White Scars broke into a grin. "Since it's decided, then let's get to work!"
"Five thousand of us did time in the lockups and took lashes from the whips. Why would we be scared of this?"
"No matter what happens, we don't regret a thing!"
He abruptly changed the subject, his eyes lighting up like he'd just found buried treasure. "Never mind that!"
White Scars rubbed his hands together, looking exactly like a kid waiting to tear open a birthday present. "Put on that Power Armor and Chainsword you bought and let us see! How cool is it? Does it look just like in the game?"
The dozen or so people gathered around the stone table all turned their heads, their eyes practically glowing.
Tax Bro pinched out his second cigarette. Schrödinger Bro leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Cogboy's mechanical eye adjusted its focus.
Soul of Cadia had already whipped out his homemade sketchbook—the kid was an art student in the real world—claiming he was going to document "the historical moment of Paul's transformation."
Paul looked at these comrades—people who, half a month ago, were thieving off an assembly line, but were now ready to conquer and change a planet with him. He let out a helpless chuckle.
"Alright."
He retrieved the equipment, worth millions of Imperial Coins, from his inventory.
The first piece was the Power Armor.
It wasn't standard MK IV or MK V. It was a [Custom Astartes Power Armor] unlocked after the shop update.
It was entirely dark grey, with a fine matte finish that barely reflected any of the dim light in the command room, exuding the low-key, gritty texture unique to practical combat gear.
The armor plating was incredibly thick. The joints featured complex hydraulic dampening structures, and the back housed the specialized interface array for the Black Carapace.
In the center of the chest plate, there was no Imperial Aquila, nor the volcanic emblem of the Salamanders. Instead, there was a dark red sun lined with gold, rising from a pitch-black horizon.
The emblem of Crimson Dawn.
"Holy shit..." Tax Bro muttered. "This texture... It looks so real."
Paul began to suit up.
He first slipped on the undersuit. The material felt like some high-strength synthetic fiber, yet it perfectly conformed to his augmented Astartes physique.
Then came the main body of the Power Armor. Greaves, cuirass, gauntlets, pauldrons—piece by piece, they snapped into place. The mag-locks engaged with crisp clicks.
Then came the most critical step.
When the backpack locked into place on his back, Paul felt the instant the Black Carapace connected with the Power Armor's neural interface array.
It felt as though countless microscopic tendrils were extending into the sub-dermal grid beneath his skin. It wasn't painful—it was a bizarre sensation of absolute connection.
He shifted his intent.
The servo-motors at every joint of the Power Armor hummed low in unison. The entire suit, weighing hundreds of kilograms, felt as though it had become a seamless extension of his own body.
Raising an arm, clenching a fist, turning his body—the movements were as fluid and natural as moving his own limbs, without a single trace of sluggishness or bulk.
"Black Carapace connection complete."
Cogboy's mechanical eye recorded the data. "Neural link efficiency... practically perfect."
Next came the weapons.
When the Chainsword was pulled from the inventory, everyone held their breath.
The blade was roughly a meter and a half long. The monomolecular-edged teeth gleamed with a cold blue light under the room's lamps.
A power field generator was embedded within the spine of the blade. When activated, it would sheathe the entire weapon, allowing it to cleave through Astartes Power Armor, tank plating, and even light fortifications.
The hilt was wrapped in a rough, anti-slip material, sized perfectly for the massive grip of an Astartes.
Paul gripped the hilt and pressed the activation stud with his thumb.
VRRRMMMM!!!
The teeth of the Chainsword instantly began spinning at terrifying speeds, letting out a roar that tore through the air.
It wasn't the whine of an electric motor. It was a more primitive, far more violent mechanical roar, like a slumbering beast of steel suddenly awakening.
The blade vibrated slightly, but in his grip, it was as steady as a mountain.
Finally, the Bolter.
A standard Mark V Bolter, the mass-issue weapon of the Astartes Legions during the Great Crusade.
The casing was thick, the barrel massive. Every single mass-reactive bolt loaded into its magazine was equivalent to a small grenade.
Paul held the gun in one hand. With his other, he unclipped a magazine from his ammo belt. The magazine was larger than a normal human's entire hand, loaded with twenty .75 caliber bolts.
