The march back to Fort Primaris was slow, weighed down by exhaustion and silence.
The fires of battle still burned behind them, casting long shadows across the ruined fields. The scent of charred flesh and broken steel lingered in the air, carried by the winds sweeping over the trenches. They left behind the bodies of friends and enemies alike, knowing that scavenger teams would come later to strip the dead of armor and weapons, to burn what remained.
There was no time for burials. No time for grief.
Such was the way of the Imperium of the Eternal Flame.
Gaius walked with Aulus Kor at his side, the two of them leading the remnants of 2779G7, their battered legion detachment. They moved in silence, save for the occasional cough, the groan of an injured soldier, or the distant roar of artillery from another battlefield.
By the time they crested the final ridge, the sight of Fort Primaris came into view.
Even after years of living here, the sight of it still sent a shiver down Gaius' spine.
It was not a fortress.
It was a city of war.
Sprawling across the landscape, the bastion stretched for hundreds of miles, its reinforced walls tall enough to scrape the clouds, lined with thousands of cannons, energy turrets, and Qi-forged ballistae capable of piercing through mountains.
Massive iron gates, each one engraved with the sigil of the Imperium, loomed over the incoming forces.
Beyond them lay a world entirely dedicated to war.
Rows upon rows of military barracks, supply depots, and training fields stretched across the horizon. Factories churned without pause, spewing smoke into the air as they manufactured weapons, armor, and war machines. Legions of soldiers marched in perfect formation, their polished armor gleaming under the dying sun.
Ten other legions were stationed here, each numbering over 50,000 strong.
And at its heart, the Commander's Citadel loomed like an unbreakable monolith, its black stone walls towering over everything else. The banners of the Imperium's nobility hung from its ramparts, their golden insignias stark against the dark metal.
That was where the true rulers of the battlefield resided.
The Command Corps.
Dozens of elite commanders, each at the power level of a Legatus or higher, warriors who had long surpassed the limitations of common soldiers.
And above them all, in the highest spire of the citadel, resided the lord of this war front.
Praetor Octavian Valor.
The Marquis of the 7th War Sector, a man whose name alone was enough to strike fear into his enemies.
Gaius had never met him. Few ever did.
The Praetors of the Imperium were not merely generals. They were strategic warlords, cultivators of unmatched power, and masters of entire battlefronts.
He would not waste his time on mere soldiers.
At least, not ones who had yet to prove their worth.
The gates of Fort Primaris groaned open, and the surviving members of 2779G7 stepped through, entering the beating heart of the war machine.
The barracks of 2779G7 were located on the lower levels of the fortress, far from the opulence of the command citadel and the lavish quarters of the nobility. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, metal, and oil, the ever-present hum of factories and training exercises filling the background like a never-ending war hymn.
Soldiers moved about, some repairing armor, sharpening weapons, or tending to wounds, while others sat in grim silence, eyes hollow from battle.
Most of them came from the mining worlds of the Imperium, where life was short, brutal, and dictated by the need to serve.
Unlike the noble houses, they had not been born into wealth or privilege.
Their futures had been decided at the moment of their birth, their fates sealed by the Gene Analysis Examination.
At fifteen years old, every citizen of the Imperium was subjected to the test—a comprehensive evaluation of their genetic potential, Qi sensitivity, and natural aptitude.
The results determined their assigned role in society.
The fortunate ones, those born with refined bloodlines or exceptional talent, were granted paths toward cultivation, science, or governance.
But for those with lesser potential—those who were deemed strong but not exceptional—there was only one path.
The legions.
Gaius had not needed the test to know where he would end up.
He had been born into the legions, the son of two soldiers who had died in service to the Imperium. Orphans like him had only one future.
But unlike the others, he still had one person who looked out for him.
Aulus Kor.
His father's best friend. The man who had raised him after his parents died.
And the only reason he had survived this long.
"You're quiet," Aulus said, breaking the silence as they entered the barracks. He gave Gaius a sideways glance, his expression unreadable beneath the layers of grime and exhaustion. "You usually have something to say after a battle."
Gaius exhaled slowly, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. "Not much to say."
Aulus snorted. "Bullshit. You're brooding."
Gaius didn't answer.
Aulus sighed, rolling his shoulders before nudging him toward the mess hall. "Come on. A drink, then sleep. You need both."
The mess hall was packed.
Hundreds of soldiers were crammed into the massive stone chamber, seated at long wooden tables, the air thick with the scent of cheap ale and roasted meat. The low murmur of conversation filled the space, a stark contrast to the usual raucous energy that followed a victory.
Because this had not been a victory.
They had survived. That was all.
Gaius and Aulus made their way to a quieter corner, claiming two seats at a table already occupied by a handful of their comrades.
Cassius was already three drinks deep, his golden eyes gleaming beneath the dim light.
"Look who finally decided to stop sulking," Cassius said, baring sharp canines in a grin. He pushed a mug toward Gaius. "Drink. You look like you need it."
Gaius took the mug without a word, downing half of it in one go. The alcohol burned on the way down, but it was a welcome distraction from the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind.
The conversation around them was subdued. The battle had taken its toll.
"It was a waste," one soldier muttered, staring into his drink. "We held the line, fought like hell… and for what? A fucking week of extra rations?"
"No surprise," another snorted. "What did you expect? A medal?"
"Something. Anything." The first soldier exhaled bitterly. "They didn't even acknowledge us."
"They never do," Cassius said, taking another swig of his drink. "We fight. We die. They collect the glory."
A heavy silence settled over the table.
Then—
Aulus leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Gaius. "Your birthday is in three months."
Gaius blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. "Yeah?"
"The examination," Aulus said. "You'll be tested."
The table went quiet.
Everyone knew what that meant.
Even though Gaius had been raised in the legions, even though he had been fighting since he was barely able to lift a sword, his fate was still undecided.
The Gene Analysis Examination would determine his true potential.
If his results were exceptional, he could be given a different path.
A different future.
Maybe even a chance to enter the officer academies, to rise above the rank of common soldier.
But if his results were average…
He would be sent right back here. To fight. To bleed. To die.
Just like the others.
Aulus met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "You ready?"
Gaius didn't answer immediately.
Because, truthfully—
He didn't know.
He drained the rest of his drink, setting the mug down with a quiet thud.
"Does it matter?" he said finally. "The Imperium decides. We obey."
Aulus watched him for a moment longer, then sighed, shaking his head.
"Drink more," he muttered. "You're too young to be this cynical."
Gaius didn't argue.