From the Warp's hearth I stab at thee

by Boxedstraycat

Summary:

A Warp storm tears Atoma asunder, trapping the crew of the Mourning Star, the survivors find themselves in a whole different world where Warships take human form to defend mankind against the foul xenos known as the Sirens.

Chapter 1: Introduction

In the cold and endless void, where suns burned like dying embers and silence reigned supreme, reality tore itself open. A sudden rift in the Immaterium bled across the skies of Atoma Prime, a wound of shrieking madness that consumed all in its path. The Warp had come without warning—no astropathic augury, no flicker of omen—only the sickening howl of a galaxy laughing at mortal fragility.

The Mourning Star, once a proud vessel of the Holy Inquisition and seat of Inquisitor Grendyl’s authority, was caught in the maelstrom’s teeth. Hull plating bent like parchment, decks split apart, and machine-spirits screamed in binary agony. One moment the ship was whole; the next, vast sections of it simply ceased to exist, swallowed by the churning unreality.

Baroness-Shipmistress Brahms, hands clawed tight around the command throne, spat a curse as she watched her domain unravel. Cables writhed like severed veins, steel bulkheads were flayed open to the void, and her crew—her people—were torn from existence in a storm of blood and light.

In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war… and the cruel laughter of thirsting gods. Yet even in ruin, fate is capricious, and sometimes survival is granted not by mercy, but by the twisted whims of a god who delights in change.

 

“Hold onto this, you big karker!”

The words cut through the roaring in Efrain’s ears. He was drowning—dragged beneath black water by jagged metal still clinging to his armor. Gasping, thrashing, he hacked at the debris until he could seize the rope thrown to him. With a grunt, he was hauled upward, coughing seawater as his boots scraped against broken plating.

The one who had saved him—of all people—was the Cadian, Mordekai.

Efrain gave a breathless laugh, half mocking, half grateful. “I take back what I said about Cadians. You bastards do pull through, don’t you? No wonder the planet broke before the guard did.” He smirked, though his voice was edged with lingering fear.

Mordekai sneered back, his tone poisonous as ever. “If you died, it would take far too long to find and train a replacement. Good human shields are hard to come by.” Yet for the briefest heartbeat, the corner of his mouth twisted upward in a ghost of a smirk.

Efrain barked a laugh. “And just like that, I take it back again.”

Their levity faltered when they turned to take in their surroundings. Endless water. Nothing but black waves under a dead sky. Survivors clung to wreckage, their armor heavy and slick with salt. Mordekai’s voice was low, almost reverent, when he muttered:

“By Creed… moments ago we were in the void. Now we drown like vermin.”

Before despair could take hold, something else stirred. The air—or what passed for air in this strange place—trembled. A presence, smooth as silk and heavy with alien allure, slid into their minds.

“Interesting…” The voice was sultry, mocking. “Humans, torn from another dimension. And such technology… millennia beyond Terra’s paltry progress. What wonderful specimens you will make.”

An Observer had come.

The words had barely slithered across the waves before the survivors opened fire. Bolters barked, lasfire cracked, and solid shells shrieked through the air. The Observer’s body jolted with impacts, one round tearing her arm clean away in a spray of ichor that hissed as it struck the water.

Her scream was not pain, but delight.

“Ahhh… exquisite! Your weapons rend flesh, your fury ignores fear. Yes, yes—you will serve well.”

Her remaining limbs unfurled—slick, writhing tentacles that lashed out like whips of iron. Several Guardsmen were seized mid-shout and crushed like fruit, their broken bodies flung aside. Another, bellowing “Xenos filth!” as he raised his chainsword, was snatched from the air and dashed into the waves with bone-snapping force.

The Observer was fast—far too fast. She slipped between lasbolts and shells as if her form was only half bound to this reality. Yet for every soldier that fell, the survivors answered with more fire, their training instinctive, their hatred absolute. Armor-piercing rounds punched holes through her glistening form, and the roar of dive-bombers above heralded salvation.

Explosions raked the sea. Fire and shrapnel tore into the alien flesh. With a shriek of rage, the Observer reeled back, her tentacles dragging her toward a shimmering rift that tore open behind her.

