22 Emperor-class Titans stood silently at the edge of the training grounds. Their optical sensors flickered faintly, as if they too were watching these newly transformed warriors.
The Iron Guard gazed on with undisguised envy. They could no longer undergo Astartes augmentation. It wasn't that the procedures were restricted—but every viable enhancement that could be performed on them already had been. Their bodies could no longer withstand further modification.
Already elevated to a level comparable to Space Marines, the Iron Guard had reached the pinnacle of what humans could achieve. Any further enhancement would have to wait until Perturabo's biological research made another breakthrough.
Footsteps echoed from the entrance.
All eyes turned toward the towering figure who stepped inside.
Perturabo strode into the field, Stephanie and Andos following behind. His gaze swept across the ten thousand upright figures, and a flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes.
"Good."
His voice was not loud, yet every word rang clearly in every ear.
"You have endured three additional surgical augmentations. You have proven yourselves worthy of the name Iron Warriors—but this is only the beginning."
"From today onward, your training will take place here. Not ordinary physical drills. Not standard tactical exercises."
He paused, his gaze deepening.
"The logic engine can construct extremely realistic virtual battlefields. Within the training terminal, your consciousness will be directly linked to a simulated environment. You will experience the most authentic combat—enemy firepower, terrain shifts, the deaths of your comrades—everything will be indistinguishable from reality."
"There, you may experience countless wars and face all manner of enemies—greenskins, rebels, heretics, xenos…"
"Even the tactics of other Astartes Legions."
At this, the warriors of the Fourth Legion stiffened, their expressions shifting dramatically.
What did Father mean by this?
What was he planning?
Yet no one spoke. Their obedience to Perturabo had reached an extreme—absolute, unquestioning.
"You will be able to accumulate decades' worth of combat experience within a single day."
"But there is something you must understand."
Perturabo's tone sharpened.
"If you die within the virtual battlefield, your consciousness will be forcibly ejected. But the sensation of dying—the fear of losing your life, the agony of watching your body torn apart—will be etched into your memory as if it were real."
"This is not a game. This is the cruelest form of training. You will experience death again and again. You will endure pain again and again—until you can remain calm under such extreme pressure and make the correct decisions."
Silence fell over the training ground—utterly deathlike.
Ten thousand Iron Warriors looked at one another.
They were veterans forged in blood and fire, survivors of countless battles.
But experiencing death repeatedly within a single day… that concept still lay beyond their comprehension.
"This prolonged, high-intensity virtual training may cause cognitive dissonance. You may lose the ability to distinguish between reality and simulation. Some of you may break. Some may grow numb to death. Some may lose yourselves entirely within the virtual world."
Perturabo did not conceal the drawbacks.
This was a form of mental flaying—slow, relentless torment.
The physical endurance of the Astartes was unquestionable. But their will still required tempering—even if they were already the finest among the finest.
"You must endure this. Only then will you truly master the new equipment and power I have granted you."
"And only then can you truly begin the path of becoming an Iron Warrior."
"No matter what we once endured, one truth remains—you now possess the most advanced augmentation technologies, supported by immeasurable resources provided by ordinary humans."
"We were born to fight in defense of humanity. Do not waste what you have been given."
The Iron Warriors fell silent.
They understood their father's meaning.
Through neural cables, Perturabo issued a command to the logic engine. A tremor rippled through the training ground.
An entrance materialized before them.
"You have no time to rest. Go. Training begins now."
His tone was cold as he watched his sons step, one by one, into the "mental purgatory" he had designed with his own hands.
Stephanie and Andos both showed traces of unease.
They knew exactly what this training meant—because they had seen Iron Guard emerge from it broken, driven mad.
Though Perturabo later used various medicines to stabilize their emotions, the damage to their minds could not be fully undone.
"Perty…"
Concern flickered in Stephanie's eyes.
But seeing the light in her brother's gaze, she understood—he did not want harm to come to his sons.
Yet he chose this path anyway.
She said no more, silently hoping the warriors would survive the three-month ordeal.
