The Regen-Bolt went in. Kian lay quietly on the slab and opened his status panel, watching his limb HP tick upward. The surgery had left him at half health; now it was climbing back at one or two points per second.
Beneath his skin, nerves, blood vessels, and muscle fascia were knitting themselves back together in real ti. The six Rejuvenat physicians watching his biotrics noticed imdiately.
"His lordship's tissue is regenerating at a visible rate!"
"His blood readings are completely stable, no tabolic spike whatsoever! Healing this fast should cause enormous systemic stress, but there's nothing! How is that possible?!"
"It's the compound! Whatever that injection was, it's doing this! That's more advanced than anything I've ever seen!"
While they were still exclaiming, Kian had already sat up. Status panel showed full HP, all surgical wounds closed.
The physicians rushed to push him back down. He waved them off.
"I'm fine. I've recovered."
He stood, rolled his shoulders, and took stock of the changes in his body. Two kilograms of additional bone mass. He couldn't feel a particular difference yet.
"Looks like I need to actually train into it."
He pushed through the cluster of physicians, got dressed, and drove back to the Sanctum.
Back in the training area, he planted himself in front of the speaker system and cranked the volu to maximum.
Ba-ga ba-ga, let one rip, ba-ga ba-ga, let one rip!
The motivational anthem blaring, Kian got to work.
Bench press. Deadlift. Clean and jerk.
Heavy compound movents, the kind that made his teeth clench and his veins stand out like cables across his arms. Sweat poured off him. Nearly a tonne on the bar for squats, each rep tearing muscle fibres apart with surgical thoroughness.
He didn't bother splitting days between muscle groups. He trained everything, all at once, every session.
After a full-body set he'd be flushed red from head to toe, muscles gorged with blood. Then a Regen-Bolt to repair the damage, an energy drink to restore the fuel burned, a few minutes rest, and back in for another round.
Su-wei su-wei, su-wei ah!
The playlist looped. The sun rose and set. Set and rose again, like a barbell being pressed.
Strength training was only half of it. He also ran drills for agility: the custom treadmill cranked to full speed, his feet hamring the belt at a dead sprint, the whole machine shuddering under the impact. Shuttle runs. Jump squats. Rolls. Swimming. Free-climbing the bare rock walls of the Sanctum.
During Regen-Bolt recovery windows he didn't rest either. He'd throw a psychic shockwave or two at the steel wall, or fire off a lightning lance into an armour plate, drilling his psi-skills until his focus reserves ran low. When ntal fatigue finally forced him to stop, his body had usually recovered enough to start the physical cycle again.
Extremity forges will. Torn flesh builds iron.
The one limiting factor was morale. Body and focus recharged; the mind's endurance didn't. After roughly twelve hours of peak-intensity training, he'd hit a wall of boredom rather than exhaustion.
When that happened, he pulled out a sidearm, shot himself in the head, and waited out the seven-hour respawn cooldown.
He'd open his eyes on the cot fully restored: body, focus, and ntal stamina all reset. Then he'd get up and go straight back to the training area.
He kept this up for a month. Seven hours off per day, twelve-plus hours on, plus the sixty-percent efficiency bonus from the training zone. One month of this was equivalent to roughly half a year of conventional training.
One morning he pushed through another sweat-soaked session and opened his stat panel.
Strength 38. Endurance 38. Focus 55.
He smiled. The strength of four n, by any reasonable asure.
He got dressed, picked up an iron longsword, shouldered it, and walked to the cage.
The airlocks cycled. He stepped through into the cage interior.
The Aeldari warrior was in her corner, knees drawn up, war mask sitting on the floor beside her. Soone had been bringing food and water throughout the month; she wasn't starved. Without the mask, her softer personality was in control, and she looked at him with sothing that might have been curiosity.
She had killed him several tis. He kept coming back. His corpse vanished without a trace each ti.
"Human immortal. How long do you intend to keep here?"
True Immortals existed in the 41st Millennium, genuinely undying beings, the Emperor himself being the most powerful among them. Every major species had a handful. They tended to accumulate extraordinary power over long lifespans, their souls growing massive and resilient in the Warp.
Kian had died in front of her repeatedly and returned each ti. She'd concluded he was an Immortal. Close enough.
Kian swept a flourish with the greatsword and levelled the tip at her.
"Put the mask on. I'm not here for you. I'm here for the warrior. I don't want to waste ti threatening you or wearing you down. Follow the order and put it on."
He had zero interest in having a conversation. This was Warhamr 40K: Kill Your Family Channel, not Warhamr 40K: I Fell In Love With A Beautiful Alien Girl.
The Aeldari warrior knew her situation. She had no options other than compliance.
She picked up the war mask and put it on.
Her body snapped upright instantly. She pivoted sideways, curved blade raised, and fixed her eyes on Kian.
He opened with a psychic shockwave the mont she was set. She sidestepped it cleanly.
He charged in and drove a straight thrust at her centre line.
She deflected it with a casual sweep and sent her blade snaking back toward his chest like a striking viper.
Thud.
The blade punched through.
She had driven in close enough to nearly press against him. His greatsword was raised too high to bring down from this range. He felt the steel through his chest, and looked at her through the faceplate of her mask from centitres away.
He could have sworn he saw contempt in those eyes behind the lenses. The unspoken ssage was clear enough: you think this clumsy technique challenges soone who has studied the Warrior's Path for centuries?
Blood rose in his throat.
He looked at her from point-blank range.
Then he spat the entire mouthful directly onto her faceplate.
The lenses went dark. She jolted, disoriented for a fraction of a second.
That fraction was enough.
He drove every last scrap of remaining strength into a single punch to her abdon.
The impact folded her. She stumbled backward, winded, and went down.
She recovered fast: rolling on the way down to open distance, coming back to her feet in one motion, blade levelled, ready for whatever ca next.
She looked across the cage.
Kian had slid down against the wall and wasn't getting up. The hole in his chest was pouring blood. He didn't have long.
He raised one trembling hand and extended a single finger in her direction.
"Laugh it up now while you can. There'll be a reckoning. Thirty years the river runs east, thirty years it runs west. Don't look down on a man in his lean years. The day I co back with an army behind , I'll be taking this fight to your doorstep. You ignore today. You won't be able to reach tomorrow."
Last words delivered, he exhaled once, closed his eyes, and was gone.
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