"The Redemption Crusade has won victory after victory. Day after day, we slowly take back the Imperium's dark half from the hands of the enemy…"
Second Sun Sector, hub world Martilla.
A colossal, golden-armored projection of the Saviour stood like a giant over the capital's great plaza.
He looked down upon the Ecclesiarchy priests and citizens gazing up at him in devout reverence.
His solemn voice echoed through the upper atmosphere.
At the same time, the Saviour was transmitting a war mobilization order to every Imperial territory he could reach, mustering more armies to join the Redemption Crusade.
To destroy the oncoming Chaos crisis inching ever closer.
The Saviour's tone grew more severe, making the priests and the crowds below hold their breath.
"Though we are heavily beset by enemies on every side, battle by battle we have crushed traitors, xenos, and heretics.
Even as I speak, the armies of the Crusade face an even stronger foe: a heretical tide of Chaos sweeping across the stars. Our homes, the worlds on which we rely for survival, totter on the brink.
The only things that can protect us now are unshakable faith and an unbending will to wage war!"
He raised both hands, his voice growing fiercer still.
"It is time to rise, my people. We need a vast war of mobilization, a great purification across the stars.
Fight when the constellations burn like torches. Fight when enemies surround you on every side. Fight when humanity rages for the homes we have lost!"
At the end of this grave proclamation, the Saviour raised the Emperor's Sword, which burst alight with holy radiance.
"We shall win victory!"
The Saviour's words were like a torch touching dry tinder, setting the fire in people's hearts ablaze.
"Victory! Victory! Victory!"
The entire world cried out the Saviour's name, all voices raised in a single shout for victory.
…
Residential district of the capital, Storm Army Group dependents' housing.
The living conditions here were excellent. Inside the hive megastructures of several thousand stories, one independent apartment after another was stacked upon the next.
There were public green spaces, and certain sections even had their own private courtyards—rewards granted to heroic warriors.
On the grass of one such small courtyard…
A small holo-projector sat on a data-slate resting on a stone table. A miniature projection of the Saviour was frozen there, captured at the moment he raised the Emperor's Sword. The image was utterly sacred.
"Victory!"
Little York hid in his grandpa's arms, copying the adults and cheering as well.
Then something occurred to him, and he asked curiously, "Grandpa, why did all the uncles go out?"
The old veteran, also named York, wore an old-style uniform. His beard was white with age as he gazed devoutly at the Saviour's image on the data-slate.
He spoke slowly.
"They received an emergency order. They've gone to fight for His Majesty the Saviour, to protect our home."
"Then when can I be like the uncles? I want to fight too."
Little York waved his tiny fists.
He and his friends had always envied the adults' handsome combat armor. Sometimes they would imitate them and play games about fighting heretics and xenos.
It was just that every time, they made him play the bad guy.
"Aren't you going to the Army Academy kindergarten next year?
Once you pass your promotion exams and get into the Army Elite Academy, you'll be granted power armor when you grow up and graduate.
Then you can join the Storm Army Group like the uncles and fight our enemies."
Old York explained patiently. "That's our family's honor. The Yorks won the life we have today with our own hands, from the claws of xenos and heretics.
We absolutely cannot let those xenos and heretic bastards take it away from us again.
It's just a pity I'm old now. Those bastards in the Departmento Munitorum won't let relics like me stay on."
As he spoke, Old York slapped the stone tabletop with his augmetic hand, clearly disgruntled.
A few years ago, his entire generation of veterans had been forced to retire. Competition had been so intense that he'd not only failed to stay in the line units, he hadn't even beaten out the other old war-dogs for an instructor's slot at the Army's subordinate academies.
They had long since grown used to life in the regiment—to war itself—and now they were forced to go home and look after children.
What was that supposed to be?
All the veterans thought the Munitorum's new regulations were far too harsh. Under the old traditions of the Imperial Guard, it was impossible to send veterans home that early.