…
Ten thousand Iron Warriors formed orderly ranks and marched toward the hemispherical structure.
At its entrance stood dozens of Iron Rings, their cold optical lenses glowing faintly as they guided the warriors inside with emotionless synthetic voices.
Frix was the first to enter.
The interior of the training terminal was far larger than it appeared from outside.
Dense arrays of optical lenses and projection systems covered every surface. Concentric rings of metal platforms spread across the floor, each holding hundreds of pods.
The facility was enormous—large enough to accommodate millions of warriors training simultaneously.
Frix grasped its scale at a glance.
Once again, his father's power exceeded his imagination.
Yet what Perturabo had built also stirred uneasy thoughts within him.
No matter how one looked at it, his father did not seem particularly loyal to the Emperor—or the Imperium.
"Please lie inside the pod, Lord Frix."
An Iron Ring interrupted his thoughts, pointing toward the nearest unit.
Frix approached and examined it carefully.
Calling it a "pod" was generous—it resembled an open metal coffin. Soft material lined its interior. Above the head section hung a helmet bristling with probes, while countless tiny contact nodes lined the chest and limb areas.
Frix lay down.
For some reason, despite wearing master-crafted power armor, a chill crept down his spine.
The contact points pressed against his armor—yet somehow, they connected to him seamlessly, as though the armor were no barrier at all.
"Please wear the neural interface helmet."
He picked it up, hesitated for a second—
—and placed it on his head.
A faint sting pierced the back of his neck.
Darkness swallowed him.
…
When he opened his eyes again, he stood amidst ruins.
The sky was dim, heavy clouds pouring down acidic rain that hissed faintly upon impact with the ground.
In the distance, a city burned. Black smoke billowed skyward. Corpses lay scattered among shattered buildings—civilians, Imperial Guardsmen…
…and green-skinned, grotesque humanoid creatures.
Greenskins.
Frix would recognize them even reduced to ash.
Throughout the Great Crusade, the Imperium had clashed with these creatures countless times.
They defied logic—brutal, cunning, savage, utterly obsessed with war.
Every appearance brought catastrophic losses.
Among the most infamous conflicts were the Rust Star Campaign and the Battle of the Wheel of Fire.
Especially the latter—despite being led by their Primarch, the Sixth Legion fought for five full years before finally eradicating the greenskins from that system, losing a third of their strength in the process.
"First training scenario: Greenskin Invasion."
A cold synthetic voice echoed in his mind.
"Objective: Hold the central command post until reinforcements arrive."
"Allied forces: One Imperial Guard company, one Astartes tactical squad."
"Enemy forces: Greenskins."
"Trainee role: Tactical Squad Leader."
"Training begins."
The moment the voice fell silent, a distant roar reached his ears—
Engines.
Greenskin vehicles.
Accompanied by their signature, frenzied howls.
Frix instinctively glanced around.
Five Iron Warriors stood behind him.
Three wore power armor like his, armed with bolters—cold and resolute.
The other two were clad in Terminator armor, with micro-missile systems mounted on their backs—one wielding a multi-barreled heavy bolter, the other a massive melta weapon.
The number of greenskins was unknown.
That uncertainty made Frix even more cautious.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
This was not a real battlefield—
—but the pressure, the urgency, the looming threat of death felt terrifyingly real.
"Establish defensive lines."
He issued orders immediately.
"Use the ruins as cover. Hold fire until they enter within two hundred meters. Call the Imperial Guard to reinforce our flanks. Request fire support from the battle fortress."
The six warriors dispersed quickly, each taking position.
Frix lay prone behind a broken wall, bolter braced, aiming down the street.
The roar grew louder.
The first greenskin vehicle burst from a corner—a monstrosity cobbled together from scrap metal, studded with spikes, topped with a crude cannon.
A dozen greenskins clung to it, waving blades and firearms, screaming wildly.
Frix pulled the trigger.
The bolter round struck the engine with precision.
A deafening explosion—
The vehicle became a fireball, greenskins blown apart in all directions.
But that was only the beginning.
More greenskins surged in from every direction.
