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The battlefield was still. The air hung thick with the scent of scorched metal and charred flesh, the oppressive silence only broken by the occasional shifting of debris. The shrine was gone—obliterated. The land itself had collapsed beneath it, leaving nothing but a gaping ruin where blasphemous stones once stood. What remained of the battlefield was a wasteland of shattered rock and smoldering wreckage.
Cassian lay amid the rubble, body trembling with the effort to stay conscious. His armor—what little remained of it—was ruined beyond salvage. He could feel the burns against his skin, the deep bruises forming beneath, the dull ache of fractured ribs with every ragged breath. Had the ceramite held even a fraction less, he'd be dead. No question about it.
With a slow, agonized groan, he forced himself upright. The pain made his vision blur, but he pushed through it. Channeling warp energy in his body. His gaze fell upon the fallen Phoenix Lord.
The corpse was as unnatural in death as it had been in life. The once-glorious armor, now twisted by corruption, lay cracked and broken. There was no blood, just the faint shimmer of unnatural energy dissipating into the air like mist in the morning sun. And standing over the body, motionless, was Faevaleth.
She didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stared at the fallen warrior. The fire of battle had left her eyes, replaced by something cold and distant. Cassian watched her for a long moment, expecting—something. Relief, anger, even satisfaction. But there was nothing. No triumph in her posture. Just mournful silence.
Finally, she spoke.
"It's done."
Her voice was flat, stripped of emotion, yet beneath it, something was there—bitterness, resentment. Cassian wasn't sure if it was for the Phoenix Lord, or herself.
"That's it?" he asked, his own voice hoarse.
She glanced at him then, as if just remembering he was there. "Did you expect something different?"
He had. He wasn't sure what exactly, but not this.
He took another unsteady breath, feeling his body protest the motion. He had been outclassed—utterly and completely. He had known that going in, but the experience of it, the sheer helplessness, was something else entirely. He had been a distraction, nothing more. A pawn in a battle between titans. And he had barely survived. If not for his armor, he'd already be a corpse. And now, that armor was gone—shredded, burned, utterly useless.
He exhaled, forcing the thought aside. Survival came first.
Faevaleth turned, stepping over the wreckage with an effortless grace that made his own movements feel sluggish in comparison. She reached down, brushing aside broken debris, and pulled something free—a key, shimmering with an eerie, unnatural glow. The Webway key.
She looked at it for a moment before tossing it to him. He caught it, barely.
"Be at the Webway gate," she said. "On time. Or you'll be left behind."
He stared at the key, then at her. "And if I don't trust you?"
She smirked, but there was no real amusement in it. "Then die here. Your choice."
With that, she turned, walking away into the ruins without another word. No farewell, no acknowledgment. Just a departure, like the closing of a chapter.
Cassian clenched the key in his hand, feeling its unnatural hum against his skin. He had come dangerously close to death, but he had made it. Barely.
He took one last look at the battlefield, at the ruined shrine, at the corpse of the Phoenix Lord—then he turned and left, stepping forward into whatever awaited next.
Cassian stood over the remains of his armor, what was once a shield between him and certain death now reduced to useless scrap. Pieces of ceramite lay shattered at his feet, charred and cracked, the last remnants of a battle he barely survived. He ran a hand over the ruined chest plate, its once-proud form now a twisted, battered wreck. It had saved his life. But now it was dead weight.
With a grunt, he stripped off the final pieces, letting them fall with a dull clatter. His undersuit was torn, blood seeping through fabric in places where the armor failed to absorb the worst of the impacts. His Godwyn-pattern bolter was in no better state, its frame warped and barely functional. Useless. He tossed it aside. The only things he had left were his melta gun—damaged, overheated but still somewhat operational—and the Eldari blade Faevaleth had given him.
It was not much. But the beggars can't be choosers.
He turned towards the distant silhouette of the ship. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his body, but he kept moving. Slowly using warp energy to augment his frame.
---
By the time he reached the ship, exhaustion weighed on him like lead. The hull loomed above, a stark contrast to the desolation around him. As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of machine oil and incense filled his lungs. The door sealed shut behind him,, he allowed himself a breath of relief.
Magos Farron was waiting. The tech-priest's mechanical limbs twitched as his optics scanned Cassian's battered form.
"You look like you were jumped," Farron said, voice crackling with distortion. "Your armor—where is it?"
Cassian exhaled. "Gone."
Farron's mechadendrites tensed. "Gone?"
"It was useless. Took too much damage. Would've slowed me down."
The Magos made a sound that might have been a sigh, or just the venting of internal mechanisms. "A relic of the Omnissiah, lost. Wasteful."
Cassian didn't bother arguing. "Had no choice. Fight was worse than I expected. I was a distraction, nothing more."
Farron's lenses whirred as he processed the words. "The Eldar prevailed?"
Cassian gave a tired nod. "Barely." He lifted a hand, showing the small, intricate object resting in his palm. "Got the key."
The Magos' interest visibly shifted. He stepped closer, mechadendrites extending to scan the artifact. "This will grant passage to webway?"
"That's what she said. We meet her at the gate in a few days. If she doesn't decide to kill us first."
Farron clicked his mandibles. "Then we must prepare for either outcome."
Cassian gave a humorless smirk. "That was always the plan."
–
Cassian spent the following days in rest. His body was mending, but it would take more than time to recover from the brutal ordeal. His ribs ached, his limbs felt like lead, and every movement sent dull pain rolling through his muscles. He had taken a beating, and though he had survived, he was left with little but his own stubborn endurance.
