WH 40k: Transcendence

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Joran's Perspective

Joran grunted as he hoisted another crate, muscles pulling tight as he heaved it onto the growing stack. The warehouse air was thick—hot, damp, and rank with sweat, rust, and the sour tang of old chemicals soaked into the walls. The steady clunk of metal on concrete echoed around him as the other laborers worked, their voices blending into the constant background noise of the hive. Arguments over quotas. The occasional bark of a foreman. The grinding hum of cargo servitors lumbering through their tasks.

Same routine. Same place. Same filth clogging the air.

Except something felt off.

Joran rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness, and let his gaze drift across the warehouse. His eyes landed on the far side, near the entrance—where Cassian used to be. The kid hadn't been around in weeks.

Joran didn't like that.

It wasn't like Cassian to just disappear. He wasn't some weak-willed gutter rat who cut and ran when things got tough. If he wasn't here, it meant he had something else going on. And knowing Cassian, it wasn't something simple.

Joran turned back to his work, grabbing another crate. The weight dug into his palms as he shifted it, placing it down with a dull thud. He wasn't an idiot—he knew the kind of work Cassian had gotten himself into.

The kid was moving in dangerous circles now.

Joran had seen it in the way he carried himself—the way his posture changed, how he talked less and watched more. Cassian had always been sharp—too sharp for his own good—but there was something different about him lately.

Something heavier.

---

When Joran first met him, he figured Cassian wouldn't last a week.

Too small. Too thin. Looked like he'd break under real labor. Joran had seen plenty like him before. The type that showed up, thinking they could handle it, then ran off after the first real shift broke them down. Some found easier, shadier work. Others got swallowed up by the hive and never came back.

Cassian didn't.

He just kept showing up.

The first day, he barely spoke—just nodded when given instructions and got to work. Didn't complain. Didn't stop to rest unless told to. And by the end of the shift, when he was dead on his feet, he just clenched his jaw and kept moving.

The second day was the same.

The third, fourth—week after week, he just kept going.

Joran had expected the usual—complaints, fatigue, maybe even a breakdown. Instead, Cassian just… adapted. It was unnatural, how fast he adjusted. Like he wasn't just working, but studying every motion, refining it, making it more efficient.

Joran had seen men twice Cassian's size fold under half the workload. The kid? He never hesitated. He just absorbed the strain like a sponge, learned from it, and pushed forward.

And now he was gone.

That didn't sit right with Joran.

---

Another crate. Another dull thud against the ground. The muscles in his arms burned, but he barely noticed. His mind was somewhere else.

Cassian had changed too fast. And now he was making moves Joran didn't like.

It wasn't just that he had vanished from the labor crews—Joran could accept that. The kid had ambitions, and he wasn't the type to settle for grunt work forever. No, what bothered Joran was how Cassian had acted the last time they spoke.

Measured. Calculated.

Not just surviving, but maneuvering.

Joran had spent enough time around desperate men to know when someone was setting themselves up for something dangerous. And Cassian? He had that look.

He'd seen it in the way Cassian's eyes lingered on people—assessing, analyzing. He wasn't just reacting to the world anymore—he was planning around it. Like he'd already mapped out three different routes before the rest of them even realized they were walking a straight line.

Joran didn't know what exactly the kid was tangled up in, but he knew one thing for sure: it wasn't safe.

---

A worker shouted something in the distance. Joran barely heard it. His focus was locked on his own thoughts.

He should stay out of it.

Cassian wasn't his responsibility. They weren't family. Weren't even friends, really. Just two people who had worked side by side for a while. Joran had his own problems—his own debts, his own fights. Getting dragged into someone else's mess was the last thing he needed.

But.

Cassian had earned his respect.

Not just because of his work ethic, but because he reminded Joran of himself. That same fire. That same refusal to bow, no matter how the world beat down on him. Joran had seen plenty of desperate people, but Cassian wasn't desperate. He was determined.

And that? That was dangerous.

Joran knew what happened to people like that in the underhive. They either rose to something bigger—or they got chewed up and spit out.

"I'll help him as much as I can," he thought grimly. "But I'm not dying for him."

Even so… if Cassian ever did need help, Joran already knew he wouldn't just ignore it.

He sighed and shook his head, grabbing another crate. The weight settled into his arms, grounding him back into the present.

The world moved on, with or without him.

And so did Cassian.

---

Varus' Perspective

The Arbites training hall stank of sweat and blood.

Varus didn't mind. The smell was familiar, grounding. He had spent most of his life in places like this—dimly lit, reinforced concrete walls, the distant echoes of drills being run in adjacent rooms. The clang of metal against metal, the grunts of exertion, the occasional dull thud of a body hitting the floor. This was order. This was discipline.

He observed from the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest, as Cassian Vail struggled through yet another round of drills. His movements were sharp, practiced—but still lacking. Still not there yet.

Not that Varus expected him to be.

He hadn't thought much of the kid at first. A scrawny, underfed scribe thrown into something far beyond his league. He had assumed Cassian would last a few weeks at best before quitting or ending up in a body bag.

He had been wrong.

Cassian hit the mat with a grunt, rolling out of the way before his opponent could land a finishing strike. He was breathing hard, sweat dripping from his chin, but his eyes remained sharp.

Good.

Varus stepped forward. "Again."

Cassian didn't complain. He didn't groan or whine like some recruits did. He just wiped the sweat from his face, got back into position, and braced himself for another round.

Varus nodded to himself. He learns.

It wasn't just about skill—it was about mentality. Cassian didn't break, didn't fold. He took the hits, got up, and tried again. That was rare. Valuable.

Varus had seen countless men pass through these halls. Most thought strength was about brute force, about overpowering the enemy with raw aggression. They were the ones who got themselves killed the fastest. Real strength came from endurance, from knowing how to take a hit and keep moving.

