This Is Our Warhammer Journey

"I trust your judgment."

Arthur didn’t think that, as a transmigrator, he knew better than a battle-hardened commander of the Cadian regiment when it came to reading the battlefield.

So he chose to respect the local's decision.

After all, standing behind them were Cadians—not delicate flowers needing to be coddled.

Maybe before, he and Romulus had held some doubts about the Astra Militarum, shaped by stereotypes. But now, after facing battle together with these soldiers, they finally understood just how much weight those words in the lore actually carried.

These were people born on Cadia, the fortress world that had resisted Abaddon the Despoiler’s Black Crusades twelve times and still stood. From the moment their hearts first beat, they had been locked in struggle with the vilest forces in the galaxy—and survived.

And the regiment behind them was the 43rd Cadian Regiment, an army forged on the very world that had held the line against Abaddon’s countless assaults.

They were the elite of the Astra Militarum—the model soldiers other regiments across the galaxy looked up to.

The colonel’s words weren’t some noble farewell. He genuinely meant what he said—they could do it.

Freed of hesitation, Arthur and Romulus accelerated without holding back. Like sprinters reacting to a starting gun, they launched forward at absurd speed, blasting grime and dust through the corridors, leaving it all behind them.

With the metallic thud of armored boots and the rush of wind at their backs, the Astartes, now unshackled, were unstoppable.

But Colonel Kovek didn’t sigh in relief at the Angels’ trust—instead, his expression grew even more complex.

Those two had no idea that their instinctive respect for life was a luxury in this age.

Drip—

Tremors rippled through the corridor. Water trickled down the jagged edge of broken steel, splashing onto exposed bone and seeping into torn flesh.

In that dim path lit only by scattered, unidentified light sources, countless cultists lay in wait, ready to offer their strength to their master.

Of course, for heretics who had fallen to Chaos, "waiting" wasn’t exactly quiet or orderly.

The floor was riddled with holes, strewn with mangled limbs.

Axes hacked through bone. From the piles of corpses came weak moans—survivors fused with the dead flesh.

The Warp’s miasma stank so foul it twisted the soul, silently warping the surroundings.

After finishing off those heretics who worshipped the “Corpse-God,” the cultists—each loyal to a different Ruinous Power—naturally reached a brief consensus: fight each other.

So in the darkness, yet another chaotic internal war broke out.

At last, after nearly ten minutes of butchery, a victor emerged. He finally lowered his axe, his body covered in gaping wounds down to the bone, yet breathing like he felt no pain at all.

Khorne’s blessing gathered in his soul. He gazed at the cultists now bowing in fear before him. Bone plates pushed through his cheeks, slowly obscuring his face. Not even the former cult leaders dared challenge him anymore.

But—

"Not enough!"

The heretic roared. His voice boomed through the corridor, blood pouring from cracks in the ceiling.

"Still not enough!"

"I need a stronger opponent—!"

In the next moment, the air around him plunged in temperature. Moisture condensed into droplets, clinging to his twisted horns.

The chilling cold gnawed at his mind, nearly forcing a scream from his throat.

He knew—the mighty Blood God had answered his prayer. His opponent had come. The hunt was about to begin!

Yes—the hunt. What was he supposed to do again—

Fight? Yeah… no, no, that’s not it.

Run? Yes! Yes, he had to run!

Run! Flee!

The heretic turned and grabbed the wall for support. He needed to find that angel, the one blessed by divine power. Only Khorne's chosen were worthy of such a foe. How could he even dream of claiming such prey?

But the Blood God does not forgive cowards. As the wind moving in the shadows took form, his scream was forever silenced in his throat.

He couldn’t make out the figure’s outline, fused into the surrounding darkness—only a glimpse of the sacred golden Aquila beneath a tattered robe.

He couldn’t hear the sword’s whistle through the air—only drowned in the agony of his flesh being torn apart and his lifeforce drained.

The Blood God looked down from His throne, puzzled for a moment. Then, with a shrug of disinterest, He turned His furious gaze toward a more worthy arena.

In unending pain, the traitor’s life came to an end. His remains—filthy chunks of meat—collapsed in the corridor, and even his soul could no longer return to the master he once worshipped… and so easily betrayed.

As for Arthur, he was just the Angel who crushed a speck of dust beneath his boot. Without so much as a glance, he turned into a gale and charged toward the next corridor.

"Faster."

He paused for half a second while Romulus planted the marker and set up the autocannon. Arthur was visibly irritated.

Thrown into this shthole without warning, dragged into some ridiculous free-for-all, and now forced to leave people behind for a mission that might decide the fate of the entire ship—

His grip on the sword twitched. He could sense a massive, twisted shadow lurking in the dark passage.

Even more annoyed now.

That jarring feeling—that disconnect between this reality and everything he knew—made Arthur want to destroy every source of discomfort.

"Blood for the—"

A hulking form emerged from the shadows.

A Chaos Space Marine—towering, like a tower of blood and steel.

His battle-scarred armor and the pulsing flesh filling its cracks told of long ages spent in the Warp.

Arthur said nothing.

He wasn’t like Romulus, who could adapt, always find something to do.

He just wanted to end this, fast, and find a quiet place to sit down and think about what the f** he was supposed to do next.

Arthur’s counterattack was lightning-quick. He swung his shield to deflect the oncoming axe, then raised his power sword and drove it twice into the enemy’s neck.

Splurt—

Even in death, the Chaos-warped monster never finished his blasphemous warcry.

Clang!

Twisting with the strike, Arthur flung the blood-slicked sword free. The arcing blade, crackling with electricity, scraped through armor and buried itself in the steel wall.

Another oversized head hit the floor.

Clean. Efficient.