Consolidation The Forging of Indomitus: Indomitus Knights

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1316​

Author: Lord Relictor Tychus​

Subject: Unanointed Review​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The wind howled like a dying beast across the battlements of Castle Astelan, its ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of storms. Below the fortress, the jagged peaks of Mithras’ mountains speared the clouds, their slopes lost in mist. Above, the sky churned — a bruised tapestry of violet and iron-gray, lit intermittently by the cold glare of Mithras’ distant sun.

Lord Relictor Tychus stood at the edge of the training yard, his gaze fixed on the two groups assembled before him.

To his left, the Unanointed — raw aspirants, clad in drab fatigues, their faces still marked by the uncertainty of those who had not yet sworn the Lex Valoris. They were strong, yes. They had survived the initial culling. But they were not yet forged.

To his right, the Squires — those who had passed the trials, who had knelt in the Chamber of Oaths and spoken the words that bound them to the Legion. Their black armor bore the first etchings of heraldry, their eyes sharp with the beginnings of true conviction. They were no longer mere hopefuls. They were promise.

“You stand at the threshold,” Tychus intoned, his voice cutting through the wind. “The Unanointed see only the trial ahead. The Squires know the trial never ends.”

A young Squire - Sibrand - stood rigid among his peers, his knuckles white around the hilt of his training blade. He had sworn the oath. He had survived the breaking.

Now, he would learn what came next.

And the mountains would bear witness.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1317​

Author: Grandmaster Vitiaton​

Subject: Combat Instructions​

Location: Gotha, Indomitus Citadel​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The vast training hall echoed with the clash of steel and the crack of ionized air as energy blades met in furious arcs. The walls, carved from black basalt and reinforced with durasteel, bore the scars of centuries of war—scorched grooves from deflected blaster bolts, deep gashes from vibroswords, and the faint, lingering ozone scent of lightsaber strikes. This was where the First Host trained. Where the best of the Indomitus Legion honed their art.

Grandmaster Vitiaton stood atop the observation platform, his armored silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the crimson glow of Gotha’s horizon, visible through the towering arched windows. Below him, the warriors of the Risen moved with lethal precision—each strike, each parry, each step a testament to their unrelenting discipline.

Among them, Praetorian Blademaster Ceremis danced through her opponents, her twin curved sabers a blur of crimson. She disarmed one Knight with a flick of her wrist, then pivoted to drive the pommel of her off-hand blade into another’s gut, sending him staggering.

“Pathetic,” she sneered, deactivating her weapons. “Is this the best the Legion has to offer?”

A ripple of tension passed through the room. Heavy footsteps moved as the Grandmaster of the First Host himself entered the sparring pit and drew his blade.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1317b​

Author: Grandmaster Vitiaton​

Subject: Combat Instructions​

Location: Gotha, Indomitus Citadel​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The air still hummed with residual energy, the scent of scorched metal and ionized sweat clinging to the training hall. The warriors of the First Host stood in rigid silence, their gazes locked on the scarred duracrete floor where moments before, Grandmaster Vitiaton and Praetorian Blademaster Ceremis had clashed in a storm of crimson and silver.

Neither had yielded.

Now, Ceremis stood before the assembled Indomitus Knights, her usual smirk absent. A thin line of blood traced from her temple where Vitiaton’s gauntlet had grazed her—proof that even the Legion’s finest duelist was not untouchable.

"We do not fight as to grant our enemy honor," she spat, pacing before them like a caged nexu.

She ignited one of her curved sabers, its crimson blade casting jagged shadows across the faces of the watching Knights.

"A dual-wielder fights erratically and relies on speed. They do not fight clean. They will overwhelm you with speed, with angles you do not expect—"

With a sudden twist, she lunged at the nearest Knight, her second blade flashing to life mid-strike. He barely raised his sword in time, the impact sending him stumbling back.

"You must be faster. Not in body but in mind."

