WH 40k: Transcendence

19:42 Standard Terran Time

Cassian stepped out of the Scriptorum, rolling his shoulders. His muscles ached from hunching over parchment all day, his fingers stiff from the endless copying of text. The stink of ink clung to him, mixing with the ever-present stench of the hive—oil, metal, and the faint, cloying smell of too many bodies packed too close together.

The air outside was thick, stale, but it carried a sense of freedom compared to the suffocating halls of the Scriptorum. He stretched slightly as he walked, his mind already shifting to what came next.

Training. Actual combat training.

A whisper of movement flickered at the edge of his vision.

Cassian's steps slowed.

Nothing. Just the usual crowd—workers trudging home, a few scavengers eyeing pockets, a servo-skull gliding overhead.

Still, something felt off. The lights seemed dimmer than usual, the air heavier. He swallowed, pushing the thought away.

A voice cut through the background noise.

"Cassian Vail?"

He turned sharply, instinct tightening in his gut.

The man standing before him was tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a slab of ceramite. His face was rough, lined with old scars. His hair was cropped short, streaked with gray, and his pale eyes studied Cassian with quiet calculation.

He wore a reinforced long coat over combat armor. A knife sat at his hip, the grip worn from use. The way he stood—balanced, weight slightly shifted—made it clear he wasn't some bureaucrat.

Cassian didn't answer immediately. His instincts told him this man wasn't just some random officer.

The man raised an eyebrow. "You deaf, scribe?"

Cassian crossed his arms. "Who's asking?"

The man smirked. "Dain Verrus. I'm the one who's supposed to make sure you don't die the first time someone takes a swing at you."

Cassian exhaled. So this was his trainer. He hadn't expected a warm welcome, but there was something unsettling about the way Verrus watched him.

Like he was sizing him up.

"Alright," Cassian said. "Where are we doing this?"

Verrus tilted his head. "Follow me."

---

Cassian kept pace as Verrus led him through the hive's underbelly. The main streets gave way to narrow alleys, where the hum of machinery above was muffled by thick, rusted walls.

Something about the air here felt wrong.

Not in any obvious way—just… heavier. The shadows stretched strangely, the lumen strips above flickering for a beat too long.

A whisper of movement flickered at the edge of his vision again.

Cassian glanced sideways.

Nothing.

Just a reflection in a grimy window. His own face, staring back.

But for half a second, he thought it had blinked at the wrong time.

He clenched his jaw and looked away. Just exhaustion. He had been pushing himself hard, working long shifts, training his body past what it was used to. It was bound to take a toll.

That was all.

Finally, Verrus stopped in front of a reinforced door built into the side of a structure that looked like an abandoned warehouse. He punched a code into a panel, and the door hissed open.

Inside, the air was cold, carrying the scent of metal and sweat. The space was stripped bare—concrete floors, metal walls, no decoration. A sparring ring sat in the center, surrounded by training dummies and benches.

A few other figures stood in the shadows, watching. Silent.

Cassian stepped inside.

Verrus walked straight to the center. "First lesson. Hand-to-hand combat."

Cassian flexed his fingers. "Figured as much."

Verrus smirked. "You ever thrown a punch, scribe?"

Cassian didn't answer.

Verrus nodded. "That's what I thought. No weapons. No tricks. Just fists. You last five minutes with me, I'll consider it progress."

Cassian exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He wasn't much—thin, underfed—but he had spent weeks pushing his body past its limits.

Not strong enough. But stronger than before.

Verrus flexed his fingers. "Ready?"

Cassian nodded.

The punch hit him before he even saw it coming.

A brutal hook to the ribs. His breath left him in a choked gasp, pain exploding through his side. Before he could recover, a second blow clipped his jaw, sending him staggering.

"Too slow," Verrus said.

Cassian gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright.

Verrus wasn't holding back. This wasn't a training session. It was a test.

Fine.

Cassian adjusted his stance, keeping his movements tight. When Verrus swung again, he tried to duck—too slow. The punch glanced off his shoulder instead of landing square, but it still hurt like hell.

Verrus pressed forward, relentless. A knee to the gut. A sweeping kick. A shove that sent Cassian stumbling back.

Every impact rattled his bones.

But he didn't fall.

Not yet.

Blood trickled from his lip. His arms shook. But something inside him refused to stop.

Verrus swung again. Cassian ducked—barely. He lunged forward, throwing a clumsy punch at Verrus's side. It connected, weak, barely a tap, but Verrus raised an eyebrow.

"Hah," Verrus said. "You're learning."

Then he slammed a fist into Cassian's ribs.

Cassian hit the ground, gasping. His vision blurred. His body screamed at him to stay down.

He pushed himself up anyway.

Verrus watched him, arms crossed. "You're bleeding."

Cassian wiped his mouth. "I noticed."

Verrus studied him for a moment. Then, without a word, he grabbed Cassian's arm and hauled him upright.

"Not bad," Verrus said. "For a scribe."

Cassian let out a slow, painful breath. "Five minutes?"

Verrus smirked. "Three and a half. You lost."

Cassian gave a small, bloody grin. "Guess I'll do better next time."

Verrus nodded. "Maybe you will."

Cassian flexed his fingers, feeling the bruises forming. The pain was sharp, but beneath it, there was something else.