They poured out of ruins, leapt from burning buildings, rushed from behind collapsed walls.
A green tide flooded the streets, the plazas—every inch of ground.
Frix and his brothers fired relentlessly. Every bolter round claimed a life.
The six-man formation stood firm like an immovable bulwark, unleashing continuous fire into the charging horde.
The two Terminators swept through the tide with bolter and melta fire, their energy fields shielding the squad from incoming artillery launched by greenskin mekboyz.
…
Perturabo entered the training terminal with Stephanie and Andos.
They knew him well—hard-tongued, soft-hearted. He cared more than anyone, yet kept everyone at a distance behind cold words.
Before him, every Iron Warrior's simulated battlefield unfolded in real time.
After just three training scenarios, the logic engine could determine each warrior's strengths and characteristics, then generate tailored training to maximize their potential.
But it did not limit them to favorable scenarios.
Reality did not offer such luxuries.
A Space Marine did not need to be perfect at everything—
—but they must be able to adapt to anything.
Each Primarch and Legion had its own specialization. But in the Great Crusade, wars were not assigned based on those strengths.
Siege specialists like the Fourth and Seventh Legions might face highly mobile enemies.
Rapid assault Legions like the Fifth and Sixth might be forced into grueling siege warfare.
Stealth-focused Legions like the Eighth and Nineteenth might be dragged into direct, frontal battles.
And then there were unforeseen circumstances—situations that never followed any plan.
Once the guns roared, half of all prior strategies became meaningless.
What remained was the commander's strategic vision—and the adaptability of those on the battlefield.
Should they simply refuse to fight unfavorable battles?
Then what use were the Legions the Emperor had painstakingly created?
Thus, during the Great Crusade, unless directly ordered otherwise, Legions often fought countless wars that did not suit their intended roles.
This was precisely what Perturabo had recognized.
The Iron Warriors' previous tactics had been too rigid. Their thinking too inflexible.
As a result, they suffered casualty rates far higher than other Legions.
They fought like automatons—unable to adapt.
Before Perturabo's return, they had already been surpassed in this regard by the Imperial Fists.
Though Rogal Dorn was equally stubborn, he fully utilized his abilities as a battlefield commander—executing tactics flawlessly, identifying enemy weaknesses, and deploying forces with precision.
Put simply—
In the same battle, Dorn might achieve a casualty ratio of 1 to 10,000.
The Iron Warriors?
1 to 100—or worse.
This only improved after Perturabo's return.
He could not tolerate such stagnation in his sons.
War was not fought by doctrine alone.
How could matters of life and death for an entire army be handled with such rigid thinking?
He intended to change that.
The Iron Warriors' culture had to be reforged under his command.
Otherwise, even with enhanced firepower and new augmentations, their casualty rates would remain unacceptable.
…
Frix's left arm was gone.
In his right hand, he gripped his master-crafted power sword—
now drained of energy.
He said nothing.
He looked at the charging greenskins…
At the three towering Gorkanauts in the distance…
At the burning city and the corpses strewn across the ground…
And a deep sense of helplessness rose within him.
Several of his squadmates lay dead on the ground, their bodies mangled beyond recognition, limbs torn apart.
With only six Astartes, there was simply no turning the tide of a battle like this.
"WAAAGH!"
Dozens of greenskin warbosses—each larger than him—charged forward the fastest, wielding crudely assembled weapons as they closed in from all sides.
The furnace within him roared to life, and Frix knew—
he had reached the end of his limits.
That surge of strength, like a final flash before death, filled his body. In that last moment, he cast aside everything.
All he wanted… was to kill a few more greenskins.
"RAAAH!"
With a furious roar, Frix charged straight into the enemy.
His power sword cleaved downward, striking the foremost greenskin. The master-crafted blade split both the creature and its weapon clean in half.
A spear thrust in from the side, piercing through his ribs—straight through both sides. His last lung was punctured.
Frix spat out a mouthful of blood, the spray splattering across the greenskin that had ambushed him.
With a sweeping slash, he cut through the three nearest warbosses at the shoulder, splitting them apart.
