Vance was jolted awake by a biting chill.
The moment his consciousness tore itself free from the haze, he realized he was curled up on an icy metal bench. Dim red emergency lights bathed the surroundings, and the air was thick with a pungent cocktail of machine oil, stale sweat, and cheap disinfectant.
"This..." He glanced down at his hands. They were calloused and rough, with thick knuckles, dark skin, and a few freshly healed scars on the back. He was wearing a drab, gray military uniform made of fabric coarse enough to chafe the skin right off his bones. A crude kinetic pistol hung from his waist.
Did I just... transmigrate? Or am I in a game? Vance's mind raced, desperately trying to make sense of the situation.
Right then, a tidal wave of fragmented, unfamiliar memories flooded his brain.
Stellan Kowalski. Twenty-three years old. Born into a laborer family on the third continent of the Agri-World Zakasen. Three months ago, the Planetary Governor had drafted five thousand able-bodied young men to replenish the Imperium's military ranks, effectively using them as a tithe for the Departmento Munitorum. He had been assigned to the Ullanor Crusade replacement formations. After completing basic training, he had just been transferred to... the 28th Expeditionary Fleet of the Emperor's Children?
"The Emperor's Children?" Vance bolted upright on the bench, his voice dripping with disbelief.
As a hardcore Warhammer veteran, he knew exactly what that name meant. The Legion of Fulgrim, the Emperor's third son. They were destined to be the first traitors to fall during the Horus Heresy, the pampered darlings of Slaanesh, and twisted lunatics obsessed with an unattainable perfection.
And the current timeline was... 000.M31?
Vance's heart began to hammer against his ribs. What did that mean? It meant the Great Crusade was still in full swing, and Horus had already been crowned Warmaster. The Emperor's Children hadn't fallen yet. Fulgrim was still the handsome, elegant Primarch who sought art and perfection in all things. But there were less than five years left until the event that would forever change the fate of the galaxy... Davin.
"Holy shit..." Vance muttered to himself. "Is this really a fucking game? This isn't just some knockoff, this is blatant plagiarism! The Emperor's Children, the God-Emperor... this is literally just Warhammer 40k!"
His voice echoed through the cavernous compartment, immediately drawing the attention of the others.
"You noticed it too, bro?" A guy next to him, wearing the same gray uniform, sat up. A line of golden text hovered right above his head...
[Loves Eating Grox Cans].
The dude had a look of absolute despair plastered across his face. "When I picked Sacred Door, I thought it was just going to be a reskinned mecha game. But I opened my eyes and found out I'm a recruit in the Imperial Auxilia, shoved right into an Emperor's Children fleet... Son of a bitch, does this game actually have a 'Breathing Tax'?"
"Breathing tax?" Vance blinked, suddenly noticing an inconspicuous white cog icon resting in the bottom-right corner of his vision.
He focused his mind on it, giving it a mental click. A translucent holographic screen unfolded before his eyes...
[Entity ID: The Imperium's Purest Inquisitor]
[Physiological Status: Mild Hunger | Mild Thirst | Stamina: 77%]
[Psychic Aptitude: Inactive | Psychic Tier: 0]
[Imperial Coins Held: 0]
[Debt: 0]
[Daily Breathing Tax: Unpaid (0/0.3)]
[Note: A daily Breathing Tax of 0.3 Imperial Coins. Overdue payments will trigger the debt mechanism. Accumulating a debt of over 10 Imperial Coins will result in forced account deletion and blacklisting.]
Vance stared at the Breathing tax description, his mouth twitching. "Is this game... seriously this hardcore?"
"Hardcore? This is fucking Warhammer! Of course it's hardcore!" [Loves Eating Grox Cans] lowered his voice. "Look around... they've all got golden IDs floating over their heads. I bet you anything these are all players who chose Sacred Door!"
Vance scanned the room.
Sure enough, in this transport bay designed to hold fifty people, over thirty had already woken up. Each of them had a bizarre ID floating above their head...
[I'll Even Be The Emperor's Dog], [For G Bro], [You're Not Loyal], [The Emperor's Most Loyal Soldier]...
They were all glowing in the exact same golden font, all bearing the identical insignia of the Imperium faction.
"So you're telling me," Vance said, taking a deep breath, "that all fifty of us players were randomly drafted into the auxiliary forces of the Emperor's Children fleet?"
"Looks like it." [Loves Eating Grox Cans] offered a bitter smile. "And I just tried messing with the UI. The system menu only has personal info, a quest tab, a locked cash shop, a region chat, and a logout button. There's no customer support ticket system, no official forums, no pay-to-win bundles... This game isn't even trying to hide it."
