The End and the Choice

Peter and Anthony stood on the beach, watching the time displayed in their helmets as they waited for the final recruits to arrive.

It was already dusk on the last day, and he would not accept latecomers. This was precisely why the trial was so bloody and strict—the warband's Gene-seed stock was limited, and rigorous selection was necessary.

Even after multiple rounds of screening, over a hundred people had still made it to the island where the Fortress Monastery was under construction. But they only had forty Gene-seeds, meaning more than half were destined never to become Space Marines. The Apothecary Brotherhood would sort them out. The best option for the rejects was to become high-ranking servants of the warband; the worst was to be remade into Servitors.

Now he stood on the beach, waiting for the last group to reach the island—the only team that had survived the storm.

Anthony couldn't help but remark:

"Captain, this is incredible. The Lasidream City-State, with a population of less than 300,000, has contributed over a third of the Neophytes. Keep in mind, they make up only 3% of the total population, and that's counting the slaves."

Peter replied calmly:

"That's not surprising. Excellent training and mutual bonds got them through. How many people along the way argued over water and food distribution, backed off out of fear of getting hurt in a fight, or turned back due to a lack of perseverance and unity? That almost never happened among the Lasidream people."

At that moment, Peter's eyes finally caught sight of a raft in the far distance, thanks to one of the Astartes' modified organs—the visual control organ.

This organ enhanced an Astartes' vision, allowing them to see farther and clearer. It also enabled sight in low light, better adaptation to bright light, and rapid recovery even from flashbangs. For instance, Peter was now staring directly at the setting sun without any discomfort from the glare.

Anthony also spotted the three newcomers:

"Captain, there's half an hour left. Unless they set foot on the beach before then, they'll be late. Those three are pretty unlucky—caught in a storm. Or maybe they're lucky enough to have survived it."

Peter replied:

"It doesn't matter. The time hasn't run out yet."

Though it was close.

The two of them watched from afar as the three youths paddled desperately against the waves. With their efforts, the raft inched closer and closer to the beach.

They rowed like mad, with only twenty minutes left. Their hands ached unbearably, but then there were only ten minutes left. Their arm muscles felt like they were on fire, and then just one minute remained. Finally, as they crawled onto the beach, bone-weary and gasping for air, heavy footsteps approached.

Peter looked down at the three boys before him, his vox-grille emitting a low, altered voice:

"You're late. Two minutes late."

The three looked up to see a towering Iron Angel, his silver-grey armor gleaming with the golden light of the setting sun, making him appear like a pale-gold giant.

Alexios struggled to prop himself up with his oar and tried to explain:

"Angel, we ran into a storm..."

"That's not an excuse."

Peter cut him off directly.

Gorgias stammered hesitantly:

"Then... have we lost our chance?"

Peter studied the three youths. He thought of the Primarch, and of Company Commander Crassus. In truth, it was only one minute and thirty-one seconds. If they had jumped into the water and touched the seabed, they would have been considered ashore.

Peter made his decision:

"I can give you a chance. The price is a corpse, a life. If two of you kill the third, the two spots are theirs."

The three youths were instantly startled! But soon, the two brothers exchanged glances. After all, they were blood kin—given a choice, they wouldn't slaughter each other.

Gorgias, lying on the ground, silently gripped the small knife at his waist, used for cleaning fish. He knew his chances were slim. Everyone was in the same state, and he was facing two Lasidream warriors. He had to defend himself.

Alexios questioned the Angel:

"We are comrades, brothers who entrust each other with our lives. How could we kill him?"

Peter replied mercilessly:

"You were late. There has to be a punishment, doesn't there?"

"It shouldn't be like this! This isn't right! The Angels I know are glorious and proud warriors, not traitors who stab their comrades in the back."

Alexios shouted in anger. This wasn't what his parents and elders had taught him. You could be cruel to enemies, but you must never betray a brother-in-arms.

This was also why the Lasidream people occupied the most fertile lands, possessed the mightiest city-state, and had stood firm on this soil for centuries despite their heretical faith.

Peter saw it clearly. The two brothers had been raised with the same education and values. The remaining variable was that small, blond youth:

"And you? What will you choose?"

Gorgias had already let go of his knife. He replied calmly:

"The priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus said they want to build ships made of iron. Since I've already failed, I choose to become a sailor on an iron ship."

Peter nodded. This young man was very methodical. Whether it was choosing to join the trial, preparing for it, joining another team after his teammate died, or now finding a fallback after failing at the final step—he was at least more meticulous than that hunter with the axe from before.

"Good. You've passed the trial."

"What!"

The three were stunned.

"Our warband is called the Forged Steel Brethren. Our battle cry is 'Into the Furnace, All Forged into Steel.' I don't want commanders to treat brothers as tools. I want everyone to enter the furnace like ore, merge together, and emerge as forged steel. Because we have no fleet and no supplies—we only have each other, only our brothers."

"Therefore, we will never accept anyone willing to abandon a comrade into the warband. Countless warriors in the Legions of old died because of that."

Alexios was shocked by this:

"Legions? Countless warriors? You mean there are many warriors like you—hundreds, thousands?"

His imagination utterly failed to picture what it would look like for hundreds or thousands of warriors clad in such armor to fight on a field.

Peter replied:

"Hundreds of thousands, millions. Countless Astartes died because of it. Many had illustrious records, yet they perished in obscurity."

Gorgias, listening in fascination on the side, asked curiously:

"What kind of war could possibly require millions of warriors like you?"

"A battle among the stars, a game of the Four Chaos Gods, a war that decides the fate of all humanity."

Lycurgus and Gorgias couldn't help but exclaim:

"Athena's owl!"

"My Emperor!"