Atreus's battle-brothers immediately filled the gap Andrew had left in the formation.
The Astartes named Anthony now took the left side. Unlike Andrew, he was not a newly integrated neophyte.
Atreus felt much more at ease.
After all, Anthony had survived the bloody abyss of the War of the Defence of Terra alongside him, and he hoped to get through this campaign with his brothers in the same way.
Pushing his shield with the strength of his genetically modified muscles, the leader of the group of Renegade Space Marines ignored the dull thud of bolter projectiles.
Their shield and formation held firm under the control of experienced warriors, while Atreus searched for a breach on the attackers' side.
Finally, he spotted it.
A small opening that a krak grenade could exploit with good timing. Once he reached the correct tactical distance, Atreus did not hesitate.
He hurled his gift of fire and iron over the shield with surgical precision worthy of an elite transhuman warrior.
With a deafening crash, the explosion hurled the Imperial Guard soldiers back behind their fortifications.
The Astartes squad continued to push and suppress, firing without visible emotion through their iron masks.
The battle ended quickly, the enemy abandoning a yellow-armored Space Marine corpse and retreating.
They had retaken the passage — for now. Atreus took a deep breath of the air filtered by his helmet and ordered his men to reinforce the fortifications.
He knew it was all futile: in 36 Terran hours, the Imperial Fists would retake the position.
Yet they were Iron Warriors. Open warfare was not their specialty, unlike the World Eaters or the Space Wolves.
'Fortification and siege are our creed,' he thought as the orders flowed naturally from his mouth to guide the fortification effort.
The veteran Space Marine's memory contained precious information that a former 21st-century Terran could not fully exploit.
Fortunately, he could also rely on the wisdom of his subordinates to fill those gaps.
"My brothers! We must hold a little longer!" he said, his voice muffled by his helmet.
The only responses he received were nods, but Atreus could read their determination through their iron masks.
Perturabo's teachings were still engraved in them, but Atreus's subordinates were more receptive to their leader's unexpected actions.
…
One week later, Atreus managed to return alive from the small skirmish of the campaign that would later be named: The Iron Cage.
A miracle according to the common sense of a former mortal like Alex, but the future would surprise him even more.
The following weeks were not as gentle as the former mortal and his brothers had hoped.
War, mourning, blood, and flames became their daily reality during this campaign against the Imperial Fists.
This situation repeated itself several times, until they began to run low on equipment and saw corpses scattered everywhere around them.
Later, he and his tactical squad could no longer use their own gear and had to scavenge equipment from enemy Astartes.
A cruel shortage of equipment that Atreus's group faced without flinching.
Their Primarch had already fought and won wars when his forces were poorly equipped.
An inevitable logistical flaw, because the Departmento Munitorum had to manage an empire controlling billions of worlds.
They had to make do with little — something the Legion was already accustomed to at that time.
That lesson proved its worth when the Astartes lacked weapons.
During one clash against the Imperial Army and the Imperial Fists, Atreus stared intently at the Imperial Fists Astartes lying on the ground.
The former human from Earth wondered if he would soon die in the same way as that nameless transhuman soldier.
A question that still haunted him today.
However, Atreus knew an Astartes could not afford to feel fear.
Far from it: it was a weakness.
He could even compare it to rust in the inflexible steel that was an Iron Warrior's mind.
If an Astartes had to die, then he would do so in the glory and dignity of an endless war.
The former Atreus had understood this as well, back when he was nothing more than a mindless meat grinder under the authority of his gene-father.
"Damn it, I'm sick of this slaughter," he thought as he observed his surroundings.
The world of Sebaste IV held no strategic value or precious resources.
All these battles were simply the result of the stubbornness of two Primarchs who wanted to prove their point.
Perturabo and Rogal Dorn were clashing during this endless campaign, which Alex had the misfortune of witnessing with his own eyes in the first days of his reincarnation.
***
"My lord, it is almost time for the meeting." A voice devoid of any emotion drew the Astartes' attention.
"Yes, it is stupid to dwell on the past… the future lies ahead of me," he thought, ignoring the slave.
He soon reached the upper deck of the spaceship after crossing the immense Sword-class vessel.
Atreus still needed several minutes to reach his private quarters.
Once inside, the man removed his helmet and shook his head to dispel his reflections on the Sebaste IV war.
The veteran Space Marine stood 2.30 meters tall, and his genetically modified body was among the largest of his kind.
His black hair streaked with gray gave the veteran a unique look, but appearance was hardly a priority for an Iron Warrior.
After all, he was not a son of Fulgrim.
The only thing that mattered in this dystopian and apocalyptic galaxy was the strength needed to fight in this eternal war.
Atreus went straight to the data screen, performed a series of actions on the interface, and established the communication link.