“Humans… always so rude,” she hissed mockingly. “But no matter. You will not escape my tests forever.”

Then she was gone, leaving only blood in the water and the broken bodies of those too slow to escape her wrath.

 

The silence that followed was broken by a new voice. It did not merely echo through vox channels—it commanded them. Deep, resonant, it struck with the weight of authority born not from fear, but inevitability.

“We have detected an anomaly in this region.”

The survivors froze. They could not see the speaker, but the aura of his presence was undeniable. Even the most hardened Krieg veterans glanced upward as if staring into the shadow of a god.

“I must know,” the voice continued, “are you friend… or foe?”

It was Beta Omega 55 who found his voice first. The young Krieg commissar dragged himself upright, his rebreather rasping as seawater dripped from his trench coat. For a moment he said nothing, as though some ancient instinct demanded he measure every word. Then, with a voice like cold iron, he declared:

“We fight for mankind.”

The words were muffled by his mask, but no less resolute. He squared his shoulders, glaring into the horizon as if daring unseen enemies to challenge him. “We will burn the foes of man. We will carry His light wherever this cursed galaxy casts us.”

A growl of approval rippled among the survivors—shouts, oaths, even the pounding of armored fists against broken plating.

Interrogator Rannick, seizing the moment, straightened his soaked robes. The old Inquisitor was gone—lost to the warp or worse—and Rannick bore his absence like a mantle. His voice cut across the vox with practiced calm.

“Then, stranger, to whom do we owe the pleasure of this… timely intervention?”

The reply was immediate.

“I am the Commander of Azur Lane,” the voice boomed, and with it came a sight that stole what little breath remained in the warband’s lungs.

From the horizon they came—figures gliding across the surface of the ocean as though the laws of nature bent to their will. Women, impossibly beautiful and armed with impossible weapons, their bodies braced by strange mechanical rigs that hummed with unearthly power. Behind them loomed a vast warship, massive even by ancient Terran standards, cutting through the waves like a titan awoken.

“And we,” the Commander continued, “fight the Sirens. Your… xenos, as you would call them. If you oppose them, then I name you ally. Gladly so.”

Rannick’s eyes narrowed. The Mourning Star’s shattered machine-spirit still muttered to him in broken whispers, its voice fragmented and strange—too chatty, too eager. Perhaps it was the damage, or perhaps some deeper corruption. Yet there was no denying the truth of the offer before him.

He inclined his head slightly, as though speaking to himself. “Interesting…”

 

It was Beta Omega who broke the silence again, his voice cold, commanding.

“Imperium or not, I swore to fight for humanity. And I will. Against Sirens. Against xenos. Against any who seek our extinction.”

The Commander’s reply carried a weight that pressed against the soul itself. “Good. For your presence here changes much. The technology you bring… will give us an edge. And in return, you will have a place among us. A sanctuary, beyond the reach of grasping nations. No vultures shall claim your spoils.”

The Krieg youth felt the words sink deep, like iron driven into stone. Before he could think, he answered with equal conviction. “And we will.”

Rannick echoed him, almost involuntarily.

Thus the alliance was forged—swift, almost unnaturally so. The Kansen marveled at it. The survivors of the Mourning Star bristled at it. But none could deny the inevitability. Something greater than chance had guided this moment, binding two worlds together by chains of blood and fire.

And from the shadows of the fleet, all eyes turned to Beta Omega 55—Klaus, Boss, the boy who bore the voice of a veteran and the gaze of centuries.

What he would say, and what he would become, none could yet know.

The weeks following first contact between the Imperial Warband and Azur Lane were—strangely—peaceful.
No bombardments shook the seas, no sudden betrayals shattered the fragile truce. Instead, the ocean lay calm beneath watchful suns, and men and Kansen alike moved in wary proximity.

The Kriegsmen remained themselves: silent, masked, unrelenting. They dug trenches even when no threat loomed, built fortifications where none were needed, erected defenses against storms that never came. They did not laugh, did not sing, did not rest. They simply prepared for war as though war itself were a law of nature.

