"May I examine it?"
To dispel any doubts, Cawl added, "I am a Dominus from Mars. I have handled the Gene-seed tithes submitted by every Chapter, so you need not worry about me divulging any secrets."
To impose a degree of restraint on the Space Marines and preserve each Chapter's legacy, ensuring they had a chance to rebuild after facing the threat of total annihilation, nearly every Chapter regularly submitted Gene-seed to Mars.
This made Romulus look at the Black Templars Chaplain in surprise.
Wait, it was one thing to mention this tithe in front of another Chapter, but could he say it in front of the Black Templars too?
Did those overbreeding guerrillas also hand over Gene-seed?
The Chaplain assumed the Elder was asking him to confirm the information.
"The Black Templars also pay Gene-seed tithes."
Although the Black Templars never took the Codex Astartes seriously and often caused Administratum and Adeptus Arbites vessels to become lost in the Warp, they actually had fairly good relations with the other Imperial departments.
They were considered one of the Sons of Dorn with particularly strong social skills.
So they did pay their Gene-seed tithes, though there might be some issues with the quantity.
"Thank you."
His brain almost instantly combined the known information and analyzed the reason behind it, resolving Romulus's doubts.
"Go ahead."
Then the injured Son of Dorn spoke.
His voice was as hard as his face. Even when the wound was disturbed, his breathing did not waver in the slightest.
Cawl did not stand on ceremony and immediately began cleaning the wound.
He sprayed disinfectant, extended slender medical forceps, and gripped the shattered Poison Crystals.
Those projectiles, laden with lethal toxins, also inflicted pain beyond the threshold of neural sensation upon their victims. Even Space Marines found them difficult to endure.
Squelch—
The medical forceps pulled out the fragments, along with a large amount of nerves that had adhered to them.
The Son of Dorn remained unmoved.
Apart from the muscles around the wound becoming slack and drooping after losing their nerves, that rocklike face showed no expression whatsoever.
Then came disinfection and cleansing, tissue filling, and blood dialysis.
Marshal Orlando noticed the fluorescent Poison Crystals in the surgical tray. Seeing the other man's unchanged expression, he felt even greater respect.
What an unyielding warrior!
The Sons of Dorn had always been renowned for self-restraint and their endurance of pain.
During periods without battle, they often wore equipment known as the Pain Glove to temper themselves.
Yet even the Black Templars—brothers Orlando considered exceptionally steadfast and outstanding—struggled to suppress the physiological reactions caused by the agony when struck by Poison Crystal weapons.
With warriors like this, how could they fail to win victory for the God-Emperor?!
As a fellow Son of Dorn, Orlando felt proud.
Morale rose once more.
Romulus smiled.
The goal had been achieved.
"The acid has effectively neutralized the toxicity of the Poison Crystal weapon."
Having completed the operation, Cawl said so.
Marshal Orlando, who had been listening in, instantly changed expression. The heartfelt pride on his face froze for only a moment before turning into disbelief.
That stone head had finally caught on.
The Son of Dorn silently put on his helmet, then rose to his feet.
"Thank you for your treatment, Magos," Romulus said.
"Preserving such a warrior for the Omnissiah is my duty," the Archmagos replied softly before dragging his massive body away.
The Servitors would come automatically to deal with the bloodstains on the floor.
"Then we shall take our leave."
With everything concluded, Romulus politely bade everyone farewell and departed alongside the Carcharodons.
At last, there were no further unexpected interruptions.
The vast landing bay was left with only the two Black Templars staring at each other.
"Did you hear what the Archmagos just said?"
Marshal Orlando could no longer maintain his expression.
No wonder. No wonder these Elders were so steadfast.
The Sons of Dorn rarely speculated. Only after receiving a definite answer would they choose to affirm something.
"Marshal!"
The Chaplain's tone could not conceal his excitement.
He reached into the Servitor's basket, snatched up a Poison Crystal, and carefully examined the corrosive marks on it.
"That Elder has salivary glands."
If Archmagos Cawl's examination was correct, and if the senses belonging to a Space Marine had not deceived him, then there was only one answer.
The one standing before them just now had been a true Son of Dorn.
A true Imperial Fist!
Tyrant-class Cruiser.
At the landing pad, the Stormbird slowly opened its hatch, and Romulus descended from the transport alongside Ramesses.
The Tyrant-class Cruiser possessed an additional battery of main weapons on each side compared to the Lunar-class Cruiser of the same tier, making it appear somewhat slimmer than the Lunar-class Cruiser.
Its structure was therefore not designed for close-quarters combat. Compared to the Imperial Navy, the Adeptus Mechanicus favored this type of vessel, which had no need for a ram and offered ample room for modification.
Before the Stormbird, the cruiser's captain waited with the officers to receive the angel of the Emperor.
Why does this ship feel afraid? Or excited? the captain wondered.
When Romulus's foot touched the deck, the captain, who had maintained contact with the Machine Spirit for a long time, sensed that something was wrong.
But she soon suppressed her doubts.
"Honored sir, acting captain Aurora von Kalox greets you."
Aurora stepped forward, deliberately ignoring the Angels of the Emperor who had disembarked and immediately dispersed toward the various decks.
"Greetings, Captain Aurora. I am Romulus, commander of a Deathwatch Kill Team."
"Please allow me to invite you to the bridge and introduce this warship's officers to you."
Romulus nodded politely. Through several pairs of eyes, he observed the surroundings while listening to Aurora's report, leading his team toward the bridge elevator under the servants' guidance.
"This ship's name."
As they walked along a corridor overlooking the warship's lower decks, Romulus asked after Captain Aurora had introduced every officer present.
"She belongs to you now."
Captain Aurora answered obediently, clearly having been warned beforehand.
"Mm."
Romulus indicated his understanding.
He found the ship's environment acceptable.
It was clean and orderly, without gaudy religious decorations. The officers had all assembled, demonstrating that the captain possessed sufficient authority.
Even the workers on the warship's lower decks had been arranged in an orderly fashion. In his perception, there were only cold, concise commands; he could not hear whips striking flesh.
Though he still found the work hours on those schedules absurd, they faintly reminded him of several tens of thousands of years ago.
"Daddy!"
A voice filled with sorrow interrupted his thoughts.
Romulus turned his head.
His superhuman senses had caught that faint sound.
He stopped walking, went to the edge of the corridor, and looked toward a cargo area at the bottom of the ship.
One of the Space Marines serving as his eyes and ears was nearby.
"Daddy!"
A little girl was forcing her way forward against the tide of people.
"Daddy, let's go home, Daddy."
The little girl called after a Servitor, but was soon swallowed by the crowd of workers.
The Space Marine "struggled" through the crowd, then picked up the little girl, who now had several shoeprints on her clothes.
"Thank you."
The little girl did not know what an angel of the Emperor was. After thanking him, she struggled out of that broad embrace and stood up.
"Daddy, Mommy misses you so much."
She continued calling out.
But the Servitor only marched onward with its cargo, boarded the freight elevator, and vanished from their sight.
"..."
Romulus leaned against the window ledge and remained silent for a long time.
Captain Aurora waited patiently. She keenly sensed that the atmosphere had become somewhat strange.
"Where were we?"
"The ship's name, sir."
"Let's call her Dawn."
Romulus replied. It was one of the names they had discussed in private, representing how the Transmigrators' journey had welcomed its dawn.
It also represented their faint hope of bringing dawn to the dark Milky Way.
Their existence should not merely bring victory to a single war.
Crackle—snap.
The elevator lights flickered twice, as if responding.
Before you continue