Vitiaton watched from the shadows, arms crossed. His presence was a silent verdict: This is the standard. Meet it.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1318​

Author: Lord Relictor Tychus​

Subject: Marching Drill​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The wind screamed like a dying star, hurling sleet and gravel against the armored forms of the Squires as they ascended the jagged spine of the mountain. Their black plate was already crusted with ice, their breath ragged in the thin air. No water. No rations. Only the relentless cadence of their boots against the rock, the iron weight of their armor, and the distant, ever-present gaze of the Paladin Relictors watching from the cliffs above.

Sibrand clenched his jaw, his muscles burning with each step. His lungs were raw, his vision blurred at the edges—but he did not slow. To falter was to fail. To fail was to be left behind. It was when he started to understand his armor and his new physique, it started to kick in as soon as he wanted it, as soon as willpower and adrenaline came, so did the bio-chemical and mechanical support that he was gifted with.

A Squire to his right stumbled, crashing to his knees with a gasp. One of the Relictors—a towering figure in obsidian war-plate—descended like a shadow.

"Get up."

The fallen Squire did not tremble, he forced himself on his hands and slowly getting up, his fingers scraping against the frostbitten stone.

"I said — get up."

Sibrand didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. The lesson was clear: The Legion does not carry the weak. They all were only recently anointed, their armor was heavy and the scars of the Indomitus Anointment were fresh, their bodies recovering from the invasive alteration.

Somewhere above, lightning split the sky, casting the peaks in stark, skeletal relief. The storm was coming.

And the march had only begun.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1319​

Author: Lord Relictor Tychus​

Subject: Tactical Lesson​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The great iron doors of the lecture chamber groaned shut behind the last of the exhausted Squires, sealing them inside the dim, vaulted hall. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and oiled metal, the only light coming from the flickering holoprojector at the center of the room. The Paladin Relictors dropped them off like a delivery, their impassive helms betraying no sympathy for the trembling limbs and hollow stares of the recruits.

Sibrand forced his spine straight against the weight of his armor, his muscles screaming from the march. His hands, still numb from the cold, clenched into fists under the table—pain was irrelevant. Focus was mandatory.

A grizzled Company Master activated the holodisplay, the blue glow illuminating his scarred face. Grey eyes as cold as the area surround Castle Astelan glanced at each of the exhausted Squires. He was in fact the commander of their unit, 5th Company, 2nd Banner, 5th Host and they would get to know him much more closely soon enough.

"Fire and movement," he barked, as the projection shifted to show a squad of Legionnaires advancing under simulated blasterfire. "Not a suggestion. Not a theory. The foundation upon which the Indomitus Legion breaks its enemies."

The lesson was brutal in its simplicity. Angles of advance. Cover arcs. Suppression and flanking. The Centurion’s voice was a hammer, each word driving the concepts deeper into their skulls.

A Squire two rows ahead swayed, his eyelids fluttering — until the Squire next to him slammed his gauntlet onto his shoulder, jerking him upright. Some of the Squires were barely 18 years old, most were in their 20s, few were older than 30.

Sibrand exhaled slowly, his gaze locked on the tactical diagrams. This was not philosophy. This was survival.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1320​

Author: Grandmaster Vitiaton​

Subject: Mission Report​

Location: Gotha, Indomitus Citadel​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The glow of tactical reports cast flickering shadows across Grandmaster Vitiaton’s impassive face as he reviewed the performance data of the new Squires. The numbers were acceptable — but numbers alone did not forge warriors. His gaze lingered on Sibrand’s file, the boy’s resilience notable. Yet resilience untested was merely potential.

A chime from the holotable drew his attention — a casualty report from a recent skirmish with Outer Rim raiders. The names meant nothing to him. The pattern, however, was familiar.

Too familiar.

---

Memory: One Year Prior – Pirate Incursion on the Mining World of Veygar

The distress call had been a trap.