The furnace's surge dulled the pain of his wounds—
but it could not change the outcome.
Dozens of warbosses swarmed him, piling on and forcing him to the ground.
Frix struggled desperately—
—but too many.
Warhammers and axes came crashing down.
His skull was smashed into pulp.
That pain—
It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.
Not the wounds of battle.
Not the agony of surgery.
But something purer. More absolute.
A total annihilation.
He felt his consciousness torn apart—
crushed—
obliterated.
Then—
darkness.
…
When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the ruined city.
The sky was still gray. Acid rain still fell. The distant city still burned.
He looked down at his hands—whole and uninjured.
He touched his neck. No wound.
"The first training scenario: failed."
The cold synthetic voice echoed once more.
"Cause of death: decapitation by power axe."
"Battle duration: 53 minutes."
"Kills: 22 greenskin warbosses, 56,789 greenskin boys, 13 mekboyz (gretchin excluded)."
"Overall evaluation: Tactical misjudgment. You should not have held the command center. A breakout should have been executed before encirclement."
"The second training scenario will begin shortly."
"Enemy: Greenskins."
"Allied forces: One Imperial Guard company, one Astartes tactical squad."
"Trainee role: Tactical Squad Leader."
"Training begins."
Frix froze for a moment.
Then he took a deep breath, forcing himself to forget the death he had just experienced—and began recalculating.
"We're not setting up a defensive line this time,"
he told the five warriors beside him.
"We strike first—before they can encircle us. We take out the Gorkanauts. Only by destroying them do we have any chance of holding the command center."
…
That feeling of being crushed—
It was so real it could drive one mad.
Frix awoke from the training.
22 deaths had forcibly ejected him from the simulation.
Perturabo had calculated it precisely—for a Primaris Astartes, after 22 iterations, training must stop. Beyond that, there was a high risk of irreversible neural damage.
Frix lay inside the metal coffin, gasping for breath, sweat soaking his entire body.
His body was uninjured—
but his mind and consciousness bore immense strain.
"My lord, you need rest. Otherwise, your mind will suffer damage."
Iron Ring's emotionless synthetic voice came from outside as Frix stepped out of the training terminal.
His steps were unsteady, his face deathly pale. His eyes were bloodshot, and deep within them lingered an indescribable emptiness.
A medical servitor approached. A needle pierced into the back of his neck, and the reagent spread rapidly through his body.
Frix felt as if he had come back to life.
22 battles.
He had been beheaded by a greenskin warboss, blown apart by artillery, crushed beneath a Gorkanaut, run down by a battle fortress, torn apart by mobs, killed by his own mistakes, and dragged down by delayed reinforcements.
He had fought in ruined cities, frozen wastelands, deserts, jungles, space stations, and aboard greenskin warships.
The constant change of environments made adaptation difficult.
Only in the final frontal battles—where he commanded direct engagements and led assaults to breach massive greenskin fortresses—had he truly excelled.
Frix couldn't quite describe the feeling.
The virtual scenarios felt indistinguishable from real war.
The wounds he suffered, the experience he gained—
all of it seemed to return with him.
He clenched his fist.
A strange thought surfaced—
If he were to face his untrained self now…
he could kill that version of himself with ease.
"My lord, according to the logic engine's analysis, you are better suited to serve as a battlefield commander directing frontal assaults."
Iron Ring's voice sounded again.
Frix understood.
He was not meant to fight as a lone warrior.
He was meant to command—to lead legions in breaking cities and crushing enemies.
"How much time has passed?"
he asked.
The flow of time inside and outside should differ—but not by much.
"Twenty-two Terra standard hours, my lord."
Frix turned his head toward Iron Ring.
What?
"Was there an error?"
He knew the answer—but still asked.
"My lord, the logic engine does not err."
The cold reply left him silent.
Less than a day…?
"When can I resume training?"
"In four Terra standard hours, you will enter the second training cycle."
"During this time, you may return to your quarters or remain in the rest chamber. Nutritional compounds are available without limit. You may issue requests at any time."
