Aurelian Standard Time, 09:20.
Deep in the wasteland, one hundred and seventy kilometers away from Sycamore Hive, a Rhino armored personnel carrier bearing the War Hounds insignia was tearing across the landscape at full speed.
Seven suits of power armor sat in the rear troop compartment.
It was completely silent; no one spoke.
Only the roar of the engine filled the air.
Tax Bro sat in the driver's seat. His bright yellow Imperial Fists armor lay discarded beside him, looking somewhat dull in the dim cabin lighting. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel, his other hand holding a cigarette burned down to the filter.
In the back, White Scars sat with his eyes closed. His pristine white armor was splattered with flecks of dark red blood. Most of it had already congealed, forming ugly, crusted patches across the ceramite surface.
G Bro was slowly and meticulously cleaning the barrel of his bolter with a wiping cloth.
[Have You Been Loyal Today?] leaned against the bulkhead. There was a deep gouge across the chest plate of his pale grey Sons of Horus armor—the handiwork of a Sentinel walker's melta-cutter.
The Mechanicus and the defense forces of Sycamore Hive actually had some bite to them.
[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work] crouched in a corner, the wolf's head insignia on his pauldron smeared with someone's brain matter.
[Execute Old Man the War Criminal]'s matte-black Raven Guard armor was the cleanest of the bunch, but the hand gripping his weapon was trembling slightly.
[Tau Buddy You're Right] sat opposite Paul, his Alpha Legion grey-blue armor having reverted to its base primer coat.
Paul sat at the very back of the compartment.
His World Eaters-style dark grey power armor bore the most blood by far.
The monstrous hound insignia on his chest plate was almost completely dyed crimson, and several pieces of mangled flesh hung from his pauldrons.
He didn't bother cleaning it; he merely sat there in silence.
His visor was raised, revealing dark golden eyes that gleamed faintly in the shadows.
"Brothers," Paul finally spoke, his voice projecting through his armor's external vox-casters. "We have completed the phase one objective."
He pulled up the system interface.
"Sycamore Hive. Total requisitioned material value... two point one seven billion Imperial Coins. Promethium raw ore accounts for sixty-seven percent, refined plasteel for nineteen percent, rare metals for eight percent, and industrial machinery for six percent."
Under normal circumstances, this figure would be enough to drive any player absolutely insane with joy.
But the interior of the transport remained cloaked in silence.
Tax Bro finally flicked his cigarette butt out the window, his voice raspy. "Paul... how many people did we kill?"
Paul remained silent for a few seconds.
"According to the tallies, over the course of four hours, six thousand three hundred and twenty-seven Sycamore Hive garrison troops were killed in action. Of those, the left-wing squad accounted for one thousand one hundred and forty. The right-wing squad accounted for one thousand eight hundred and ninety-three. Tau Buddy and I accounted for three thousand two hundred and ninety-four in the frontal assault." He paused. "Additionally, there were... civilian casualties. Approximately three hundred. Almost entirely the result of the garrison forces firing blindly into the crowds."
G Bro stopped cleaning his barrel.
White Scars opened his eyes.
[Have You Been Loyal Today?] raised his head. His expression beneath the visor was unreadable, but his voice shook. "Three hundred... civilians? They were just... they just happened to be working in the warehouses, or running away down the corridors..."
Paul's voice was perfectly calm. "I know. But our cover identities were Astartes. Angels of Death requisitioning supplies by decree of the Emperor. In the logic of the Astartes, anyone who impedes the mission—intentionally or otherwise—is an enemy."
He looked at all of them.
"I know what you're all thinking. We come from another world. We received modern education. We know the value of human life. But I'm telling you right now: do not let this weigh on you. Not because the people we killed were evil—most of them were just ordinary soldiers following orders. And not because this is a game—from the very first day we arrived in this world, this stopped being a game."
Paul's voice took on a chilling edge. "This is the Warhammer 40K universe. We are at the tail end of the Great Crusade. In this universe, the number of humans who die every single day from war, famine, plagues, and xenos incursions is measured in the billions. In this universe, when the Imperium launches a crusade and annihilates a non-compliant xenos world, the slaughter of sentient life can easily exceed ten billion. In this universe, when the Horus Heresy kicks off in thirty years, the scouring of Isstvan III alone will see hundreds of thousands of loyalists executed. And the resulting 'Let the Galaxy Burn' campaign and the Siege of Terra? The death toll will be in the trillions."
He took a deep breath.
"We killed over six thousand people and caught three hundred civilians in the crossfire. Compared to the sheer scale of this universe... compared to the wars we are going to face in the future..." Paul's dark golden irises burned brightly in the dim light of the cabin. "...the blood we spilled today is nothing but... a light dusting of snow."
