The warriors remained utterly still, their eyes locked on the sight before them."Tonight's assignment is simple," Kayvaan continued, setting the organ down on the table. "Each of you will sketch the structure of the human heart. Every chamber. Every vein. Every artery. I expect accuracy." He glanced at them. "Consider it… a lesson in precision."
For Kayvaan, this was basic material. Whether it was combat techniques, general knowledge, or now the study of biology, it was all foundational. Simple. Obvious. But to these warriors—men who had spent their entire lives bound by ignorance—this was revelation. He was not just training them. He was shattering their worldviews.
A radical new understanding of combat. A new way of seeing the world. A complete disregard for the rigid traditions of the Holy See. And above all—the sheer, undeniable strength he wielded. They could not look away. They could not resist. Without even realizing it, they were already drawn to him.
Most of the warriors gathered here were not just skilled—they were intelligent. They were the young prodigies of their time, the best their world had to offer. Had they not been, they never would have passed the grueling selection process that brought them here. And they understood the value of what they were learning. They were like sponges, absorbing every ounce of knowledge Kayvaan provided. Every lesson, every demonstration—these were gifts, glimpses into a world beyond their comprehension. But not all of them could see it.
Three students from the Holy See had resisted. Stubborn and shackled by dogma, they rejected Kayvaan's teachings, refusing to accept what lay before them. Worse still, they had attempted to report him—calling his lessons heretical, his actions blasphemous. And then… they were gone. It wasn't a dramatic event. No alarms. No public executions. They simply vanished.
One afternoon, they left the training camp. They never returned. More unsettling than their absence was the complete erasure of their existence. Their quarters, once occupied, were cleaned to perfection, stripped of any sign that they had ever been there. Their belongings—gone. Their names—forgotten by all who might have cared to speak them. No one came looking. No inquiries were made. It was as if they had never been born. And to the remaining students, this realization was far more terrifying than Kayvaan's personal strength. His raw combat ability was obvious—that much they had witnessed firsthand. But this? This was something else. This was power—true, unshakable power. The kind that even the mighty Holy See dared not challenge. Kayvaan did not need to explain it. They understood. And from that moment onward, they feared him.
Time had a way of slipping through one's fingers. A full year passed. "There was once a saint," Kayvaan mused, his voice calm as he stood near the window, watching snowflakes drift from the sky. "He stood by a river and watched its endless flow, sighing at the way time moves—never stopping, never slowing. "If we do not use every moment wisely, we will be left behind." He turned away from the window and picked up a stack of parchment, handing it to the man standing beside him.
Darius. Then, with a casual air, he lifted a cup of tea to his lips. "It's finally time for the year-end exams," he said, taking a slow sip. "The harvest season." Darius did not understand Kayvaan's sudden reflection on the nature of time. And, truthfully, he did not care to understand. Time was irrelevant to him now. He had once been a wastrel, a playboy drowning in wealth and indulgence. He had lived without concern, his nights consumed by excess, his days wasted in idleness. Time had been something to kill, something to pass between pleasures. But now? Now, he was a Space Marine—forged in fire, tested in blood. He did not measure time as others did. In battle, time was a calculation of precision—measured in seconds when coordinating movement, in milliseconds when reacting to an attack. But beyond that? Beyond the immediate moment? Years. Decades. Centuries. To Darius, these things had lost meaning.
As an Astartes, Darius bore the genetic legacy of a Primarch—and through that, the divine gene-seed of the God-Emperor Himself. The enhancements to his body did more than make him strong. They had freed him from mortality. He, like his brothers, would serve the Emperor forever. And when his service ended, it would not be in a warm bed. He would not die of sickness, nor of age. He would fall in battle—cut down amidst the blood and fire of war. He would meet his end standing, his blade raised, his brothers beside him. There was no greater death. To die in combat—to be remembered—this was the highest honor any warrior could achieve.
For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the quiet rustling of parchment as Darius skimmed through the documents. Then, he sighed. "God-Emperor above…" He shook his head and closed the stack of papers. "Lord Kayvaan, I've read your plan." His gaze lifted, sharp and focused. "What I say next may be offensive," he warned. "But you have always valued honesty."
Kayvaan didn't turn away from the window. "Of course," he said easily. "Speak your mind."
Darius exhaled, setting the papers down. "I think you're like a child playing in the sand," he said bluntly.
That, at least, made Kayvaan glance over his shoulder, his lips curving slightly. "Interesting metaphor."
Darius leaned back, crossing his arms. "It's fun to build a sandcastle, shaping it carefully—piece by piece. And then, when it's finished, it's fun to destroy it with your own hands." He paused. "But that's a child's game."
Kayvaan's smirk remained. "Go on."
Darius's voice hardened. "We have spent an entire year on this backwater planet. One year, shaping these warriors. One year of effort, of training, of purpose." His fingers tapped against the parchment. "And now, after all that? You intend to destroy them?"
Kayvaan turned fully from the window, his gaze locked onto Darius's. "You believe this exam will ruin them?" he asked.
Darius didn't hesitate. "Yes." Silence stretched between them.
Then, Kayvaan exhaled through his nose—a quiet laugh. "You misunderstand," he said.
Darius narrowed his eyes. "Do I?"
Kayvaan set his cup down and stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "I did not build them to be preserved," he said. "I did not train them to remain as they are." His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it—something dangerous. "I trained them to survive." Kayvaan's gaze bore into Darius's. "And now, I will see who can."
Darius's jaw tensed. "They are not ready," he said. "This test will—"
"This test will do exactly what it is meant to do," Kayvaan interrupted. "It will separate the strong from the weak."