Arthur had transmigrated.
The moment before, he had just said goodbye to his online friends who were still fighting for the Emperor in the forty-first millennium. He had been about to begin his daily writing session when, in a daze, he lost consciousness.
Then he appeared in this steel-forged room.
When he raised his eyes and looked at the gleaming golden Aquila on the steel wall, the incense and candlelight lent the room a warm undertone, driving away the stale rot in the air.
But Arthur's heart had already gone cold.
"Am I dreaming?"
Clang—
Iron boots struck the ground, sending echoes ringing out. Arthur stepped over a burning brazier, and the mirror-smooth wall reflected an incomparably burly figure.
It was a figure completely wrapped in black armor.
A gray robe draped over the armor, and the exposed plates between its folds bore exquisite, ornate patterns. Beneath the pauldrons covered in skulls and holy icons, he could vaguely make out a blurred Winged Sword Emblem.
Thoughtfully, he lowered his head. Beside the bed where he had risen, a sword and shield lay quietly in sacred oil as clear as a crystalline pool.
The blade gleamed with a cold light. Even an amateur like Arthur could not help admiring its superb craftsmanship. On the shield, two crossed swords divided its face into four sections. At the top was a golden Imperial Aquila, while the remaining sections were occupied by two gray-robed figures.
Perhaps they did not belong on a battlefield. They ought to have been displayed in the most revered glass case, receiving the worship of the masses.
Arthur took a deep breath.
His seven lungs expanded to their limits. His pumping hearts were like two burning reactors, sending surging heat throughout his limbs and body.
But Arthur felt as if his heart had frozen solid.
Even the superhuman physique of a Space Marine could not give his panicked soul the slightest sense of security at this moment.
"I really should pray that this is a dream."
Otherwise, he could only pray that he had transmigrated to the 30k era, or the time after the Lion King's return in 42k.
Then he noticed a book titled Codex Astartes placed in a conspicuously prominent spot on the table.
Oh. It seemed he could only pray that the Lion King had returned.
He casually shoved the toilet paper and the entire tabletop into a storage box, then walked to the pool. He reached his armored hand into it and picked up the sword and shield that he had once used so smoothly in games, while bitterly regretting ever getting so immersed in role-playing.
The room was silent. Apart from the flickering candle flames, there was not a sound. The nearly three-meter-tall giant seemed to freeze the instant he gripped the sword and shield.
Without a doubt, Arthur had gone completely numb.
Transmigration. What an enthralling word.
But when it was tied to Warhammer 40k, everything became far less wonderful.
Warhammer 40k, the space opera IP created by Games Workshop: a colossal shithole built by countless races beneath the overarching theme of war. By the forty-first millennium of the human calendar, that shithole had already expanded to its limits.
And his current identity as a Space Marine, something that should have been a winning hand, gave him no sense of security whatsoever, because he was a fucking Fallen Angel!
And now, without knowing whether the Lion King had awakened, he was about to face one of the most unhinged groups in all of Warhammer 40k.
The Dark Angels, as the first of the Imperium's twenty Space Marine Legions, had naturally been granted special significance and countless honors through their innumerable achievements and the title of First Legion. They often saw themselves as the model for all Space Marines.
And naturally, a Chapter like that could not tolerate a stain on its record.
Arthur silently looked at the black paint scheme on his armor.
Fallen Angels were precisely the stain the Dark Angels saw as their shame.
Whenever Fallen Angels were involved, this silent, disciplined Chapter that always demanded perfection of itself would tear off its disguise and use every means possible to erase all traces of the Fallen. Firing on allies, psychic interrogation, forbidden technology, Exterminatus—those were all routine measures.
And once a Fallen Angel fell into their hands, every cruel method Arthur could imagine might be used by those lunatics.
I might as well just die.
Arthur thought bitterly, but when he considered the existence of the Warp, he realized that even death would probably offer him no peace.
That was the truth of this world: struggle while alive in a shithole, then swim butterfly stroke in an even deeper shithole after death.