"The path Crimson Dawn must walk is the hardest path in the entire Warhammer universe. No, scratch that—it's the hardest path in any universe. We refuse to be the running dogs of Chaos. We refuse to be the loyal lapdogs of the Imperium. And we certainly refuse to be the slaves of xenos. We are carving out a third path. A path that belongs to all the working class."
Paul's voice began to rise in volume. "But to walk this path, we need power! We need resources, we need technology, and we need an armed force capable of standing against the Legions, against Chaos, and against all oppressors! The ore, machinery, and components we requisitioned today... when converted into Imperial Coins, it is enough to fund the complete Space Marine augmentations for all five thousand players. It is enough to purchase our very first void fleet. It is enough to let us truly plant our feet on this world."
He looked each and every one of them in the eye.
"So bury this pointless guilt. If you truly feel guilty, then remember every single drop of blood spilled today. Remember the eyes of those soldiers who died by our hands. And then, use that guilt as fuel to drive our revolution! Build a world where we don't have to resort to these methods to secure resources! Build a world where soldiers don't have to throw their lives away for corrupt bureaucrats! Build a world where... labor truly earns dignity."
The cabin remained silent, but the suffocating, oppressive atmosphere finally began to loosen its grip.
Tax Bro lit another cigarette.
He took a deep drag and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. "Paul's right. Since we chose this path, we have to walk it to the very end. Think about the ninety-eight million people in Kent Hive. Think about that kid, Helovia. If we aren't ruthless, how the hell are we supposed to protect them?"
He chuckled dryly. "Gotta hand it to you, Paul. You're sounding more and more like a real leader every day. Back in Sycamore, wearing that World Eaters skin, you were butchering people harder than anyone else. I honestly thought you'd hammered the Butcher's Nails into your own skull!"
Paul laughed too, a somewhat helpless sound.
"What else could I do? If you're gonna play the part, you gotta go all in. Those mad dogs from the World Eaters only know one way to fight: charge in and hack everything to pieces. I was worried if I didn't act the part convincingly enough, the Great Angel might see right through the disguise."
A few low chuckles finally broke out in the cabin.
Paul smiled.
He knew his brothers had weathered the storm.
And that was crucial.
Because over the coming days, they were going to have to repeat today's bloody process... more than once.
"Alright," Paul said, clapping his hands together. "We have four days left and twelve more hive cities to visit. Sycamore was just the first stop, and it had the heaviest defenses. The garrisons at our subsequent targets will be progressively weaker, which means our efficiency will only go up."
He pulled up the holographic map. "Next stop: Moulton Hive. Three hundred kilometers away. Estimated time of arrival: two hours. It's a mining hive controlled by the Atens Knight House, stockpiling massive amounts of rare metals."
Tax Bro slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the Rhino's engine roared in response.
"Move out! For Crimson Dawn!"
The eight men shouted in unison, "For Crimson Dawn!"
--
8:00 PM, the fifth day since the requisition operation began. Northern Hemisphere of Aurelian IV, deep in the desolate wastelands.
Four hours remained until the Blood Angels officially completed their garrison deployment.
Inside a deep sinkhole crater, the Rhino personnel carrier had been thoroughly doused in specialized, high-intensity promethium accelerant.
Paul stood at the edge of the crater, a detonator in his hand.
Behind him stood the seven Astartes in silence, clad in Mark IV power armor so caked in gore and filth that their original liveries were completely unrecognizable.
"Five days," Tax Bro broke the silence, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "We hit thirteen hive cities. Butchered at least seventy thousand garrison troops. Looted an ungodly amount of supplies... I'm dead on my feet."
White Scars nodded. "Once we log off, I swear I'm sleeping for three days straight."
G Bro smiled faintly. "We're making Schrödinger Bro treat us to a feast."
Paul looked at them, his dark golden eyes softening in the gloom of the night. "You've all worked hard. The operation was flawless. Two hundred and seventy billion Imperial Coins have already been deposited into the account. Over the next month, we can initiate the Astartes augmentation protocol for the entire player base. We can purchase Thunderhawk gunships and Land Raiders. We can..." He paused. "...we can finally begin constructing Crimson Dawn's void fleet."
The eyes of all seven men lit up.
Paul pressed the detonator switch.
Fwoosh!
The detonator arced through the air and landed squarely on the Rhino.
BOOM!
Flames instantly swallowed the vehicle.
The madness, the slaughter, the disguises, and the sheer exhaustion of the past five days... it all burned away in the inferno.
Paul turned around and looked at his brothers.
"Remember these five days. Remember what we did. I don't care how history judges our actions during these five days. I don't care if we are remembered as heroes or as bandits. But one thing will never change." His voice carried on the howling wasteland wind. "We gave Crimson Dawn the strength to dictate its own future."
The seven men nodded solemnly.
The flames raged fiercely behind them.
The eight figures vanished into the deepening twilight.