The Oddities of Conquest

He realized it was funny—something crazy that even Kharn himself was somewhat reluctant to believe.

He would admit it was funny, but he wouldn't say it out loud.

At this moment, Kharn stood atop the city's ruins, gazing at the solitary figure lost in thought not far away, and remained silent alongside him.

The corpses scattered everywhere from the massacre and bombing were crushed by the tanks of the War Hounds, turning into a bloody mud. Dust filled the air, black smoke rose desolately, and planes roared overhead, heading to other parts of the city to search.

The war began, it ended, and they won.

For someone who has never witnessed war firsthand, these things are undoubtedly terrifying, but their Primarch quickly accepted them all.

Kharn had been worried that their— the War Hounds' —bloodlust in the war would unsettle the Primarch, but Angron said nothing about it.

Company Commander Baron Benson shared his opinion on the matter over the communications channel, stating that it was nothing to the Primarch because "he had already seen far worse things," a statement that Kharn agreed with.

We've all seen it.

The young company commander of the Eighth Company thought to himself, "We've all seen things that are even more terrifying."

He turned around, looked down, and saw a man approaching carrying a spear. Two short, mortal-sized Boltgun were strapped to his belt. His blue and white Carapace Armour looked simple, with only a War Hounds insignia on his right shoulder. It was partially covered in blood, making it look ferocious.

The man nodded to him and said calmly, "Sir."

"I'm not your superior," Kharn said. "I'm not responsible to the Auxilia."

"Then I'll just call you Kharn, sir?" The man grinned, a rough, rugged look characteristic of Nuceria gladiators flashing across his face. A smile slowly took shape, and by the time Kharn realized it, he had been smiling for a while.

"No problem, Karelian." Kharn took off his helmet and wiped his wet, short hair with his gauntlet.

His helmet's temperature regulation system malfunctioned slightly. Although he could tolerate much worse temperatures, given the choice, who wouldn't want to temporarily experience the feeling of a gentle breeze on their cheek?

This foul, burning, bitter wind belongs only to the victors.

The gladiator grinned, shook his head, and placed the lance behind his back. He adapted to the Carapace Armour quickly, even managing to attach the weapon to the magnetic hook on his back with a simple reach.

"I never imagined there could be something so ugly in the world." He gestured with his chin, Kharn turned his head to see a Xenos crushed under the rubble.

How did they grow to look like this?

"This is already considered a relatively normal appearance," Kharn said. "At least they don't have exoskeletons, sharp teeth and claws, or eight legs that could pierce a person through."

The gladiator raised an eyebrow.

"I'm serious, Karelian." Kharn winked at him. "There are many things in the galaxy far more terrifying than these."

"Alright, I believe you." The gladiator, now a sergeant, nodded. "You guys are far more knowledgeable than us Nuceria bumpkins."

Kharn laughed—that was precisely why he enjoyed chatting with the gladiators; their language was sharp, and their jokes sounded almost sarcastic, but that was exactly what he meant.

That's exactly how it should be.

"So, what brings you here?"

"That manual--"

The gladiator spoke in High Gothic.

"--Combat Manual? Is that how it's read? It says that if we encounter something we can't decide, we should find the nearest officer with the rank of at least second lieutenant to make a judgment. None of us are that rank, so I had to come to you. After all, you're the highest-ranking officer here."

"So, what is it?" Kharn asked, his smile fading as he realized something.

"Some talking things." Karelian turned and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva at the dead Xenos. "Things that look like them, but with a bit of a human-like quality."

Kharn frowned sharply.

Thirteen minutes later, he and Karelian arrived at the underground research facility. Gladiators from Nuceria surrounded the facility, many of them with extremely grim expressions, as if they had just experienced an earthquake.

"It's all those things' fault," Karelian said. "We were going to kill them and be done with it, but Krest thought it best to report it. So I came looking for you."

Krest - Kharn envisioned a wild face: a female gladiator who preferred to use a spear as a weapon, excelled in training, and, like the Karelian, could call their Primarch by their names.

"Where are they?" asked the Eighth Company Commander of the War Hounds.

"Come inside, follow me."

