Chapter 57: Prizes and Pre-War Meetings
["The Glory of Makurag", 5th Training Hall – Upper Observation Cloister]
This was a restricted area for recruits, accessible only on designated observation days.
At this moment, the young Extreme Warrior recruit, Mattis, lay sprawled against the explosion-proof glass railing.
Even from dozens of meters away, and with a protective force field in place, the lingering shockwaves and smoke from the arena below made it hard for him to breathe.
What had just ended was a duel worthy of legend—something that belonged in epic tales.
At the center of the arena, the once-solid fine gold floor was now fractured with spiderweb-like cracks.
A veteran from the First Company, clad in Terminator power armor, knelt on one knee. His massive gauntlets supported his weight against the ground, and heavy, labored breaths thundered through his helmet grille like a jackhammer.
Nearby, another veteran in Seiko-pattern power armor leaned against a shattered stone pillar, a visible dent caving in his breastplate. A power sword remained clutched in his hand.
They had won.
Among hundreds of Astartes in this "internal trial," these two battle-hardened warriors had stood to the very end, earning the two coveted "honorary duel slots" that everyone envied.
"Okay!!"
A bright, cheerful voice shattered the solemn silence.
Mattis watched as the legendary Saint Carrier— a young girl who looked no older than the neighbor's little sister he remembered from before enlistment—climbed into the rubble-strewn arena using both hands and feet.
She showed no fear toward the sparking power armor. Instead, she rushed straight to the Terminator veteran and enthusiastically slapped his scratched leg plating.
"Awesome, big guy!"
Irene looked up, her eyes curving into crescents as she smiled.
"That punch just now was incredible! Especially when you threw your opponent—perfect! That's the kind of momentum you need!"
The Terminator veteran—who had never flinched even before the Tyranid swarms—now seemed visibly awkward.
He slowly rose to his feet.
Carefully retracting his massive gauntlets, he lowered his enormous head. His voice boomed through the external speakers, barely concealing his excitement:
"For your will, Lady Irene… this is… my honor."
"And you too, uncle! That swordsmanship—so fast! Swish! Swish!"
Irene skipped over to the other veteran, mimicking slashing motions in the air.
"Take a break for now. Follow me later—we'll get ready soon!"
The two veterans exchanged a glance, then simultaneously performed a Skyhawk salute.
"For your glory!"
Irene nodded in satisfaction, then reached into the pocket of her tactical windbreaker and began rummaging.
"According to my rules… winners should get prizes. Proper prizes…"
She muttered, frowning.
Her pockets were empty.
She had already eaten all the biscuits earlier while watching the match. The hidden snacks had been confiscated by Robert.
"Oh… crap. I didn't bring anything to eat…"
She scratched her head awkwardly as hundreds of genetically enhanced eyes below fixated on her, waiting for the Saint's reward.
After digging deep into her pockets for a long time, her fingers finally brushed against something elastic.
They were spare hair ties she used for her hair.
Plain yellow rubber bands, slightly worn and frayed from long use.
"This is all I've got…"
Well… it's the thought that counts!
She pulled them out, held them in her palm, then stood on tiptoe and solemnly presented them to the Terminator veteran.
"Squat down a bit, big guy," Irene ordered.
Without hesitation, the veteran knelt. His servos whined softly as his massive frame lowered, presenting a breastplate as wide as a door.
Standing on tiptoe, Irene awkwardly hooked the yellow hair tie onto the left side of his chest armor.
"This… is your prize!"
She tried her best to sound dignified.
"It may not be valuable, but… well, it's very useful! Very flexible! I'm giving it to you!"
Then she turned and hung the second hair tie onto the hilt of the other veteran's power sword.
From above, the recruits watched, expecting awkward silence—or disappointment at such a cheap reward.
They were wrong.
"Om—"
The moment the hair tie was attached, the Terminator veteran's massive gauntlets began to tremble.
He carefully cupped it, as though receiving a relic directly from the Emperor himself.
"Holy… sacred object…"
His voice quivered—not with weakness, but with ignited, fanatical faith.
"This is the Saint's recognition…"
"It carries her sacred aura…"
He suddenly lifted his head, his red lenses blazing with intensity.
"I will protect it with my life! This 'Sacred Ring' will remain on my armor… until I return to the Golden Throne!"
"For the Emperor!!"
"For the Saint!!!"
The arena erupted.
Hundreds of Astartes roared in unison, their voices deafening.
Mattis stared in shock.
The gazes of company commanders, veterans, and champions—all fixed on those two worthless rubber bands—were filled with one thing:
Jealousy.
Even Irene was stunned.
"…They're just hair ties. Is this really necessary?"
