Chapter 1: Luck's Shadow
Chapter 1: Awakening in War
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I died like an idiot.
It's not something most people would admit in their final moments—but then, most people don't get the chance. I did. Long enough to feel the crunch of metal, the weightless blur of motion, and the silence that followed. All because I was wearing headphones. Noise-canceling. The good kind. Drowning out the world with a playlist while crossing a street I'd walked a hundred times.
The truck didn't slow down.
I didn't look up in time.
End of story.
Or so I thought.
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There wasn't a tunnel of light. No divine judgment. Just... darkness. And something glowing at the edge of it.
A ring.
Not golden or ornate—just there. A simple, silver band. It hovered in front of me, pulsing softly. Familiar, though I'd never worn one like it. Not in that life.
It felt like it was waiting for me to decide something. But I don't remember choosing.
It reached out first.
And then—
Flame.
Steel.
Screaming.
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I was born again in fire.
Not metaphorical fire—real fire. A planet where furnaces roared louder than lullabies, where soot blanketed the sky like snow. A forge world, though I wouldn't know the name—Ferrix IV—until later. The midwives called it an auspicious birth: during a plasma surge, as war sirens wailed in the distance.
They said the Emperor watched over me.
If He did, He must've been laughing.
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I was named Lucien Artor Vale, fourth son of Baron Tyros Vale, lesser nobility of the Ferrix Forge Dynasty. Not too powerful. Not too poor. Just enough political weight to matter—and to be sacrificed when needed.
As the fourth son, I was insurance. A spare blade in the house armory.
The moment I was old enough, I'd be expected to serve. To join the ranks of the Astra Militarum, the Emperor's hammer, and die screaming on some far-off rock for reasons no one remembered.
I knew that.
Even as a child.
Even before I understood the language.
Because... I wasn't really a child. Not on the inside.
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The memories didn't come all at once. But they were there.
I remembered skyscrapers that kissed clouds. Cars that hovered. A quiet apartment filled with books and screens. Nights spent watching grimdark animations and miniature wargame reviews. Warhammer 40K. That was what it was called. I'd liked the themes—gothic, brutal, larger than life. I never played the tabletop, but I liked the stories. The vibe.
I'd known just enough to know I was screwed.
Because this place wasn't sci-fi fun. It was 40K made real—in all its cruel, indifferent horror.
And me? I wasn't a Space Marine.
Wasn't a psyker.
Wasn't anything special.
Just a human. A kid.
Born to die.
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But something came with me.
That ring.
I never saw it again. Not physically. But I felt it. It was inside me—merged with whatever soul I now had. A weightless warmth beneath my skin. Dormant at first. Sleeping.
Until things started happening.
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Small things, at first.
A candle fell from a wall—missed my crib by inches.
A hover-servant carrying boiling chem-steam slipped—but I wasn't in the hallway anymore.
A falling bookshelf paused just long enough for the nurse to pull me free.
Coincidences, they said.
Blessed by the Emperor, they whispered.
But I knew better. I remembered better.
That ring wasn't just a tagalong. It was doing something. Bending fate, warping chance, quietly turning the dice in my favor.
Not every time. Not always.
But enough to keep me alive.
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They called me quiet. Watchful. "An old soul," the nurses joked.
They didn't know how right they were.
Because I watched everything. Listened to every lesson. Read between every line. I smiled when I was supposed to. Stayed quiet when I wasn't. Let them forget I was there.
Let them underestimate me.
Because one day, I'd be thrown to the wolves.
And when that happened, I'd need every ounce of luck I could get.
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The ring never spoke to me. It wasn't alive. But I came to understand one thing clearly:
The more danger I faced, the stronger it became.
And it didn't just save me.
It punished those who tried to harm me.
Accidents. Weapon failures. Strange malfunctions. My enemies—or those who wished me harm—found themselves slipping, bleeding, losing.
Luck given to me... was stolen from them.
An exchange. A cruel kind of balance.
In this galaxy of cruelty and chaos, it was the only cheat I had.
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I was six when I realized I could never live a normal life.
Ten when I realized I'd be forced into the Guard at eighteen.
Twelve when I started practicing my smile in the mirror, like Cain did in the stories.
But I wasn't Cain. Not yet.
I wasn't a hero. I was a survivor.
And survival, in this universe, is a victory of its own.
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End of Chapter 1