Chapter 1: Reborn, but it's Warhammer
Arthur found himself in a new world.
The last thing he remembered, he was bidding farewell to his online friends—still fighting for the Emperor in the 41st Millennium—and preparing to start his daily grind of writing. Then, a wave of dizziness washed over him, and he lost consciousness.
When he awoke, it was in this chamber forged of steel.
He raised his eyes. A gleaming, golden, two-headed eagle was emblazoned on the steel wall. The air, thick with incense and lit by flickering candles, held a warm, amber hue that fought back the cloying scent of decay.
But Arthur's heart had already turned to ice.
"Am I dreaming?"
CLANG—
The sound of iron-shod boots striking the deck echoed through the chamber. Arthur strode past a burning brazier, his gaze fixed on the wall, polished to a mirror sheen. It reflected a colossal figure.
A being entirely encased in jet-black power armor.
A grey, monastic robe was draped over the armor, and through the gaps, one could glimpse the exquisitely crafted ornamentation on the ceramite plates beneath. Below a pauldron covered in skulls and sacred icons, a faint, winged sword emblem could just be discerned.
He looked down, deep in thought. Beside the slab he had awoken on, a sword and shield lay in repose, bathed in sacred oils that shimmered like crystal-clear water.
The sword's edge glinted with a cold light; even to a layman like Arthur, the masterwork quality was breathtaking. On the face of the shield, two overlapping blades divided the surface into four quarters. The top quarter bore the golden Imperial Aquila, while the others were occupied by the silhouettes of two robed figures.
These were not weapons for the battlefield. They belonged in the most hallowed reliquary, to be venerated by generations of the faithful.
Arthur took a deep breath.
His three lungs expanded to their limit, and his two hearts hammered like twin plasma reactors, pumping a surge of heat through his transhuman physique.
But deep inside, Arthur felt a chilling cold that spread to his very soul.
Not even the superhuman body of a Space Marine could grant his terrified soul the slightest sliver of security.
"I had better pray this is a dream."
Failing that, he could pray he'd been dropped into the 30k universe, or maybe 42k, after the Lion had returned.
Then he noticed a book placed conspicuously on a nearby lectern. It was titled Codex Astartes.
Ah. Well, it seemed his only hope was that the Lion had indeed returned.
With a sweep of his hand, he brushed the toilet paper—along with the entire lectern—into a nearby disposal chute. He approached the font of oil, his gauntleted hand reaching into the shimmering liquid. He retrieved the sword and shield, weapons he had, ironically, found exceptionally comfortable to use in the video game. In that moment, he bitterly regretted getting so deep into role-playing.
The chamber was silent, save for the sputtering of candle flames. As the nearly three-meter-tall giant gripped his wargear, he seemed to freeze in time.
Without a doubt, Arthur was utterly shell-shocked.
Transmigration. What a wonderfully exciting word.
But when bound together with Warhammer 40,000, it lost all of its charm.
Warhammer 40k. A space opera IP created by Games Workshop. A colossal cesspit, built on a foundation of total war and populated by a galaxy of horrific races. And in the 41st Millennium of the Imperial Calendar, that cesspit had expanded to its absolute limit.
His current identity as a Space Marine, which should have been the luckiest possible outcome, offered him zero security. Because he was a goddamn Fallen Angel!
And now, with no way of knowing if Lion El'Jonson had awakened, he was about to face one of the most dangerously obsessive factions in the entire 40k universe.
The Dark Angels. The First Legion of the twenty Space Marine Legions. Their myriad glories and status as the Firstborn had bestowed upon them countless honors and a special significance. They often carried themselves as the exemplars of what it meant to be a Space Marine.
And a Chapter like that could not tolerate a single stain on its honor.
Arthur silently stared at the black paint of his armor.
The Fallen Angels were the one stain the Dark Angels could not abide.
At the slightest hint of the Fallen, this silent, self-disciplined, and ruthlessly efficient Chapter would tear off its mask of nobility. They would use any means necessary to erase all traces of the Fallen—firing on allies, employing psychic interrogation, utilizing forbidden technology, and resorting to Exterminatus were all standard operating procedures.
And if a Fallen Angel ever fell into their hands... every torment imaginable would be inflicted upon them by these zealots.
I might as well just die.
Arthur thought with grim despair. But then he remembered the existence of the Warp and realized that even in death, there would likely be no peace.