"Yeah! Grandpa, you're the best! The uncles told me so. They said you once fought some apocalypse war with Lord Drelain, against those disgusting tyranid bug-things.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat, you shot all the bugs dead!"
Little York flailed his hands as he imitated the sound of gunfire.
The little fellow's praise made Old York burst out laughing. He picked the boy up and kissed him hard.
Then he suddenly froze.
Drip—
At some point, tears had slid down from his eyes, passed right through the Saviour's tiny holo-projection, and fallen onto the projector.
"Grandpa, are you sad?"
Little York looked up at his grandfather, puzzled.
"Grandpa is happy."
Old York gently wiped away the tears at the corners of his eyes.
He repeated himself, then put Little York down and turned toward the house. "Grandpa is very happy. Never thought those bastards in the Munitorum still remembered this old sack of bones."
The old veteran was worried and yet faintly excited as his steps quickened. "Heh, never thought there'd still be a time when they needed me. Looks like things are worse than I thought.
Those damned Chaos heretics…"
On the data-slate resting on the stone table behind him, the crest of the Departmento Munitorum appeared.
It was an emergency file sent by the Munitorum, bearing the highest alert classification—a sign of an apocalypse-level war, a sign of blood and death.
Old York entered his room and took out a small wooden box. When he opened it, a finely crafted medal lay within, glinting faintly in the lamplight.
It clearly saw frequent polishing and care.
It was a Bravery Medal personally issued by the Saviour, awarded specifically to warriors who had achieved exceptional merit in battle—and this particular medal was even more special.
It came from an apocalypse-level war, the symbol of supreme glory.
It was the medal Storm Army Group soldiers dreamed of earning. If you wore it in any military district, one hundred percent of heads would turn—and many of those gazes would be filled with awe.
Of course Old York had other medals, but none compared to this one. Just this one was enough.
"It's time…"
Old York murmured, carefully pinning the Bravery Medal to his chest, then drawing out a ceremonial sidearm.
He couldn't help lifting it to his nose and breathing in the lingering scent of powder at the barrel, then slid it into the holster at his waist.
Staring at himself in the mirror, the old veteran unconsciously straightened into parade rest.
"Grandpa, are you going to war?"
Little York ran in, eyes full of reluctance. It looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.
The little fellow had heard some things from his mother and had come straight here.
"Yes. Grandpa is going back to the front."
Old York ruffled the boy's hair and said softly, "His Majesty the Saviour has need of your grandpa. This is the honor of the York family."
Little York started crying.
He rushed forward and hugged his grandpa's leg, speaking words that he wasn't sure came from his own heart or had been taught to him by the adults.
"Can't you not go? Mom said it's not a compulsory call-up, you don't have to go. I still want Grandpa to stay and play with me!"
Old York crouched down, picked him up, and wiped the tears from his cheeks.
"Grandpa wants to stay with you too. But Grandpa can't not go."
He shook his head, then pointed at a picture hanging on the wall. "Kiddo, do you know what that is?"
The image on the wall was a vision of hell. Honestly, it looked more like a photograph than a painting.
In the ruins of collapsed buildings, corpses lay strewn in piles—twisted human bodies mixed with the remains of abominable horrors.
Those people had died in shrieks of agony.
At the center of the frame, several children, skin-and-bones and hollow-eyed, clawed their way over the corpses, seemingly searching for something.
It was a live shot taken in war, recorded by a scribe and later selected by the Saviour's propaganda office as material for local posters.
Little York stared at the terrible image. His crying stopped and he instinctively shrank his neck. He was always afraid of this picture.
He even had nightmares about it.
Still, he answered in a small voice, "That was Grandpa when you were little…"
Among the children in that terrible picture was Old York himself. Later, they had been taken in by the Munitorum and sent to the Loyal Heirs Academy's subordinate Army Elite Academy.
From there, he'd been fortunate enough to become one of the first Storm combat armor troopers, fighting on battlefields across the stars until retirement.
