[ PROLOGUE: CAIN CABRIET, THE BRAVE HERO—KILLED ]
Cain never believed in Heaven, Hell, or even Purgatory. He believes that the afterlife is a hoax, and that when a person dies, as it is with animals, they'll disappear—no soul, no thought, no consciousness, no nothing. That is his belief.
Which aligned well with his philosophy, to enjoy life as much as possible, to express emotions whenever he can, to experience thrilling adventures wherever he goes. That is the life of Cain Cabriet, so-called thrill seeker.
Ever since he was young he did what he wanted, he didn't do what he didn't want to do, it was that easy. A great thing in most cases, as whenever he sees someone doing wrong to another, he speaks up; in turn being a protector.
Even when it ultimately led to his demise.
"Go, get out of here!" The bruise-up Cain, blood dripping from his forehead, yelled out to someone in particular.
A lady, that was almost naked, stripped of her clothes by the gang of ruffians around them. Some have received a one-two combo from Cain, knocked out, beaten, angry and wanting to pay him back.
In particular one ugly rat-like man with a dagger at hand, was waiting for a chance to stab him. In which he did when he noticed Cain trying to shove some of the ruffians away from the lady, giving her a chance to get out of the narrow, nasty smelling alleyway.
Snickering, the rat faced man stabbed him in the abdomen, which he thought was enough to kill or stop Cain from moving. "You shouldn't hav— huh?"
"Get the fuck off me, twat!" He was quickly proven wrong, especially when the latter gave him an uppercut to the jaw, sending him flying, while the dagger on the other hand was left embedded on the side of Cain. This bizarre scene left the other 4 thugs speechless.
Cain turned to the frightened lady, and gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about me, run!"
Doing what she was told, the young lady who seems to be a student judging from the torn clothes that she was wearing, snapped out of her fears as she then ran away. A silent thank you whispering out of her lips.
A fat thug in particular was about to lunge at her, grab her, pin her and pull her back to the others. But Cain was quick, and immediately pulled the bloodied dagger from his side, plunging it into the man's forearm, quickly stopping him.
"AHH-AHH MY ARM!"
"You son of a...!"
"Get him...!"
Smiling, Cain knows he wouldn't be able to fight 5 people at once, especially because he is surrounded by them. So he tried to hold on, fight back. Yet he was taken off guard, hit with a metal pipe in the back of the head by someone he didn't expect due to his fucked-up vision.
That was enough chance for all of them to attack him all at once, for them to get even more violent and release all their pent up stress on him instead of the girl that escaped. For blood, his own, to shower all-around them.
It stings, yet Cain didn't care, amidst the shouting and punching, he was inwardly smiling, as he protected someone from a fate that was worse than death.
And besides, he lived long enough—twenty-six years to be precise. He finished college, had supportive friends, had a very loving family in the form of his mother, father, older and younger sister. He had no regrets...
Actually, he did have one you know. He was never able to buy and read the latest Warhammer 40,000 book, which was suggested by his friend. The main reason why he was out in the middle of the night was to buy the latest copy, or at the least ones he was recommended with, by his friend.
Cain doesn't know anything about that fandom, aside from the fact that it's batshit crazy, and sounded awesome from the way his friend described it. And the fact that someone in that story was named Cain too, he was hooked.
Who would have thought that he would be getting ganged up on by thugs rather than reading that, definitely not him.
"You... pigs...!" In spite, Cain tried punching wildly at the nearest thug he could find, blocking punches by using his forehead—which seemed to be counter-productive in retrospect, as he felt even more blood drip.
In the midst of the punches, one of the thugs, the same said tiny rat-like looking individual had enough and pulled out something hidden from his waist. 'No.'
Cain who was trying to parry a metal pipe using his beaten-blue arm, wasn't able to, as he noticed the shiny object that the rat faced man pulled. A gun, shining in the middle of the night, in the darkness of the street, which caused him to freeze up, subsequently falling on his ass.
Something that the other thugs immediately took advantage of, as they surrounded Cain, restraining him while hurling insults private genitilia, something-something, which he didn't hear due to his ears ringing loudly.
At that moment, Cain remembered the face of his young nephew, merely one-year-old, and he wanted to see that young boy grow up. Especially because his older sister is a single parent, he wants to help her.
'Ahh, curse my luck." He thought, instinctively gulping down the pool of saliva stuck on his throat.
So amidst the bruise, blood, and danger that was lurking, Cain tried to defuse the situation. "We-we can talk about this." He was even ready to give his month's salary, the key to the second-hand car that he recently bought, and some packs of chewing gum, as long as he doesn't get shot.
"You want money, right? I-I have—"
[ BANG ]
"—money..." He added, the loud bang of the colt which was under the hands of the rat faced thug falling on the ground, as they all panicked.
Cursing loudly at one another, before then running away, all the while leaving Cain to stare at his own bleeding chest, in both shock and disbelief.
At his left side, near his heart, dazed and confused, not at all bothering to look at the fading figures of the ruffians. Or at the shiny metallic gun on the alleyway floor, a dangerous weapon which has 5 bullets left inside.
"What...?" In disbelief he coughed, watching in real-time as the small pool of red blood turned bigger, and bigger, and bigger. The pain seeped in even more as the adrenaline he felt previously slowly started to fade. "Oh no, no..."
And in turn panic started to creep in.
Cain knows that the neighborhood he is in at the moment isn't that populated, even more so the street that he is currently bleeding on; about to die.
More so abandoned actually, which made it very attractive to beggars, squatters, and gangsters. Bad men the latter. And at the moment, with clearing having happened the day earlier; the said block is nearly empty.
