The recruits moved in silence, following Kayvaan as he led them through a secret door at the back of the hall. Down a long corridor. Through winding passages. Until, at last, they stepped into the open.
They emerged onto a vast field—an expanse of grassland stretching across the size of three Regicide courts. A great stone wall surrounded it, towering high enough to blot out the horizon. The recruits shifted uneasily. The grass was immaculate, cut with military precision—each blade uniform in length. Soft underfoot, like a carpet. There was something unnatural about it. Something wrong. Kayvaan came to a halt in the center of the field.The recruits hesitated. Only now did they notice. There was no one else here. No warriors. No instructors. No sign of Chaplain Marius Luther. Only them.
"...Instructor," Lancelot finally spoke. His voice was wary. "Where is the Chaplain?"
Kayvaan did not turn to face them. Instead, he exhaled slowly.
A low, distant hum filled the air. The sound of something awakening. Something ancient. Something waiting. The twelve recruits tensed, their hands inching toward their weapons.
Kayvaan smiled. "He is already here." His words had barely left his lips when a deep, thunderous roar echoed across the sky. The recruits flinched, their heads snapping upward in alarm. It wasn't the sound of a storm—there wasn't a single cloud in the sky—but it carried the weight of something just as vast, just as unstoppable. A sound unlike anything they had ever known.
At first, it was nothing more than a speck in the heavens. Then, it grew. Faster and larger, until its shape became unmistakable—sleek, armored, wreathed in fire. A beast of steel and flame. "Oh, God-Emperor, is that… an angel descending?" one of the recruits whispered in awe.
"She's got wings of fire," another murmured. "Is it… is it a dragon?"
"Put away your superstitions." Kayvaan's voice was calm, almost amused. "That is a Thunderhawk."
The explanation did little to settle their confusion. The recruits exchanged glances, whispering among themselves. 'A hawk? Was it a creature? Was it some sort of war-beast, tamed like the mastiffs of noble houses?'
Kayvaan didn't bother answering their pointless questions. There would be time for education later—time to shatter their primitive understanding of the universe. For now, all he required was their obedience. The Thunderhawk's engines roared as it descended, thrusters blasting hot air across the field. Dust and grass scattered, the force pressing against the gathered warriors. The gunship's landing struts slammed into the ground with a mechanical hiss, and the boarding ramp lowered with a heavy clang.
At the top of the ramp, standing in the dim red glow of the ship's interior, was a massive figure in black robes. Pastor Marius. The old chaplain raised his arms in welcome, his deep voice carrying over the roar of the still-cooling engines. "Boys, don't just stand there gawking! Let's go! It's time to go home."
Lancelot hesitated, frowning. "Home?"
Marius chuckled. "The only home you'll ever know from now on. The Ebony Shadow is waiting." Even though they had steeled themselves for this moment, fear still gnawed at them. Fear of the unknown. Fear of leaving behind everything they had ever known. Even as they followed Kayvaan up the ramp, their steps were hesitant, their hands unconsciously gripping the hilts of their weapons like talismans against the unknown.
Duran nudged Lancelot from behind. "Are we really just walking in?" he muttered under his breath. "Feels like we're stepping into the belly of some great iron beast."
Lancelot exhaled through his nose. "Didn't you hear the mentor? This is a Thunderhawk, not some fire-breathing dragon." He paused, thoughtful. "Maybe it's like a kangaroo."
Duran gave him a look. "A what?"
"A beast the mentor told us about," Lancelot explained. "It carries its young inside a pouch. Maybe this is like that. Made of iron, but… not alive."
Duran grunted, unimpressed. "I don't care what it is. I just know I'm sticking close to the mentor."
Whatever anxieties they still harbored, none of them hesitated again. Kayvaan led them through the Thunderhawk's airdrop bay—built for Astartes, its vast interior seemed almost oversized for them. The seats were arranged in perfect rows, designed for warriors twice their size. "Find a seat," Kayvaan instructed. "Preferably by a window."
The recruits obeyed, shifting into position, gripping the harnesses with tense hands. "Take a good look at your homeworld," Kayvaan said. "You might never see it again."
Lancelot frowned. "Why?"
Kayvaan smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Because if you do return, it will only be because your home is burning."
The words sank in like a stone dropped into deep water. None of them spoke after that.
For three days, Pastor Marius preached. His sermons were not soft, nor were they filled with hollow comforts. They were the words of a Chaplain of the Adeptus Astartes. They were words of fire. He spoke of the God-Emperor, of the Imperium, of the Knights Templar and the duty that awaited them. He spoke of war, of sacrifice, of a service that would last forever. He did not lie to them. He did not tell them they would live to see glory. He only promised them the right to die well. And then, after three days, the sermons ended. And the real trial began.
Each of them stepped into the transformation chamber. Each of them climbed into a culture tank. The fluid inside was thick and cold. It clung to their skin, pulled them downward, suffocated them as the machinery sealed them inside. And then— darkness.
Over the next six months, the ancient and powerful gene-seed would begin to merge with the aspirants' bodies. Though the process would be agonizing, pain was merely another test—a crucible through which they would be reforged. Their physical capabilities would surge beyond mortal limits, and with the influx of genetic memory, their minds would awaken to knowledge that had been passed down through the ages.
Combat instincts honed over millennia would become second nature. The use of firearms, explosives, infiltration techniques, and assassination methods would become as natural to them as breathing. The fusion of the Emperor's divine gift with their flesh would turn them from men into something greater—Astartes, legends forged in the fires of war.
Yet their journey had only begun. Their bodies would continue to undergo enhancement—bones reinforced, organs augmented, additional hearts and lungs implanted. Each step stripped away another piece of their humanity, reshaping them into warriors beyond mortal comprehension. Those who endured the process would never be the same.
In the days of the Emperor's Great Crusade, the transformation into a Space Marine was a carefully refined art, consisting of nineteen intricate organ augmentations spread across decades. But the Imperium of this era was a shadow of its former self. The decline of knowledge, the loss of sacred technology, and the inefficiency of the Adeptus Mechanicus had made the process unreliable. Entire generations of recruits had perished due to failed transplants, and some chapters could no longer produce new Astartes at all.