As the two spoke, more players gradually came to their senses. A chorus of gasps and curses began to echo throughout the compartment.
"Holy crap, where the hell are we?"
"The Emperor's Children? Is it too late to reroll?"
"Breathing tax? I have to pay taxes even in a damn video game?"
"Has anyone tried dying yet? Do we respawn?"
"The system says that upon player death, the base respawn fee is 5 Imperial Coins. If you don't have the cash, it triggers a respawn loan with a predatory loan-shark interest rate... Fuck me!"
"These madlad devs really aren't afraid of us rage-quitting..."
"Uh... I don't think they are..."
"A full-dive simulation game with this level of realism... We could probably sell our beta keys for a fortune..."
The chaos lasted for about five minutes. Then, the heavy bulkhead door was violently kicked open.
"Shut the hell up!"
A man wearing the uniform of an Imperial Auxilia Lieutenant stormed in, his face contorted with unvarnished disgust. He looked to be in his forties, sporting a mechanical augmetic for a left eye and a savage scar that carved its way from his right brow all the way down to his jawline.
Vance's newly inherited memories immediately recognized the man. Malcolm Gray, the platoon commander. He was a grizzled veteran fresh from the meat grinder of Ullanor, infamous for his iron-fisted discipline and explosive temper.
"The transport will dock with the battleship Blade of Elegance in three hours. Instead of getting some rack time, what the hell are you recruits whining about?!"
Lieutenant Gray's augmetic eye swept across the compartment, his gaze cutting like a physical blade. "I don't care which backwater rock you crawled out of, and I don't care if you used to be farmers, miners, or whatever other pathetic excuse for a living you made. As of right now, you are soldiers of the 7th Platoon, 6th Company, 3rd Battalion of the 447th Imperial Auxilia Regiment! Your only job is to follow orders, complete the mission, and live long enough to see payday!"
He marched to the center of the bay, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Listen up, rookies. The Emperor's Children Legion is one of the most elite fighting forces in the entire Imperium, and Lord Fulgrim's pursuit of perfection borders on the obsessive. As auxiliary troops attached to this Legion, your performance directly reflects upon their honor. Therefore..."
Gray's voice suddenly skyrocketed in volume, "...do not embarrass the Emperor's Children, do not embarrass the Imperium, and absolutely do not embarrass me! Otherwise, I have zero qualms about tossing you out an airlock and letting the cold vacuum of space teach you a lesson in discipline!"
The entire compartment fell dead silent.
The players exchanged glances, many of them looking incredibly stifled and frustrated. It was one thing to get chewed out by a boss in real life, but getting screamed at by an NPC in a video game?
Still, with no real grasp on their current situation, the players opted to play it safe and keep their mouths shut. Because the murderous aura radiating from Lieutenant Gray felt entirely too real. That cold, predatory vibe of a man who had crawled his way out of mountains of corpses and oceans of blood wasn't something that could be replicated by standard game physics. Of course, the main deterrent was the very intimidating laspistol holstered at his hip.
"Now, everybody rack out and get some rest!" Gray gave the room one last withering glare. "Once we arrive at the Blade of Elegance, you will have six hours to acclimatize. After that, you'll receive your first assignment. I sincerely hope you're still capable of standing by then."
With that, he spun on his heel and marched out. The heavy bulkhead slammed shut behind him with a resounding thud.
Silence hung in the compartment for a few agonizing seconds.
And then, the region chat window exploded into an absolute frenzy.
[Region Chat:]
[I'll Even Be The Emperor's Dog]: "Holy shit, this NPC's aura is intense. I almost pissed myself."
[For G Bro]: "So we're really in the Emperor's Children fleet right now? Back when Fulgrim hasn't completely fallen and ascended to daemonhood?"
[You're Not Loyal]: "The timeline is 000.M31. Five years until the Horus Heresy... does that mean we're relatively safe for now?"
[The Emperor's Most Loyal Soldier]: "Safe my ass! The Emperor's Children are the first batch to turn traitor! Are we fraternizing with the enemy by mixing with these future heretics?"
[Loves Eating Grox Cans]: "You're overthinking it, bro. We're just a bunch of Auxiliary grunts. We won't even get to see the Primarch's face, so how could we possibly commit treason?"
[The Imperium's Purest Inquisitor]: "Everyone, let's table that discussion for now. Check your quest interfaces... the beginner tutorial quest just dropped."
After speaking in the region chat, Vance reopened his system interface.
The quest tab next to the cog icon was blinking.