The Knights of Eight Squad, Third Banner — fresh from their anointment, their armor still unmarked by battle—had dropped into the refinery complex expecting a routine suppression. Instead, they found ambush. Blasterfire erupted from the shadows, cutting down two before they could even raise their rifles or shields.

Knight-Lieutenant Doric had been the first to react, dragging a wounded brother behind cover as rounds sparked against the durasteel crates.

"Shields front! Suppressing fire on my mark!"

They fought like cornered beasts, their discipline fraying under the weight of panic. When the smoke cleared, three Knights were dead. Two more would never fight again.

---

Vitiation stared silently, the memory dissolving like mist. The survivors of Eight Squad had been punished, yes — drilled until their bones cracked and their minds burned. But they had not been broken.

Because the Legion understood this truth: Failure was inevitable. Abandonment was not.

The fallen had been buried with honor. The living had carried their names forward.

And when Eight Squad next marched to war, they did so as brothers. He could attest to it, they had earned their honors.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1321​

Author: Lord Relictor Tychus​

Subject: Physical Extremes​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The training yard was a pit of snarled iron and scarred stone, at its edges stood two of the silent, armored forms of the Paladin Relictors in their dark green armors and bone-color surcoats. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and sweat as Praetorian Blademaster Ceremis paced before the assembled Squires, her crimson cloak snapping in the mountain wind.

She was different here.

No boasts. No theatrical flourishes. Just the cold, predatory focus of a warrior who had long since learned that words were weaker than action.

"Again," she commanded, her voice cutting through the labored breathing of the exhausted recruits.

The Squires — drenched in sweat, their muscles trembling from hours of relentless drills — exchanged glances. They had already pushed beyond what they thought possible.

Ceremis ignited her training saber, the crackling energy casting jagged shadows across her face.

"You think this is your limit?" She scoffed. "The Indomitus Anointment does not reward the strong. It rewards those who refuse to break."

With a flick of her wrist, she sent a wave of Force energy rippling through the dirt, kicking up a storm of dust and pebbles. The Squires staggered as they tried to brace and put up their weapons — but Sibrand, his vision swimming, dug his heels in and held.

Ceremis’ eyes locked onto his.

"Good."

Then she attacked.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1322​

Author: Lord Relictor Tychus​

Subject: Sword Lessons​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command, Legion Command​

---

The clang of durasteel echoed through the torch-lit training pit as Sibrand circled his opponent, the humming power sword heavy in his grip. Across from him, Squire Cadric sneered, rolling his shoulders beneath his scarred training armor. A veteran of three campaigns before his induction, Cadric was taller, broader, his arms thick with the corded muscle of a born brawler.

"They paired you with me as a mercy," Cadric taunted, testing the weight of his own crackling blade. "I’ll make it quick."

The Paladin Relictor overseeing the match gave no signal — only the slow, deliberate tilt of his helmet.

Begin.

Cadric struck first, a brutal overhead chop meant to split Sibrand’s guard, it was not savage or aimless but executed with technical strength. The younger Squire barely twisted aside, his parry shuddering up his arms as the blades shrieked against each other. He countered with a slash to Cadric’s ribs — only for the older recruit to pivot and slam a gauntleted fist into his jaw.

Sibrand staggered, tasting blood.

Around them, the other Squires watched in silence. There were no cheers here. No encouragement. Only the cold assessment of warriors measuring their own brothers' progress and growth.

Cadric lunged again, his blade a blur of cerulean energy —

Sibrand let him come.

And this time, Sibrand moved differently.

Instead of retreating, he stepped into the strike, twisting his torso just enough to let the blade graze his pauldron. Before Cadric could recover, Sibrand pivoted on his back foot and drove the pommel of his sword into the older Squire’s temple.

The impact rang out like a struck bell. Cadric stumbled, his guard dropping for half a second —

— half a second was all Sibrand needed.

His next slash was precise, controlled. The flat of his blade cracked against Cadric’s wrist, numbing his grip. The senior Squire’s weapon clattered to the ground, its hum dying instantly.

