Let's Call Her Dawn

"May I examine it?"

To dispel any doubts, Cawl added, "I am a Dominus from Mars. I have handled the Gene-seed tithes of every Chapter, so you need not worry about me leaking any secrets."

In order to impose a certain degree of restraint on the Space Marine Chapters and preserve their heritage, ensuring they have a chance to rebuild should they face the crisis of total annihilation, almost every Chapter is required to regularly submit Gene-seed tithes to Mars.

This caused Romulus to look at the Black Templars Chaplain in surprise.

No way, he thought. It's one thing to mention this tax in front of other Chapters, but can you really say that in front of the Black Templars?

Do these guys who reproduce like a guerrilla force actually pay their Gene-seed tithes?

The Chaplain assumed the elder was seeking confirmation of this information from him.

"The Black Templars also pay the Gene-seed tithe."

Although the Black Templars never took the Codex seriously and often caused the ships of the Administratum and Adeptus Arbites to get lost in the Warp, their relationship with other Imperial departments was actually quite good.

They could be considered the most socially adept among the Sons of Dorn.

Therefore, they did pay their Gene-seed tithes, though there might be some issues regarding the quantity.

"Thank you."

His brain analyzed the reasons behind this almost instantly by synthesizing the known information, and Romulus's confusion was resolved.

"Feel free."

Immediately after, the wounded Son of Dorn spoke.

His voice was as rigid as his face; even as he moved his wound, his breathing did not show the slightest ripple.

Cawl did not stand on ceremony and proceeded to clean the wound directly.

He sprayed disinfectant, extended slender medical forceps, and grasped the shattered Poison Crystals.

These projectiles, laden with lethal toxins, also inflicted pain beyond the neural threshold of the victim, something even a Space Marine found difficult to endure.

Squelch—

The medical forceps pulled out the fragments, simultaneously dragging out a large amount of nerves adhered to them.

The Son of Dorn remained unmoved.

Aside from the muscle at the wound site becoming slack and drooping due to the loss of nerves, that face, like a monolith, showed no expression.

Next came disinfection and cleaning, the filling of cellular tissue, and dialysis of the blood.

Marshal Orlando noticed the glowing Poison Crystals in the surgical tray and, looking at the other man's stoic expression, felt a surge of respect.

What a resilient warrior!

The Sons of Dorn had always been known for their self-discipline and endurance of pain.

During times without combat, they often wore a piece of equipment known as the "Pain Glove" to temper themselves.

But even for the Black Templars—brothers whom Orlando viewed as incomparably resilient and excellent—it was difficult to suppress the physiological reactions caused by excruciating pain when facing Poison Crystal weaponry.

With warriors such as these, why worry that they could not win victory for the God-Emperor?!

As a fellow Son of Dorn, Orlando felt proud.

Morale rose once again.

Romulus smiled.

The goal had been achieved.

"The acid neutralized the toxicity of the Poison Crystal weapon quite well."

Having finished the surgery, Cawl said as much.

Marshal Orlando, who had been listening, changed his expression instantly. The pride that had welled up from his heart froze on his face for a moment before turning into disbelief.

That stone-headed man had finally reacted.

The Son of Dorn put on his helmet without a word and stood up.

"Thank you for your treatment, Dominus."

Romulus expressed his gratitude.

"Preserving such warriors for the Omnissiah is my bounden duty."

The Archmagos replied in a low voice before dragging his massive body away.

The Servitors would arrive automatically to clean up the bloodstains on the floor.

"Then we shall take our leave."

With everything concluded, Romulus politely bid farewell to the group and departed with the Carcharodons.

This time, there were finally no unexpected interludes.

In the empty hangar plaza, the two Black Templars were left to look at each other in silence.

"Did you hear what the Archmagos just said?"

Marshal Orlando could no longer maintain his composure.

No wonder, no wonder these elders were so steadfast.

The Sons of Dorn rarely indulged in speculation; they only affirmed what they knew to be absolute truth.

"Marshal!"

