Chapter 1: On How to Survive
"Commissar, listen. There's the sound of a baby crying."
A soldier holding an umbrella stopped mid-stride, his head cocked to one side.
The man addressed as Commissar gently pushed the umbrella aside, standing in the downpour like a statue as the rain washed over him. Droplets rolled off the waterproof fabric of his greatcoat and vanished into the puddles below.
The acid rain, tainted with caustic compounds and unknown particulates, seemed to dull his senses, almost drowning out that faint crying. The sky hung low and gray, a hazy shroud that stained the rain itself with dull color, transforming it into a dim curtain of filth. The grimy streets, scoured by the deluge, resembled a canvas spattered with stains. Sewage flowed freely through the gutters, and puddles of varying sizes dotted the cracked pavement like scattered inkblots.
This was the Underhive. Crowded, dark, desperate.
The weary Commissar listened intently. Yes, there was definitely a baby crying. But who would abandon an infant here? Then again, in the Imperium, such things were far from uncommon, especially in the hardscrabble depths of the Underhive.
Still, this child was fortunate. He had survived a catastrophe, been spared in this planetary disaster.
After a moment's consideration, the Commissar turned into a narrow alley and found a baby still wrapped in swaddling clothes, wailing beside a reeking heap of refuse. He lifted the infant carefully, studying the child's face, purple with cold, and after a brief hesitation, removed his own battered greatcoat and wrapped it around the small form.
The rain struck his exposed uniform, each droplet bringing a strange mixture of burning sensation and chill that stung his nerve endings. He cradled the baby closer, shielding it from the worst of the downpour.
"Commissar." The soldier hurried in behind him, holding the umbrella over both of them.
"Look at this Poor little one." The Commissar extended his right index finger, gently brushing it across the baby's cheek. "I'll send you to the Schola Progenium; at least there you won't go hungry or freeze. You survived this time. I hope you grow strong under the protection of the Golden Throne."
.....
More than ten years later, a graduating class of Schola Progenium students assembled in formation. They stood at attention in the square, heads held high, proud of the responsibilities they would soon shoulder in service to the Imperium.
But in that crowd stood one notable exception. Dos.
He had listless blue eyes and dull golden hair that held no luster. His only redeeming features were reasonably handsome brows and decent bone structure, but paired with those dead-fish eyes, he didn't just look half-dead, he appeared to regard everyone with faint contempt. Those who actually knew him understood this was simply his natural expression.
Like most other students, he was an abandoned infant or orphan recovered by Commissars who had themselves graduated from the Schola Progenium. Their parents had either died fighting for the Imperium or the students had survived planetary disasters. A privileged few came from notable families and had volunteered to attend the academy for advanced training.
The difference was that Dos was a transmigrator. He'd nearly frozen to death when he first arrived in this world. Fortunately, his desperate crying had attracted that Commissar's attention.
May the Emperor's fortune be with that man forever.
Graduates of the Schola Progenium would be assigned to various Astra Militarum regiments to serve as Commissars or Provosts, or join other Imperial agencies.
Look at that, if only college graduates back home were guaranteed job assignments, he wouldn't have struggled to find work before transmigrating. Even if this particular job came with a slightly elevated mortality rate.
Where would he be assigned~? Dos lets his mind wander.
Although the instructor appreciated his diplomatic skills and survival instinct, the academy's standards were rigorous. He wasn't certain he'd qualify for a proper Commissariat posting.
Best case scenario? Assignment to an ordinary Astra Militarum regiment. Even a position with the Planetary Defense Force would be acceptable. Safe, stable, and after retirement, he could potentially relocate to a Garden World to live out his days in peace.
His daily duties would consist of maintaining morale and chatting with veterans, occasionally putting on a show of authority for the recruits. A comfortable life...
Plus, when Dos thought about the canned fruit rations Commissars received monthly, he couldn't help but salivate.
There was no avoiding it; life was hard, and fruit was a rare delicacy.
Life in the Schola Progenium truly wasn't fit for human beings. Sure, you wouldn't starve or freeze, but who wanted to subsist on protein bars every single day? Those things were so dense they could serve as construction materials. He wasn't some iron-jawed super-soldier.
Then there was the nutrient paste and corpse starch. One was as hard as a brick; the other tasted like cement. Put all three together, and you could build fortifications.
Worst-case scenario, if he ended up in Military Police or some similar posting, he'd have to endure it for the rest of his life. After all, staying alive was the most important thing.
"Dos, step forward!"
The instructor's voice shattered Dos's pleasant daydream.
As if by conditioned reflex, Dos snapped to attention and stepped out of formation with parade-ground precision. At first glance, he looked professional.
However, his classmates cast contemptuous glances in his direction.
Feeling those stares like daggers in his back, Dos grumbled internally: 'It's just a little stress response, what are you all gawking at?' Sure, he usually wasn't the most serious student, but he could put on a show when necessary, couldn't he?