The full loadout was complete.
Paul stood in the center of the command room. His height of two-point-four-five meters, plus the added bulk of the Power Armor, meant his head nearly scraped the three-meter-high ceiling.
Dark grey armor encased his entire body. The crimson sun emblem on his chest looked as though it were genuinely burning in the dim light.
In his left hand, the Chainsword purred with a low hum. In his right hand, the Bolter hung naturally by his side.
Dead silence.
And then, an explosion of noise.
"Holy fuck!!" White Scars was the first to jump up, practically running circles around Paul, his eyes wide as saucers. "This is so fucking cool! It looks way better than the game CG!"
Tax Bro swallowed hard. "This whole set... Power Armor: one million. Weapons: hundreds of thousands. Augmentations: over three million... We just dropped over four million Imperial Coins like that?"
"Five million, two hundred and twenty-two thousand, to be exact." Cogboy calmly recited the numbers. "Gene-seed: one million. Full augmentation suite: 1,999,999. Power Armor: one million. Chainsword: 450,000. Bolter: 300,000. Ammo and accessories: 470,000."
"Over five million..." Soul of Cadia's hand trembled, ruining a stroke on his sketch. "How much nutrient paste could we buy with that..."
Schrödinger Bro walked up and reached out to touch the Power Armor's pauldron.
It was freezing and rock-hard to the touch, with a fine anti-slip texture on the surface.
"Worth it," he said—just two words.
"Paul!" Have You Been Loyal Today? squeezed his way to the front, looking straight up. Right now, he barely reached Paul's waist. "How does it feel? How many tanks do you think you can take on right now?"
Paul smiled.
He powered down the Chainsword. The teeth stopped spinning, and the command room fell quiet again.
Then, he made a simple movement. He clenched his fist and threw a light punch forward.
He didn't hit anything, but the air in front of his knuckles violently compressed, producing a loud sonic crack.
It wasn't an exaggeration. A visible white shockwave expanded outward from his fist, sending the blueprints on the table fluttering wildly.
"Combined with my psychic power," Paul's voice sounded from the helmet's external vox-speakers, processed to sound even deeper and more imposing.
"A tank's main cannon would barely scratch me. The Compassion trait, paired with my psychic energy, can generate a continuous shield."
"The Resolve trait lets me tank impacts head-on. And if things get really bad, I can use the Pioneering trait to execute a short-distance phase shift to dodge."
He paused, aiming the Chainsword at the Aurelian IV map on the wall. The tip hovered directly over an icon marked "Leman Russ Battle Tank."
"As for my strike..."
The blade suddenly activated, the teeth roaring back to life!
He didn't swing. He merely thrust the sword gently forward. The tip was still half a meter away from the map, but the distorted air around the blade and the faint glow of the power field along the monomolecular edge made everyone perfectly understand the lethality of that strike.
"To a tank, it's fatal." Paul powered down the Chainsword and looked at everyone gathered around him. "Slicing through the armor joints from the front, or piercing straight through the weaker top armor... The strength of an Astartes combined with the power field of a Chainsword? The defense of a Leman Russ won't hold."
A chorus of gulps echoed in the room.
The players were so envious their eyes were practically bloodshot. They looked like hyenas that had starved for three days suddenly staring at fresh meat.
Paul reached up and removed his helmet. Astartes Power Armor helmets were magnetically sealed. He pulled it off easily with one hand, revealing a face whose jawline was sharper from the augmentations, but whose eyes were just as familiar as ever.
He smiled.
"Alright, that's enough."
Paul tucked the helmet under his arm. With his free hand, he lightly patted the shoulder of Tax Bro, who was standing closest to him. The tap was gentle, but it still made Tax Bro sway slightly. "Sooner or later, I'll get all of you augmented too."
His gaze swept across every face in the room. White Scars, Schrödinger Bro, Cogboy, Blood Angel, Soul of Cadia, G Bro, Have You Been Loyal Today?, I Finks It Works...
Behind these IDs were real, living people. Just a month ago, they were merely players sitting behind a screen. Now, they were his most solid pillars of support in this grimdark universe.
"Trust me," Paul said. "That day won't be too far off."