[Beginner Tutorial Quest Released]
[Quest Name: Acclimatize to Your Identity - Complete One Imperial Auxilia Daily Task]
[Objective: Upon arriving at the battleship Blade of Elegance, complete your first assigned duty within six hours.]
[Rewards: 10 Imperial Coins, Cash Shop Unlocked]
[Failure Penalty: None]
[Note: The Imperium does not believe in tears. It only believes in completed missions and paid taxes.]
"Ten Imperial Coins..." Vance calculated silently. "The Breathing tax is 0.3 a day, which means completing this quest covers thirty-three days of taxes. But if we fail, we won't unlock the shop or get any help."
The game's resource loop was crystal clear. Complete quests to earn Imperial Coins; use Imperial Coins to pay the Breathing tax, buy gear, and upgrade your stats. Failing or dying would trap a player in a downward debt spiral. If a player's debt exceeded ten Imperial Coins, the system would forcibly delete their account and blacklist them.
"This economic system is somehow even more Warhammer than the actual Imperium," he muttered.
[Loves Eating Grox Cans] grumbled softly beside him, "At least when the Imperium collects the tithe, they leave you with ninety percent. This game just forces you to wage-slave for your right to exist."
Vance didn't reply.
His gaze landed on an emblem painted on the bulkhead... It was the heraldry of the Emperor's Children, a majestic phoenix with spread wings, beneath which was a line of exquisite High Gothic script: "Perfection through Practice".
Right now, this Legion was still the pride of the Imperium, a shining blade expanding the frontiers of human civilization. But Vance knew that in the near future, this proud phoenix would be corrupted by the temptations of Slaanesh during a fateful campaign. Their pursuit of perfection would devolve into a twisted hunt for ultimate sensory stimulation, ultimately reducing them to the playthings of Chaos.
What if... A sudden thought struck him. What if we players could actually change things?
Once the idea took root, it was impossible to shake.
Fifty players were certainly insignificant. But what if, out of the hundred thousand beta testers, thousands or even tens of thousands were scattered across various Legions and planets? Could this 'Fourth Scourge'—players from the real world armed with the knowledge of the future—become the greatest wildcard in this grimdark universe?
"What're you thinking about?" [Loves Eating Grox Cans] nudged him. "Focus on surviving the tutorial quest first. I really don't want to be up to my eyeballs in debt on day one."
Vance snapped out of his daze and nodded.
Right then, a server-wide announcement popped up on his system interface...
[System Announcement]
[All Second Beta Players for Epoch 40K: Mecha have successfully logged in.]
[Current Online Players: 100,000]
[Faction Distribution: Imperium of Man 44.3% | Freedom Chaos 39.1% | Crimson Dawn 16.6%]
[May you all find your path in the sea of stars within the Mecha Universe.]
[Notice: Players must unconditionally assist their chosen faction in securing ultimate victory.]
[If the native forces representing any of the three major factions suffer total defeat in the ensuing conflicts, all players belonging to that faction will face account deletion.]
[All Imperial Coins held by the defeated faction will be transferred to the victorious faction's players.]
As the announcement faded, the region chat exploded once again.
[Loves Eating Grox Cans]: "This fucking game is forcing us to double down on the Imperium! 'The sea of stars in the Mecha Universe...' Heh... they didn't mention that the 'mechas' are fucking Dreadnoughts... And Titans... those aren't even meant to be piloted by normal humans..."
[You're Not Loyal]: "16.6% of people actually picked Crimson Dawn? What the hell were they thinking? Is that organization even in the Warhammer timeline?"
[Neos Baby Kiss]: "Those guys are screwed. They have the lowest player count out of the three factions. And their native faction is some weak, no-name Crimson Dawn. Sandwiched between the glorious Imperium and the four Chaos Gods, they'll get wiped out in minutes. But honestly, since nobody knew this was the Warhammer universe when picking, why did so few people choose Crimson Dawn anyway?"
[For G Bro]: "Probably got scared off by the descriptions of 'martyrs' and 'thorny paths.' Most people play games to have fun, not to suffer. I know I got spooked by the whole martyr thing, so I immediately slammed the loyalist button for the Sacred Door."
[You're Not Loyal]: "But seriously... what even is this Crimson Dawn organization? Are they human? Xenos? Ogryns? Orks? What's their deal?"
[Loves Eating Grox Cans]: "Who cares? Let's worry about ourselves first. Right now, all I want to know is if the Emperor's Children cafeteria serves decent grub..."
Vance closed the region chat.
He leaned back against the freezing metal bulkhead, closed his eyes, and began to sort through the fragmented memories swirling in his mind... Stellan Kowalski's past, the Imperial Auxilia's training regimens, the basic intelligence on the Emperor's Children fleet...