Capturing Raw Materials

Across the vast grasslands, accompanied by the roar of powerful engines, a lightning-fast figure streaked across the ground, leaving behind a trail of exhaust fumes from burning Promethium.

Freddy gripped the handlebars of his Assault Bike, weaving at high speed across the plain. Through the comms in his helmet, he received information relayed from aerial reconnaissance drones, feeding him coordinates for rapid insertion and flanking maneuvers. Behind him, two Neophytes on identical Assault Bikes followed in formation under his lead.

Though the Iron Warriors weren't known for rapid assaults, Freddy had never encountered bikes during his time in the Legion as part of the Rapid Deployment Army. But an Astartes' learning ability was astonishing. After the Lord acquired these nine Assault Bikes from the Daedalus Forge World, he quickly mastered piloting these vehicles with agility.

He'd been shocked the first time he saw those bikes. He'd asked the Lord where they came from. The Lord told him it was a deal with the Dark Mechanicus—no resources given upfront. The terms were that for the next few years, the Dark Mechanicus would skim a portion of the planet's resource output off the books. In simple terms, it was a zero-down-payment loan.

Freddy didn't care much about that. Having the bikes would make their next moves much smoother. He ordered the two Neophytes behind him to keep up, forming a triangular assault formation as they rode.

Soon, the three of them closed in on the target. Ahead on the grassland, over five hundred people were marching, completely unaware of what was coming.

At Freddy's command, the three bikes circled the crowd—two clockwise, one counterclockwise. The panicked herd huddled toward the center, leveling wooden spears and bows at the encircling Space Marines.

As the three bikes gradually tightened the circle, the crowd packed closer together. Though a dozen brave souls stepped forward to throw spears or loose arrows, those weapons couldn't penetrate even Scout Armor, let alone Power Armour. The brave ones were quickly eliminated by the twin-linked bolters mounted on the front of the Assault Bikes.

The Neophytes soon tossed Stasis Grenades and fired Stasis Shells from their launchers. As the pale green chemical gas drifted through the crowd, the physically weak collapsed quickly.

Freddy remained unmoved, holding his Net Gun as he led the Neophytes in shrinking the encirclement. This kind of small job was fine to leave to them; he needed to stay alert for bigger threats.

Soon, the bigger threat appeared. When only half the people were still standing, a figure in blue-feathered robes among the Chaos Cultists raised a staff, and flames began jetting from his hand, trying to threaten the Neophytes.

Seeing this, Freddy acted with lightning speed, firing a net shot straight at the sorcerer. But the sorcerer seemed to sense it, raising a hand that deflected the net—which carried both sedative and electric charges—clean away.

One shot failed. Freddy squeezed the control trigger on his handlebar. Bam! Bam! Bam! Several bolter rounds tore toward the sorcerer. The first three struck his psychic barrier, but the fourth hit him square on, blowing his body in half.

Freddy wasn't about to gamble on a second capture attempt against a Psyker like that. If the first shot failed, kill immediately. Their upper and lower limits were too extreme—he'd personally seen a mortal Psyker twist a Space Marine into a pretzel.

After all, their mission was to help the Dark Mechanicus capture Servitor materials. Psykers were just a bonus. Catching one would be ideal, but missing one didn't matter.

With the Neophytes having knocked out nearly everyone, Freddy issued a command:

"Nine o'clock, thirty kilometers out, around six hundred people."

The three bikes sped off toward another direction.

The hundreds lying on the ground snored away, unaware they'd stepped into a dark future.

A dozen minutes later, several ordinary transport trucks pulled up. Dozens of soldiers in Flak Armour, shouldering Laser Guns, disembarked alongside a few armed Servitors and a Dark Mechanicus Tech-Priest.

They moved with practiced ease, chaining and shackling the unconscious people, dragging them like livestock into the Iron Cage compartments retrofitted in the truck beds.

The Tech-Priest surveyed the bodies on the ground and rasped:

"Cargo overload. Transport trucks cannot bear the load. Forced transport will reduce speed to temporary airfield by 32%."

He turned to the Planetary Defense Force officer beside him and ordered:

"Remove 172 units of cargo."

The officer acknowledged:

"Yes, sir."

He led his soldiers to fire into the bodies on the ground, killing the excess cargo. When done, they drove off in the trucks.

Meanwhile, on a hillside thirty kilometers from the Quetzalcoatl pyramid, Peter and Anthony stood looking at what could barely be called a city. Countless chaotic stone and wooden buildings, tents crammed together—the district seemed to hold a million people, though in reality it held less than three hundred thousand.

Interestingly, a central axis several hundred meters wide ran through the district. Peter didn't know how these Chaos Cultists had divided it, but the Tzeentch followers and Khorne followers had temporarily set aside their grudges, keeping their distance and coexisting in peace.

The area around the city was covered in dense forest, the trees still bearing green leaves. This was the last place on the continent where rain still fell—though even that rain had stopped ten days ago.

Peter looked over the region. Their encirclement had tightened, funneling nearly all the Chaos Cultists on the continent into this trap of a city. Even if a few slipped through, it didn't matter. The planned drought over the next five to ten years would leave them nothing but bones.

Beside him, Sacks reported to the Forged Steel Lord:

"My Lord, the Auxiliaries have begun tightening the outer encirclement. But the forest here is too dense—it's causing us considerable trouble."

Peter glanced down at his former prisoner, now clad in Arbitrator Carapace Armor, a pair of pistols and a ceremonial sword at his waist. He'd shaped up decently. On his chest was a new emblem: a red spear piercing a silver round shield.

That emblem was the symbol of the war band's Mortal Auxiliary force, named the "Spear of Hector." Initially, the soldiers from the Lasidream people and other city-states had argued fiercely over the legion's name.

The Lasidream people wanted "Sword of Ares." The City-State of Nopé proposed "Miltiades." Other city-states had their own ideas. Finally, after deliberation, they decided to look further back in history for a name everyone could agree on.

They settled on "Hector"—a righteous hero from local ancient legends, before the God-Emperor's messenger descended. That choice barely satisfied the coalition of city-states.

Anthony still stood beside the captain, chainsword at his hip. Under the captain's guidance, he'd gradually handed over squad command and become a bodyguard instead.

Peter replied flatly to Sacks:

"Don't worry. I'll handle the forest problem. You just manage the Auxiliaries."

"Remember, the army you lead will one day fight on other star systems. If I find out they're all useless, I'll put you in a Penitent Engine."

Sacks felt his sphincter tighten. He'd seen the state of men in Penitent Engines—worse than death. He hurriedly answered:

"Of course, of course, my Lord. The training over these past few years has already shown results. Give it a few more years, and they'll be qualified Astra Militarum."

Peter kept his eyes on the town ahead and replied:

"Best be so."