...Fuck. Even dying wouldn't bring peace.
Nameless fury rose from the depths of his heart as Arthur carried his sword to the room's door.
Anyone faced with a hopeless reality would lose their mind, and that lost reason would turn into violent impulses at this moment.
This room was clearly a Space Marine dormitory. He would go find whoever was in charge and apply for a mission.
Arthur only wanted to kill people now. If he died, it would all be over. If he managed to cut down a few, he could drag some others down with him and go eat shit together.
His life in the Warhammer World was already utterly ruined anyway.
He just did not know whether the Emperor wanted Transmigrators. Otherwise, getting a position in the Legion of the Damned would not be bad either.
He jabbed hard at the door-opening button, but the door remained utterly motionless, as if something were bracing it from the other side.
Arthur's face tightened, and he sent a massive kick into the door.
Bang!
Squelch—
There came the crisp snap of straining metal, followed by the sound of soft tissue being crushed by immense force. A huge splash of foul-smelling blue fluid sprayed across his helmet, and the scene before Arthur suddenly opened up.
This was a wide starship corridor, its cold-toned wall lamps flickering amid the tremors.
Arthur lowered his head. In the broad passage beyond the railing, green-skinned Orks were roaring "Waaagh!" as they slaughtered humans covered in cheap weaponry.
Arthur raised his head. Countless strange creatures with three pairs of limbs hung upside down from the ceiling. Their pink muscles were somewhat translucent under the lights, while their bony carapaces expanded and contracted with every breath.
Arthur glanced to the side. Pointy-eared, elf-like creatures lay beside the railing with twisted expressions of despair. They had long since lost the ability to struggle. Beside them stood elegant pink figures drawn over by the alluring scent.
Directly in front of Arthur, beneath the warped metal door, a blue Horror lay on the verge of death. Its bloated body had burst apart, and its chaotic eyes held nothing but boundless despair as it looked upon the angel before it. The broken, toppled support pillar told of the destruction it had just suffered.
The tremendous commotion naturally drew the attention of everyone on the battlefield. Yet only for an instant. As their gazes collided once more, the chaotic battlefield resumed its rhythm.
Just like the tone of this universe.
Death. Chaos.
"...Heh heh."
Looking at the assorted heroes and monsters before him, Arthur tugged at the corner of his mouth and could not help revealing a bitter smile. The anger in his heart vanished in that instant.
He no longer knew what expression he should make, but a bitter smile described it perfectly.
Because when someone was so speechless that they truly could not hold it together anymore, that helpless smile where they could only tug at the corner of their mouth without knowing what expression to wear was a bitter smile!
When he turned around, the room where he had awakened was already gone.
Arthur stepped forward.
Bang!
His shield thrust forward, easily bursting a cultist's body. The sword flashed blue and took a Genestealer's head in an instant. His heavy metal boot easily crushed a Drukhari's body, sending it to the Prince of Pleasure's side.
This was a multi-racial world of fantastical beings, with humans, elves, Orks, Demons, and more.
Whoosh!
Blue flames swept toward him, melting the corridor's metal. They slammed into his brightly gleaming shield. Arthur raised a hand and swept the flames aside, then lifted his left arm high. The Plasma weapon hidden behind the shield fired blue plasma, instantly melting the sorcerer concealed within the crowd.
A world where magic and machinery coexisted.
"Blood for the Blood God!"
A Bloodletter with exposed crimson skin swung a greatsword, harvesting mortal heads.
"For the Emperor!"
An Astra Militarum soldier clutching Melta explosives charged into a cluster of Demons.
A world where gods and mortals alike walked the earth.
Riiip!
The hull was torn apart by an invisible force, revealing the scene beyond the ship.
It was a sight beyond the power of language to describe.
Frost spread along the rupture, while the transparent force field flickered beneath the impact of the twisting storm.
A world where you never knew what tomorrow would bring!
With a relieved smile, Arthur swung his sword at the monsters before him.
This was Warhammer 40k!
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