Old York had never forgotten the suffering of his childhood. He would not dare.
He had lived through it all, and he understood how hard-won their present life was—how fragile.
Old York looked into Little York's eyes, his own full of tenderness.
"The reason Grandpa goes to fight is so that you won't have to suffer what Grandpa did.
So you won't have to endure killing and hunger lurking around every corner. Hunger is awful—it's like a fire burning in your gut.
You're not allowed to cry anymore, understand?
Crying means nothing. You have to become a man and protect, with your own hands, the things you want to protect.
Maybe you don't understand now, but you'll understand one day…"
As one of the mortal soldiers under the Saviour's command…
He was not like the usual Imperial Guardsmen; he was permitted to learn more, to know more secrets.
Like many other warriors, he understood the situation the Imperium faced, he knew what kind of enemy he was fighting…
And he knew why he fought.
This not only gave the army a higher will to fight, it also subtly influenced the wider populace.
It kept the peaceful worlds of the rear lines alert to war and disaster.
So they would not become like some soft Imperial worlds, their vigilance dulled to nothing.
In fact, right after the war mobilization order arrived, Old York and his old comrades had immediately submitted applications to the Munitorum to re-enlist.
The Munitorum had once promised that, when needed, they would recall veterans like them.
But those applications had been rejected. The reason given was that the Munitorum was still deliberating on whether to expand conscription, whether to include former veterans.
Even though those veterans were a powerful force.
Now, with the crisis escalating again, the Munitorum had finally passed the order authorizing their recall.
Yet it still wasn't mandatory. They were merely opening the application channel again, offering veterans who were willing to return to the front a chance.
They were also offering more benefits and appropriate pensions to those brave veterans who chose to go back.
"Now Grandpa's going to the front to stomp the balls off those Chaos heretics—just like in the scenes you see at the Saviour's chapel on Sundays!"
Old York kissed Little York fiercely once more, then handed him to his mother. He spoke softly.
"Take good care of the little one."
After that, the old veteran did not look back. Even as the child began crying again, he and his mother watching him go with red-rimmed eyes…
Old York knew there was a good chance he would not return.
But he had no regrets. He had received so much, had a family, children, and honor.
He had to go protect it all once more.
This was what Old York had longed to do all these years. It was also the ending a veteran wished for.
To fight heretics and xenos with honor until the end.
He had no wish to die in a bed in some convalescent ward like those poor old wrecks.
That would be far too shameful.
When it came time for his soul to return to the Throne, he would have no face to show his fallen comrades.
Old York pushed open the iron gate of the courtyard and walked down the cobblestone path to the street outside.
"Old man, you're out too, huh? Can those creaky bones still move? Those Chaos bastards don't play nice."
A hearty laugh rang out. It was another old veteran, a comrade of Old York's.
"Heh, if you're here, how could I not come?"
Old York grinned as well and strode forward to pull his comrade into a fierce embrace. The sharply cut muscles on both their bodies tensed at once.
They were testing each other.
Even in retirement, these veterans had never stopped training.
Then they both roared with laughter and walked on together. More and more doors opened along the street, and veterans wearing their medals began to gather.
The street grew crowded.
These white-haired old soldiers had all chosen to return to the front.
"Feels just like old times. Didn't think we old relics would see another day like this."
Old York felt light as air, blood hot in his veins. It was as if he were young again.
At the far end of the street, a troop transport platform waited, a Munitorum ship hovering above it.
"This time won't be so easy. I hear those bastards in the Munitorum have dug out some Iron Men-era contraptions and rolled out the newest tactical patterns.
We'd better adapt fast. If we lose to those young pups, we'll never live it down."
A one-eyed veteran grumbled.
"Then we'll just have even more firepower. We'll blast those Chaos daemons so hard their balls pop out."
Old York showed not a trace of worry.
He believed that the training and experience he'd built up over decades would not be inferior to anyone's.
