Transmigration, But It's Warhammer

Arthur has transmigrated.

The last thing he remembered was bidding farewell to his fellow group members, who were still fighting for the Emperor in the forty-first millennium, and preparing for his daily writing grind. Then, in a haze, he lost consciousness.

Next, he found himself in this room forged of steel.

As he looked up at the shimmering golden Aquila on the steel wall, the incense and candles added a warm undertone to the room, dispelling the stagnant, rotting air.

But Arthur's heart had already turned cold.

Am I dreaming?

Clang—

Iron boots hit the floor, echoing. Arthur stepped over a burning brazier, and in the mirror-smooth walls, he saw a reflection of an immensely hulking figure.

It was a figure clad entirely in pitch-black armor.

A grey robe draped over the exterior, and through the gaps, one could glimpse the exquisite, ornate patterns on the armor plates. Beneath shoulder pads covered in skulls and holy icons, the vague outline of a Winged Sword Emblem was discernible.

He looked down, lost in thought. Beside the bed where he had just risen, resting in a pool of holy oil that shimmered like crystalline water, lay a sword and shield.

The blade glinted with a cold, piercing light; even as a layman, Arthur could not help but marvel at the exquisite craftsmanship. On the shield, two overlapping swords divided the surface into four sections: the golden Imperial Aquila sat at the top, while the remaining parts were occupied by two grey-robed figures.

Perhaps they didn't belong on a battlefield, but rather in the most prestigious display case, receiving the veneration of the masses.

Arthur took a deep breath.

His seven lung lobes expanded to their limit, and his heart pumped like two burning fusion reactors, sending surging heat through his limbs and bones.

But Arthur felt as though his heart had turned to ice.

Even the superhuman physique of a Space Marine could not provide his panicked soul with a shred of security at this moment.

"I really should pray that I'm dreaming."

Otherwise, he should pray that the point in time he transmigrated to was the 30k universe or the period when the Lion King returned.

Then he noticed a book titled Codex Astartes sitting in a very conspicuous spot on the desk.

Oh, it seems he could only pray for the Lion King to return.

Brushing the toilet paper and the contents of the desk into the storage bin, he walked to the pool, reached out with his armored hand, and picked up the sword and shield he had used so adeptly in the game. He felt an intense regret for having indulged in role-playing while playing the game.

The room was silent; aside from the flickering of the candles, there was not a sound. The moment the nearly three-meter-tall giant gripped the sword and shield, he seemed to freeze in place.

Undoubtedly, Arthur was completely numb.

Transmigration—what a fascinating word.

But when it is bound to Warhammer 40k, everything suddenly loses its luster.

Warhammer 40k, the space opera IP created by gw, is a massive cesspit created by various races with war as the primary theme. By the forty-first millennium of the human calendar, this cesspit had expanded to its limit.

And Arthur's current status as a Space Marine, which should have been a top-tier start, couldn't give him the slightest sense of security, because he was—damn it—a Fallen Angel!

And now, without knowing if the Lion King had awakened, he had to face one of the most deranged groups in Warhammer 40k.

The Dark Angels, as the first of the twenty Space Marine Legions born to the Emperor, were naturally endowed with special significance and countless honors for their countless merits, often holding themselves up as the model for all Space Marines.

And such a Chapter, naturally, could not tolerate any stains.

Arthur looked silently at the black paint on his hands.

The Fallen Angel was precisely the stain the Dark Angels viewed as their own.

Whenever the Fallen Angel was involved, this silent, self-disciplined Chapter, which always demanded the best of itself, would tear off its mask. They would use every means to wipe out any trace of the Fallen Angel: firing on friendly forces, psychic interrogations, using forbidden technology, or even resorting to Exterminatus were all standard operations.

And once a Fallen Angel fell into their hands, any cruel method you could imagine would likely be inflicted by these fanatics.

I might as well just die.

Arthur thought sadly, but then he remembered the existence of the Warp and realized that even if he died, he likely wouldn't find peace.

This is the truth of this world: living means struggling in a cesspit, and dying means doing the butterfly stroke in an even deeper one.

