Shattered City-States

Once again, the God-Emperor's might raised the Holy Sun from the horizon, illuminating all things in the world and providing ample nourishment for the grapes and olives on the hills. Today on Limnos III, everything was as usual.

The main continent rose from the sea like a massive letter C, with a gap nearly a thousand kilometers long in the continental plate allowing seawater to flood inward, forming a vast inland sea.

In the northern region of the main continent, within the City-State of Nopé, in the mountainous forest area belonging to the Palus Family. Skaman Palus was riding a Rift-Hoof Beast, hunting with his clansmen and allies in the family's woodland. Hunting giant boars and deer, Skaman, as the head of the Palus Family, always felt that hunting was the best opportunity for socializing—those who came were either family members or close allies. As they bonded, they also protected the family's vineyards and wheat fields.

The current Consul's term was nearly up. If they could secure enough support from the Councillor families, they could end the Grandi Family's decade-long streak of re-election.

As usual, it started with the hunt, letting the young men burn off their energy. After the exhilarating hunt would come the feast, where the spirited youths would chat about everything under the sun, wrestle, or spar.

Elders like Skaman would recline in lounge chairs, savoring fine wine and food, discussing the politics and economy of the surrounding city-states.

Skaman pulled his thoughts back to the present. The hunt wasn't over yet. The young men tightened their reins, gripping spears and javelins tightly, all eager to claim the prey's heart.

Skaman merely tugged lightly on his reins to keep pace with the group. He reached up to stroke his slightly graying beard, watching the vibrant young men.

He was old now. Opportunities should go to the young, just as his father had once given him the chance to hunt a lion. As he aged, his eldest son would take up his mantle, and these youths would be the family's future—they were the future rulers.

"Wine."

Skaman reached out to the Steward trotting beside him. The Steward immediately handed him a waterskin. Skaman bit off the stopper, tilted his head back, and gulped down the sweet wine, feeling it gurgle down his throat. He thought he might be suffering from heatstroke. His head was buzzing, as if the very air around him was vibrating.

"Master, Master!"

Skaman felt the Steward pushing at his thigh, which annoyed him. The Steward had served him for decades and had forgotten the rules—looks like he'd be getting a taste of the whip later. Skaman decided to finish his wine first, ignoring the Steward's reminder as he continued drinking. The noise in his ears grew worse, then the buzzing turned into a terrifying roar that assaulted his fragile eardrums.

"Master, Master." The Steward's pushes grew more forceful and frequent. Skaman had no choice but to set down the waterskin.

For some reason, a sandstorm had kicked up on the hills, forcing him to squint. Even the Rift-Hoof Beast beneath him grew restless. Bracing against the gale, Skaman looked up—and his hand trembled, sending the waterskin slipping from his grasp to the ground. He could only utter:

"By the God-Emperor."

In the sky, a silver dragon flew toward them. The dragon had short wings and a massive body, now spewing flames as it descended vertically through the air. By the time it landed on the ground, the dragon's throat had gradually quieted.

The dragon's belly slowly opened, and towering Iron Giants strode out with heavy, swift steps—seventeen of them in total. Just the sight of these giants stirred fear in people's hearts, leaving them unable to even think of fleeing, as if this was how it was meant to be.

Servants began kneeling in prayer and weeping. The young men were equally at a loss. Skaman wasn't much better off than the youths, but decades of life experience helped him react faster. These dragons and Iron Giants seemed similar to the murals in the Emperor's Temple—stories of the God-Emperor's Iron Angels tearing open the sky, descending to the mortal world, and leaving behind sages.

The leading Iron Giant came straight to Skaman. With a hiss of air as his helmet's seal broke, he reached up and removed it, revealing a face even younger than Skaman's.

"Do you speak High Gothic?"

The Angel spoke. Though his voice was deep, it put Skaman somewhat at ease—it seemed the Angel also had a human form. He might not look very old, but Skaman wouldn't use his own experience to judge an Angel's lifespan.

"I do."

This language was said to have been passed down from the God-Emperor's servants. Though not commonly used, nearly all upper-class citizens of the city-states learned it—or at least, they once did.

The Angel pointed at the Steward and servants trembling on the ground like leaves in a storm.

"Who are they?"

"My Steward and servants."

"Good."

Good? What was good? Before Skaman could process it, what happened next shattered the image of Angels that the Mercy Sect priests had taught him.

The leading Angel grabbed the kneeling Steward and drew the dagger-like combat knife from his waist. The Steward looked pleadingly at the master he'd grown up with, but Skaman could only watch, swallowing hard, daring not to move.

Peter drove the combat knife around the top of the skull, ignoring the Steward's desperate struggles and screams. He placed one hand on the skull and yanked upward with force, cracking it open like a coconut to reveal the white, tofu-like tissue inside.

At the same time, several other Angels followed Peter's lead, grabbing nearby slaves. Filon yanked a young man off his Rift-Hoof Beast, holding him like a chicken. Filon didn't even bother to "open the lid"—he simply opened his maw wide and bit straight into the top.

What happened next made Skaman's stomach churn. The Punishment Sect priests were right—Angels were the God-Emperor's warriors. They were punishment, death, swords for enemies and rebels—nothing to do with mercy at all.

Meanwhile, Peter was closing his eyes, focusing on activating his Gene-Psyche Nerve. This organ had been implanted into his body during his 19 Gene-Moddings. It allowed gene-forged warriors like him to extract genetic material related to memory from the creatures they consumed, absorbing the enemy's memories by devouring their flesh and blood. Of course, in theory, this organ could be toggled on or off, or its intensity adjusted, but some Astartes had organs that were limited in function, non-functional, or even overactive—none of which were good signs.

Straining to feel through this mortal's memories, discarding the irrelevant and absorbing what knowledge he needed—geography, politics, faith, and language—Peter muttered to himself as his superhuman organ worked:

"Over twenty large settlements called city-states, countless smaller ones. The continent is mostly mountainous, with scarce farmland. A council government elects a Consul, citizen militia, a localized faith in the God-Emperor, and technology is still progressing slowly."

Filon, blunt as ever, cut in:

"Looks like the Imperial administrators spread the council system again. Before the Empire conquered this place, there was at least a unified dynasty. Now it's more shattered than a glass dropped on the floor. But there's good news—the Empire's old population census was wrong. Women, children, slaves, and outsiders weren't counted as people."

Peter ignored Filon's chatter. He knew the Voidsmith's big mouth never stopped—let him ramble. Turning to Skaman, he spoke in a slightly rusty local tongue:

"Councillor Skaman, take us to the Consul."

"Ah!?"

Skaman didn't react.

Peter sheathed his combat knife:

"Don't freeze up. I've still got a whole planet to receive."