Silence.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1323​

Author: Lord Relictor Tychus​

Subject: Pride​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: High Command, Legion Command​

---

The training hall had emptied, the last echoes of clashing blades fading into the vaulted darkness. Only the faint hum of dormant power armor and the distant echo of the Fortresses vast halls remained. Praetorian Blademaster Ceremis stood at the center of the scarred dueling circle, her twin sabers deactivated but still clutched in white-knuckled fists. The metallic tang of ionized air clung to her as she replayed the bout in her mind—the way her last opponent had crumpled, the approving murmurs of the watching Knights.

A shadow moved at the edge of the chamber.

She didn’t need to turn to know who approached. The weight of his presence pressed against the room like a stormfront.

"You left Knight Lieutenant Veyd with a fractured femur," Lord Relictor Tychus remarked, his voice devoid of inflection. His boots echoed on the polished basalt as he stepped into the dim crimson light cast by the sanctum’s lumen-candles. "An avoidable injury."

Ceremis flicked a strand of sweat-damp hair from her eyes. "He failed to guard his flank. The lesson was necessary."

Tychus circled her slowly, his gaze tracing the fresh burns on the dueling floor—marks of her unrestrained strikes. "Lessons require control. What you displayed was indulgence."

She opened her mouth to retort, but his raised gauntlet silenced her.

"Pride is a luxury the Legion cannot afford," he continued, stopping before her. The candlelight carved deep hollows beneath his eye sockets, making him look more revenant than man. "You are not a gladiator seeking applause. You are a weapon forged for a war that will outlive us all."

A muscle twitched in Ceremis’ jaw. She could still feel the adrenaline singing in her veins, the intoxicating rush of dominance.

Tychus leaned closer, his next words a blade between the ribs: "The Shrouded Circle watches. They do not need blades—they need precision."

The unspoken threat hung between them. Ceremis exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers loosening around her sabers.

"Understood, Lord Relictor."

He held her gaze for three more heartbeats before turning away. "See that it is."

As his footsteps receded, Ceremis stared at her reflection in the blackened floor — and not for the first time, saw not a conqueror, but a cog in a machine far greater than herself.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1324​

Author: Lord Relictor Tychus​

Subject: Pride​

Location: Gotha, Indomitus Citadel​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: High Command, Legion Command​

---

The air inside the Inner Chapel was thick with the scent of smoldering incense and ozone. Fourteen high-backed obsidian thrones formed a silent circle beneath the vaulted ceiling, their surfaces etched with the names of battles lost to history. Only three were occupied.

Lord Relictor Tychus joined one of the thrones at the chamber’s center, his breath fogging the heavy but cold air. Before him, the holographic visage of the Imperial Warmaster flickered in the gloom, his face obscured by the crimson-edged hood of his battle robe.

"The preparation progresses," Warmaster @Imperius intoned, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "But the Jedi and Sith are not our true prey."

To Tychus’ left, High Justice Voradun leaned forward, his cybernetic eye whirring as it refocused. "The artifact?"

"Recovered," Tychus confirmed. He activated a hololith between them—a jagged obsidian shard pulsing with unnatural darkness. "The Bryn’adûl called it ‘The Silence.’ The Praetorians retrieving it confirmed . . . it dampens the Force around it."

A sharp inhale came from the third figure, the Lord Arcanum, his augmetic fingers steepled before his ruined face. "Then the Wardens’ theory was correct. The Force can be broken."

The Warmaster’s hood shifted slightly. "This changes nothing of our public doctrine. The Legion remains the sword of Imperial hegemony. But the Shrouded Circle will now set its gaze on gathering our forces." His gaze burned into Tychus. "You duty will be central."

Tychus bowed lower. "With our expansion and establishment of new Castles, I will assure you that we are ready."

"Good." The Warmaster’s image dissolved into static. "The galaxy must never suspect we do not seek to rule the Force and the prying eyes of Jedi and Sith kept blind."