His considerable psychological fortitude kept him from blushing. He raised his head and met the instructor's gaze directly. 'Goodbye, instructor. I'll actually miss you.'
"Cadet Dos, by order of the Departmento Munitorum and under the blessing of the Holy Emperor, you are hereby assigned to the Death Korps of Krieg, 946th Siege Regiment, with the rank of Regimental Commissar." The instructor read the appointment notice in one breath, his tone allowing no room for objection.
'What the F**K?!
Dos felt his stomach drop. Yes, the Death Korps of Krieg was technically an Astra Militarum regiment, but their Commissar mortality rate was ninety-five percent! He wasn't about to bet his life on being among that five percent of lucky survivors.
"Instructor, are you certain that's correct? Directly assigned as Regimental Commissar?" Dos kept his voice polite, but internally, he was cursing up a storm. Suddenly, life in the Schola Progenium seemed rather pleasant. Really. He felt he could still be saved.
"What? Do you have an objection?" The instructor raised an eyebrow. "This is a direct order from the Departmento Munitorum."
As he spoke, the instructor's eyes flickered meaningfully to the side. Dos followed his gaze and spotted two Military Police standing nearby, along with an official from the Munitorum itself.
'I'm so dead.'
Seeing that, Dos's fighting spirit evaporated instantly. He had absolutely no intention of resisting. He accepted his fate.
He returned to the student formation, and those around him cast sympathetic glances his way.
'Damn it! Stop looking at me like I'm already a corpse!' Dos barely restrained himself from shouting.
After finally being dismissed, Dos went straight back to his dormitory: a single room roughly ten square meters, without a private toilet. Each floor had only a few communal facilities, and the water supply was unreliable, but Dos had never appreciated this cramped space more than he did now.
He sat on the bed, calculating how long he had left to live. Two days until he had to report.
The first month as a Krieg Commissar was the highest-risk period... He suddenly recalled a book he'd read before transmigrating, I Have Not Loved This World So Much.
Perhaps he could write one titled If Only You'd Give Me a Stable Life. Naa, forget it, there won't be enough time.
He leaned back and sprawled across the bed. He couldn't help but reflect on his situation. So all this time, he'd been working on the novice quest of "surviving" for over ten years since transmigrating? Why was his luck so terrible?
"When the boat reaches the bridge, it will naturally... sink. Just take things as they come." Dos laughed bitterly at his own dark humor.
After spending one-sixteenth of his remaining life brooding, Dos returned to the square. This gathering was a farewell ceremony for the graduating students.
Dos had a poor reputation at the academy, and few people had bothered associating with him. The only girl he'd ever liked had rejected his confession years ago. That incident had earned him a thorough dressing-down from the instructor. Now he stood alone, the last one remaining, while everyone else had already said their goodbyes.
Looking at it that way, being a Commissar for Krieg didn't seem quite so bad...
When the ceremony ended, Dos immediately tried to leave the square to catch the transport. He couldn't bear to stay a moment longer.
Why? Because reality had diverged sharply from his expectations. News that he'd been assigned to the Death Korps had spread like wildfire. Everyone who spotted him stopped to ask questions, including the female student who'd rejected him years ago.
"About before...When I rejected you, it really wasn't because of your bad reputation. I hope you don't overthink it. You're a good person."
Dos: "..."
Having received his second "good person" card, Dos felt he couldn't endure another moment of this torture!
But when Dos reached the transport vehicle at the academy gate, reality crushed him once more.
"You're not on the manifest? Let me check again..." The Military Policeman scanned the list from top to bottom. "Ah, there you are. The current garrison of the 946th Regiment is only a few hundred meters from here, so you don't need transport. Just walk there yourself."
Dos: I'm not even worth a car ride???
And so, Dos walked to the 946th Regiment's garrison on foot, his bedroll and personal belongings strapped to his back.
He spent the entire journey cursing the Departmento Munitorum in beautiful, eloquent English, so extensively that patrolling Planetary Defense Force soldiers thought he was mentally disturbed. If he hadn't been wearing a probationary Commissar's uniform, they would have subdued him on the spot.
Why am I so unlucky?
[End of Chapter]
NOTE
Hey there, my comrades! Good day to visit a crumbling Imperium, ain't it? Haha!
Alright, battle-brothers and sisters, here we have ANOTHER fanfic - and this one's dedicated to one of the most pitifully devoted armies in eternal service to the Emperor: THE DEATH KORPS OF KRIEG! My boys, the Kriegsmen themselves!
You better support their crusade, because we're in the era of the Lord Regent now, Roboute Guilliman's Indomitus Crusade is underway, and the galaxy needs every gas-masked soldier willing to charge into certain death for the God-Emperor!
So strap on your rebreathers, fix bayonets, and prepare for trench warfare like you've never seen before.
THE EMPEROR PROTECTS! FOR KRIEG! FOR THE IMPERIUM!
In life, war. In death, peace. In life, shame. In death, atonement.