The commissar had fallen.
Ken was still alive.
The gaunt man had knocked several fools unconscious with his rifle butt for daring to fire on the Black Templars warrior. Under the circumstances, they would all have to die. People who had seen a daemon could not expect to live, unless...
Ken looked at the inquisitor. He roared and kicked, forcing the idiots behind him to cease fire.
He took over.
The fighting stopped. Roughly sixty soldiers remained. The daemon had vanished, leaving behind only the corpse of a traitor Space Marine.
The Black Templars warrior was badly wounded. He had fought until he had nothing left. His combat stimulants and ammunition were exhausted, and even his power sword was almost out of energy.
He no longer cared about appearances. He found a wall to lean against, settled into a comfortable position, and removed his helmet.
Ken was the first to approach the Emperor's Angel. After checking his Chapter insignia, he stopped rummaging in his left pocket and searched his right instead, taking out his rations and water.
The Astartes removed his helmet, took a couple of ragged breaths, and accepted what Ken offered, wolfing it down.
It was better than nothing.
"Soldier, what unit are you from?"
"The Penal Legion. May the Emperor forgive us."
Ken's movements were highly professional, as though he had spent years working alongside Astartes. The Black Templars warrior noticed something unusual. The soldier before him had definitely undergone biochemical surgery.
"How old are you?"
"One hundred and thirty-one, Angel."
The inquisitor and the Primaris Warrior were both speechless. You're older than we are?
Ken was thin and gaunt, and looked to be in his forties. Neither had expected him to be so old.
The Penal Legion soldiers shrank back nervously. *There were so many people