As the thrones powered down, Tychus rose. The path ahead was clear, the task monumental.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1325​

Author: Grandmaster Vitiaton​

Subject: Armoring Ritual​

Location: Gotha, Indomitus Citadel​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Private​

---

The armory was silent save for the hiss of polishing cloth over blackened ceramite. Grandmaster Vitiaton sat upon a worn campaign stool, his crimson surcoat draped across his lap as he worked. Around him, the scent of gun oil and molten wax filled the air—sacred incense to a warrior’s vigil.

His armor, onyx plate edged in gold, lay disassembled across the bench. Each piece bore the scars of a hundred battles: the gouge across the left pauldron from a Bryn’adûl cleaver, the faint scoring along the breastplate where a Jedi’s blade had glanced aside. His hands moved with methodical precision, rubbing adamant polish into every crevice until the black finish shone like a starless night.

The knightly helm came next, its stern visor darkened by soot and plasma burns. Vitiaton cleaned the vox-grille with a wire brush, ensuring no blood or ash remained to muffle his commands in battle. The golden laurels etched into its brow—mark of the First Host—caught the dim light as he set it aside.

His weapons demanded equal reverence. The longsword, its fuller inscribed with the names of fallen brothers, drew a whetstone down its mono-molecular edge twenty times—no more, no less. The heavy blaster pistol disassembled in his palms, each component cleaned and blessed with sacred unguents before reassembly.

Last, the high shield, its red face emblazoned with the Legion’s sigil. He tested the servo joints in its bracing clamps, the hydraulics whispering as they flexed. Satisfied, he traced the oath engraved along its rim:

As the citadel’s dawn bell tolled, Vitiaton rose. Piece by piece, the armor returned to his body — not a shell, but a second skin attached by the hooded armigers that silently served the Legion.

The galaxy would break before he did.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1326​

Author: Squire Sibrand​

Subject: Silence​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Private​

---

The torchlight bled shadows across the ancient stone as Sibrand carried his crate of freshly sharpened training blades through the undercrofts. The air smelled of damp metal and old blood — this deep in the fortress, even sound seemed to die prematurely.

Then he heard it.

"—Dark Circle has approved another culling—"

The voice came from a side passage, barely more than a whisper. Sibrand froze, his grip tightening on the crate.

"Not our concern," a second voice rasped. "Just pray you never see their sigils on the induction rolls."

A boot scuffed stone. Sibrand ducked behind a pillar as two Paladin Relictors passed, their green armor swallowing the torchlight. One carried a data-slate glowing with crimson runes—the other had fresh blood on his gauntlets. Their enigmatic faceplates did not see or notice his presence and his infraction.

Then a hand clamped down on Sibrand’s shoulder.

"Ears are the first thing to get recruits killed," growled Knight-Lieutenant Doric, his scarred face inches from Sibrand’s. The older warrior’s breath reeked of stims and iron.

Sibrand opened his mouth—

"No." Doric’s grip became a vice. "You didn’t hear anything. You will never hear anything. Or next time, it won’t be me who finds you."

The young Squire nodded and with the hood pulled deep into his face so that his black tattoos almost melted with the darkness, he continued carrying the crate to its destination.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1327​

Author: Grandmaster Vitiaton​

Subject: Military Administration​

Location: Gotha, Indomitus Citadel​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command​

---

The hololithic display cast a ghostly blue pallor across Grandmaster Vitiaton's scarred face as he stood motionless before the shimmering Order of Battle. The air hummed with the low-frequency vibration of the citadel's ancient power cores, a sound like distant thunder that never truly faded. His armored fingers danced through the projection, peeling back layers of tactical data with the precision of a surgeon dissecting a corpse.

The First Host stretched before him in perfect, lethal symmetry.

Four Banners. Twenty Companies. Two hundred Squads.