Veterans who had been through many wars only hungered all the more for firepower and advanced equipment.
With such tools and their battlefield instincts, they could unleash far greater destruction.
Old York and the others boarded the transport.
They were headed for a fortress-platform in orbit for further armament and adaptation training.
Everyone had to complete this training within three days before deployment.
…
Fortress-platform.
Combat armor armory.
Machinery roared. A set of the newest single-soldier combat armor descended, roughly 2.5 meters tall, its plating gleaming with a dark golden sheen.
It was an intimidating sight.
"Old friend, we finally meet again."
Old York raised a hand to stroke the worn unit badge and serial number on the plastron. This was his personal combat armor.
Of course, the suit itself was brand new, but the special insignia, medals, and serial number all belonged to him.
The Munitorum had pulled them from the sealed serial vault and refitted them onto the fresh armor.
With the grinding of gears from the servo-arms, Old York donned the latest armor with mechanical assistance and felt the powerful drive systems respond.
The thrust these suits could now output was nearly a third that of a Space Marine's power armor.
Of course, it wasn't just their combat armor that was being improved—Space Marine power armor was advancing as well.
Everything was growing stronger.
Not long after…
Thud-thud-thud-thud—
A storm of metal tore across the firing range at an outrageous rate, obliterating a dozen moving targets in a matter of seconds.
The firing run was graded at a 97.6% destruction rate—an excellent score by the standards of the whole regiment.
"Kid, this old bag of bones isn't bad, huh?"
Old York clapped a nearby young combat-armor trooper on the shoulder and laughed loudly.
If he were still young, he could have scored even higher.
Not that this meant his combat ability had declined. If anything, he could now fight with fewer restraints and unleash even greater bursts of killing power.
This was why the Munitorum had recalled the veterans.
They were a corps of warriors who were even more willing to die and even less afraid of anything—perfect to lead armies into ever more brutal assaults.
According to the numbers, there were tens of millions of recalled veterans across the entire Storm Army Group.
Among them, over a million veterans like Old York were capable of operating combat armor.
These veterans, working in concert with the latest instruments of war, would unleash terrifying devastation on the battlefield.
…
Several months earlier.
Auxiliary world to a Forge World, armory district.
There were almost no natural mountains on this world—only endless metal warehouses stretching to the horizon and holy spires stabbing into the sky.
Now, transport craft came and went from the armories, loading their cargo bays before departing heavy with lethal weapons and munitions.
The transports all but blotted out the sun.
"By the Saviour… we can finally move this stock. Our warehouses have been at breaking point for a long time now!"
The armory overseer let out a breath of deep relief.
He had not seen the storage fields this empty in years. This greatly reduced the pressure on the world's logistics.
Otherwise, the additional mass of stockpiled materiel alone would be enough to affect the planet's normal orbit and risk catastrophe.
"Forge World Five will shortly be dispatching twenty million suits of single-soldier combat armor. You must execute the transfer procedures at maximum speed.
Every suit must be at its assigned destination within half a month."
A Tech-Priest intoned.
He, too, sounded excited.
Thanks to the war mobilization order, those idiots in the Ministry of Internal Affairs had finally signed off on new resource allocations, allowing Forge World Five to unleash its full productive capacity.
Until now, Forge World Five's output had been throttled to thirty percent. It was an intolerable inefficiency—the machine-spirit of the Great Mechanism-Clock had nearly fallen into torpor.
Now, with the Saviour's mobilization decree, the entire Imperium had exploded into astonishing productivity.
The engines of war roared to life.
"By the Machine-Goddess, you have stored these war-machines forged with Iron Men technology well. They have passed inspection and may be dispatched to the front."
The Tech-Priest finished his scan, his tone almost fanatical.
Before him rose a special warehouse of sacred metal, kilometers high. Inside, row upon row of abominable machines gleamed with sanctified oil and metallic sheen.
And there were many more such storage stacks.
This was… a storm of annihilation.
(End of Chapter)
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