The Kansen kept their distance, yet curiosity burned behind their eyes. Their lives were color and song, a sharp contrast to the Kriegsmen muted greys. Some attempted to speak with the masked soldiers, even sharing food or idle chatter. Others pulled back, unnerved by the faceless silence.

The surviving Imperial warband was less restrained. Priests muttered curses under their breath whenever a shipgirl with fox tails or wolf ears passed by. Nobles sneered openly at abhuman features, their disdain sharp enough to curdle the air. But psykers among them—hollow-eyed, their voices carrying the tremor of visions—regarded the shipgirls with an odd familiarity. For them, foxfire and dreamlight were not horrors but reflections of the warp scars they carried themselves. The Ogryns, massive and simple, rumbled cheerful greetings, accepting the Kansen as comrades-in-arms. And among the Guardsmen, divisions ran deep: some clung to their priests’ hatred, while others shared quiet cigarettes or stories with shipgirls when no one was watching, uneasy but curious.

It was a fragile balance, a strange peace of whispers, prayers, and tentative gestures. Until the ceremony was called.

The great hangar of the forward bastion had been transformed into a hall of banners and flame. Torches lined the walls, smoke curling high as if the chamber itself exhaled in anticipation. The audience gathered: the Krieg in their rows of masks, the surviving Imperial warband, and the assembled leaders of Azur Lane.

Enterprise stood near the front, arms folded, her steel-grey eyes unblinking beneath the brim of her cap. Hood straightened her immaculate uniform with aristocratic grace. Richelieu clasped her hands in prayer, golden gaze steady but tense. Akagi’s crimson eyes glimmered above her fan, smile too sharp to be mistaken for simple amusement. Nagato stood like a statue, ears twitching faintly beneath her veil. Shinano lingered at the edge, dreamlike and distant, while Musashi loomed with arms crossed, a storm bottled into human form.

The Imperial survivors sat apart, their divisions clear even in posture. Priests kept to the fore, clutching aquilas, lips moving in prayers of warding. Nobles whispered bitterly, their sneers directed openly at the Kansen. But behind them, Guardsmen shifted uneasily, some casting furtive glances at the shipgirls with something like respect. Psykers remained silent, pale eyes locked on the dais, their attention unsettlingly fixed. Ogryns stood at the back, muttering to each other with booming voices that echoed like drums.

At the center of it all, on the dais, stood Commander Klaus.

Clad in black, his mask gleaming under the torchlight, he was more statue than man, a figure carved out of war itself. A hush fell as he raised his hands to his face.

The mask hissed.
He lifted it away.

Gasps rippled like a wave. Flesh had been ruined by fire: scarred ridges, twisted skin, half a jaw bound with iron. One eye milky, the other burning bright with terrible resolve.

Priests recoiled, several making the Aquila. Nobles muttered “Monstrous.” Guardsmen stared wide-eyed, one whispering, “Throne… he’s just a kid,” before an officer silenced him with a glare. A psyker leaned forward, murmuring as if in trance, “Scars of the vessel, fire in the soul.” One Ogryn blinked and rumbled softly, “Klaus still Klaus.”

Klaus’s voice broke the silence, raw and heavy:

“I wonder… if mankind is worth saving.”

The words struck like thunder.

Enterprise stiffened, narrowing her eyes. Hood’s lips parted in shock. Richelieu faltered mid-prayer. Even the Krieg seemed to freeze in their places. Priests hissed in outrage, whispering “Blasphemy.” Nobles spat curses. But the psykers remained unmoving, their gazes locked, as if recognizing something in his voice.

Klaus let the silence weigh on them before he spoke again, his voice rising:

“All I see are children, squabbling over scraps. Rivalries, jealousies, divisions—while the galaxy sharpens its claws. You cling to pride while extinction draws near. Pathetic.”

A priest shouted, “Careful, boy!” but the word shriveled beneath Klaus’s stare.

Nagato’s ears twitched at the venom in his tone. Akagi’s fan snapped open with a sharp crack, her smile curling wider.

“This is heresy,” Klaus spat. “Not against faith, but against mankind! We would sooner betray one another than stand united. We would rather fall apart than endure together.”

