WH 40k: Transcendence

Cassian adjusted his stance, breathing in through his nose as sweat dripped down his back. His opponent came in fast—a feint to the left, then a real strike to the ribs. Cassian twisted, barely avoiding the hit, before stepping in and driving an elbow into the man's gut. The other trainee grunted, staggering back.

"Again."

Varus's voice cut through the room like a blade. No praise, no criticism—just a command.

Cassian exhaled sharply, wiping his forehead. His body ached, but he didn't stop. Six weeks of training had burned hesitation out of him. He'd learned how to fight, how to take a hit, how to use his size to his advantage. His body had changed, hardened.

Hand-to-Hand Combat: Level 13.

Physique: 7.4

Dexterity: 7.2

Physical Endurance: Level 28.

His opponent lunged again. This time, Cassian didn't wait—he stepped in, hooked his arm under the man's strike, and drove his knee into his ribs. The impact sent the other trainee stumbling to the ground.

A pause. Then Varus gave a short nod."

Better."

Cassian took a slow breath, steadying himself. That was the closest thing to praise he was going to get.

"You're learning," Varus continued, arms crossed. "But you still hesitate when switching from defense to offense. That'll get you killed."

Cassian flexed his sore hands. "I'm working on it."

"Work harder."

Cassian didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. He knew Varus wasn't here to coddle him. The Arbites trainer had no interest in being his friend. That was fine. Cassian didn't need friends—he needed results.

Varus studied him for a moment, then jerked his head toward the exit. "Training's done. Get cleaned up. You've got another lesson today."

Cassian frowned. "Another fight?"

"No." Varus turned, already walking toward the door. "Something more important."

----

The meeting place was hidden away, tucked into one of the quieter districts of the mid-hive. It was the kind of place no one looked too closely at—small, nondescript, forgotten. Cassian followed Varus inside, stepping past stacks of parchment and half-lit lumen globes.

A man sat at a wooden desk, scribbling onto a thick roll of parchment. He didn't look up immediately, finishing his work before setting the quill aside. His robes were simple, but the script embroidered along the edges marked him as someone of learning. His eyes were sharp, analytical.

Varus didn't waste time on introductions. "Cassian. This is Magister Orlan. He'll be teaching you High Gothic."

Orlan looked up, studying Cassian with something between curiosity and mild disappointment. "You're younger than I expected."

Cassian resisted the urge to sigh. "I get that a lot."

Orlan hummed, leaning back in his chair. "And you wish to learn High Gothic. Why?"

Cassian hesitated. He had plenty of reasons, but none he was willing to share with a stranger. Instead, he settled on the simplest answer. "Knowledge."

Orlan's lips twitched slightly. "A vague answer."

"An honest one," Cassian countered.

Varus exhaled sharply, the closest he'd come to a laugh. "You're going to have fun with this one, Magister."

Orlan ignored him, pulling a heavy book from the shelf and placing it in front of Cassian. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed with age.

He tapped a line of text. "Read."

Cassian frowned, scanning the words. He recognized some of them, but the structure was different—more precise, more deliberate than Low Gothic. He slowly sounded it out.

"Veritas est lumen animae… et ignoramus tenebris?"

Orlan sighed. "Close. But your pronunciation is atrocious."

Cassian narrowed his eyes. "What's it mean?"

Orlan folded his hands. "'Truth is the light of the soul. The ignorant remain in darkness.'"

Cassian exhaled through his nose. "That's… dramatic."

Varus glanced at him. "Welcome to the Imperium."

Cassian gave a dry chuckle but didn't argue. He turned back to the book, tracing a finger over the text. The more he looked at it, the more he saw the pattern—this wasn't just a different way of speaking. It was a different way of thinking.

Orlan seemed to read his expression.

"Language defines the mind, scribe. Low Gothic is crude, imprecise. It simplifies thought. High Gothic allows for complexity, for depth. That is why it is kept from the masses."

Cassian absorbed that in silence. He'd suspected as much. Low Gothic was… lacking. It didn't have words for advanced concepts. There was no proper way to explain thermodynamics, no way to even begin discussing higher mathematics. If knowledge was power, then the Imperium had ensured that power remained in the hands of the few.

Not that he was going to say that out loud.

Instead, he focused on the lesson. He repeated the phrases Orlan gave him, committing them to memory. It was frustrating at first—his tongue stumbled over the foreign syllables—but he pushed through it.

Varus, meanwhile, remained silent. He stood by the door, arms crossed, watching. He wasn't here to learn. He was here to make sure Cassian did.

"Again," Orlan instructed.

Cassian exhaled and tried again.

This was going to take time. But that was fine.

He had time.

---

Cassian moved with precision, his fists darting through the air in measured strikes. The training hall echoed with the sound of impacts—flesh against padded armor, boots shifting on reinforced flooring. Varus Dane watched him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Again," Varus said.

Cassian exhaled sharply and reset his stance. His opponent, a full-fledged Adeptus Arbites, was larger, stronger, and faster than him. The moment he hesitated, a heavy punch came straight for his face. He barely dodged it, twisting to deflect a follow-up elbow. He wasn't fast enough—the impact clipped his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain down his arm.

