The Knights Templar, Kayvaan's newly founded Chapter, faced the same challenges. Time and resources were limited. The full transformation process had been condensed—thirteen procedures over twenty-five years, half the standard duration. Their warriors would not be as biologically superior as those from the ancient Legions, but raw power alone did not win wars. It was the warrior, not merely his body, that decided the battle. With the aspirants now undergoing transformation, Kayvaan turned his attention to matters of governance. After hours of reviewing reports and issuing commands, he sent for his officers.
The first to arrive was Darius. He entered in full power armor—polished silver, unmarked, unadorned. No laurels, no battle scars, no purity seals. This was standard for an Astartes who had yet to earn his accolades, and Darius, despite his pride, could not bring himself to display honors he had yet to claim. Even so, the armor suited him. Standing there, plated in ceramite, he looked like an iron sentinel, towering over Kayvaan. "You're the first one here," Kayvaan noted, glancing up. "Sit down. Just not on my chairs."
His quarters were furnished with a handful of old wooden seats, their armrests smoothed by time and use. They were antiques from the Reach, something he'd acquired over the years. Astartes had no need for such things, but Kayvaan had always appreciated the weight of history. Unfortunately, there were only three of them. Darius smirked and pulled up an alloy chair instead, sitting with the rigid posture of a soldier. "You place too much value on material things, my lord," Darius chided. "We are Astartes. Luxury dulls the spirit. Comfort breeds weakness."
"Spare me the lecture, Darius. If you keep nagging, I'll start ignoring you altogether." Kayvaan waved a hand dismissively. "You treat the Codex Astartes like it's some divine scripture, but to me, it's just a guideline. Guilliman may have been a brillliant strategist, but he does not command me. The Codex is useful for you neophytes to study, but I see no reason to be bound by it."
Darius nearly choked on his breath. Kayvaan had just referred to Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, son of the Emperor, as if he were some acquaintance. As if he were discussing a mere man rather than one of the greatest figures in Imperial history. It was the equivalent of someone casually remarking, "Oh, Stalin? Yeah, I know him. We had dinner once." The sheer audacity left Darius speechless.
Before he could formulate a response, a knock came at the door, followed by the entrance of Chaplain Marius. The towering priest was clad in ceremonial silver power armor, a deep red cape flowing behind him. In the crook of his arm, he carried his skull-faced helmet, exuding an aura of grim authority. His sheer presence commanded respect, even from those who barely knew him. "Marius, you're here. Have a seat. Water?" Kayvaan gestured toward the steel chairs.
"Plain water will suffice," Marius replied, his voice deep and steady. He pulled out a chair and sat in the center of the room.
Kayvaan poured water into a simple metal bowl, handing it to Marius as he asked, "How are my warriors? What's their mental state?"
"If you want my honest assessment—poor." Marius didn't hesitate. "Their faith is weak, Commander. Some of them still carry reverence, particularly those from the primitive worlds, but the soldiers recruited from your planetary guard are arrogant and undisciplined. Their confidence borders on heresy. They lack humility. You have spent too much time honing their combat skills and not enough fostering their devotion. You must remember, Astartes are not just warriors—we are warrior-monks, our faith as important as our martial prowess."
Kayvaan turned away, staring at the far wall. He let out a slow breath, rolling his eyes where Marius couldn't see. He knew he had neglected the spiritual aspects of the training. It wasn't an oversight—it was deliberate. The Ecclesiarchy's influence, the blind fanaticism of the state religion, the empty rituals performed without thought—it all disgusted him. But even Kayvaan had to admit that faith had its uses. "You're right," he said, voice heavy with reluctant sincerity. "I've been stretched thin. The Chapter is still in its infancy, the planet is barely secured, and I can only do so much at once. But fine—if faith is your concern, then I leave it in your hands. The Cathedral is now under your full authority. You will set the spiritual doctrine for the Chapter. But keep in mind—our Templars are still young. You can't be too strict just yet."
Marius nodded. "I understand. I will establish the necessary structures."
As Kayvaan and Marius continued discussing the finer points of religious doctrine, the door opened again. This time, two figures entered. One was Father Magos, a Tech-Priest of the Mechanicus, draped in crimson robes adorned with mechanical appendages. His mind was locked onto a scrolling dataslate, held aloft by two servo-arms. Additional mechadendrites writhed from his back, one of which housed an augmetic eye that moved independently, monitoring the path ahead.
Beside him was Captain Grant, dressed in his formal black naval uniform. His expression was cold, his posture rigid, a walking embodiment of discipline. Kayvaan barely acknowledged Grant—his attention was locked on Marius. The moment the Tech-Priest entered, the conversation died. Silence filled the room as Bell, entirely unfazed by the atmosphere, made his way to the corner and continued reading his data feeds. The silence stretched. Kayvaan cleared his throat. "Father Magos."
The Tech-Priest did not respond. Kayvaan coughed again, louder this time. "Father Magos, I'm glad to see you so dedicated to your work."
Marius finally acknowledged him with a brief, mechanical twitch. "It is my duty."
"Then perhaps you can update me on our 'young warriors'?" Kayvaan asked, his tone edged with amusement.
Bell's head snapped up, his augmetic eye whirring. "Your terminology is inaccurate. They are not 'young warriors.' They are aspirants of the Adeptus Astartes, blessed by the Emperor's divine will. Referring to them as 'children' is inappropriate."
Kayvaan smirked. "Fine. Then tell me—how are these aspirants faring?"
"The situation is eight percentage points better than our most optimistic projections," Father Magos reported in his usual mechanical monotone. "The data confirms that after rigorous selection and systematic training, the warriors' resilience—both physical and psychological—has significantly improved. Out of a hundred aspirants, only eleven are exhibiting signs of failure. Apothecaries are administering corrective treatments, but realistically, their chances of survival are negligible."
The genetic enhancements bestowed upon these warriors carried both immense power and tremendous risk. The agony of gene-seed implantation was only the beginning—true danger lay in the psychological toll. These were not mere biological modifications; the gene-seed carried imprints of past warriors, memories spanning centuries, even millennia. The warriors would be plunged into shared dreams—visions of endless war, death, and fire. Only those with unbreakable will could endure such horrors and emerge whole.