Which made it even more the worse when Cain kept yelling, trying his best to attract anyone's attention, to no avail. And after some time, the seconds drag, and Cain ultimately succumbs to his wounds.
His last thoughts were of his family, about mom and dad, about his baby sister, and on how his older sister and her son are currently doing—his nephew. Probably worrying about their next meal.
"I... don't want..." Cain said through gritted teeth, clutching his pained chest. "...to go, fuck..." Vision slowly went blurry, as he then felt darkness enveloping it seconds later, as he then stopped right after. Finally dead...
Or so he thought.
[ -----| SCENE BREAK |----- ]
"Commissar!" A Vox-caster who's huddled on one of the many ditches, yelled out amidst the screaming and gunfire all-around the battlefield. The helmet wearing soldier, who is responsible for communication, then stood at attention when the blood covered, coat-wearing man turned to him.
The Vox-caster felt fear, especially when he spotted the singular cybernetic, glowing red-eye of the man—the Commissar of the Astra Militarum, or one of many, responsible for commanding an uncountable amount of soldiers—at the moment looking at him.
He instinctively straightened up, even though doing so may accidentally expose his head from friendly fire, or from heretics shooting from all directions. Either from the trees, from the mountains, from the ground—or from the pile of dead bodies, either abominable monsters or humans.
In feeling something warm hit his shoulder, he instinctively lowered his head, crouching back on the trench, as he then reported the latest intel he heard from the other Vox-casters. Which isn't good.
"The first line of defense has been breached, sir." He continued, even though he noticed the annoyed snarl being given to him by the Commissar—who can legally kill him if he deemed it to be necessary. "The heretics are engaging with the second line of defense."
"And within hours, s-sir. At the speed that they are moving, it wouldn't be a surprise that their main force would be here." The Vox-caster added, speaking his mind in the tense situation they found themselves in, voiced panicked.
Only ever realizing that what he said sounded heretical, right after, and that he may be shot right then and there on the spot, without prompt and honor.
His lowly body dying not having the chance of fighting for the God-Emperor, thus no chance at returning to the Golden Throne; a great shame to any warrior of the Imperium.
Slowly he took a huge gulp from the saliva stuck under his throat, and slowly looked up at the Commissar—known as ruthless and efficient, the Vox-caster prayed that he may not get shot then and there.
"Contact the second line, tell them to stall for time!" He ordered, shooting at a Chaos Cultist a mile away with pinpoint accuracy, blowing the heretic's head off. "We cannot lose this world!"
But surprisingly, the known hero of Urath, Commissar Malphas Grendel, didn't do what the Vox-caster expected. Merely giving an annoyed glance at him, before then focusing back on the fighting.
"Urath cannot fall!" The Commissar continued, motivating the fearful soldier on the trench, and all-around the battlefield. Even the ones that are heavily injured. Even the scared shitless Vox-caster, as he nodded instead.
Unbeknownst to the Vox-caster, he would have been shot then and there if it was any other time. And to the other soldiers showing fear, they would not have survived a second longer if the normal Commissar Malphas were there.
Luckily at the moment, the reason why the said ruthless Commissar was so lenient with failures, is primarily because his prized Son. His one and only, is missing in action, causing him to worry and act weirdly than usual.
Who would have thought that the towering, hulking figure of the feared Commissar would be harboring such emotions. Not his soldiers, and definitely not his Son that is. Yet... that fact is true, which fueled his rage even more.
Purging any chaos filth he could find, even though the chaos cultists range in the millions. And at the moment, fighting with even more zealots in comparison to his own soldiers—he cannot lose.
So baring his teeth, he eyed the chaos cultist up ahead, hidden inside the mist of Urath wherein the battlefield is ensuing; pass the field of green now infested with red blood instead. Layered with bodies both from allies and foes.
And in worry, he thought about his Son. The usually careless, spoiled, and easy-going Son of his. The only reminder of his of the better days, now missing, gone; either dead, or worse...
The Commissar could hear laughing all-around the mist amidst the gunfire, shells, and explosions, as if mocking him. And in that, he became even more enraged; causing him to grip at his long sword, decorated with medals, and for blood to flow down his hands.
All the while the other gripped at his giant sized Bolt Pistol, ready to make an example out of any would-be idiotic heretic. His singular cybernetic red eye on the other hand, flared even more red as he scanned for any enemies.
He found many, and instantly, he shot fire at them without fear or confusion; determined to end all of them, the sooner the better, because it means he would have all the time in the world to search for his Son—Cain Malphas.
"For the God-Emperor!" He roared, loud enough to make it seem like the ground shook because of him, and for the once feverous cultists to pause in their steps, before then dying suddenly thanks to getting shot.
'And for my Son!'
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[ FUN FACT: "Warhammer 40,000 (often called WH40K, or 40K) is a massive science-fantasy universe that began in 1987 as a tabletop wargame. It is famous for being the "godfather" of the grimdark genre—a style of fiction characterized by being incredibly dark, cynical, and violent. The series is set in the 41st Millennium, where humanity is a crumbling, fanatical interstellar empire fighting a losing battle against terrifying aliens and literal demons." ]
[ 12/28/2025 ]
[ 01/01/2025 ]
AN: happy new year everybody, it's now officially 2026, and we are now closer to the year 2050 rather than the year 2000. Fuck, that's a scary thought. Anyways, here's the reboot to y'all's favorite WH40K book—2,000 words, a chapter per day, that's the best I can do—and that's my new year's resolution, for those who aren't in the know. You know?