Every soldier in the base had their own room.
The facility was vast—Olympia had been hollowed out from within by Perturabo like a parasite.
Frix chose not to return.
His quarters were simple—a twenty-square-meter room with a bed, desk, and chair, all custom-fitted to his physique. Every brother had the same.
There was no entertainment.
The Iron Guard had made that clear from the beginning.
The only forms of relaxation were art and engineering—
Perturabo's sole mercy.
The tyrant allowed nothing beyond his control within his domain. Freedom and democracy were tightly restricted. The only path to ideals was strict obedience to his will.
He had stripped away rights people were born with.
Yet the Iron Warriors did not care.
The Imperium was far more brutal than their father—
and the people here lived far better than those under Imperial rule.
"Better" was not meant as comparison—
but compared to the Imperium, life on Olympia was practically paradise.
In the rest chamber, Frix requested a portion of nutrient paste.
It was the most delicious he had ever tasted—
apple-durian flavored.
He didn't know what that meant.
But he knew his father's capabilities were boundless.
He devoured three full trays.
Only then did the sense of detachment from reality begin to fade.
…
Outside the training terminal, Perturabo stood before a holographic display, silently observing the training data of every Iron Warrior.
The logic engine presented the performance of ten thousand warriors in real time.
Every tactical decision.
Every reaction speed.
Every cause of death.
All precisely recorded and analyzed.
For an entire month, he had not left this place.
He had abandoned his research and personal pursuits.
His fingers tapped lightly against the chair as his brows furrowed.
Sensing his sister's presence, his expression returned to stillness.
He picked up a schematic of a multi-barreled bolter and studied it.
Stephanie stood beside him, watching the shifting data. A trace of unease flickered in her eyes.
"Perty… they've been training continuously for half a month. Shouldn't you let them rest?"
She understood exactly what this level of intensity meant.
Perturabo said nothing—
only shook his head.
"Their bodies can endure it. Their minds must adapt. Twenty-two deaths is the limit—but they are still far from it."
"They are improving, sister. Accumulating experience through death."
"This is necessary. They must learn to endure and adapt. If they do not change now, there will be no time to change on a real battlefield."
Stephanie knew he was right—
but the method was too cruel.
Andos spoke from the side.
"Brother, the Iron Guard request permission to join the training."
Perturabo turned to look at their leader—Gino Constant.
A complex expression lay on his face.
Envy—
and regret.
"Do you understand what this means?" Perturabo asked.
"We do, my lord."
"They say that if they cannot grow stronger alongside their brothers, they are unworthy to stand behind you."
Perturabo said nothing more, only nodded.
"Your limit is fifteen deaths. Beyond that, your minds will likely collapse."
Gino's expression turned solemn.
"Yes, my lord."
He turned and strode out, his steps firm.
"Know your limits."
Just as he reached the door, Perturabo's cold voice sounded from behind.
Gino turned back.
Perturabo did not look at him, his gaze fixed on the holographic display.
Stephanie and Andos nodded to him.
Gino placed a hand over his chest in salute, then departed.
Stephanie watched his back and spoke softly.
"Perty, are you really going to let the Iron Guard participate? Their bodies may not be able to endure it."
Perturabo did not answer. He simply continued staring at the holographic projection.
But Stephanie noticed the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye.
…
Inside the training terminal, Frix was undergoing his thirteenth training cycle.
This time, the battlefield was a hive world.
Colossal metal structures pierced into the clouds, while layers upon layers of habitation zones stacked together like a beehive. Countless bridges and passageways crisscrossed between the towering buildings.
The enemy had changed.
No longer greenskins. Not xenos. Not heretics.
They were rebels—
Space Marine rebels.
Humans who had once sworn loyalty to the Emperor had now raised the banner of rebellion, turning Imperial weapons against Imperial warriors.
Frix didn't know why his father had designed such a scenario.
But he had no time to dwell on it.
Artillery fire was already crashing into their positions.
The ferocity with which brother Legions fought each other surpassed any enemy they had faced before.
"Berossus, report."
Frix spoke through the Legion's internal comm channel.
