, right?"
David's voice carried analytical certainty. His sensors had cataloged the object's dimensions, composition, and inexplicable properties.
He shook his metal head slightly, blue light flashing in his eyes as processing occurred.
"Is this a 'miracle' bestowed upon you by the Emperor?"
The question was delivered without irony. David had witnessed too much in the Warhammer universe to dismiss divine intervention as impossible.
"It can be regarded as the basic reward for us completing a support mission."
Nolan's tone was matter-of-fact, accepting the supernatural as simply another tactical consideration.
"Since David, you can also see the throne coins, I suddenly have an idea..."
His voice trailed off as thoughts formed, connections making themselves apparent. If David could perceive rewards from the simulator system, that opened possibilities. Interesting possibilities.
"Forget it, let's try it when there are enough throne coins in my hand."
No point speculating now. Better to wait until he had sufficient resources to test theories properly.
Nolan refocused on immediate priorities, issuing orders.
"David, go ahead and hand over the design drawings of the Leman Russ tank to Raditus."
The technical specifications they'd acquired during the mission needed to be integrated into the foundry's production capabilities. The tech-priest would be ecstatic at genuine STC-derived designs.
Nolan shook his head slightly and reached out to catch the throne coin.
His ceramite-free hand closed around the spinning object. The coin was warm to the touch, radiating heat that had nothing to do with temperature. It felt solid, real, impossibly heavy for something so small.
In an instant, the shining golden throne coin completely disappeared from his palm.
No transition. No fading. Just immediate absence, there and then not-there in the same moment. The sensation was disconcerting even to enhanced perception.
If nothing else, it should be stored in the simulator's supplies page.
That was how these rewards worked, he'd learned. Material objects that existed in probabilistic superposition, real when observed, stored in impossible spaces when not.
After hearing the order, David bowed to Nolan with formal precision.
The gesture was appropriate for addressing a Primarch, which Nolan technically qualified as by genetics if not by history.
Then David passed through the siege of the Intelligent Control Corps without hesitation.
Hundreds of servo-automata parted before him, recognizing command hierarchy, granting access. He walked directly toward a room outside the rotunda, purpose clear.
There was a large amount of highly concentrated disinfectant liquid stored there.
Industrial-grade chemical solutions designed to break down organic matter, destroy pathogens, neutralize toxins. The kind of stuff that would burn unprotected skin but which power armor could withstand.
Specially prepared for cleaning armor and equipment after exposure to Warhammer universe contamination.
This was an additional safety device Nolan had insisted on before heading to the Warhammer universe, a decontamination protocol borrowed from biohazard procedures.
Regardless of whether it actually worked against Chaos corruption or not, it provided some psychological comfort.
At this moment, Nolan subconsciously opened the simulator interface.
The parchment pages materialized in his perception, visible only to him. The first thing he checked was the sacrifice page belonging to the Chaos Gods.
His eyes widened as realization struck.
The flow of time between the Warhammer universe and the local world was completely different!
He had just spent thirty full days in the Warhammer universe. A month of continuous combat, political maneuvering, desperate survival. Thirty days of breathing toxic air and fighting corruption.
But only three days had passed in the local world.
A ten-to-one ratio. Time dilation on a scale that made interstellar travel look simple by comparison. The implications were staggering.
And most importantly, critically, the observation that changed everything...
When he was in the Warhammer universe, the Holy Numbers of the Chaos Gods hadn't changed at all!
The countdown timers that had been ticking down relentlessly, marking time until divine "blessings" would be forced upon him, had frozen completely. Khorne's 88. Nurgle's 77. Slaanesh's 66. Tzeentch's 99. All of them unchanged from when he'd departed.
"Does this require me to travel back and forth between two universes for a long time?"
Nolan spoke the question aloud, thinking through implications.
"Or does it mean that when I am in the Imperium of Man, there are factors that I am not aware of that have additional protective effects?"
The Emperor's presence, perhaps. Or the sheer concentration of Imperial faith creating a psychic barrier. Or maybe Chaos simply couldn't reach across universal boundaries.
Nolan, who raised his eyebrows in speculation, turned around.
He stared at the statue of the Emperor, which seemed motionless and eternal.
The golden figure stood exactly as it always had, sword raised, expression blurred but somehow watchful. No indication of awareness. No sign of divine attention. Just stone and metal shaped into iconic form.
