Arthur had transmigrated.
Just a moment ago, he had been bidding farewell to his Warhammer buddies still fighting for the Emperor in the 41st Millennium, ready to start his daily writing grind. Then, everything went hazy—and he lost consciousness.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in a room forged from steel.
When he lifted his eyes, he saw a radiant golden double-headed eagle gleaming on the steel wall. Incense and candlelight warmed the space, driving away the stale, oppressive air.
But Arthur's heart had already sunk halfway into despair.
"A dream?" he muttered.
Clang—
Iron boots struck the floor with a resonant thud. Arthur stepped over a burning brazier. The mirror-like wall reflected an enormous figure.
It was a figure completely encased in pitch-black armor.
A gray robe draped over it, and from the gaps, one could barely make out ornate armor adorned with intricate patterns. The shoulder plates—covered in skulls and holy icons—bore a faintly visible, winged sword insignia.
Looking down pensively, he noticed, beside the bed he had awoken on, a sword and shield resting quietly in a pool of sacred oil, clear as crystal.
The blade gleamed with a cold, sharp light—its craftsmanship so exquisite that even someone like Arthur, who knew nothing about weaponry, couldn't help but admire it. The shield featured two crossed swords, dividing its face into four sections: a golden Imperial Aquila at the top, with the remaining areas occupied by two gray-robed figures.
These weapons didn't belong on the battlefield—they belonged in a display case, revered by all who saw them.
Arthur took a deep breath.
Seven lung sacs expanded to their limits, his heart pounding like twin fusion reactors, pumping searing heat into his limbs.
But his heart still felt ice-cold.
Even the superhuman physique of an Astartes couldn't provide Arthur's panicking soul with the slightest sense of security.
"I really hope this is a dream…"
If not, then he had to hope he'd transmigrated to the 30k timeline, or to the 42k era after the Lion's return.
Then his eyes landed on a prominently placed book on the table—The Codex Astartes.
…Guess he could only pray that the Lion had returned.
Stuffing what looked like toilet paper and other table clutter into a nearby storage bin, he walked over to the pool, armored hand reaching in to retrieve the sword and shield. They were the same kind he had once favored in the game—and he now bitterly regretted how deeply he had indulged in roleplay back then.
The room was utterly silent—only the flicker of candle flames remained. And in that moment, as the nearly three-meter-tall giant grasped sword and shield, time seemed to freeze.
Arthur was completely numb.
Transmigration—a word that once stirred the imagination.
But when it came with Warhammer 40k, it wasn't so thrilling anymore.
Warhammer 40k—a space opera IP created by GW, a nightmarish cesspool stitched together by warring factions of every imaginable race. In the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium, that cesspool had already swelled to its limit.
And now, Arthur had landed what might be the most "lucky" draw possible: an Astartes identity.
But it gave him no comfort whatsoever—because he was a Fallen Angel.
Worse still, without knowing whether the Lion had awakened or not, he had to deal with one of the most mentally unstable factions in all of Warhammer 40k.
The Dark Angels—the first of the Emperor's twenty Space Marine Legions—were drenched in glory and titles, known as the "First Legion" and often holding themselves up as paragons of what an Astartes should be.
Such a proud Chapter could not tolerate any stain on its record.
Arthur silently looked down at the black armor on his body.
A Fallen Angel—the very disgrace the Dark Angels refused to acknowledge.
Whenever Fallen Angels were involved, the usually stoic and self-disciplined Chapter would tear off their mask and go into a manic purge—firing on allies, interrogating with psykers, using forbidden technology, or even issuing Exterminatus. All standard procedure.
And once the Fallen were captured, any imaginable method of torture could—and would—be employed by these zealots.
Arthur could only think: Maybe I should just die.
But then he remembered the existence of the Warp—and realized that even in death, peace wasn't guaranteed.
That was the truth of this universe: live, and you're wading through filth; die, and you're drowning in a deeper cesspool.
…Goddammit, you can't even die in peace.
A surge of nameless rage bubbled up. Arthur grabbed his sword and walked toward the door.
When faced with utter despair, people lose their minds. That madness, in moments like these, turned to violence.
This room was clearly a Space Marine dormitory. He was going to find whoever was in charge and request a mission.
Right now, Arthur just wanted to go kill something. Die in battle, and maybe take a few bastards down with him.
After all, his transmigrated Warhammer life was already completely screwed.
Maybe the Emperor accepted transmigrators? If so, maybe he could squeeze into the Grey Knights or something.
He jabbed the door button, but it didn't budge—as if something was blocking it.
Arthur's face tensed. He delivered a powerful kick.
Bang!
Splat~
The sound of metal snapping echoed—followed by the sickening crunch of soft tissue being crushed. A large splash of foul-smelling blue fluid hit his helmet. The view in front of him cleared instantly.
He stood in a massive warship corridor, flickering cold lights trembling overhead.
Looking down, outside the railing, Orks covered in green skin were roaring "WAAAGH!" while tearing into poorly armed humans.
Looking up, bizarre creatures with three pairs of limbs hung upside down from the ceiling. Their pink flesh glistened under the lights, their bony exoskeletons expanding and contracting with each breath.
Turning to the side, he saw sharp-eared beings—resembling elves—collapsed by the railings, faces twisted in despair, no longer resisting. Beside them stood elegant, pink-skinned figures drawn in by the scent of blood.
Directly in front of Arthur, beneath a mangled blast door, lay a dying Blue Horror—its bloated form torn apart. As it stared at the "angel" before it, only bottomless despair remained in its chaotic eyes. A collapsed pillar behind it told the story of what had crushed it moments ago.
The sheer chaos naturally drew the attention of those on the battlefield. But in the next instant, as their gazes locked and clashed again, the battlefield resumed its bloody rhythm.
Just like the eternal theme of this universe:
Death. Chaos.
"...Heh."
Arthur looked at the array of monsters and warriors before him, curled his lips, and let out a bitter smile. The fire in his chest had already gone out.
He no longer knew what expression to wear.
But a bitter smile was perfect—for when you've gone completely speechless, when you can't hold it together anymore, and all you can do is twitch the corner of your mouth… that is a true bitter smile.
Looking back, the room he had awoken in had vanished.
Arthur stepped forward.
Bang!
With a push of the shield, he crushed a cultist. His sword flashed blue, slicing off a Genestealer's head in an instant. The heavy armored boot stomped a Drukhari into pulp, sending it flying to join the minions of the Prince of Pleasure.
This was a multi-race world filled with humans, elves, orks, demons, and all manner of fantasy beings.
Whoosh!
Blue flames surged down the corridor, melting metal. They clashed against Arthur's shimmering shield. Raising his arm, he swept the flames aside. From behind the shield, a plasma weapon roared to life, vaporizing a hidden sorcerer within seconds.
This was a world where magic and machines coexisted.
"Blood for the Blood God!"
A skinless, crimson-skinned Bloodletter swung its massive sword, reaping mortal heads.
"For the Emperor!"
Guardsmen clutching melta charges charged into the demon horde.
This was a world where gods and mortals battled side by side.
Tsssh!
The hull was torn open by invisible force, revealing the void outside.
It was a scene beyond words.
Frost crept along the breach. A translucent forcefield flickered under the assault of a raging warp storm.
This was a world where you never knew what tomorrow would bring.
With a relieved smile, Arthur swung his sword at the monsters before him.
This—this was Warhammer 40k.
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