"The third through seventh districts in the eastern zone are fully under rebel control. They've established three defensive lines, each supported by heavy firepower."
Belosus's voice came through—calm and precise.
"The western zone is slightly better. Rebel defenses are weaker, but the structures are denser. Urban close-quarters combat is likely—not in our favor."
"The southern zone is their command center. It has the strongest defenses—at least five thousand troops, supported by armored units and Titans."
"The northern zone…"
"What about the northern zone?"
Frix pressed.
Belosus fell silent for a moment.
"The northern zone is a civilian residential district. The rebels are using civilians as human shields. At least several billion civilians are trapped there."
Frix's brow tightened.
This was the worst possible situation.
The rebels had identified the Iron Warriors' weakness—
they had placed civilians at the front, forcing hesitation.
If they attacked, countless civilians would die.
If they didn't, the rebels would use them as supply lines and cover to prolong resistance.
"Change of plan."
Frix made his decision.
"Abandon the northern zone. Launch simultaneous feints from the east and west to draw the rebel main force. Then our main force strikes the south—decapitation strike."
"But the southern defenses are the strongest, and we don't have sufficient forces…"
Berossus began.
Frix cut him off.
"I know."
His gaze hardened.
"But this is our only chance. The rebels think we'll hesitate because of the civilians, so they'll concentrate their forces in the north, waiting for us to fall into their trap."
"But they don't know—we won't follow their script."
"Execute the order."
"…Yes."
The twenty officers under his command fell silent for a moment, then responded in unison.
"Father… forgive this decision."
Frix murmured inwardly.
He personally led the Terminator company toward the southern zone.
Now clad in heavily modified custom Terminator armor, his massive form stood nearly four meters tall. A warhammer hung at his waist, while a power fist on his right arm and a massive bolter on his left made him resemble a living siege engine.
As expected, the rebels were drawn away by the feints.
Large forces surged toward the eastern and western zones, leaving a brief gap in the southern defenses.
Frix seized the opportunity.
He and his Terminator brothers swept through the southern zone like a storm.
The sheer power of their customized armor made them unstoppable against the weakened defenses.
Bolter fire thundered through the narrow streets. Their formation moved like a precision machine—every movement, every shot, every cover perfectly synchronized.
Rebel corpses paved their advance.
In fifteen minutes, they pushed forty kilometers forward, broke through five defensive lines, and killed over eight hundred rebels.
Then—
they encountered true resistance.
A massive fortress loomed before them—the final defensive line of the rebel command.
Its walls were layered with heavy armor plating, covered in firing ports. Behind each embrasure stood heavy bolters or anti-aircraft cannons.
Even in Terminator armor, survival under such fire was impossible.
Worse, their movement was already limited. They had relied on their armor's durability and defensive fields to charge forward—
but now, that was no longer enough.
Before the fortress stretched an open field, completely devoid of cover.
Anyone attempting to cross it would become a living target—
especially for warriors encased in slow-moving Terminator armor.
Frix crouched behind the ruins, observing the fortress, his brow deeply furrowed.
"We need orbital support—or Titan reinforcements," one soldier said in a low voice.
"But we don't have either. The fleet is still engaged, and all heavy weapons and Titan forces are tied up holding the rebel main force at the feints," another added.
Frix's mind raced.
Under normal circumstances, he would have already ordered volcano cannon tanks or god-machines to level the fortress.
But that wasn't an option now.
They didn't even have a single siege dreadnought.
His gaze fell upon the fortress gate.
For the first time in all his training, the usually composed Frix conceived a mad idea.
"Brothers, I have a plan."
"I need you to cover me to the fortress gate."
"I'll smash it open."
At first, the others were stunned by the sheer insanity of the plan.
But given their dire situation—
they agreed.
To cover Frix, decoys and multi-directional assaults were unavoidable, further thinning their already small force of only two hundred.
"Iron within, iron without!"
They spread out, unleashing continuous bolter fire toward the fortress defenders.
Thirteen warriors stayed close behind Frix.
Their objective was clear—
get him to the gate.
