Trying to be clever

Beneath the dark red sky, Hercules stood motionless as a statue, having just arrived on the planet's surface. He formed a stark contrast to the slightly frantic recruits who had landed around him.

As someone personally selected for this trial by the Legion's Primarch, Lorgar Aurelian, he bore the heavier expectations and pressure that came with the honor. He had internalized that pressure as an almost cold-blooded composure.

He did not rush to move, nor did he immediately search for familiar faces like the others. Instead, he first performed a thorough equipment check.

The contents of his pack were pitifully sparse: a Monomolecular Knife, three compressed ration bars hard enough to serve as bricks in his house, and a palm-sized signal transmitter—the only key to survival, and the button that would surrender his honor. There was also an extremely basic bleeding-control kit. For men who might suffer grievous injuries, it was more a source of psychological comfort than anything else.

There was nothing beyond that. No ranged weapons, no additional protection. Through this almost cruel minimalism, the Imperium forced its recruits to draw out their greatest potential.

To draw out their strength, their wisdom, and the bonds between brothers.

The commotion at the landing site soon settled into spontaneous order.

There was little need for words. Survival instinct and the discipline drilled into their bones over months of training drove these young warriors to gather and form teams of their own accord.

They understood Tenerum's first law perfectly: solitude meant death.

On this life-devouring wasteland, anyone traveling alone would become the first target of the predators lurking in the shadows.

Only by entrusting their backs to dependable brothers could they win a chance at survival.

Hercules's gaze swept through the crowd and locked unerringly onto one figure.

He was a