Chapter 457: The Trials Begin
The world of the mid-hive was forever shrouded in the deafening roar of gigantic operating machinery. The air was thick with the pungent stench of mixed metal dust and machine oil.
Grumm had just finished a twelve-standard-hour shift, dragging his exhausted body out of the ear-splitting stamping workshop.
His oil-stained overalls clung tightly to his unusually robust physique, hardened by years of manual labor. The residual echoes of the machinery still rang in his ears, and his gaze was somewhat unfocused from sheer fatigue.
A simple sampling station had been set up in the temporary rest area near the workshop entrance. A moderately sized line had formed in front of it, mostly consisting of young workers around his age.
"I heard from the foreman that it's the Imperial Fists selecting people," the young man ahead of him lowered his voice, speaking with a tone of reverence. "Those golden giants..."
Grumm nodded silently, using the rough cloth towel hanging around his neck to wipe the sweat and grime from his face.
To him, the Astartes were legends occasionally mentioned over the assembly line vox-casts, the ultimate incarnations of power and order, living gods who protected humanity from countless horrors across the galaxy.
He never imagined he could ever have any intersection with such existences.
His original trajectory of fate had been clearly visible: to become a qualified artisan amidst this endless noise and toil, marry, have children, and repeat the lives of his forebears.
If he were selected, it would mean shattering these predestined chains of fate. It meant his insignificant life might make a contribution to the Imperium far beyond the assembly lines.
When it was his turn, he somewhat clumsily extended his arm.
A Tech-Priest's apprentice used a sterile cotton swab to wipe a relatively clean patch of skin on his thick wrist, before pressing the sensor against it.
A slight sting followed.
Grumm stared at the genetic codes scrolling rapidly across the data slate. His mind went blank, leaving only a vague yet profound sense of anticipation.
A few days later, the section foreman personally informed him of the results right there in the workshop.
The middle-aged man, who usually wore a constant stern expression, clapped him hard on the shoulder. His voice carried a trace of barely detectable excitement: "Good lad, Grumm! You've been chosen!"
The roar of the surrounding machinery seemed to abruptly recede at this moment.
Grumm stood frozen in place. It took several seconds before a surge of intense, pure emotion suddenly rushed into his heart.
On his face—darkened by machine oil and time, usually devoid of expression—the muscles slowly twitched, finally blossoming into a brilliantly clear smile.
That smile was filled with unbelievable anticipation, as if a ray of sunlight had pierced through the eternal gloom of the mid-hive.
Magos Ryo and Sigismund stood within the command center of the Spear of Dorn fortress. Beyond the massive observation window lay the overlapping, layered hive city landscape of Necromunda.
The two had just finished reviewing the genetic matching reports of the five thousand candidates. The data slates were casually placed on the tactical table.
"Five thousand genetically compatible candidates," Sigismund spoke first, his gaze still lingering outside the window. "But we both know that the vast majority of them will ultimately fail to receive the seed."
Ryo's mechanical body emitted a faint operational hum as his optical lenses turned toward the Marshal of the Black Templars. "The scarcity of the gene-seed dictates that we must conduct the most rigorous screening. Every single gene-seed is absolutely crucial; they cannot be wasted on any vessel that is less than perfect."
Sigismund slowly turned around, his black power armor gleaming with a cold, hard luster under the lights.
"Genetic compatibility is merely the first step. What we need are warriors who can remain resolute under immense pressure and never abandon hope even in desperate situations. Strength is easy to obtain; willpower is hard to find." His voice deepened further. "The lessons of the Eighth Legion still serve as a warning to us today—even with perfect genetic compatibility, a lack of steadfast willpower and loyalty will ultimately only breed twisted monsters."
"This is precisely the purpose of the secondary screening," Ryo's synthesized voice was steady and calm. "Through severe trials, we will identify those candidates who not only possess matching genetics but, more importantly, possess wills of iron. Only they are worthy of receiving the gift of the gene-seed."
Sigismund nodded slightly, his right hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his sword. "Then let us proceed as planned. Let this barren wasteland be our crucible, forging true, purified steel."
Their gazes met in the air, a shared consensus needing no further words.
In this perilous galaxy, only the most resilient souls were worthy of becoming members of the Astartes Brotherhood, worthy of bearing the precious and heavy gift of the gene-seed.
According to Ryo's plan, these five thousand genetically suitable candidates were required to independently travel to a temporary staging camp established in a designated barren region outside the hive city within a strictly specified timeframe.
The notification clearly stated that this in itself was a crucial part of the screening process; those failing to arrive on time would be deemed to have automatically forfeited their eligibility.
This was a sector partially contaminated by industrial waste and radioactive fallout, with a harsh climate and complex terrain.
The camp's facilities were extremely rudimentary, offering only basic shelter from the wind and rain alongside strictly rationed supplies.
Surveillance augurs and automated sentinel towers from the Adeptus Mechanicus stood around the camp like silent guards, recording the every move of every individual.
Most of the young nobles arrived riding in armored ground-cars provided by their families.
Although the journey was bumpy, it at least guaranteed a relative degree of comfort and safety.
When noble scions like Alvaro Visconti stepped into this barren wasteland, they could hardly conceal their discomfort and disdain for the environment.
Their powerful family backgrounds and the resources invested early on seemed to give them a distinct advantage right at the starting line.
The survivors from the underhive presented a completely different facet.
Kax and his few companions, relying on the tracking, concealment, and wilderness survival skills learned in the labyrinth of the underhive, were almost among the very first batch to arrive at the camp.
They possessed a natural tolerance for harsh environments; their eyes were filled with instinctive vigilance and outstanding adaptability.
The workers from the mid-hive, such as Grumm, relied on their unadorned tenacity and extraordinary physical stamina; most of them also arrived right on time.
They might lack the resources of the nobles, or the feral cunning of the underhive denizens, but what they possessed was astonishing endurance tempered through long hours of manual labor, and deeply ingrained obedience.
Five thousand young men, harboring their respective goals, dreams, and apprehensions, gathered in this wilderness so completely different from the bustling hive city.
They came from different worlds and possessed vastly different pasts, but now, they stood at the exact same starting line.
No one knew exactly what trials they were about to face next, but everyone understood that only by demonstrating qualities transcending ordinary mortals could they cross this wilderness, step into that fortress standing atop the hive city known as the "Spear of Dorn," and touch that faint glimmer capable of altering their destinies.
And the true, brutal elimination process was only just beginning to unfold.