Fast.
Or their brothers wouldn't last.
Artillery fire rained down upon them.
Under such bombardment, even Terminator armor was torn apart like paper.
Frix moved swiftly.
Terminator armor was slow only by comparison—
it did not mean they were truly slow.
"Break!"
Blue arcs of electricity crackled violently across his custom power fist.
It was three times the size of a standard power fist—
and among the Iron Warriors, only Frix possessed the strength to wield such a weapon to its full potential.
The fortress gate shuddered violently—
massive cracks spreading across its surface.
"RAAAH!"
Frix roared, drawing back his arm—
and struck again.
BOOM!
The fortress gate burst open with a massive hole.
"Brothers—forward!"
Frix charged in first, plunging straight into the fortress interior. The remaining brothers followed close behind.
By the time Frix saw them regroup, fewer than a hundred remained from the original two hundred in the Terminator company.
"Revenge the fallen!"
Frix led them in a brutal slaughter through the fortress.
In such confined spaces, facing a group of Astartes clad in custom Terminator armor was nothing short of despair. The rebels were cut down, their ranks collapsing in chaos.
Looking at the fallen—those twisted, no longer human figures in purple armor, alongside others in yellow-and-black warplate—Frix's expression hardened with disgust.
They quickly tore through the fortress's remaining defenders and reached the enemy commander.
He was an Astartes clad in yellow-and-black armor, a clenched gauntlet emblazoned on his shoulder plate.
Frix did not understand why these "brothers" had become like this.
But the commander was already roaring as he charged forward.
Frix drew the warhammer from his waist and struck, sending the enemy crashing to the ground in a single blow. The rebel commander was formidable—
but not enough.
Frix tore off the commander's helmet.
As expected—
Horns. Fanged teeth. The stench of sulfur. Skin flushed a hellish red.
This was no longer a man.
Compared to those purple, grotesque aberrations, this one was almost… better.
Frix brought his foot down hard, crushing the commander's head and chest into ruin.
"Mission complete."
Darkness swallowed his vision.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back inside the metal pod of the training terminal.
After the medical servitor finished administering the injection, Frix walked toward the rest chamber.
Not long after, Berossus entered.
The two said nothing.
They simply sat in silence, eating nutrient paste and taking restorative compounds.
"…Why did Father design this kind of training?"
Berossus finally spoke.
Frix did not answer.
He didn't know either.
"Our cousins—even if they stood on a different side—would never betray us. And they certainly wouldn't become… those defiled, grotesque things."
Berossus could not understand.
Why would Father create such scenarios?
Could it be that Father… no.
Impossible.
He shook the thought from his mind.
Father would never think that way.
"Father's actions always have purpose behind them, Berossus. There's no point in guessing," Frix said, cutting off his thoughts.
"If Father truly had some plan, he wouldn't need us to accomplish it."
Berossus fell silent.
Over these days of training, he had come to understand just how terrifying those Iron Rings and mechanical constructs were.
They had fought alongside those abominable intelligences—and seen their power firsthand.
It was clear what Father intended—
That one day, they would fight alongside these machines during the Great Crusade.
Yet Father was still cautious.
The use of such abominable intelligences within the Legion remained limited—only deployed in crises or particularly difficult situations.
But those rebels…
What did they represent?
In these days, every Iron Warrior had, at one point or another, faced such enemies in training.
They still could not accept it—
that one day, they might have to fight their own brothers.
Each of them had already killed no fewer than a hundred former comrades within these simulations.
Frix slowly finished his nutrient paste, then stood up.
"Come on, brother. It's time to continue training."
Berossus quickly finished his cherry-cheese flavored paste, stuffed a few supplement strips into his mouth, and followed Frix out of the rest chamber.
"Brother."
"Hm?"
Berossus turned to look at his old comrade.
"Don't think too much. Don't disappoint Father."
Frix raised his right fist to his chest.
"We are Iron Warriors."
"Iron within, iron without."
Berossus paused for a moment—
then placed his hand over his chestplate.
"Iron within, iron without."
***************************
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