Magos Farron on other hand had thrown himself into research, his mind consumed by the STC's potential. The ship was operational, but barely—it was more scrap than vessel at this point, its systems held together by ingenuity and desperation of a dying machine spirit. Despite that, Farron had managed to extract data, specifically regarding a form of nanite augmentation buried deep within the STC's archives. It was a lost relic of the Dark Age of Technology, a means of enhancing the human form beyond its natural limits.
When the Magos finally called for him, Cassian knew it was time.
The ship's interior was dimly lit, the faint glow of flickering lumen-strips casting long shadows along the rusted corridors.
He found Farron in the heart of the ship, surrounded by a tangled mess of cables and machinery, his mechadendrites twitching with excitement. Servitors stood silently by, their blank eyes staring at nothing as they waited for their next task.
"You are ready," Farron intoned, his voice crackling through his vox-grille.
Cassian exhaled sharply. "I'm alive. That'll do."
Farron gestured toward a platform where a complex array of machinery had been assembled. Cassian could see the Mechanicus sigils etched into the metal, the machine spirits appeased with offerings and rites.
"The augmentation will be… experimental," Farron admitted, his optics whirring as he regarded Cassian. "The STC's schematics are sound, but it is impossible to predict the full effects. Your body will either accept the nanites or reject them. There will be no middle ground."
Cassian nodded. "Then we'll see if I live through another bad decision."
Farron made a sound that could have been amusement or merely static interference. He moved toward a console, his mechadendrites adjusting the machine's settings.
"Lie down. The process must begin immediately. The window for proper integration is small."
Cassian settled himself onto the platform, his body sinking into the cold metal. Restraints locked around his wrists and ankles—not to hold him in place, but to ensure he did not convulse and injure himself during the procedure.
The rites began.
Farron's voice rose in a litany of binharic cant, invoking the Omnissiah's blessing as the machines hummed to life. Servitors began moving in a slow, manner, their hands arranging sacred implements. One held a censer aloft, filling the air with thick, pungent smoke. Another whispered prayers to the machine spirits, their voice monotone and dead.
Cassian's skin prickled as the first injections were administered. The nanites, microscopic and near-indestructible, entered his bloodstream in a slow, manner. His body tensed at the foreign presence, his muscles twitching involuntarily. It was not pain, but something else. Alien-like.
Farron monitored the process carefully, his optics scanning the data stream that flooded in from the machines. The perks of his stat system in turn responded as well.
"Your body is responding," he murmured. "The integration is beginning."
Cassian gritted his teeth. A slow heat spread through his limbs, a deep, burning sensation that pulsed with every beat of his heart. The nanites were moving, spreading, altering him on a level he couldn't comprehend. His nervous system screamed in protest, his veins burning as the microscopic constructs latched onto his cells and began their work.
Then the real pain hit.
Cassian let out a sharp scream, his fingers clenching against the restraints. It was like being torn apart and rebuilt simultaneously, every fiber of his being stretched beyond its natural limits. His mind reeled, instincts screaming at him to fight, to struggle, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to fight against. He could only endure.
Sensing his weakness. The warp tried to strike at his mind. Trying to Fracture it. But magos was ready. He injected psy blockers dulling his connection to the warp itself.
The servitors continued their prayers, their voices a constant, droning presence in the background. The ship itself seemed to hum with power, the machine spirits watching, waiting to see if this offering would be accepted or rejected.
Farron remained impassive, his attention locked on the data streams. "Your vitals are fluctuating. Expected. Do not resist."
Cassian forced himself to breathe through clenched teeth. "Not exactly… resisting. Fucker."
Magos barely looked at him for his crass language as he was busy monitoring his conditions.
Time blurred. Minutes, hours—he had no concept of how long he lay there, locked in the throes of transformation. The pain reached a peak of searing heat and raw, unfiltered sensation. His mind swam, teetering on the edge of madness.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
Cassian's body went slack. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, sweat slicking his skin. He felt… different.
Stronger.
He flexed his fingers, noting the fluidity of movement, the newfound strength in his grip. His injuries no longer throbbed with the same intensity. The aches and pains had dulled, his body already beginning to repair itself at an unnatural rate.
Farron studied him closely. "You survived. The nanites have fully integrated. You are… enhanced."
Cassian tried to sit up slowly, his movements steadier than before. He could feel it—subtle, but undeniable. His body had changed, strengthened, refined. He was still human, but something more now.
"How long until I know the full extent?" he asked.
Farron's mechadendrites twitched. "Time will reveal the true scope of the augmentation. But initial results are… promising."
Cassian exhaled. He had taken a step toward something new. Something unknown. But if it meant survival, he would accept it.
He stood, rolling his shoulders, testing his newfound resilience. "It is better to rest right now."
—-
Cassian Vail — Status Page
Age: 15
Race: Human (Imperium)
Occupation: Survivor of Hive Desoleum
Stats:
Physique: E (19/20)
Dexterity: E (19/20)
Intelligence: E (19/20)
Wisdom: E (15/20)
Affinity: E (12/20)
Perks:
Danger Sense
Precision Refinement
Insightful Awareness
Favour of machine spirits
Adaptive physiology
Skills:
Lexicon Proficiency — Level 42
Melee Weapon Proficiency — Level 85
Physical Conditioning — Level Max
Hand-to-Hand Combat — Level 88
Firearms Proficiency — Level 80
Mental Discipline — Level 40
Telepathy — Level 42
Tech Maintenance — Level 32
For advanced chapters
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