That conversation became the turning point in Alexander's time at the Schola Progenium.
Not only did he escape punishment, he received old Commissar Imran's "special attention" instead. He was appointed cadet leader and granted access to a wealth of highly restricted historical and tactical documents.
He began systematically refining his theory, which blended "the Plague Father's care" with "Chaos incitement," dressing it in the rigorous, sacred, and murderous rhetoric of an Imperial Commissar.
He wrote the famous paper, "Progenium companies: a preliminary study of building combat collectives under the theory of the Emperor's great family."
In this paper, he innovatively proposed the concept of "emotional fueling." He argued that the "sense of abandonment," "desire for revenge," and "longing for belonging" common among Progenium cadets should not be suppressed. Instead, they should be guided, intensified, and ultimately elevated into a collectivist fervor for "fighting to protect a new family."
He compared the company to a "hearth" and faith in the Emperor to its "flame," while each soldier's personal emotions were the "firewood" fed into it. The more wood there was, and the drier it was-the stronger the emotions-the more fiercely the flame within the hearth-the will to fight-would burn.
The Commissar's duty, then, was to serve as the "poker." He had to ensure that every piece of wood caught fire and, at the most critical moment, pour a ladle of incendiary oil into the hearth-deliver a prebattle speech.
This theory caused an uproar among the Schola Progenium's senior staff.
Some of the more rigid instructors considered it an outright betrayal of doctrine. They believed soldiers should be emotionless weapons, and that this theory of "emotional fueling" stood only a hair's breadth away from the manipulative methods of Chaos Cults.
But another, more pragmatic group of instructors, led by Imran, keenly recognized the theory's enormous potential. In an age growing darker by the day, the Imperium's manpower was already stretched thin, and traditional methods of sustaining morale through absolute fear and discipline were becoming increasingly ineffective. If there were a way to make soldiers fight and sacrifice themselves with genuine, wholehearted fervor, it would amount to a revolutionary upgrade to the Imperium's war machine.
In the end, thanks to Imran's staunch support, Alexander's paper was not burned as heresy. Instead, it was classified as a "high-risk, high-value" experimental military theory and filed for the record.
And for the first time, the name Alexander von Lawrence came to the attention of the higher echelons of the Imperial Commissariat.
On graduation day, Alexander stood before all the cadets as the undisputed top graduate. He wore the black Commissar's uniform that symbolized discipline and death. Its gold aiguillette and silver Aquila insignia looked especially striking against his young, resolute face.
Old Commissar Imran personally equipped him with the Bolt Pistol and Chainsword that represented a Commissar's authority.
"I've been a Commissar for a hundred and twenty years, Lawrence." For the first time, a trace of emotion entered the veteran's voice. "I've shot more cowards than you've eaten meals, and I've seen countless heroes braver than you. But I've never seen a... 'monster' like you."
"You use the most sincere methods to achieve the most terrifying goals. You use the warmest words to incite the coldest slaughter. I don't know whether you'll become the Imperium's greatest hero or its most dangerous liability."
Imran patted his solid shoulder.
"Your assignment has come through. A newly formed regiment, the 99th Infantry, 'Pride of Cadia.' Sounds impressive, but in reality, it's a bunch of battered survivors dragged out of Cadia's ruins, mixed with criminals and recruits from every backwater imaginable. Morale? They'd have an easier time finding a bottle of clean water. They need a miracle, or a madman. The political department has decided to give them both."
"Go, Commissar Alexander." A red light flashed in the old Commissar's mechanical eye. "Put your theory into practice. Light your hearth. Let me see whether that fire of yours will burn the enemy to ashes... or devour you first."
When Alexander landed aboard a Valkyrie assault transport at the temporary encampment of the 99th Regiment, the "Pride of Cadia," he understood firsthand, for the first time, what the old Commissar had meant by "dregs."
It was a temporary military camp on a mining asteroid in the middle of nowhere. The air perpetually reeked of metal dust and chemical waste. Beneath a gray sky, rows of rust-streaked barracks built from prefabricated panels stood like rows of lifeless gravestones.
Around the camp, soldiers leaned against walls in twos and threes, their eyes dull and their expressions vacant. Their uniforms were ragged and came in a bewildering assortment of styles. Many still bore old wounds that would not heal. Drunkenness, brawling, and gambling were everyday occurrences here. The officers' reprimands and punishments yielded only deeper resentment and even more halfhearted work.
There was not the slightest trace of the honor and discipline expected of the Imperium's army. There was only despair, defeat, and uncertainty about the future.
Alexander had barely stepped off the transport when he witnessed a "welcoming ceremony."
A drunken veteran, as massive as a bear, had seized a newly arrived recruit by the collar. The boy looked too young even to have come of age.
"...Say that again, you little fucker?" The veteran's breath reeked of alcohol. "You think Cadia will be rebuilt? Have you ever fucking been to Cadia? Did you watch that planet explode into a pile of space debris right before our eyes? Did you see our brothers with their guts hanging from the wire, still shouting 'For the Emperor' at you?"
The recruit went deathly pale with fear and could not utter a word.
"Fuck. A bunch of greenhorns who only know how to hide behind the lines and recite prayers..." The veteran seemed to find even beating the recruit uninteresting. He shoved him to the ground, then turned to stagger away.
That was when he noticed Alexander standing a short distance away.
He saw that brand-new, spotless black Commissar's uniform.
A fire of contempt and hatred instantly flared in the veteran's eyes.
"Well, look who's here!" he called in an exaggerated, mocking drawl. "His lordship the Commissar! We vermin have finally been blessed with an overseer from on high!"
His shout drew everyone's attention. Those previously vacant eyes all fixed on Alexander at once. There was curiosity in those looks, and disdain, but above all, a deep-rooted hostility toward the "men in black."
The veteran staggered up to Alexander, bringing his face almost nose to nose with his.
"Tell me, my lord Commissar. Are you here to shoot a few unlucky bastards at random every day to maintain your laughable discipline, or are you planning to hide in the safest blocking squad when the fighting starts and shoot us cannon fodder in the back?"
Before you continue