Imperial Frontier: Glory and Homeland

The booming sound of metal striking metal echoed through the training chamber like the crisp ringing of bells. Under the flickering light strips, cold glints flashed incessantly, resembling meteors streaking across a dark night sky as the combat training servitors swung their practice blades at high speed.

Lancelot weaved and dodged within the training cage. Those high-speed blades, far beyond the perception of any mortal, appeared to him like slow-motion replays, his tall yet agile Astartes physique allowing him to evade them continuously.

The Caliban knight carried no weapons, entering the combat training cage empty-handed. Had those sharp edges connected, they would have surely severed flesh and bone, but the young knight felt not a shred of fear; he faced his terror head-on within the cage.

His burly frame rotated among the blades like a phantom. The lightning-fast edges failed to graze him even once. With a sudden pivot, the Dark Angels Space Marine snatched a sword from the grasp of a servitor.

He parried and countered with blinding speed, sending blade after blade flying from his front. The skilled swordsman wielded the steel as if it were an extension of his own body.

Lancelot displayed unparalleled prowess in the dim training chamber; surely, even within the Dark Angels chapter, he was an exceptional swordsman.

Lancelot discarded the sword, spun to dodge a slash at point-blank range, and then flicked his arm out, hitting the servitor's kill-switch with lightning speed.

The multi-armed combat servitor clicked and clattered before gradually falling silent. The machine retracted, then was hoisted up into the ceiling hatch.

Lancelot caught his breath and pulled open the safety gate of the training cage. His muscular body was drenched in sweat. He grabbed a towel—well, to a mortal it would certainly be a bath towel, but you understand, this is an Astartes.

Lancelot draped the towel over his neck and strode out of the training chamber, arriving in the vast space of the public training area outside.

But it was empty now, save for three giants.

The Astartes were all unarmored; even Bell wore only a robe, sitting on a bench while using a multi-tool to repair a Bolter.

Beside him, Ragnar was swinging his Chainaxe at high speed. The axe roared, as flexible and handy in his grip as Lancelot's longsword.

What? You ask why Ragnar isn't in the training cage? Ah, that is because after he dismantled yet another servitor, Cole kept the ban in place. If this Fenris wolf-pup dared to enter again during this period, Cole swore by the Emperor and the Imperial Navy that he would stuff Ragnar into a macro-cannon and fire him into the system's star.

Lancelot walked to his station, a dumbbell rack that held no weights, but instead supported a longsword—a blade adorned with holy wings.

Several servitors hovered around it, swinging censers and moving in rhythmic patterns as if performing some ancient, sacred rite.

"Lion, Lion, the Lion King above, please guide the sword of your scion, strike at the enemies of the Imperium, and let this holy blade never know defeat."

Lancelot muttered, placing a palm over his heart and reciting the ancient chapter litanies. These sacred, archaic phrases had been passed down among the Sons of Caliban for millennia.

Legend has it that as early as the Great Crusade, the Dark Angels would soothe the Machine Spirit of their weapons in this manner, hoping those ancient and powerful souls would shield them toward victory after victory.

Ragnar chuckled, tossing his Chainaxe high and catching the roaring weapon in mid-air. "Hey, Lancelot, why are you out so soon? Tired?"

"Tired? No, Ragnar, I can never forget the prayer ritual; it is a sacred custom of the Dark Angels." Lancelot said, running a finger along the spine of the blade while whispering. It was a string of elusive High Gothic, spoken with a slight accent.

"Ah! I hate it when you lot mumble in High Gothic. How come your Gothic is different from Bell's? Caliban dialect?"

"Caliban dialect? Oh, no, no. This is likely the dialect of my home, Golony. Although I left long ago, the traces of my homeland have always remained with me." Lancelot said, taking a vial of holy water from a servitor and applying it to the blade with great solemnity and ritual.

The holy water carried a faint scent of incense; perhaps it truly could soothe the Machine Spirit?

Ragnar looked puzzled. "Golony? What kind of place is that?" "My home, or at least where I was born. A feudal world of the Imperium. I was the eldest son of a local knight, chosen by a chaplain on a passing Dark Angels strike cruiser, and that is how I joined the glorious chapter."

Ragnar's confusion did not diminish in the slightest; he continued to stare at Lancelot in utter bewilderment. "Wait, wait, wait. You mean you weren't born on Caliban? Your chaplains go to other planets to recruit?"

Bell, sitting to the side, sighed helplessly. He looked at Ragnar. "The Dark Angels are a fleet-based chapter. They roam the cosmos aboard The Rock, so recruits are naturally drawn from various recruitment worlds. Fleet-based chapters are not uncommon among our brethren."

"We fought side-by-side with the Black Templars, remember? They, the Sons of Dorn, are a fleet-based chapter." "I know they are, but I never knew the Dark Angels were. Isn't Caliban their homeworld?"

Lancelot smiled playfully. "Caliban is The Rock—a massive, floating asteroid with unparalleled propulsion engines installed at its base, allowing our chapter to roam the galaxy."

"The Rock is also our chapter, the only remaining part of Caliban. Our Monastery is built upon it." "What? Caliban exploded?"

