Return to the Iron Cage

Gunfire erupted in the narrow corridor. Auxiliary Army soldiers in body armor, wielding Laser Guns, fled desperately. He didn't even dare to look back, merely stretching the Laser Gun backward and randomly pulling the trigger.

He was supposed to be stationed at the previous corridor intersection, but fear still overwhelmed him when a silver-gray wall began to move slowly and steadily towards their defensive position.

He swore their squad had tried everything. Whether it was Laser Guns or shotguns, they had no effect on that Wall of Steel. Even Armor-piercing Grenades only made the wall hesitate for half a step. Their superiors had also given them Flamethrowers. Damn Flamethrowers. Using them in such a narrow corridor, regardless of whether the enemy could withstand it, they would first be roasted alive by the heat of the promethium combustion, or perhaps die from lack of oxygen. Damn it! Their superiors hadn't equipped them with the proper heavy firepower at all.

As their squad poured all their firepower onto the Wall of Steel, it continued to advance towards them. Seemingly when the wall reached a certain distance, in just an instant, there were a few bang bang bang sounds of Bolter Guns, and the upper bodies of everyone else, including the squad leader, turned into bloody paste smeared on the wall.

The Auxiliary Army soldier could only run in a panic. Perhaps in his haste, he tripped over a corpse on the ground. He fell hard onto the ground, and the Laser Gun in his hand slid out. Looking at the Laser Gun that had fallen in front of him, he remembered what the drill instructor had said.

"Clip your weapon strap properly, or I'll shove this Laser Gun up your ass."

There was no time. The soldier could hear heavy footsteps behind him. The "Steel Wall" had already moved behind him. The soldier turned his head in despair and saw a large foot stomping down towards him.

"For the Emperor!"

Peter Karasis brought down a powerful Iron Boot onto the soldier's chest, crushing the ribs and body armor of the fallen mortal Auxiliary into mud. The young soldier seemed not to have realized what was happening, his mouth still agape, desperately trying to breathe, futilely pumping air into his crushed lungs.

Ignoring the pathetic wretch, Peter continued forward, holding his Boarding Shield, his Battle-brothers following close behind. Who was it on his left? Peter couldn't quite recall. Ah, Andrew. Andrew was on his left, an arrogant young man who had been assigned to Peter's tactical squad as part of the pre-war reinforcements. This was his first real combat, and unfortunately, he would be dead in 10 seconds.

...Seven, eight, nine, ten. The squad reached a corner, and the sound of heavy Bolter fire erupted. Andrew was a step too slow turning the corner, exposing a narrow flank to the heavy Bolter at the entrance of the opposite passage. With a bang, Andrew's shield-bearing arm was broken first, followed by his helmet and chest plate.

Peter remembered telling himself countless times to keep up with the squad and adjust his shield, not to let the shield wall develop gaps. But Andrew just thought he was fine.

Most "Rapid Deployment Army" soldiers like Andrew had their own quirks, thinking they were experienced and knew everything. In reality, the knowledge implanted through indoctrination only tells you what to do; there's a vast chasm between knowing and doing. Peter chuckled inwardly, as if he himself wasn't part of the "Rapid Deployment Army." His first real combat had been on a world called Taran, but he'd been luckier, learning the true skills before losing his life.

As Andrew's corpse fell, Peter pulled the trigger, his Bolter spitting fire, suppressing the enemies in yellow armor.

The Battle-brothers behind immediately moved up. Now, Brother Anthony was on his left. Peter felt much more at ease. After all, Anthony had crawled out of the bloody quagmire of the Terra defense battles with him, and they would survive this campaign together.

He advanced with his shield up, driven by muscle memory, ignoring the dull thuds of heavy Bolter rounds hitting his shield. Upon reaching tactical distance, he drew an Armor-piercing Grenade and tossed it over his shield. With a bang, the explosion smeared the mortals behind the fortifications all over the wall. The squad continued to advance and suppress, firing without emotion.

The battle ended quickly. The enemy, leaving behind a corpse in yellow armor, retreated. They had retaken this corridor, temporarily. Peter took deep breaths of filtered air from his helmet and ordered the squad members to reinforce their position.