The Krieg soldiers stamped once, boots thunderous in unison. Guardsmen glanced at one another, some ashamed, others swayed. An Ogryn clapped slowly, only to be hushed by a priest’s glare.

Musashi’s grin split wide, predatory and admiring. “Bold words…” she murmured. Shinano swayed faintly, whispering as if dreaming aloud: “A flame… that consumes itself.”

Klaus stepped to the edge of the dais, the ruin of his face cast stark by firelight.

“This is the hour to cast off weakness. To bind together. The universe will not forgive our division—it will devour it. Unity is not optional. It is survival.”

Enterprise’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade:
“Unity at what price? If we stand as one under fear, are we still worth saving?”

The hall stilled again.

Klaus turned to her, unflinching.

“It means survival. I would kneel in unity before I burned in pieces. But I do not demand kneeling. I demand only this: that we fight for mankind—together.”

He swept his gaze across priests, nobles, psykers, Kansen alike.

“Unless some of you prefer the xenos. Unless you would betray mankind for comfort. Unless you are cowards. Traitors.”

The last word struck like a lash.

The hall went utterly still.

Hood’s hand trembled against her uniform. Richelieu bowed her head, lips pressed tight in prayer. Akagi laughed softly behind her fan. Shinano pressed her chest, whispering of unbearable burdens. Musashi’s eyes gleamed with hunger for a challenge. Priests muttered curses, nobles hissed blasphemy, Guardsmen clenched fists in silence. Psykers whispered riddles of fate. Ogryns rumbled, “Klaus strong.”

Then a Guardsman stamped his boot and shouted:
“For Mankind!”

Another followed. Then another.

The chant swelled, a storm filling the chamber. “FOR MANKIND! FOR MANKIND! FOR MANKIND!”

Even priests joined at last, voices shaking. Guardsmen shouted until their throats were raw. A psyker cried the words with tears streaming. Ogryns bellowed them like thunder. And some Kansen, hesitant but swept in the tide, raised their voices too.

The hangar shook with the cry.

Klaus replaced his mask.
The scarred boy was gone.
The Commissar remained.

That night, the echoes lingered.

Enterprise stripped her gloves in silence, staring at her trembling hands. Unity through fear… is it tyranny? Or truth?

Hood sat before a cold teacup, whispering: “So young, yet he condemns us all. Pain, or pride?”

Richelieu prayed for guidance, torn between reverence and dread.

Akagi laughed softly in her chamber. “Ah, what delicious danger…”

Nagato stood before incense smoke, whispering, “If his fire strays, I will be the one to end it.”

Shinano woke in tears, dreaming of Klaus wreathed in fire, both shield and doom.

Musashi laughed to the stars, hair whipped by wind. “At last! A warrior who bears scars worthy of war.” Yet part of her ached as she saw not just the warrior, but the child behind the mask for what he truly was, broken and alone.

In the warband’s quarters, the fractures deepened. Priests seethed, calling him marked. Nobles cursed his arrogance. But psykers defended him, muttering of visions fulfilled. Ogryns sat content, repeating, “Klaus strong. Klaus save.” Guardsmen whispered in the dark, remembering shipgirls who had shared food or patched uniforms. “Maybe they’re not monsters after all…”

None admitted it openly, but all knew it.

Klaus had changed the board.
The game had begun.

Chapter 2: Quiet Bonds

Summary:

Things begin to settle after their sudden apparition, among suspicion small friendships begin to form

The forward bastion lay quiet under the pale light of twin suns. Trenches and fortifications, built with grim precision, scarred the earth like jagged teeth. Krieg guardsmen moved silently among the debris, their masks reflecting the harsh sunlight, boots crunching over broken stone. Dust rose in thin clouds as the wind carved through the ruins, carrying with it the faint tang of rusted metal and scorched soil.

New Jersey walked along the perimeter, hands tucked into her coat, eyes scanning—but not for enemies. She noticed the Krieg in ways others did not: the unwavering posture, the meticulous precision with which they prepared even when no threat loomed, the eerie stillness behind their masks. To most, these soldiers were faceless instruments of war. To her, they were something else entirely—children and ghosts forged into living weapons.

