Get That Damn Psychic Power Out of Me! Hah!!

If the Imperium's combat strength was calculated as 100%, then even without the Space Marines, it still had 99% of its strength. That 99% came from the Imperial Guard, the very bedrock of the Imperium.

As a sergeant in the Cadia 3rd Assault Regiment, John had always fought on the front lines alongside the Death Guard. Over the years, his comrades had been replaced again and again, but he had remained steadfast on the battlefield. That was why people called him Lucky Boy.

Even the Space Marines of the Death Guard had heard of him.

There were no wrong nicknames, only names called wrong. John was quite pleased with his nickname, since it helped him make a good impression on the quartermaster. Especially when supplies were being handed out, he could always get his hands on special items like cigarettes and chocolate.

Climbing out of the trench and listening to the same old thunder of artillery, John reached the sentry post to relieve the guardsman who'd been on duty all night. While he was at it, he gave the Heavy Stubber a tune-up—it might even have been older than he was.

Looking at the Emperor's Angel beside him, clad in ancient green Power Armor, John couldn't help wondering what he looked like beneath his helmet. He'd never seen this Space Marine take it off.

"Sir, would you like a cigarette?"

A staunch traditionalist, John knew smoking was bad for his health. But in the Astra Militarum, where the average life expectancy was no more than six hours, he doubted he'd live long enough for nicotine to do him in.

John also had an ulterior motive. He'd made a bet with his men, insisting that beneath the Angel's helmet was a rugged, scarred, and impossibly manly face. Why else would his