Yet Nolan couldn't shake the feeling that the statue was more than it appeared.
A fleeting smile appeared subconsciously at the corner of his mouth.
Dark humor mixing with genuine relief. Whether it was because of the Emperor's protection or the evil intentions of the Chaos Gods being temporarily thwarted...
Nolan's subsequent life would probably be inseparable from war.
The realization should have been depressing. Instead, it was oddly freeing. No point worrying about peace when existence demanded constant conflict. Better to embrace the role and excel at it.
Then Nolan seemed to remember something important.
He quickly scratched at the parchment of the simulator interface, navigating through menus. He found the diplomacy page, a new addition that hadn't existed before the system update.
And as expected, the first diplomatic force appeared in the listing!
The text materialized in glowing script:
[Adoma's home planet - Tetim Hive (Industrial)]
[Regional Reputation: Revered]
The highest non-divine reputation tier. He'd achieved maximum standing through his actions.
[Current Attitude: Loyal]
Not just friendly or allied. Loyal. The kind of devotion that meant they'd follow orders even when doing so seemed suicidal.
[Regional Leader: Hassan]
The Cadian veteran he'd installed as puppet governor, name slightly corrupted by whatever translation system the simulator used.
[Industrial Specialties: Leman Russ tank (can be built), Atlas recovery tank (under research)]
Immediate production capabilities and future development. The hive's entire industrial output was now accessible.
[Note: You can consume the reputation you have or the corresponding materials you hold to allow the industrial nest to produce a certain number of armored vehicles.]
Resources could be exchanged for military hardware. Reputation converted to tanks. A simple equation.
[Note: Please note that a large amount of reputation consumed may affect the stability and loyalty of the region, so please choose carefully.]
Warning against exploitation. Take too much and the system would collapse.
[Note: You can give the other party scientific and technological drawings that meet the current industrial level, but there is also the possibility of research failure. Please make a backup of the scientific and technological drawings.]
Technology transfer was possible but not guaranteed. Sensible precaution.
At this moment, Nolan smiled and couldn't help but nod his chin with satisfaction.
This was exactly why he'd controlled the entire hive before leaving, why he'd orchestrated Hassan's rise to power, why he'd spent political capital on improving civilian conditions.
Building infrastructure for future exploitation.
Even though the simulator's diplomacy page had not existed when he made those decisions, he'd been planning for exactly this kind of outcome.
It was nothing more than letting the civilians in the hive city live slightly better lives, and he himself had lost nothing in the exchange.
However, this time the plan's success gave confident Nolan new thoughts.
Strategic thinking crystallizing into long-term objectives. He wanted to see if he could replicate this model in subsequent support missions.
Establish good symbiotic relationships with other Imperial forces, provide them with leadership and resources, earn their loyalty.
Thereby gradually weaving a giant war network that belonged to him personally!
An empire within the Imperium. Forces answering to Nolan rather than Terra. The beginning of something that could grow to rival the official structure.
The ambition was staggering. And entirely achievable if he moved carefully.
Full of interest and satisfaction, Nolan casually closed the simulator interface.
The parchment pages faded from perception, returning to whatever impossible space stored them. He drove the scarred Six-Armed Iron Cavalry toward the direction of the disinfection room.
Each step produced metallic echoes through the underground chamber. The damaged Terminator armor moved with slight hesitation, servo motors compensating for battle damage.
A group of automatic servo robots staying in the passage immediately followed him.
They'd been waiting, programmed to respond to his return. The machines trailed in his wake like metal ducklings, ready to dismantle the Terminator armor at any time for repair and maintenance.
Soon after, Nolan reached the decontamination facility.
The grinning expression on his bronze face didn't quite match the reality of what came next. He endured the pungent smell and strong burning sensation of the disinfectant liquid, submitting to thorough rinsing.
The chemical solution was aggressive, designed to destroy anything organic or corrupted. It burned against skin despite his enhanced durability, a necessary evil.
Nolan scrubbed thoroughly, ensuring every surface was treated, every gap in his armor flushed clean. Thirty days in the Warhammer universe meant potential exposure to things that would laugh at normal sterilization.
When he finally finished and stood dripping before a mirror, something caught his attention.
