Primitive Man, Activate

Finally, after two years, Peter felt solid ground beneath his feet once more.

In the council hall of the City-State of Nopé, Peter now sat upon the newly reforged Steel Consul's throne, awaiting the planetary governor and other high-ranking nobles to report on the planet's changes over the past two years, so he could understand what had transpired.

Of course, he wouldn't just take these nobles at their word. The words of the brothers who had remained on the planet were far more trustworthy, but this was still an indispensable procedure—partly to grasp the commoners' thoughts, and partly to intimidate them through this audience.

But as the wooden doors were violently thrown open, it wasn't mortals who entered the council hall, but a brother of the Forged Steel Brethren. This dark-skinned brother strode quickly to Peter's side, his face grim as he said:

"Boss, something's happened on the Homeworld."

Seeing the Voidsmith's grave expression, Peter realized something serious had indeed occurred. He swallowed an inexplicable lump in his throat and asked:

"What happened?"

A week earlier, Filon was slacking off in the forest... surveying, yes, surveying. He was now on the Second Continent of Limnos III, having landed just a few hours ago.

Surrounded by dense woods and green grass, his feet sinking into the loose, fragrant soil with every step—such a beautiful natural environment that Filon had taken off his helmet. He now held a Power Hammer in hand, with a flamethrower pistol magnetically locked to his thigh.

He'd wanted to come see this continent for a long time. What was the point of just observing from afar inside a Storm Eagle Gunship? But Captain Wonaby said these primitive tribal warriors were savage and fierce—a fine quality—and that they shouldn't make rash contact and contaminate their culture.

Grabbing a handful of leaves from a nearby tree and stuffing them into his mouth, Filon chewed and savored the forest's essence.

The Voidsmith noticed this continent was completely different from the main one. The main continent was mountainous with little flat land, scarce rainfall, and relatively barren soil. This Second Continent, however, had vast plains, with only a few mountain ranges in the middle—expansive plains and forests across the land.

This continent accounted for only a quarter of the world's total land area. According to the Dark Mechanicus's estimates, its population was only about one million. This differed from the main continent, which recorded roughly two million citizens—but that excluded women, children, slaves, and outsiders; the actual number was around ten million.

This continent truly had only about a million people. The inhabitants hadn't even developed metallurgy yet.

From earlier observations on the gunship, he'd noticed the locals had a peculiar weapon: black obsidian flakes embedded into wooden clubs, using the obsidian's sharpness and the club's blunt force to strike enemies.

Though the captain said not to contact the locals yet, Filon figured a quick look around wouldn't hurt. Worst case, if discovered, he could just slaughter the entire village—after all, losing a few dozen or a hundred out of a million wasn't a big deal.

So there he stood on this continent, pulling out an Augur Array to search for the village he'd spotted from the air. Along the way, he encountered a large rat, half-black and half-white, carrying a baby on its back. Filon grabbed the mother rat, tossed it into his mouth, chewed vigorously, then suddenly spat the half-masticated meat paste onto the ground.

"Damn, why does it get stinkier the more I chew?"

Grumbling, he headed toward the village. Just a few hundred meters away, Filon suddenly stopped—he heard something unusual. No, not just unusual—more precisely, it was the sound of slaughter, of weapons hacking into bone and flesh.

Filon could hear so clearly from such a distance thanks to his ears. More accurately, they weren't his original ears, but surgically implanted "Leman's Ears"—organs that looked only slightly larger than a mortal's.

But their function was no small matter. They granted an Astartes enhanced hearing, allowing him to hear farther and more clearly. They also let an Astartes filter sounds, reducing gunfire and noise on a chaotic battlefield so he could hear what he needed—whether a superior's orders or an enemy's footsteps.

Even if a Heavy Bolter roared right next to his ear, an Astartes wouldn't suffer tinnitus. Even if a massive cannon shell landed beside him, there'd be no shell shock. Just as mortals rely on their cochlea for balance, Astartes use this organ to maintain equilibrium—no matter the turbulence or aerial dogfight, an Astartes never loses balance and never needs a sick bag.

Filon quickened his pace, ran to a small hill ahead, and dropped into a tactical prone position. Reaching to the magnetic lock on his belt, he pulled out binoculars to observe the situation.

Filon grinned, baring white teeth, and let out a triumphant laugh:

"Now this is way more interesting than watching Ogryn Ape-men dance naked."

On the clearing ahead was a small village of wooden huts and tents. A group of primitive tribesmen painted in blue war paint were fighting off a band of invaders.

The village natives wore feathered headdresses, their bodies daubed in blue paint, wrapped in coarse linen. Over forty strong male and female warriors, clad in stitched animal hide armor, wielded obsidian-tipped spears and obsidian war clubs. In the back row, some carried crude bows, and two warriors puffed their cheeks, blowing through blowguns. They shielded the tribe's women and children behind them.

The attackers, in contrast, numbered only about twenty, men and women alike. They were bare-chested, their lower bodies covered—or not—with animal hides. The leaders wore several skulls hanging from their leather belts. These people carried bone spears, stone axes, or similar obsidian war clubs. Their most striking common feature was a cross-shaped red paint on their faces, and green drool inexplicably dripping from their mouths.

This group of invaders completely overwhelmed the natives from start to finish. Though the blue-painted natives had ranged weapons, and their arrows were surely poisoned, it didn't matter. Several arrows and blowgun darts struck the enemy, but they ignored the wounds and kept charging.

The tallest among them, riddled with arrows, shouted:

"Offer the skulls and blood to the servant of the Blood God, the Blood Hand Butcher."

Several red-cross warriors wielding bone spears and great axes charged into the blue-painted formation, hacking left and right, felling several opponents. But at that moment, an old woman stepped forward from behind the blue-painted lines. She wore a blue robe and a feathered crown. She grabbed at the air with her fingers, and the shouting brute froze mid-air.

"Quetzalcoatl shall punish the enemy."

The bare-chested brute stood frozen, bloodshot eyes wide. With a loud bang, his head exploded on the spot, brain matter scattering.

Filon Gordon's heart skipped a beat. Aren't these a bunch of Chaos Cultists? Good grief—nearly two years, and he hadn't even known there were heretics on his own Homeworld. Captain Wonaby had dropped the ball.

Filon quickly got up, planning to return to the Storm Eagle Gunship's landing zone to inform the other brothers.

Just then, a sharp clink rang out. Filon felt his bald, egg-like head lightly tapped. Looking down, he saw a stone axe lying on the ground.

A dozen meters behind him in the trees, two red-cross Khorne cultists were staring at him. They'd actually thrown an axe at his head.

"Never seen an Astartes before?"

Filon gripped his Power Hammer with both hands, not even activating the Disintegration Field.

"Showing off? I'll make you fly."