Progress.

For the first time since coming to this world, he wasn't just surviving.

He was becoming something more.

And he wasn't going to stop now.

Status Page Updated

New Skill Acquired: Hand-to-Hand Combat (Level 1)

Cassian exhaled, steadying himself.

For a split second, he thought he saw something flicker behind Verrus.

A shadow, deeper than the others.

Gone in a blink.

Cassian didn't react.

Just exhaustion.

—-

Terran Standard Time: Unknown

Cassian didn't know how many days had passed.

The training had blurred into a cycle of pain, exhaustion, and relentless repetition. Every day, Verrus beat him down, and every day, he got back up. His body protested, muscles screaming, but he ignored it. There was no room for weakness. No room for hesitation.

At first, he had been utterly pathetic.

Verrus had knocked him down so easily it was almost insulting. Cassian had never realized how weak he truly was—how much of a liability his own body had been. A few well-placed strikes had stolen his breath, sent him sprawling, left him gasping in the dirt like a wounded animal.

But he endured.

The first week had been the worst. Bones ached, bruises layered over bruises, and his muscles felt like they were turning against him. Verrus didn't hold back. He never gave any compliments, no words of encouragement. Just fists and footwork.

But slowly—slowly—Cassian started to improve.

His instincts sharpened. He stopped flinching at every feint. His footwork stabilized. He still lost every match, still got knocked down more often than not, but he lasted longer each time.

And Verrus noticed.

He didn't say it outright, but there was a difference in his demeanor. The first few days, he had treated Cassian like dead weight, like some weakling barely worth the effort. But now?

Now he tested him. Pushed him harder. Expected more.

The first time Cassian successfully blocked a strike, Verrus had just grunted. The first time he landed a solid hit, the older man had given him a sharp, appraising look before continuing the fight without comment. But the shift was there. A grudging respect.

For a scribe, he wasn't bad.

And Cassian?

He felt the difference.

Every punch he threw had more weight behind it. Every step he took was quicker, more precise. The exhaustion still weighed on him, but beneath it was something else—something solid. A sense of control.

His old self—the weak, trembling scribe who had been thrown into this world—was burning away.

And something stronger was taking its place.

Status Page Updated

Hand-to-Hand Combat (Level 5)

---

Despite the grueling schedule, Cassian managed to carve out a few moments for himself.

And in those moments, he met with Joren.

They sat in a dingy backroom of a run-down eatery, the kind of place where nobody asked questions. The air was thick with the smell of cheap grease and sweat, the hum of low conversations filling the background. The flickering lumen-strips overhead cast everything in a sickly yellow light.

Cassian sat across from Joren, rolling his sore shoulder, sipping at a tin mug of something vaguely resembling recaf.

Joren leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, giving Cassian a long, unimpressed look. "You look like shit."

Cassian smirked. "Feel worse."

Joren snorted, taking a slow bite of his meal—some greasy protein slab that smelled more like machine oil than food. He chewed thoughtfully, watching Cassian like a man piecing together a puzzle.

"So," Joren said, swallowing. "What the hell are you up to?"

Cassian knew this was coming.

Joren wasn't stupid. He noticed things. And right now, Cassian wasn't exactly being subtle. The bruises, the stiff way he carried himself, the fact that he had been scarce these past few days—it all added up to something.

Cassian exhaled, setting his mug down. "Just been busy."

Joren gave him a flat look. "Uh-huh. Sure. And I'm the Emperor's long-lost bastard son."

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Joren gave him a flat look. "I've seen a lot of men come back from a beating, but you—you look like someone getting his ass kicked regularly." He gestured vaguely at Cassian. "You're limping, but not like some ganger stomped you. You've got bruises, but they're evenly spread—not the kind you get from a single fight. That means training. And judging by the fact that you're still alive, it's not with some random hive thugs."

Cassian stayed quiet, letting him talk.

Joren took another slow bite, chewing thoughtfully. "You're picking up something dangerous."

Still no response.

Joren shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "Not the gangs, not mercs… No, this feels structured. Which means either the Guard, or something else."

He let the words hang.

Cassian took a sip of his drink. "You done guessing?"

Joren smirked. "Not guessing. Just putting things together."

Cassian didn't confirm or deny it. Didn't need to.

Joren studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright. If you're serious about whatever this is, then I'll say this—be careful. Hive's got a way of grinding down men who think they can fight it."

Cassian exhaled, rolling his sore shoulder. "I know."

Joren shook his head, but there was something else in his expression now. Not just curiosity—interest.

A slow grin spread across his face. "If you need something—information, connections—you let me know."

Cassian narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Joren shrugged. "Because it's good to have friends in dark places. And because I don't want to see you get yourself killed."

Cassian considered that.

Joren was more connected than him. He knew the hive better, had contacts Cassian didn't. If he could use that…

An idea took shape.

If he played this right, Joren could be more than just a contact.

He could be an informant.

Cassian smirked. "I'll keep that in mind."

Joren chuckled, lifting his drink. "Good. Just don't get yourself killed before you make it interesting."

Cassian finished his drink, exhaustion still gnawing at him—but beneath it, there was something else.

Progress.

For the first time in a long while, he wasn't just surviving.

He was getting stronger. And the pieces were finally falling into place.

—-

Word count: 1971