His gaze first fell upon First Banner - the Host's iron spine. Five Companies of veterans who had survived the Bryn'adûl meat-grinders and the Jedi purges on Dromund Kaas. Their sigils glowed a deeper crimson in the display, each Company Master's name etched in battle-honors:

• 1st Company "The Immortal Shield" - The Legion's Premier Veterans
• 2nd Company "Storm of Vandelar" - Veteran Assault Specialists
• 3rd Company "Blackened Talons" - Veteran Assault Specialists
• 4th Company "Ashen Dawn" - Siege and fire-support
• 5th Company "Wraithborn" - Reconnaissance and sabotage

Vitiaton's lips thinned as he noted Banner Master Koryk's latest casualty report from the Central Front footholds. Acceptable losses, but the 3rd Company's close-combat specialists were being bled faster than projected. He tagged two Squads from the 2nd Company for rotation into their position.

His attention shifted to Second Banner, the workhorse of the Host. Standard line Companies, but with three specialized formations among them:

• 6th Company "Warriors of the Watch" - Master of the Defence
• 7th Company "Heralds of Ultima" - Speeder Assault Specialists
• 8th Company "Knights of Odessen" - Veteran Battleline
• 9th Company "Iron Choir" - Heavy weapons and armor support
• 10th Company "Void Reapers" - Boarding warfare specialists

A notification pulsed at the edge of the display - Knight-Lieutenant Draxus of the 10th Company's 7th Squad had fallen during the recent cleansing of the Derriphan asteroid belt. Vitiaton marked his second-in-command for promotion without hesitation. The machine could not pause for grief.

Third Banner showed troubling signs. Their 15th Company had failed a readiness drill. Vitiaton's finger hovered over the demotion protocol before instead summoning their Company Master's service record. Mhm. Former 1st Banner Lieutenant. With an impulse from his brain send to his armor, it opened a channel to summon the Company Master. He would not tolerate underperformance and therefore failure among his Host.

The Fourth Banner was currently deployed to Castle Astelan on Mithras for training and drill support. The Lord Relictor had ordered them there to help with the expansion of the training program.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1328​

Author: Squire Sibrand​

Subject: Silence​

Location: Mithras, Castle Astelan​

Sector: Vandemar​

Subsector: Vandemar​

Access Grade: Lower Command​

---

The air tasted of scorched earth and ionized metal as Sibrand took his position in the battleline, his boots sinking into the ashen soil. The weight of the Legion-issue stormshield anchored his left arm, its blackened surface still warm from the last plasma burst. To his right, Knight-Lieutenant Veyd checked the power cell of his rifle with a practiced twist. To his left, Brother-Squire Harkon adjusted his grip on his shield, knuckles whitening beneath his gauntlets.

"Battleline—forward!"

The command crackled through Sibrand's helmet vox. As one, ten shields snapped into perfect alignment, forming an unbroken wall of black ceramite edged in gold. The thunder of heavy blasters erupted from the support squads behind them, bolts screaming overhead to impact the distant target bunkers in blossoms of orange fire.

First Advance. Sibrand's muscles burned as he pushed forward, keeping the shield's lower edge angled into the mock-killzone. A training round ricocheted off the frontal plating with a crack that vibrated up his arm. He didn't flinch. Flinching meant failing. Failing meant the electro-lash.

"Halt! Volley fire—now!"

The battleline stopped as if struck by a god's hand. In the half-second lull between support squad barrages, ten carbine barrels extended between shield gaps. Sibrand's targeting reticule flashed green. He exhaled—

Crack-crack-crack.

The simultaneous discharge left his ears ringing. Three hundred meters downrange, automated target drones shattered.

Second Advance. Now the air smelled of molten earth as support squads switched to incendiary rounds, turning the killzone into a hellscape. Heat washed over Sibrand's faceplate as he marched through synthetic flames, his shield deflecting debris. The vox buzzed with damage reports—someone in 3rd Squad had stumbled. The line didn't pause.

Then came the moment he'd trained for.

"Close killzone! Breach and clear!"