...Damn it, I can't even die in peace.

A nameless rage rose from the bottom of his heart, and Arthur dragged his sword to the door of the room.

Anyone would lose their sanity when faced with such a desperate situation, and that lost sanity would, at this moment, turn into a tendency toward violence.

This room was clearly a dormitory for Space Marines; he would go find the person in charge and apply for a mission.

Arthur only wanted to kill someone now. If he died, that would be the end of it; if he hacked a few down, he could take some with him to eat dirt.

In any case, his life in this transmigrated Warhammer World was already ruined.

He just didn't know if the Emperor accepted Transmigrators; otherwise, getting a position in the Legion of the Damned wouldn't be bad either.

He poked the door-opening button forcefully, but the door remained unmoved, as if something were bracing it from the other side.

Arthur tightened his face and kicked the door with a flying leap.

Bang!

Squish~

A crisp snap of metal breaking rang out, followed by the sound of soft tissue being crushed by immense force. As a large spray of foul-smelling blue fluid splattered onto his faceplate, the scene before Arthur suddenly cleared.

This was a wide warship corridor, where cold-toned wall lamps flickered amidst the tremors.

Arthur looked down; in the expansive passage beyond the railing, green-skinned Ork were shouting Waaagh as they slaughtered humans clad in cheap, makeshift weapons.

Arthur looked up; countless strange creatures with three pairs of limbs hung upside down from the ceiling. Their pink muscles appeared somewhat translucent under the lamplight, and their bony carapaces expanded and contracted with every breath.

Arthur glanced to the side; creatures with pointed ears, resembling elves, lay at the edge of the railing with twisted expressions of despair, long since having lost the ability to struggle. Beside them, pink, elegant figures arrived, drawn by that intoxicating scent.

Directly in front of Arthur, beneath a deformed metal door, a blue Horror lay dying. Its bloated body was ruptured, and its chaotic eyes held only boundless despair as it looked at the angel before it, while the broken, collapsed support pillar spoke volumes of the destruction it had just endured.

The massive commotion naturally drew the attention of the combatants, but only for an instant. As their gazes collided once more, the chaotic battlefield resumed its rhythm.

Just like the fundamental tone of this universe.

Death, chaos.

"...Heh."

Looking at the various heroes and villains before him, Arthur tugged at the corners of his mouth, unable to stop a bitter smile from forming, and the anger in his heart dissipated in that very moment.

He no longer knew what expression to make, but a bitter smile was the most fitting description.

Because when one is speechless to the extreme and truly cannot hold it together, that smile where you can only tug at your mouth because you don't know what expression to make—that is a bitter smile!

He turned back; the room where he had awakened was already gone.

Arthur stepped forward.

Thud!

His shield pressed forward, easily crushing the body of a cultist. His blade erupted with blue sparks, instantly claiming the head of a Genestealer, and his heavy metal boot easily crushed the body of a Drukhari, sending it to the side of the Prince of Pleasure.

This was a multi-racial world where humans, elves, Ork, Demon, and other fantasy existences coexisted.

Whoosh!

Blue flames blew in, melting the metal of the corridor. As they slammed into his glowing shield, Arthur raised his hand to deflect the fire, then lifted his left arm, letting the Plasma weapon hidden behind the shield fire a burst of blue plasma that instantly melted the sorcerer hiding among the crowd.

A world where magic and machinery coexist.

"Blood for the Blood God!"

A Bloodletter with exposed crimson skin swung its greatsword, harvesting the heads of mortals.

"For the Emperor!"

An Astra Militarum soldier clutching a Melta charge rushed into the cluster of Demon.

A world where gods and mortals are both active in the realm.

Rrrrrip!

The hull was torn apart by an invisible force, revealing the scene outside the ship.

It was a sight that defied description.

Frost spread along the breach, and the transparent force field flickered under the impact of the twisting storm.

A world where you never know what tomorrow will bring!

With a smile of relief, Arthur swung his sword toward the monsters and demons before him.

This is Warhammer 40k!