For the first time, the name Alexander von Lawrence and his mad yet effective ideology, known as the "Fireplace theory," began to spread like a virus, silently infiltrating the heart of the Imperium's power.
Meanwhile, in the highest-tier medical convent on Viridia Prime, the young man at the center of so much controversy had just awakened from a coma that had lasted weeks.
The first thing he saw was a ceiling made from some expensive synthetic material. The air was thick with the mingled scents of disinfectant and medical incense, so clean it almost stung his nose. Around him, various life-support machines beeped in a steady rhythm.
He lay on an impossibly soft medical bed, covered by a temperature-controlled blanket that felt silky against his skin.
"...A medical convent?"
His memories as a Warhammer fan told him that only the Imperium's finest medical facilities offered such "luxurious" accommodations.
He tried to move. Excruciating pain immediately tore through every part of his body, forcing him to suck in a sharp breath. He lowered his head and looked at himself.
His right arm was still there, bristling with tubes delivering nutrients and medications of various colors. Both legs were there too, wrapped in thick medical gel and bandages.
His left side... was empty.
Below his left shoulder, there was nothing.
The arm that had wielded his Power Sword, that had embraced despairing veterans, had been left forever on the scorched earth of Viridia Prime, burned to glass.
An unfamiliar emotion welled up inside him, mingling loss, pain, and a faint sense of absurdity.
He, Liu Zhipeng, a corporate drone from an age of peace, had actually lost part of his body on a battlefield in 40K.
As he wrestled with his feelings over this belated dose of "Warhammer realism," the door to his room was gently pushed open.
A sister entered, dressed in the medical robes of the Adepta Sororitas. Her face showed a trace of fatigue, but her eyes remained as sharp as a hawk's. When she saw that Alexander's eyes were open, even her normally stern, ice-sculpted face showed a flicker of relief.
"Praise the Emperor. You're finally awake, Commissar." Her voice was as brisk and matter-of-fact as her expression, without a trace of unnecessary emotion. "You've been unconscious for twenty-seven days. Your body looked as though a siege tank had run you over head-on, then a Multi-melta had roasted you from head to toe. Seventy percent of your internal organs had suffered functional failure. You had more than two hundred comminuted fractures throughout your skeleton. Your skin... well, there wasn't much of it left."
The sister recited an injury report that would have sent any ordinary person into a breakdown, in the same flat tone someone might use to list vegetables at a market.
"But your vitality is the most tenacious I've ever seen. More tenacious than that of any Ogryn brute I've dissected. So you survived."
She approached the bed and checked the data streams on the life-support machines.
"Your condition has largely stabilized. Now we should discuss your 'new arm.'"
She snapped her fingers.
Two Servitors entered, carrying a huge metal case with heavy, synchronized steps.
The case opened. Beneath the soft glow of cool lamps, a mechanical arm lay motionless on a velvet lining, its cold metallic sheen embodying a brutal beauty.
It was nothing like the intricate prosthetics Alexander remembered Space Marines using, full of artistry and sacred runes.
This was... a pure instrument of slaughter, truly made for war.
Its main structure consisted of thick adamantium and ceramic armor, with bulky hydraulic lines and power transmission systems exposed at every joint. Its hand was a full size larger than an ordinary human hand. Each of its five fingers resembled a steel talon, their tips gleaming with a chilling light. The inner side of its arm even housed a simple chainsaw bayonet that could spring out in an instant.
It looked less like an arm than a combination of a miniature crane and an industrial cutting machine.
"In recognition of your contributions," the Hospitaller explained, pointing at the mechanical arm with a metal probe, "the Adeptus Mechanicus custom-built this Punisher Mark VII combat prosthesis for you. It will let you lift a Chimera armored vehicle with one hand, or crush a Chaos Space Marine's helmet into a metal pancake with your bare fingers. Its drawbacks, of course, are high power consumption and... a little noise."
A smile appeared on the sister's face that could only be described as mischievous.
"We'll perform the connection surgery tomorrow. I hope that tenacious nervous system of yours can withstand its 'enthusiasm.'"
With that, she turned and left the room with the Servitors, leaving Alexander alone to stare at the mechanical arm, which radiated an unmistakable air of "I'm expensive, and I'm violent."
"...Pretty cyberpunk."
That was the observation that emerged from the depths of Liu Zhipeng's soul.
Alexander spent the next few days undergoing an excruciatingly painful but extraordinarily efficient course of medical treatment. Stimulated by drugs and radiation he could not name, his body recovered at a terrifying, unnatural speed.
And just as the Hospitaller had promised, the connection surgery was full of "enthusiasm."
When the mechanical arm's countless cold, viper-like neural interface probes pierced the fragile, newly grown nerve bundles in his left shoulder, pain exploded through him as though it would tear his very soul apart.
But Alexander gritted his teeth and never uttered a sound.
He had endured cycles a hundred times more painful than this and witnessed scenes a thousand times more horrific. Purely physical pain could scarcely shake his incredibly resilient soul anymore.
When the surgery ended, he tried for the first time to control that brand-new, powerful steel arm through his own will.
A wondrous sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced welled up inside him.
He could feel the gears meshing inside the arm, the flow of hydraulics, the surge of energy. It felt like part of his own body-an extension that was stronger, colder, and deadlier.
Slowly, he tried clenching his fist.
Clack-crunch-
The five steel fingers closed in the air with a teeth-grating screech of metal. Through the neural interface, that pure, explosive sense of power fed clearly back into his brain.
For a moment, he even felt that if he wanted to, he really could punch straight through the alloy wall of the room.
Just then, the door to his room opened again.
But this time, the person who entered was not the ice-faced Hospitaller.
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