Bell stopped his work and looked at Ragnar, speechless. "The homeworld of Caliban was destroyed by a supernova. What remains is only the portion protected by void shields. Have you ever studied the history of the Nine Founding Chapters in your chapter?"

Ragnar waved a hand dismissively, looking entirely casual. "Forget it, I'm no bookworm. I prefer hearing the glorious tales of the chapter! Hey! Olaf, do you remember the stories Logan the Old Wolf tells? About our Primarch, Leman Russ!"

The Old Wolf, sitting nearby maintaining his armor, smiled and nodded slightly. "How could I forget? I still remember the first time I heard the words of the Great Wolf. I will never forget how Leman Russ, upon his departure, commanded him to keep that story sung for ages to come."

Ragnar laughed, spinning his Chainaxe with one hand. "Exactly! I remember many stories, our great and glorious war records—that's much more interesting than lectures. Bell, don't you tell them?"

"The glory of the chapter? Of course, we tell them, but the Ultramarines also place great weight on academic study. Ragnar, Lord Roboute Guilliman once demanded that we not only become excellent warriors but also accomplished scholars."

Ragnar waved his hand impatiently and looked at Lancelot. "What about you? Are you lot just as boring?"

The Dark Angel smiled and set the holy water aside. "We naturally recount the glory of the chapter as well, usually told by the Chaplains. Lord Sapphon has told us countless glorious tales, and I have even had the honor of listening to Lord Azrael himself recount the glory of the chapter."

Ragnar rubbed his neck with a grin. "That's more like it! We are Astartes; glory outweighs everything!" "And faith and loyalty, Ragnar, I remind you not to forget."

Bell said sternly, "That is exactly what makes us different from the traitors." "Of course, of course, my Chaplain." Ragnar said with a laugh, plopping down to the side.

"You don't really think I'm like those traitors, do you? The glory of the Space Wolves includes our loyalty to the Allfather, right, brother?" "Of course, Ragnar, as it should be."

Olaf said, wiping the patterns on his armor. Maintaining that massive Chaplain power armor always kept Olaf busy for a long time, but the Old Wolf never showed fatigue, always finding joy in tending to the old companion that had followed him for who knows how many years.

His beard was already gray; even by Astartes standards, Olaf was considered elderly. Yet, the aged face did not affect this powerful warrior in the slightest; he remained the strong, mighty, and lethal Fenrisian wolf.

"Our chapter trials are fierce! Back then, I went naked, carrying only a small knife through the ice fields of Fenris, fighting the extreme cold and the beasts of the tundra."

Ragnar said with a laugh, clearly boasting. He patted his arm. "A giant bear that didn't know any better bit me, tore a huge chunk of meat off, and then I beat the bastard to death—with this arm! I skinned it, wore the hide, crossed the ice fields of Fenris, and arrived at The Fang."

As he spoke, he lifted the tooth pendant hanging from his neck; clearly, it was a tooth from that giant bear. Olaf had a similar pendant around his neck; it was the ancient culture the Space Wolves chapter inherited from their homeworld.

Legend has it that every Fenrisian warrior must undergo a hunt upon reaching adulthood—a dangerous but glorious hunt. These young men, just coming of age, enter the wilderness to track and hunt those powerful beasts. Finally, if the Emperor wills it, they return to their tribes with the trophies from the beasts and, there, become true men.

"I dare say! The little kittens of the Dark Angels definitely don't have such 'frightening' chapter rituals. Look at this kitten, tired after half an hour." Ragnar still didn't forget to tease Lancelot; was this considered a long-standing cultural custom between the two chapters?

Lancelot snatched up his knightly sword, turned to look at Ragnar with a sarcastic smile. "Shall we go another round? We were interrupted by Vito last time, and we haven't decided the victor." He said flippantly, and Ragnar laughed, roaring with laughter as he swung his Chainaxe and walked toward him.

Bell cursed and stood up. "You two! Stop in the name of the Emperor!" "Don't be so boring, Bell, we'll just go a round. One round and I'll have this kitten pinned to the floor!" "I express doubt, brother. Come and try."

"Stop, both of you!" the Old Wolf commanded sternly. The two, who had already raised their weapons, froze instantly. They turned their heads to see that Olaf had already stood up and was looking ahead. Walking toward the edge of the training hall was a person—or to be precise, a being half-machine, half-flesh.

Omega's iron feet paced across the marble floor until he stood before the several Astartes warriors, the mechanical eye in his socket flickering with an uncanny light.

"You, may proceed below, to compete, I, suggest, a contest of kill counts," Omega's mechanical voice articulated word by word, and both warriors lowered their weapons, stepping aside to clear a path.

Olaf the Old Wolf walked past them, the hulking giant standing before Omega like a mountain blotting out the sun.

Omega tilted his head slightly to look Olaf in the eyes, then turned his gaze toward the remaining three Astartes, "The Inquisitor, on the surface, has obtained vital intelligence; we have confirmed, this planet, has already, been infiltrated by the Tyranids."

"The local Genestealer cult, on the Industrial Plains wasteland, has constructed a, dangerous Tyranid production facility, the Inquisitor demands, total destruction, you, may, execute the wrath of the Omnissiah and The Emperor."

Olaf raised his head, and the three warriors stood behind him like a towering mountain range.

"As the Father of All Knowledge wills it, we, shall bring down his fury."