"Anthony, inform all the others to gather in the conference room on the bridge in thirty Terran minutes. We have reached our destination," he said in a calm tone.
The Iron Warriors helmet usually muffled his voice — something Alex had found "cool" at first.
However, he had quickly changed his mind after spending weeks under that stifling mask.
"Yes, Captain."
Without the slightest hesitation, Anthony's voice answered Atreus from the other side of the ship.
The tactical squad leader ended the communication and headed straight for the side door of his quarters.
As the hatch opened and the automatic protocols lit up the area, two twisted silhouettes stirred in the corner.
The two semi-metallic creatures straightened up.
Their silhouettes looked human, but their faces were pale and bloodless.
Their arms had been amputated at the shoulders and replaced with screwdrivers and power claws.
Several cables pierced their abdomen and chest, feeding the machines integrated into their limbs.
An opaque tube plunged directly into their stomach through the mouth, supplying them with nutrients.
Servitors — half-human, half-machine.
Creatures created by the Mechanicus, standing on the border between flesh and steel.
(Image)
Their frontal lobes had been surgically removed with surgical precision.
Now, it was impossible for them to feel emotions or pain.
They were nothing more than semi-biological automatons, embodying humanity's desperate need for docile labor.
Atreus had no intention of judging humanity's inhumane actions through cold logic.
After all, the use of autonomous machines could not exist in the current civilization.
The scars of the AI revolution from the Age of Technology were still fresh in the minds of scholars.
Humanity had paid too high a price.
'AI research will be essential for me in the near future, but I must be careful,' he thought inwardly.
Besides these inhuman creatures, the tactical squad's armory contained various pieces of equipment:
bolters scavenged from Imperial Fists, combat knives, and assault shields riddled with impacts hanging on the wall.
On the table, a respectable number of full magazines and several grenades were neatly stacked.
In a nearby iron box lay disassembled bolters, assembled from parts salvaged from destroyed but still serviceable weapons.
Even though these items would have made the eyes of a former Warhammer fan shine, Atreus's gaze fixed on something else.
An iron skull — or more precisely, the fusion of an iron helmet with a mask.
This piece of equipment had been forged to resemble the symbols of the Iron Warriors Legion, but it was only one part of a larger whole.
What whole? The most important element in the room: a Mark III Iron Pattern power armor, standing proudly on a central rack.
It was riddled with bullet holes and covered in dents. However, it had accompanied the former Atreus through countless battles.
Especially during the War of the Defence of Terra and the Iron Cage campaign, with more than a third of its components replaced over the course of the engagements.
Fortunately, the Mark III power armor was thicker than the standard Astartes models.
It had literally been designed for siege combat.
Atreus had considered repairing the armor and shield, but given the shortage of materials, he had decided to maintain the status quo as long as it did not affect their durability.
For now, he made do with standard power armor.
The servitors raised their arms and began silently removing the components of his current armor.
The Iron Warrior slowly donned a standard power armor, assisted by the soulless automatons.
As the left forearm was correctly locked into the armor, Atreus noticed once again a number engraved on it.
The number 1.
This mark had appeared after he saved Anthony during an ambush set by the Imperial Fists.
At first, he had thought it was a trick from the Chaos Gods. However, he had quickly dismissed the idea.
The symbol was too familiar to him.
Later, he remembered the origin of this mark during a decisive fight against a particularly strong Imperial Fist.
The most widespread power in the universe: To Be Hero X.
Trust.
It allowed humans to become stronger through the trust of other mortals. It was largely thanks to this that he had been able to grow stronger so quickly.
"However, I should still be cautious about this thing," he thought, wary of Tzeentch's little tricks.
He did not want to end up like another Magnus because of misplaced pride.
Alex preferred to act with excessive caution, because he did not want to carry immense regrets while watching his battle-brothers perish due to his decisions.
"Hm… the armor is perfectly fitted. It's time to discuss the future of this small group," he thought after checking the servitors' work.
He walked with calm steps toward the meeting room.
"If this Trust is not a trap, then it will work. However, I must not base all my plans on it and must remain focused on establishing a Chapter world," he told himself inwardly as he walked to meet the brothers of this life.
The simple tactical squad leader left the room, while his eyes burned with ambitions unsuspected by many.
Deep down, Alex told himself that if Abaddon had managed to create a true legion of Renegade Space Marines, then he could do it too.
No one had ever said that a legion required only a Primarch to exist.
However, he wanted to start with a Chapter.
**Author's Note:** Just for information, but a squad leader at this time commanded 15 to 30 Astartes.
It was not uncommon for an Iron Warriors squad to include an Apothecary, a Techmarine, and a Warsmith (their siege engineering officers).
For info: the Sebaste IV war takes place after the Horus Heresy, so in the 31st millennium (after the failure of the Great Crusade).