Chapter 462: Loyalty and Discipline
The first round of trials concluded. Yet, whether it was Ryo or Sigismund, neither invested an excessive amount of emotional attention into the 3,127 compatible candidates who had passed.
Those figures who had struggled, persevered, and even turned on each other in the wasteland were reduced to cold 'passed' markers on the data slate.
Their performance merely proved they possessed the basic willpower to endure suffering and the primal instinct to survive, meeting the absolute minimum threshold to enter the next phase.
This was far from the finish line; it couldn't even be considered the starting point.
The true screening had only just begun.
The surviving candidates were led by Skitarii soldiers away from the finish line area, arriving at a dedicated training camp located several kilometers from the Spear of Dorn fortress.
Constructed from prefabricated alloy plating and reinforced canvas, the layout was orderly and cold, surrounded by electrified razor wire and automated sentinel towers.
Rather than a camp, it resembled a fully functional detention and training complex.
They were first funneled into the purification zone.
High-pressure water cannons blasted away three days' worth of accumulated grime and radioactive dust, after which the Tech-Priests' assistants thoroughly treated their skin surfaces with sterilizing sprays.
Minor wounds were sutured and bandaged, while severe lacerations were injected with bio-gel to accelerate healing.
The entire process was highly efficient and indifferent, devoid of any unnecessary contact or care.
Upon completing purification, they were permitted to enter the mess hall—a spacious but completely undecorated hall.
Here, they received their first proper meal in seventy-two hours: high-energy nutrient paste, synthetic meat patties rich in protein and electrolytes, and unlimited purified water.
Many candidates practically wolfed down the food; the instinct born of prolonged starvation overrode all etiquette.
Alvaro forced himself to maintain basic table manners, but his pace of eating was no slower than anyone else's. Kax sat in a corner, eating rapidly while vigilantly observing his new surroundings. Grumm ate silently and earnestly, as if completing a necessary task to restore his physical strength.
After the meal, they were assigned to barracks.
Each room housed twenty people. There were only the most basic metal bunk beds and thin mats, but compared to the ground of the wasteland, it was paradise.
The permitted rest period lasted approximately twenty hours, during which servitors regularly delivered water and nutrient supplements.
During this time, the majority of candidates slept deeply, attempting to repair severely overdrawn bodies. Others remained awake, silently inspecting the blisters and scars covering their hands and feet, or engaging in brief, uncertain conversations with those in adjacent bunks.
However, the recovery period was brutally short.
When the assembly horn in the center of the camp blared abruptly, everyone's rest was declared over.
They were rapidly driven to the training grounds—a vast, leveled area paved with special shock-absorbing material.
There were no welcoming banners or inspiring statues surrounding them, only cold training equipment and solemnly standing Black Templar instructors.
For the next three months, they would undergo rigorous training adhering entirely to the initiate standards of the Astartes Brotherhood.
This was not cultivation, but elimination of an even higher intensity.
Its core purpose was, under extreme pressure, to forge the most perfect weapon blanks. This required not only a body of steel, but more importantly: absolute discipline, flawless loyalty, combat instincts branded into the depths of the soul, and... the potential to stand out from the crowd and lead others.
The training commenced immediately with near-brutal efficiency.
There was no mobilization, no explanation, only the unquestionable first command issued by the instructors via vox-casters, followed by seemingly endless tests of physical limits.
The gates of the camp slowly closed behind them and locked shut.
The initial curriculum had nothing to do with physical fitness, yet it was more suffocating than any physical training.
The training began with the indoctrination of the most fundamental military discipline and combat protocols.
The candidates were required to memorize the hundreds of articles of the Basic Code of Conduct, the complex and tedious Standard Tactical Operating Procedures, as well as lengthy materials regarding the Imperial military framework, the organizational structure of the Astartes Brotherhood, and their glorious combat history.
Any minute error—a mispronunciation, a mix-up in article numbers, a hesitation exceeding the stipulated time limit when answering, or even a fleeting lapse of focus in the eyes—would instantly incur severe punishment.
The punishments were immediate and unquestionable: extra weighted distance runs until vomiting, endless extreme push-ups under the gaze of everyone, or being ordered to maintain a kneeling posture on the cold, hard alloy floor for hours.
The purpose of these punishments was not simple physical torture, but to systematically destroy personal capriciousness. The iron laws of "absolute obedience" and "unconditional execution" were hammered into the depths of their consciousness, inch by inch, like wedges driven by a heavy mallet, until they became instinct.
Kax, hailing from the underhive, displayed a strong reaction of rejection toward this indoctrinating disciplinary training.
When the instructor read out the rigid articles of the Basic Code of Conduct line by line in an icy voice, Kax's deeply furrowed brow and subconsciously flaring nostrils betrayed his inner dissent.
During a lecture on tactical protocols, when the instructor emphasized, "Upon encountering an unknown threat, priority must be given to maintaining a defensive formation and awaiting further orders," Kax almost blurted out, "Wait for orders? Wait to die?"
This single sentence earned him a weighted run around the training grounds until vomit mixed with sweat soaked the front of his uniform.
When he dragged his utterly exhausted body back, the recalcitrance in his eyes had not vanished, merely settled into a deeper gloom.
Every punishment left new scars on his body, making him realize even more clearly that here, independent thought was not merely useless; it was dangerous.
He began to learn to remain silent when questions were asked, but that questioning gaze would still flicker beneath his lowered eyelids.
Alvaro Visconti demonstrated a completely different coping mechanism.
He kept his back straight and his hands placed neatly on his knees, as if attending an aristocratic salon.
When required to recite the articles, his clear, accurate pronunciation and perfect sense of rhythm even made the rigid instructors nod slightly.
He could rapidly memorize complex tactical designations and equipment maintenance procedures, always maintaining an impeccable military posture within the formation.
However, beneath this veneer of compliance lay a gradually accumulating sense of suffocation.
Late at night, lying on his hard bunk, he would unconsciously massage his shoulders, which had grown stiff from maintaining fixed postures for prolonged periods.
This training method, which demanded the complete dissolution of personal will into collective directives, was diametrically opposed to the aristocratic philosophy of life he had learned—how to cleverly maneuver within the rules to maximize personal gain.
He felt like an artifact whose edges and corners were being forcibly ground away, his inner discomfort perfectly concealed behind a mask of docility.
Grumm, on the other hand, seemed naturally adapted to this environment.
When a command was issued, his body reacted before his mind.
If the instructor ordered them to maintain a certain weapon-holding posture for an hour, he would remain motionless as a statue until the bell signaled the end of the time.
When required to recite articles, he might not be as elegant and fluent as Alvaro, but he could always repeat them verbatim, as precise as a vox-recorder.
He never questioned why weapons had to be checked three times before meals, nor did he care about the logic behind tactical protocols. He simply viewed these requirements as new operational steps on an assembly line—more complex, more strenuous, but fundamentally the same.
This trait of completely surrendering himself to directives resulted in him almost never being punished during the initial stages of disciplinary training.
When others were struggling through punishments, he had often already completed his extra equipment maintenance tasks and was sitting silently in a corner, recovering his stamina, preparing to welcome the next unknown command.
His smooth progress did not stem from intelligence or skill, but from a near-instinctive, absolute implementation of the word "obedience."
(End of Chapter)