The battleline exploded forward, shields locking into a wedge as they hit the bunker's mock-defenses. Sibrand's world narrowed to the two meters ahead—sparks flying as his shield crushed through razor wire, boots finding purchase on shattered plasteel. He smelled the ozone before he saw the combat droid rising from cover—

—and drove his shield's lower edge into its thoracic casing with all his enhanced strength. Metal shrieked. The thing collapsed. His rifle barked twice into its cranial unit.

Silence.

Only when the horns of the Iron Choir sounded the exercise's end did Sibrand realize his hands were shaking. Not from fear.

From adrenaline, from a new addiction that would haunt him for the rest of his life. War was in his blood.

---

 

[Imperius]

​

---

Ref-Inq: 7-Aurek/110181i-1329​

Author: Company Master Urias​

Subject: Imperial Compliance Action Xyrrhan IV​

Location: Xyrrhan IV, Outer Darkness Wastes​

Sector: Sector #4479-Δ​

Access Grade: Common Command, High Command​

---

The acid rain fell in sheets, hissing against Company Master Urias' black-and-gold warplate as he surveyed the killing field through enhanced retinal displays. Xyrrhan IV's northern hemisphere was a graveyard of obsidian monoliths and bubbling tar pits, the perfect terrain for the insurgents' last stand. His thermal scanners painted the enemy positions in hellish orange - three thousand zealots dug into the basalt crevices, their stolen Republic artillery pointed at the valley approach.

Urias' vox-bead crackled. "2nd Host elements in position. Skytrooper vanguard expendable at your discretion."

He didn't respond. The droid battalions were already marching into the killzone, their white plastoid shells turning black under chemical rainfall. Let the rebels waste their opening salvoes on metal flesh.

"4th Company," Urias' voice was a glacier cracking, "Initiate Protocol Hades."

The earth trembled as the Legion's hidden artillery spoke from behind their lines. Not explosive shells - but phosphor-incendiary. The monoliths became pillars of fire, superheated stone exploding outward in shrapnel waves. Screams echoed across the vox as rebel positions became ovens.

Urias watched dispassionately as the Skytrooper units hit the first trench line. 63% attrition rate. Acceptable.

"Knight-Lieutenant Voss," he signaled to his 3rd Squad leader, "Take the left flank. Imperial Army will draw their reserves."

The human auxiliaries moved up without protest, their durasteel armor useless against the insurgents' rad-carbines. Urias observed as the first three platoons were cut apart, their deaths pulling the enemy's heavy weapons into the open.

Now.

"Praetorians - break them."

From hidden crevices, seven crimson-cloaked warriors erupted in a storm of plasma and crackling Force energy. Urias' tactical display lit up with kill-feeds as the enemy command structure disintegrated. The 4th Company advanced behind this tempest, their black shields deflecting the sporadic return fire.

A warning flashed - insurgent armor emerging from the tar pits. Urias didn't blink. "7th Squad, sacrificial containment."

Seven Legionnaires deliberately drew fire of enemy tanks' guns, lighting them up with their mostly anti-infantry weapons. Four of them died only seconds later, their shattered bodies bought the microseconds needed for the Legion's anti-armor teams to lock on. The resulting explosions painted the rain with burning promethium.

By dusk, the valley stank of cooked flesh and melted metal. Urias stood amidst the corpses, reviewing casualty reports:

• Skytrooper Units: 89% destroyed
• Imperial Army: 72% casualties
• 4th Company: 11 dead, 3 critically wounded

He marked the battlefield for orbital purification, then turned to his surviving lieutenants. "Rally point Sigma in ninety. Interrogate, no prisoners."

The math was simple: The Legion had traded 14,000 expendable assets and 11 true warriors to annihilate an enemy stronghold. A favorable equation.

Somewhere in the toxic fog, a wounded rebel crawled toward a fallen rad-carbine. Urias' Lancer pistol barked once.

The equation balanced.

---