He knew it was all meaningless. Because in 36 minutes, the Imperial Fists would retake this place. Half an hour later, Peter would fight his way back in. For the next week, this situation would repeat itself many times within these corridors. In the later stages, they could only use corpses as cover and strip the armor off others for replacements.

At that moment, Peter stared intently at the Imperial Fists soldier lying on the ground, wondering if he would soon die like that. Peter knew that for an Astartes, fear of death was not a good quality, but only if one died with honor and dignity.

He knew then that this was a meaningless meat grinder. This world had no strategic value or any worthwhile resources. It was all because of the stubbornness of two Primarchs.

And Peter knew he was dreaming now. He just hadn't expected to return here in his dream, back to the "Iron Cage." But he had a meeting to attend soon, so Peter controlled himself, mentally urging himself to wake up from the dream.

On the upper deck of the Blackrock, in the Astartes' quarters, a naked, muscular man got up from his iron plate bed, shaking his head to dispel the sleepiness.

The man stood in the cramped cabin, almost touching the ceiling. He stood at 2.3 meters tall. His gene-engineered body was among the largest even for his kind. His bulging muscles resembled the extinct "Belgian Blue" creatures of Old Terra, making his standing form like a wall. However, the exposed neural interfaces and countless scars on his skin marred the aesthetic beauty of his physique.

His stern features, also gene-engineered, combined with a prominent nose bridge, and two thick eyebrows like black caterpillars resting above his eyes. His short hair was black with streaks of silver, styled back into a short pompadour. All these elements, coupled with a granite-like resolute expression, made him look like a majestic statue.

Peter walked directly to the data screen and tapped it casually. The communication connected.

"Anthony, inform all brothers to gather in the bridge meeting room in 30 minutes. We've arrived at our destination."

"Yes, Captain."

Without correcting Anthony's address, Peter hung up the communication and headed straight for the side door. As the cabin door opened, the automatic wall lamps illuminated the space, and two contorted figures in the corner stirred.

The two creatures stood up. They had human-like outlines but their skin was pale and bloodless. Both their arms had been severed at the shoulders, replaced by screw mechanisms and power claws. Several cables pierced their abdomens and chests solely to power the machinery in their hands. An opaque tube was inserted directly into their stomachs through their mouths, serving to provide sustenance to the creature. Servitors, half-human, half-machine tools created by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Their prefrontal lobes had been removed before death, leaving them devoid of emotion, only knowing how to perform mechanical tasks.

And in this small private armory, a Bolter Gun, a Combat Knife, and a dented Boarding Shield hung on the wall. On the table, seven or eight loaded Bolter magazines and several grenades were neatly stacked. Beside them, in an iron box, were unopened Bolters. And a skull, a yellowed skull. This skull was conspicuously placed in the armory, its unusually large size hinting at the identity of its owner.

But the most striking item in the room was the power armor on the central rack: MK3 Iron Pattern Power Armour. This suit, also covered in bullet marks and chips, had accompanied Peter through the Taran campaign, the Terra defense battles, the Iron Cage campaign, and countless other battles. More than one-third of its components had been replaced.

It was also fortunate that the Iron Pattern's thicker frontal armor compared to other models had saved Peter more than once. Peter's power armor had been breached from the front multiple times, even injuring his flesh. If he hadn't been wearing the Iron Pattern Power Armour, it wouldn't have been just an injury. Peter had considered repairing the armor and shield, but given the current material shortage, he decided to maintain their current state as long as the structural integrity was not compromised.

Raising his hands, the Servitors silently removed the power armor components and began to equip him. As the left shoulder pauldron was being installed, Peter saw the eight-pointed star iron mask on it still shining brightly. But now, he only felt disgusted. After the meeting, he would grind off this symbol representing the Fourth Legion.

Peter put on his helmet, bidding farewell to the Legion-bound version of himself. Because they were no longer the "Rapid Deployment Army," no longer expendable, no longer the Iron Warriors, no longer Perturabo's slaves. Now, they were the "Forged Steel Brethren."