He suddenly noticed that he seemed to have been maintaining the physical characteristics of Omegon continuously.
Bronze skin. Dark hair. The Primarch's facial structure rather than his own. He'd been wearing Alpharius's twin's appearance for so long it had become default.
Nolan took a deep breath and closed his eyes slightly, concentrating.
The Pigment Control Sphere's passive ability responding to conscious direction. When he opened his eyes again, the reflection had changed.
The appearance of the gray-haired wolf boy was restored.
Pale skin. Silver-gray hair. The face that was properly his, genetics mixing human and enhanced biology in ways that defied easy categorization.
However, Nolan, who was in a playful mood, did not choose to stop experimenting.
Curiosity driving exploration of abilities not yet fully mastered. He stared at the clear reflection in the mirror calmly, watching his own face with detached interest.
Then he tried to control the skin tissue all over his body to transform into the appearance of Governor Hassan.
The attempt at mimicry, copying the Cadian veteran's purple eyes and weathered features. Pigment shifting. Facial structure adjusting. The process should have been straightforward.
Unfortunately, the skin tissue that was wriggling like plasticine did not succeed in the end.
The changes were incomplete, grotesque. His face distorted without resolving into Hassan's appearance. Like a sculpture half-formed, recognizable as an attempt but failing to achieve the target.
Nolan released the effort and let his features snap back to normal.
"I guess I am still not proficient enough."
The admission came easily, without frustration. Mastery took practice. He'd only had the ability for weeks.
"I will continue to maintain the identity of Omegon in future support missions..."
Strategic thinking. Omegon's appearance was useful, carried authority, suggested capabilities that helped in negotiation.
"Well, what if I accidentally attract the Alpha Legion or Omegon himself?"
The question emerged with genuine concern. Impersonating a Primarch could have consequences if the real one appeared.
"Forget it, let's talk about it when we encounter that special situation."
No point worrying about hypotheticals. Deal with problems when they manifested.
"I can't tell whether Omegon is a loyalist or not. If possible, I'd better tie him up and let the Emperor judge for himself."
Dark humor again. The idea of capturing a Primarch, of presenting Omegon to the Emperor like a trophy, was absurd.
"But this is just my own wishful thinking. It's very difficult to go head-to-head with a Primarch..."
Reality reasserted itself. Nolan was strong, enhanced, well-equipped. But he wasn't Primarch-tier. Not yet. Maybe never.
"Nolan, Nolan, you've also started fantasizing."
Self-mockery, talking to his own reflection. Acknowledging ambition while recognizing current limitations.
He stared at the reflection in the mirror, seeing fatigue in features that usually showed determination.
Then he shook his head slowly, dismissing speculation.
At that moment, he couldn't help yawning as increasing tiredness swept over him.
The exhaustion hit like a physical blow, delayed by adrenaline and duty but inevitable.
During the thirty days of the support mission, vigilant Nolan had hardly slept at all.
Maybe a few hours total. Brief periods of rest between combat operations. He'd relied entirely on his catalepsean node to adjust his energy, the implanted organ letting him function on minimal rest.
Now he was back in a safe environment, surrounded by loyal forces, protected by security that actually worked.
All the accumulated fatigue swept over him like a tide.
His enhanced biology could only defer the debt for so long. Eventually payment came due. Thirty days of combat and political maneuvering and constant vigilance demanded their price.
Nolan tried to open his eyes wide, fighting the heaviness.
He quickly wiped his body's surface with rough efficiency, barely drying himself before moving. Then he turned and walked out of the disinfection room, each step requiring conscious effort.
He walked as quickly as exhaustion allowed toward the private quarters in the base.
The room that was his alone, where he could sleep without guard, where collapse into unconsciousness carried no tactical risk.
"Even if there is something important, let's wait until I wake up..."
At this moment, Nolan's vision was beginning to blur at the edges.
Fatigue making it difficult to focus, turning the corridor into a tunnel of indistinct shapes. He once again forced himself to maintain alertness through sheer will.
He muttered to himself, voice slurring slightly.
Then he reached his quarters, the door opening automatically. He barely made it to the bed before consciousness fled completely.
The Primarch genetics could defer sleep, but not eliminate the need entirely.
And Nolan, finally safe, finally home, surrendered to exhaustion that had been pursuing him for thirty days.