Cassian had that. And it was frustrating to admit, but Varus respected it.

---

He watched as Cassian adjusted his stance, shifting his weight just slightly. Small changes. Refinements. He was paying attention, adapting. Good.

The next exchange was faster. Not perfect, but better. Cassian's opponent lunged—Cassian sidestepped, redirected the momentum, and nearly managed to throw them off balance before getting knocked down again.

Varus exhaled through his nose. He's improving. Slowly, but surely.

He crossed his arms again, leaning slightly against the wall.

Cassian wasn't just training. He was obsessed. The kid pushed himself harder than most recruits. He took the lessons seriously, didn't waste time, didn't let his failures get to him.

That was what made Varus pay attention.

He wasn't training for the Arbites. He wasn't training for pride.

He was training for something else.

And Varus didn't like not knowing what.

---

What are you after, kid?

Varus had been around long enough to recognize desperation. He had seen men clawing their way to survival, burning through their last reserves just to stay alive one more day. Cassian had that same look, that same drive—but it wasn't just about survival.

It was calculated.

Planned.

Cassian wasn't just trying to survive—he was preparing.

Varus respected that, but he didn't trust it. He had spent too many years dealing with criminals, rebels, and traitors to believe in pure intentions. Cassian had a goal in mind. He was working toward something, and Varus didn't know what.

And that was a problem.

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer to where Cassian was picking himself up from the mat once again.

"On your feet."

Cassian nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. He was exhausted, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

Varus stared at him for a moment, considering. Then he spoke. "You're getting better. But don't think for a second that effort alone will save you."

Cassian met his gaze. His expression was unreadable.

Varus narrowed his eyes slightly. Yeah. You're hiding something.

But for now, that was fine.

He'd figure it out eventually.

—-

Arbitrator's Perspective

Arbitrator Gideon Rauth stood in his dimly lit office, the glow of data-slates casting flickering shadows against the walls. The scent of burning incense barely masked the acrid tang of recaf long gone cold. Piles of reports, grim and unrelenting in their detail, sat stacked upon his desk—each one another nail in the coffin of this Emperor-forsaken world.

The planet was already doomed.

He had known it for some time now.

Hive cities did not fall overnight, nor did Chaos rise in an instant. It began quietly, insidiously—whispers in the dark, symbols carved into forgotten corridors, discontent simmering among the desperate and the damned. What had started as scattered acts of violence, a few missing enforcers, a few unexplained murders, had escalated into something far greater.

Officially, the Administratum reports still called it "widespread unrest," still spoke of "escalating cult activity" as though it were a manageable problem. But Rauth knew better. He had seen the pattern before. This was beyond simple heresy—it was a sickness, and the infection had already spread to the bone.

The gangs had been the first to fall. A few disappeared outright, their turf abandoned, their members absorbed into something else. Others had changed, subtly at first—more organized, more ruthless, as though driven by a singular, unseen force. Then had come the disappearances. Not just low-born dregs and miscreants, but mid-level clerks, Mechanicus logisticians, and even off-duty enforcers. Some bodies had been found, desecrated beyond recognition. Others were never seen again.

And the Arbites?

The Arbites were losing.

He had received reports of precincts going dark. Entire patrols simply vanishing. Others returning changed—if they returned at all. The few interrogations they had managed to conduct before executions had revealed nothing of use. Madness, fanaticism—pure, unbreakable devotion to something unseen.

And worst of all, the government itself had begun to shift.

Higher-ranking officials were making strange decisions, dismissing reports of cult activity, redirecting resources away from key sectors. The noble houses, once divided in their endless squabbles, had grown silent, unified in a way that reeked of something unnatural. Even within the Adeptus Arbites, he had begun to notice the signs—officers who avoided his gaze, orders that contradicted previous mandates, entire chains of command quietly disappearing.

Rauth clenched his jaw, fingers tapping absently against his desk. They are already among us.

Stage Two. The point of no return. The world was bleeding out, but the Imperium refused to acknowledge the wound. Not yet. Not until it reached Stage Three—The Taint Revealed.

By then, it would be too late.

The Arbites' mandate was clear. Uphold the law. Maintain order. But order was a fragile thing, and when the rot ran this deep, there was only one course of action left.

Exterminatus.

The word lingered in his mind, heavy with the weight of inevitability. The wheels of the Imperium turned slowly, but once they did turn, they were unstoppable. This planet was already dead. The only question was when High Command would be willing to acknowledge it.

He would hold the line until then.

He would die here.

It did not matter. Gideon Rauth was no fool. He had long since accepted the nature of his duty. He had sworn himself to the Lex Imperialis, to the preservation of the Emperor's law, knowing full well that it was a battle no man could ever truly win. Chaos could not be destroyed—only delayed.

But delay was enough.

A few months. A few years. Long enough for some other world, some other front, to prepare itself.

Long enough for one more planet to remain in the Emperor's light before the darkness consumed it.

That was the purpose of men like him.

---

He exhaled, running a gloved hand over his face. The reports blurred together. He had been reading for hours, but the information was all the same—bad news, bad news, and more bad news.

Somewhere near the bottom of the pile was a dossier marked Cassian Vail.

A minor matter. An anomaly, perhaps.

The boy was interesting—his name had surfaced in multiple reports, and he had caught the eye of both local enforcers and the Arbites alike. But in the grand scheme of things?

He was just one more piece in a game already lost.

Rauth didn't have time to care.

He straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness setting in. His duty was clear. He would continue fighting. He would execute traitors, purge the infected, and hold the line until the moment he was ordered to die for this planet.

And when that moment came—

He would do it gladly.

—-

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