---
[A Few Hours Later – Tactical Briefing Room]
The lights were dim.
The holographic table displayed no star map.
This was a top-secret pre-war meeting.
Those present:
Supreme Commander of the Imperial Guard, Mardova Kolquan
Second Company Captain of the Ultramarines, Cato Sicarius
Honor Guard Sergeant, Varo
And the two newly "blessed" veterans, their morale at its peak
At the head of the table—technically squatting on a chair—was the operation's commander:
Irene.
She looked around at the towering figures and cleared her throat.
"Ahem! Listen up!"
Hands on her hips—her signature "meeting posture."
"The mission the day after tomorrow is very important! It's about our reputation! …Well—our honor!"
"To make sure nothing goes wrong, I've got a few rules. Everyone must remember them!"
The five giants immediately activated recording devices or data slates, expressions grave—like receiving strategic doctrine from a Primarch.
"Rule One!"
Irene raised a finger.
"When we arrive, we fight one-on-one first. No rushing in as a group—it makes us look weak. Like we're scared. That's embarrassing."
"And that guy said he wants a fair fight. Fine—we'll beat him so thoroughly he has no excuses."
Kolquan rapidly recorded:
[Directive 1: Honor duels conducted individually.]
[Analysis: Psychological warfare. Overwhelming the enemy leader through individual superiority to break morale. Aligns with ancient Terran dueling traditions. Likely intended to draw out hidden adversaries.]
"Rule Two!"
Her expression turned mysterious.
"Wear cloaks before departure. Big ones—with hoods!"
She mimed wrapping herself tightly.
"Cover your faces—and all that shiny armor! Don't let that guy immediately see how strong we are!"
(And don't let Robert spot us on the way.)
"We stay low-key. Then when the fight starts—bam! Throw off the cloaks!"
She flung her arms outward dramatically, grinning.
"Scare them to death! That's called a surprise attack!"
Sicarius nodded, marking it down.
[Directive 2: Concealment and tactical deception.]
[Analysis: Prevent detection of armor signatures and identity. Maintain information asymmetry. Execute shock exposure at engagement start to disrupt enemy formation.]
"Rule Three! Most important!"
She slapped the table.
"If I don't give the signal—no one moves first!"
"No matter what they say or do—hold it in! Stay calm!"
"Only when I speak—you charge and beat them up! Got it?!"
Varo and the two veterans slammed their fists to their chests.
"Yes, ma'am!"
[Directive 3: Strict fire discipline.]
[Analysis: Avoid premature engagement. Possible enemy ambush or trap. Wait for full exposure of hostile forces before executing decisive strike.]
Irene watched them nod vigorously and clapped in satisfaction.
"Good! That's it!"
"Go back and prepare! Polish your armor—we leave the day after tomorrow!"
---
Deep within her mind:
Lao Huang, who had listened to everything, was on the verge of suffocation—from laughter.
[Hahahaha… damn it… I can't…]
His voice trembled.
[These guys… their imagination is terrifyingly professional.]
[That kid Lars has no idea what's coming for him…]
---
[Deck 13 – Hangar]
The rear hatch of a Thunderhawk transport stood open, engines roaring.
Irene stood at the entrance, performing a final equipment check.
She wore a dark blue tactical windbreaker, fluttering in the engine's gale.
On her head rested a green laurel crown—symbol of supreme honor—a gift once unworn even by Guilliman himself.
Now concealed beneath her hood.
At her waist hung the ceremonial dagger that had once pierced Typhus' skull.
She looked every bit like a commander heading to war.
Behind her—
Heavy footsteps thundered.
Five colossal figures approached, like moving mountains.
To fulfill Irene's "low-profile" order, the Empire's finest had made… adjustments.
Especially the Terminator veteran.
A standard cloak couldn't cover his massive frame.
So he had repurposed a camouflage net originally meant for a Land Raider tank—cut overnight into a crude, hill-like covering.
It looked ridiculous.
But it worked.
Sicarius and Varo wore heavy cloaks, concealing their weapons.
Kolquan suppressed his radiant golden aura beneath a dark, night-like robe, only faint red optics glowing beneath the hood.
No one spoke.
Yet the suppressed violence around them was suffocating.
Power enough to destroy a world—
Now compressed into a six-man "strike team."
Irene turned, inspected them, and nodded.
"Very energetic."
She stepped onto the Thunderhawk.
"Let's go!"
With a wave of her hand, her voice brimmed with excitement.
"Let's go teach that guy a proper lesson!"
"Target: Governor Estut's Mansion!"
"Operation Codename: Smash the Field!"
The five "mountains" followed silently.
The Thunderhawk roared to life—
Blue flames ignited—
And it plunged toward the planet below.