He gritted his teeth and retaliated, driving his knee into the Arbites' ribs. The strike landed, but the man barely reacted. Instead, he countered, forcing Cassian to backpedal to avoid a brutal takedown.

The Arbites pressed forward, throwing another powerful punch. Cassian ducked under it, sweeping his leg in a counter. The man stumbled—not much, just enough to be noticeable.

Varus grunted. "You're keeping up."

That was as close to a compliment as Cassian was going to get.

He had started as little more than a training dummy, barely managing to stay on his feet. Now? He could actually fight them. He could feel the difference—his strikes carried force, his body didn't falter under pressure, and he could fight longer without gasping for breath.

Varus gestured toward the Arbites Cassian had just sparred with. "You held your own, but he wasn't even going full speed. If you want to survive out there, you need to stop reacting and start controlling the fight."

Cassian wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Working on it."

Varus snorted. "Work faster."

He moved on to training with the shock baton next. His movements were still rough, but compared to the first day, when the weapon had felt foreign in his hands, there was real improvement. Footwork, timing, positioning—he was learning, piece by piece.

The moment he stopped, exhaustion crept in, but he shook it off.

There was still more work to do.

---

After training, Cassian sat across from Magister Orlan in the dimly lit study, old parchment spread before him. The air smelled of aged ink and brittle paper.

"Read," Orlan instructed.

Cassian traced the words with his eyes, his tongue forming syllables that had once felt foreign but now rolled off more naturally. His old literacy skill had evolved—Lexicon proficiency.

He wasn't just reading anymore. He was understanding.

"Good," Orlan said as Cassian finished the passage. "Now, tell me—what does the structure of this text reveal about its origin?"

Cassian considered the question. "The dialect is archaic, but not inefficient. The wording isn't just for formality—it carries layers of meaning. There are implied nuances that don't translate cleanly into Low Gothic."

Orlan nodded, satisfied. "You grasp the nature of High Gothic better than most scribes I have trained."

Cassian kept his expression neutral. His progress wasn't due to any natural talent. It was simply an advantage he had before arriving in this world. High Gothic shared too much DNA with English and Latin. And he had already known English. His inherited grasp of Low Gothic only made the process smoother.

From the Magister's perspective, his rapid understanding must have seemed extraordinary. But for Cassian, it was just another system exploit.

"The next step," Orlan continued, "is comprehension of deeper texts. High Gothic is not simply a language of governance—it is a language of knowledge. It allows access to the oldest writings, the preserved wisdom of past eras. The greater your fluency, the deeper you will see."

Cassian nodded. That was the real reason he was pushing himself. The Imperium's knowledge was locked behind this language. If he wanted to understand more—about the Warp, about power, about a way out—he needed High Gothic.

Orlan placed a thick tome in front of him. "We begin today with philosophical analysis. Read, and then summarize the central arguments presented."

Cassian opened the book and started.

At first, it was slow going. The structure was dense, the ideas layered. But with each passage, something clicked into place. The language wasn't just refined—it was precise. Concepts that would take paragraphs in Low Gothic were conveyed in a single elegant phrase.

He understood now why the Imperium still used it in law, in bureaucracy, in sacred texts. Low Gothic was practical, but High Gothic was exact.

Hours passed, the room falling into the steady rhythm of study. Cassian absorbed the knowledge, analyzing, breaking it down, reconstructing it in his mind. His progress was unnatural, but Orlan never questioned it.

He only watched, as if studying Cassian just as closely as Cassian studied the texts.

---

The Test began without warning.

Orlan didn't announce it as such—he simply started assigning Cassian increasingly difficult challenges. Deciphering older dialects. Summarizing entire scrolls of Imperial philosophy in a few sentences. Translating documents with double meanings.

Some texts were pre-Heresy. Some were ancient beyond reckoning. Some contained ideas that weren't entirely aligned with strict Imperial dogma.

One particular passage stood out:

"To question is not to betray, but to remain silent in the face of truth is to abandon reason itself."

Cassian stared at it for a long moment. This kind of thinking didn't belong in the Imperium.

"Does this passage trouble you?" Orlan asked.

Cassian masked his reaction. "Just trying to understand the context."

"A wise approach," Orlan said. "Too often, young minds seek answers before grasping the depth of the question."

Cassian nodded, but inwardly, he wondered—how much did Orlan truly believe in Imperial doctrine? Was he just another cog in the machine, or something else entirely?

It didn't matter.

Right now, he had work to do.

And that was the point, wasn't it?

He buried himself in his training, in his studies, because it was easier than facing the truth.

The truth that no matter how much stronger he got, no matter how much knowledge he gained, the world was still dying.

The Hive was rotting. The world was crumbling. And in the grand scale of things, he was still just one insignificant piece in a cosmic nightmare.

So, he worked. He trained. He learned.

Because the moment he stopped.

That was when reality would catch up with him.

—-

Word count: 1882