Chapter One: Transcending Worlds, Yet It's Warhammer

Arthur had crossed over.

A moment ago, in his memories, he had just bid farewell to his friends who were still toiling for the Emperor in the forty-first millennium, ready to begin his daily writing routine. Then, in a haze, he lost consciousness.

When he awoke, he found himself in this chamber forged of steel.

As he looked up, his eyes fell upon a resplendent golden double-headed eagle emblazoned on the iron wall. Incense and candlelight lent the room a gentle warmth, dispelling the oppressive rot that lingered in the air.

But Arthur’s heart had already turned cold.

“Is this a dream?”

Clang—

Iron boots struck the ground, echoing through the chamber. Arthur strode past a burning brazier, and his towering figure was reflected on the polished, mirror-like walls.

He was encased head to toe in obsidian armor.

A gray robe draped over his shoulders, and through its folds, glimpses of ornate, elegant patterns could be seen etched upon the armor. The shoulder plates—adorned with skulls and holy icons—bore a barely discernible winged sword insignia.

He looked down thoughtfully, and beside the bed from which he had risen, nestled in a basin of oil as clear as crystal, lay a sword and shield.

The sword’s blade gleamed cold and sharp—even Arthur, a layman, couldn’t help but admire the exquisite craftsmanship. Upon the shield, two crossed swords quartered the surface; at the top was a golden Imperial Aquila, while the remaining sections were occupied by two gray-robed figures.

These were relics that belonged not on the battlefield, but in a place of highest honor, behind glass, to be venerated.

Arthur drew a deep breath.

Seven lungplates expanded to their limits, and his heart seemed to pump like twin burning reactors, channeling heat to every fiber of his being.

Yet still, Arthur felt only ice in his veins.

Even the superhuman physique of an Astartes could not grant him a shred of reassurance in the face of his panic-stricken soul.

“I really should pray this is just a dream.”

If not, then let me hope I’ve crossed over to the 30k universe, or to the era when the Lion returns in 42k.

Then he noticed a book conspicuously placed on the desk—the Codex Astartes.

Well, it seemed the only thing left was to pray for the Lion’s return.

He swept the toilet paper and the contents of the desk into the storage bin, then approached the basin, armored hand reaching into the oil to retrieve the sword and shield—familiar tools he had wielded with ease in the game. Now, he bitterly regretted his obsession with roleplaying during those countless hours.

The room was silent, save for the flicker of candle flames. The nearly three-meter-tall giant, upon gripping sword and shield, seemed to freeze in place.

Without a doubt, Arthur was numb.

To transmigrate—what a thrilling concept.

But when it’s bound to Warhammer 40,000, everything ceases to be so beautiful.

Warhammer 40,000—a space opera IP crafted by GW, a colossal cesspit shaped by countless races, all set against a backdrop of endless war. By the forty-first millennium, this cesspit had reached its apotheosis.

And Arthur’s current identity—an Astartes, the stuff of dreams—gave him no sense of safety whatsoever.

Because, damn it, he was a Fallen Angel!

And now, without knowing if the Lion had awakened, he would have to face one of the most fanatical and deranged groups in all of 40k.

The Dark Angels, the very first of the Emperor’s twenty Space Marine Legions, burdened with countless honors and the title of the First Legion, were held to a unique standard and were ever the model of the Astartes.

Such a Chapter, of course, could not abide a stain.

Arthur stared in silence at the black paint on his armor.

The Fallen—the very stain the Dark Angels sought to erase.

When it came to the Fallen, this silent, disciplined, peerless Chapter would tear off their mask and use every means at their disposal to eradicate all trace of them: firing upon their own allies, psychic interrogation, forbidden technologies, even Exterminatus were all standard practice.

And once a Fallen was in their grasp, any form of cruelty one could imagine would be visited upon them by these zealots.

I might as well be dead, Arthur thought bleakly. Yet, remembering the existence of the Warp, he realized that even in death he was unlikely to find peace.

Such was the truth of this universe—struggle in the cesspit while alive, and swim in a deeper cesspit after death.

…Damn it, not even death brings rest.

A nameless anger rose within him. Sword in hand, Arthur strode to the door.

Confronted with utter despair, anyone would lose their sanity, and that lost sanity would, in this moment, turn into violence.

This chamber was clearly a Space Marine’s quarters—he’d go find whoever was in charge and demand a mission.

Arthur just wanted to kill something, to end it all quickly. If he could take a few down with him, all the better—let them all go eat shit together.

His life in the Warhammer universe was already ruined beyond repair.

He wondered if the Emperor needed any transmigrators; if so, maybe he could get himself cursed into the Damned Legion for a change.

He jabbed the door button forcefully, but the door wouldn’t budge, as if something pressed against it from the other side.

Scowling, Arthur delivered a mighty kick.

Bang!

Squelch—

A metallic snap, followed by the sound of soft tissue being crushed by enormous force. A foul-smelling blue liquid splattered across his faceplate, and suddenly the scene before him opened up.

He was in a vast warship corridor, cold lights flickering and trembling above.

Looking down, Arthur saw orks, green-skinned and bellowing their war cry, “Waaagh!” as they clashed with humans wielding crude weapons.

Above, countless creatures with three pairs of limbs hung from the ceiling, their pink muscles translucent under the light, chitinous plates expanding and contracting with each breath.

To his side, sharp-eared, elf-like beings with twisted expressions of despair lay sprawled by the railing, long since lost to the struggle. Nearby, drawn by the alluring scent, were voluptuous pink figures—daemons of excess.

Directly ahead, beneath a warped metal door, a blue Horror lay dying, its bloated body burst open. In its chaotic eyes was only endless despair as it gazed at the angelic figure before it; the shattered support column testified to the devastation it had just endured.

Such commotion naturally drew the attention of those on the battlefield, but only for a moment. As their gazes met and clashed, the furor resumed its ceaseless rhythm.

Such was the tone of this universe.

Death. Chaos.

“…Heh.”

Staring at the host of monstrous foes before him, Arthur’s lips twisted in a bitter smile; his anger dissipated in an instant.

He no longer knew what expression he should wear—yet this wry smile seemed the most fitting.

For when one is rendered utterly speechless, when composure is lost, and only a twisted grin remains, that is the very definition of a bitter smile.

Glancing back, he saw his awakening chamber had vanished.

Arthur strode forward.

Crash!

His shield pressed ahead, easily crushing a cultist’s body. The sword’s blade flashed blue, beheading a Genestealer in an instant, while his heavy metal boots effortlessly crushed the form of a Dark Eldar, sending it tumbling to the feet of a Slaaneshi daemon.

This was a world of myriad races: humans, elves, orks, daemons, and more.

Whoosh!

Blue fire swept down the corridor, melting steel. It broke upon the shining shield. Arthur raised his arm, brushing aside the flames. Lifting his left hand, plasma weapon hidden behind the shield, he fired—a burst of blue energy vaporizing a sorcerer hiding among the mob.

A world where magic and machinery coexisted.

“Blood for the Blood God!”

A crimson-skinned Bloodletter swung a massive sword, reaping mortal heads.

“For the Emperor!”

Imperial Guardsmen, clutching melta charges, hurled themselves into the daemon horde.

A world where gods and mortals mingled upon the stage.

Screech!

The ship’s hull was torn open by an unseen force, revealing the void beyond.

What lay outside defied description—frost creeping along the breach, transparent forcefields flickering under the onslaught of the warp storm.

A world where no one could ever know what tomorrow would bring!

With a smile of true resignation, Arthur raised his sword against the monsters before him.

This was Warhammer 40,000!