That was the truth of this universe. To live is to struggle in a cesspit. To die is to butterfly-stroke in an even deeper one.
Damn it, you can't even die in peace.
A nameless fury rose from the depths of his soul. Arthur snatched up his sword and shield and stormed towards the chamber door. When a man faces absolute despair, he can lose his sanity. And in that moment, his lost sanity had curdled into pure violence.
This room was clearly a Space Marine's quarters. He was going to find the person in charge and request a combat mission.
Right now, all Arthur wanted to do was kill something. If he died, it would all be over. If he could take a few bastards down with him, they could all go to hell together.
His new life in Warhammer was already ruined anyway.
He wondered if the Emperor needed transmigrators. Getting a spot in the Legion of the Damned wouldn't be so bad.
He jabbed furiously at the door-release rune, but the adamantium slab didn't move, as if something were blocking it from the other side.
Arthur's face hardened. He drew back his leg and delivered a thunderous kick to the door.
BANG!
Squelch~
A sharp crack of tearing metal was followed by the wet sound of soft tissue being pulverized by immense force. A fountain of foul-smelling blue ichor sprayed across his faceplate, and the scene before him was suddenly revealed.
He stood on a balcony overlooking a wide starship corridor, where malfunctioning lumen-strips flickered erratically.
Arthur looked down. On the broad walkway below, Orks, green from head to toe, were bellowing "WAAAGH!" as they slaughtered humans armed with cheap, mass-produced weaponry.
Arthur looked up. Countless bizarre creatures with three pairs of limbs hung upside-down from the ceiling, their pinkish muscles semi-translucent under the strobing lights, their chitinous carapaces expanding and contracting with each breath.
Arthur looked to the side. Elf-like beings with pointed ears lay slumped against the railing, their faces twisted masks of agony. They had long since lost the strength to struggle. Beside them, elegant, pink-hued figures, drawn by the intoxicating scent of their terror, closed in.
And directly in front of him, pinned beneath the warped metal of the door, a Blue Horror lay dying. Its bloated body had burst, and its chaotic eyes stared up at the angelic figure before it with nothing but boundless despair. A collapsed, sundered support pillar told the story of the destruction it had just suffered.
The immense commotion had naturally drawn the attention of the combatants on the battlefield. But only for an instant. As their gazes met once more, the chaotic dance of death resumed its rhythm.
Just like the fundamental truth of this universe.
Death. Chaos.
"...Heh. Heh heh."
Gazing at the gallery of horrors before him, Arthur's lips twisted into a bitter laugh, the fire in his soul extinguished in an instant.
He didn't know what expression to make, but a bitter laugh felt right. The kind of laugh born from being so utterly speechless, so completely overwhelmed, that the only thing you can do is pull at the corners of your mouth and let the sound escape.
He glanced back. The chamber where he had awoken was already gone.
Arthur stepped forward.
CRUNCH!
He drove his shield forward, easily pulping the body of a cultist. His power sword flared with blue energy, cleanly taking the head of a Genestealer. The heavy tread of his boot crushed the lithe body of a Dark Eldar, sending its soul screaming to its dark prince.
This was a world where humans, elves, orks, and daemons all existed.
FWOOSH!
A stream of blue flame washed over him, melting the metal of the corridor. It splashed harmlessly against his gleaming shield. Arthur swept the flames aside, raised his left arm high, and a plasma pistol hidden behind the shield unleashed a glob of incandescent energy, instantly vaporizing a psyker hiding in the crowd.
A world where magic and machine coexisted.
"Blood for the Blood God!" a Bloodletter with skin of crimson roared as it reaped mortal heads with its greatsword.
"For the Emperor!" an Astra Militarum soldier screamed, charging into a pack of daemons with a melta charge held high.
A world where gods and mortals fought side-by-side.
SCREEEEECH!
An unseen force tore the hull of the ship asunder, revealing the scene outside.
It was a sight that no words could ever truly describe.
Frost crept along the edges of the breach, where a transparent, shimmering Gellar Field flickered and buckled under the assault of a roiling storm.
A world where you could never know what tomorrow would bring!
With a smile of grim acceptance, Arthur raised his sword and charged towards the pandemonium of monsters and fiends.
This... this is Warhammer 40,000!
(End of Chapter)