The chaplain's tone was thick with irrepressible agitation.

He reached out and snatched the Poison Crystal from the Servitor's basket, scrutinizing the corrosive marks upon its surface.

"That elder, he possesses salivary glands."

If the examinations conducted by Archmagos Cawl were accurate, and if the senses of a Space Marine had not deceived him, then there could be only one answer.

The figure standing before them just moments ago was a true Son of Dorn.

That was a true Imperial Fists!

Tyrant-class Cruiser.

On the flight deck, the Stormbird slowly opened its ramp, and Romulus and Ramesses stepped off the transport together.

Because the Tyrant-class carried an extra set of main batteries on its flanks compared to the equivalent Lunar-class Cruiser, it appeared slightly more slender than a Lunar-class Cruiser.

Consequently, its structure was not optimized for boarding actions; compared to the Imperial Navy, such ships—which lacked the need for ramming prows and offered ample room for modification—were far more popular among the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Before the Stormbird, the captain of the cruiser stood waiting with her officers for the arrival of the Angels.

Why does it feel like this ship is afraid, or perhaps excited?

The captain thought to herself.

As Romulus's boots struck the deck, the captain, who had long maintained a connection with the Machine Spirit, sensed that something was amiss.

But she quickly suppressed her doubts.

"Respected Lords, Acting Captain Aurora von Kalox, at your service."

Aurora stepped forward, pointedly ignoring the Space Marines who had dispersed immediately upon disembarking to head toward various decks.

"Greetings, Captain Aurora. I am Romulus, Kill Team leader of the Deathwatch."

"Please allow me to invite you to the bridge and introduce you to the officers of this vessel."

Romulus nodded politely, observing his surroundings through several pairs of eyes. He listened to Aurora's report while leading his squad toward the bridge elevator under the guidance of a servitor.

"The name of this ship."

Walking along a corridor that overlooked the lower decks of the warship, Romulus asked after Captain Aurora had finished introducing every officer present.

"She belongs to you now."

Captain Aurora replied submissively, clearly having been briefed beforehand.

"Hm."

Romulus acknowledged this.

He found the environment of the ship to be acceptable.

It was clean, orderly, and lacked ostentatious religious decorations. Furthermore, the officers were all present, which indicated that the captain possessed sufficient authority.

Even the technicians on the lower decks were arranged in an orderly fashion; his senses picked up only cold, concise commands, with no sound of whips lashing flesh.

Although he still found the work hours listed on the schedules to be abstract, it bore a slight resemblance to the way things were tens of thousands of years ago.

"Daddy!"

A voice filled with profound sorrow interrupted his thoughts.

Romulus turned his head.

His superhuman senses had picked up the faint disturbance.

He stopped in his tracks, walked to the edge of the corridor, and looked down at a transport zone at the bottom of the ship.

One of the Space Marines acting as his eyes and ears was nearby.

"Daddy!"

It was a little girl, pushing her way against the tide of the crowd.

"Daddy, let's go home, Daddy."

The little girl shouted at a Servitor, but she was quickly swallowed by the throng of workers.

The Space Marine "struggled" to push through the crowd, picking up the little girl, who now had several footprints on her clothes.

"Thank you."

The little girl did not know what an Angel of the Emperor was; she offered a word of thanks before struggling to stand up from that massive embrace.

"Daddy, Mommy misses you."

She continued to call out.

The Servitor, however, merely took heavy, measured steps as it carried the cargo onto the transport elevator, vanishing from their sight.

"..."

Gripping the window ledge, Romulus remained silent for a long time.

Captain Aurora waited patiently, her keen senses picking up on the strange atmosphere.

"Where were we?"

"The ship's name, my lord."

"Let us call her Dawn."

Romulus replied. It was one of the few names they had discussed in private, representing the dawn of the Transmigrators' journey.

It also represented their faint hope of bringing light to a dark galaxy.

Their existence should not be defined solely by victory in a war.

Crackle—pop—

The elevator lights flickered twice, as if in response.