They passed through huge gaps blown open by grenades, then exposed cables and pools of blood, and finally, after three minutes of walking bent over, Kharn saw what was there.

His cheeks began to twitch.

"By Terra," he murmured, and the gladiator sighed, patting the War Hounds's waist with empathy.

The emergency lights inside the research institute illuminated the darkness, and Kharn could clearly see the creatures huddled in the corners, trembling. They were neither human nor Xenos; they were beings somewhere between humans and Xenos.

Some of them still temporarily retain a human-like appearance, but their skulls have begun to change shape, and many dense holes have started to appear on their foreheads, with some pink granulation tissue wriggling inside.

Others were almost unrecognizable as human; their faces looked indistinguishable from those of Xenos, but their limbs still retained a semblance of human shape. Kharn's fingers were already on the Boltgun in his belt; his instinct was to kill them, but he didn't.

He remained rational.

"How is it, sir?" Karelian asked in his usual gruff tone. "What's the plan?"

Good question.

Kharn took a deep breath—what else could he do?

Fifteen minutes later, Angron arrived.

--

"A wise choice," Roboute Guilliman said. "I'm glad you made that choice, Mr. Domingo."

The hunched man gave a trembling smile. His gray uniform was completely covered by black dust, and his forehead was broken, with blood still visible on it.

At the signal of the two Victrix Guards, he quickly left the makeshift room. Roboute Guilliman watched him leave, glanced down at the surrender agreement on the table, and couldn't help but smile.

Harkosus III possesses a pristine natural environment. Taking over this planet without damaging it and bringing it under the Imperium's control would undoubtedly be a good thing. At the very least, the planet could rely on tourism to boost local livelihoods and provide its civilians with an additional welfare subsidy.

Roboute Guilliman rose with a mixture of high spirits and relief, walked out of the room, and came to the communications station. Dozens of instruments were carefully placed there, and men and women from Ultramar were busy building a vital link in the Ultramarines' basic communications network on Harkosus III.

"Send a message to the Macragge's Honour," Roboute Guilliman told them with a smile. "Have them contact the Nightfall and the Firm Resolve using shipboard communications or Astropath. I want to know how my brothers are progressing."

The Emperor's words flashed through his mind, and Roboute Guilliman's smile grew even brighter.

He wouldn't comment on the methods the Eighth Legion and the War Hounds used to conquer the planets they were responsible for, but he hoped they could do so efficiently and safely.

The communications station quickly relayed the Primarch's request back to the Macragge's Honour. Roboute Guilliman stepped out of the position; he had no intention of waiting there. He chose to stand shoulder to shoulder with his First Chapter Master at the front of the position, gazing together at the city they had conquered not far away. Marius Gage's armor was still stained with blood, his expression calm as always.

They remained silent, neither of them breaking the rare tranquility, until Roboute Guilliman spoke up.

"Four and a half hours?" he asked, his tone gentle. "If my memory serves me right, we've broken the record today."

Marius Gage nodded. "But that's just an internal record, Primarch. The fastest conquest record is in the hands of the Eighth Legion; they previously recaptured that planet in just two hours and twenty-one minutes during a suppression of a rebellion."

Roboute Guilliman raised an eyebrow in surprise—he was genuinely surprised, as these records were never circulated or documented in writing. A conquest record of two hours and twenty-one minutes was unimaginable to anyone, especially when you knew the number of the Eighth Legion.

"They are very effective in this regard," Marius said. "It has always been so; the Eighth Legion's tactics are almost devastating to the sanity of the local rulers."

Roboute Guilliman chuckled. The Chapter Master's description was apt, yet it carried a touch of Marius Gage's unique humor.

He gazed into the distance, pondering the future of the Harkosus III. Since it was so close to Nostramo, could he perhaps establish a new tourist route along the trading lines of Macragge?

Passing through Nostramo and arriving at the primeval forest of Harkosus III sounds wonderful.

Roboute Guilliman was thinking as a politician, but just half a minute later, his warrior instincts tore everything apart and began screaming in his mind.

"Enemy attack!" Half a minute later, amidst the massive tremors of the ground, Marius Gage roared out of nowhere into the Ultramarines' communication channels.

My brain is numb, and I'm staying up all night writing.