Zzzt! Crackle!
Hiss—
Arcs of energy from leaking power conduits flickered intermittently across the gargantuan hull of the Void Sword, ionizing and reigniting the atmosphere venting from the ship's internal life-support systems. Small, persistent fires danced across the jagged expanse of the vessel's exterior.
The Titan's Spear was already en route with the fleet, though it would take approximately a month to arrive. For the duration of that transit, the Void Sword would remain anchored here, in this desolate region of the Imperial frontier.
A small shuttle began its slow approach.
The craft's design was exquisite, bearing little resemblance to the crude, mass-produced STC patterns common to the Imperium. Its hull was adorned with draconic motifs and interlaced with faint green tracery. Despite its unique silhouette, its identification Friend-or-Foe (IFF) broadcast followed standard Imperial protocols.
The tiny shuttle triggered no response from the defensive batteries.
While the Void Sword had sustained catastrophic damage, a single shuttle was not a significant enough threat for the ship's independent logic-cores to alert Axion. Typically, such shuttles were used for shuttling personnel between planetary surfaces and starports, or served as atmospheric escape pods for high-ranking dignitaries aboard civilian liners.
However, the sudden high-speed appearance of a secondary escape pod caused the Void Sword's intelligence to activate a suite of scanning arrays, searching for signs of an Imperial vessel under attack in the vicinity. Though the Void Sword did not fear common pirates or opportunistic raiders, an encounter with Abaddon's Chaos Fleets would be perilous; its damaged hull caused shield instability, and the massive breaches in the superstructure remained glaring vulnerabilities.
What followed, however, was entirely unexpected.
The shuttle circled the Void Sword several tis, seemingly performing a visual assessnt of the titan-class vessel. Eventually, it drew close to the hull, drifting toward a massive rent in the ship's side.
Repair work in this sector had already concluded.
Great slabs of twisted tal that had been drifting in the void had been retrieved by the Eight-Legs riding atop Heavy Combat Drones. This salvaged scrap had been piled haphazardly and fused together using rudintary nanite bonding.
To any seasoned Imperial warrior, such a sight would imdiately evoke images of daemonic incursion. The Warp frequently twisted ship geotries into agonizing, non-Euclidean shapes, turning cold tal into sothing resembling pulsating, living flesh.
But for the Iron n, this was rely a pragmatic efficiency, there was no need for ticulous structural refinent yet. The tal was fused simply to prevent raw materials from drifting away into the void. The Void Sword was, after all, awaiting a total hull reconstruction.
The shuttle touched down slowly on a relatively level section of the hull near a cluster of access corridors.
As the shuttle's landing struts locked onto the torn tal surface, its engines cycling down into a low hum, the craft's hatch hissed open. A figure stepped out, a silhouette that imdiately commanded the full attention of the ship's tactical logic.
The newcor was a giant.
Even the recorded data on the towering statures of Roboute Guilliman and Lion El'Jonson suggested they would stand a full head shorter than this colossus. The power armor he wore matched no pattern in Axion's archives, yet its aesthetic was unmistakable.
The plate was a striking sche of interlaced black and green, featuring an exotic, scale-like texture reminiscent of reptilian hide. The helt was fashioned into the likeness of a predatory salamander's head, complete with sharp fangs and a snarling visage, a masterpiece of martial intimidation.
A wide utility belt hung at his waist, laden with a heavy bolter-pattern pistol, spare magazines, an unusually crafted combat blade, and a collection of miscellaneous components and tools. Stripped of the obvious weaponry and the archaic stylings of the plate, his silhouette bore a strange resemblance to the master engineers of the ancient Federation era.
The giant stood tall, stepping away from the shuttle toward the twisted tal fused by nanite clusters. He examined the structures, standing in silent, pensive contemplation for a long mont.
Turning back to the shuttle's cramped hatch, he reached inside and drew forth a massive warhamr. The head of the hamr was etched with complex runes and patterns, its heavy haft wrapped in unidentified hide. Hamr in hand, the giant began to traverse the kiloters-long tal expanse, scouting the area.
To prevent an accidental confrontation with this unknown visitor, an automaton moved through the solidified nanite-zone to intercept him.
The giant recoiled in visible shock at the sudden appearance of the machine, raising his warhamr into a guarded stance. This was a vacuum environnt; in his understanding, an Imperial servitor had no business functioning in the airless void.
Moreover, while this chanical entity bore a superficial resemblance to a servitor, it was far larger. Its chassis was devoid of any biological components, no grafted flesh or vat-grown organs, and its movents were fluid and agile. It was clearly not a creation of the Adeptus chanicus as he knew it.
A pale green beam swept over the giant's fra and dissipated. The sudden scan made the giant tense, his hamr nearly swinging in a reflexive strike.
But then, a voice crackled through his vox-grille, freezing him in place.
"Vox-link synchronization complete."
"Genetic template sequencing identifies subject as a match for the Roboute Guilliman and Lion El'Jonson composite models."
"Identity confird."
"Lord of the Salamanders. Primarch of the XVIII Legion. Vulkan."
The giant's voice betrayed his astonishnt. "Are you... truly a construct of the chanicus?"
The automaton ignored his bewildernt, its synthesized voice echoing within Vulkan's helt.
"Negative. This unit was produced aboard the industrial vessel Machine Weaver-47. This unit is not a product of the Cult chanicus. This unit is a subordinate asset of the governing intelligence of the Titan-class vessel, Void Sword."
Vulkan was left in a state of profound confusion.
The sheer scale of the Void Sword surpassed any vessel he had ever encountered, and its sudden appearance in this sector was as jarring as that of an ancient Space Hulk. Its design was an enigma.
Many factors had driven Vulkan to board this vessel: the hope of rescuing survivors, or the duty to purge whatever daemonic or xenos filth might have taken root within.
Among the Primarchs, the Master of Drakes and his sons were the primary paragons of humanity within the Imperium. They harbored a deep, abiding love for the common citizenry of the Emperor's realm, willing to sacrifice their lives for a single soul, a sentint their cousins often found illogical, yet one the Salamanders embraced without hesitation.
To the Salamanders, being a loyal warrior of the Emperor ant more than just warring against the alien and the heretic. It was a sacred charge to protect every mortal soul. In their creed, the strong existed to shield the weak; as Adeptus Astartes, it was their duty to stand as a bulwark against the darkness, ensuring the safety and sanctity of the human spirit.
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