It was one of them—designation Watchmaster 137—who drew her attention. He stood apart, hands folded over his lasgun, mask tilted slightly toward the sun. He didn’t shift when the wind caught debris, didn’t blink at the flares of distant artillery. He simply stood, a sentinel, as though the air itself obeyed him.

New Jersey approached, boots soft on gravel. “Hey,” she said casually, tilting her head. “What’s your name?”

The Krieg tilted his head slightly, voice muffled through his respirator:
“Watchmaster One-three-seven.”

She blinked. “No… no real name?”

A pause. The faint hiss of his respirator filled the silence. Then:
“Names are… for the living. We are traitors. Heretics. We deserve none.”

Her chest tightened. The words were sharp, but beneath them lay something deeper—shame, guilt, history. She crouched slightly to meet him at eye level, even though his mask hid most of his face.

“Why?” she asked softly. “Why do you call yourself a traitor?”

Another pause. His voice dropped, almost a whisper, though still modulated by the mask:
“Krieg… our world burned because of our defiance for 500 years. When it was over , we endured only to serve death and fire. We are tools of war. Names… belong to those who have hope. We… have none.”

New Jersey hesitated, nodding slowly. “I see… but—”

137 removed his helmet. The hiss of his respirator ceased.

Her eyes widened. The narrow lines of his scarred face, the tightness of his jaw, the pale skin etched by endless drills and scars—were visible now. And yet… he looked impossibly young. Barely more than a boy, no older than seventeen. Her breath caught.

But his eyes… they were dead. Empty. Lifeless. A common feature among Krieg Guardsmen. The fire of youth, the spark of innocence, all consumed by relentless training, endless duty, and the doctrine of survival at all costs. Her chest tightened painfully, a mix of horror and pity constricting her throat.

“You… you’re just a kid,” she whispered. “How… how can you carry all this?”

His expression remained steady, vacant eyes fixed on her with the unwavering precision of a soldier conditioned from birth. Voice low, almost resigned:
“We… are trained from birth. Every child in Krieg is forged to serve the Emperor. Survival, obedience, duty… that is our sole purpose. Nothing else. Life beyond war… is forbidden.”

New Jersey’s heart ached. His youth, stolen before it began, the emptiness behind those eyes—it was almost unbearable. She crouched lower, trying to see the human beneath the war-torn mask of conditioning.

“Then I’ll give you one,” she said firmly, warm. “Something that belongs to you, not the war. Something alive.”

The Krieg tilted his head but did not step back.

“Hawk,” she said. “Sharp, steady, watching over everything. You’re… Hawk now.”

There was silence for a long moment. Then, the faintest shift in his stance—a subtle nod. “Hawk,” he repeated, testing the sound. It sounded… different. Alive.

New Jersey smiled. “Yeah. That’s you. Not Watchmaster 137,. Just… Hawk.”

In the days that followed, small gestures began to weave Hawk back to humanity.

• Morning drills: Hawk shifted subtly whenever she passed, the tiniest acknowledgment that he noticed her presence. She caught him once adjusting the strap of his helmet as if unconsciously preparing for her gaze.
• Meals: He accepted her offered rations without protest, fingers brushing the crimson cord she had tied around his wrist—the gift she had given him on the first day. The cord, simple and bright against his drab uniform, seemed almost alive. He never spoke of it, yet she noticed he wore it even under armor, every day.
• Evening watch: As suns set, Hawk positioned himself where he could silently shield her from wind and flying debris. His vacant eyes flickered—briefly alive—when her gaze met his.

Sometimes, Hawk would glance toward her when she wasn’t looking, a micro-beat of attention that was human in a way he was indoctrinated tried to erase. And in those moments, New Jersey smiled quietly to herself, knowing that even the smallest spark could grow into fire.

“You ever… think about life beyond all this?” she asked once during a quiet patrol, watching the horizon burn red beneath the setting suns.

Hawk’s mask returned to his hand, fingers tightening around the edges. His voice was almost a whisper:
“Life… beyond war… is unthinkable.”

She touched his arm lightly. “Maybe. But we can still imagine it. That’s a start.”

He did not speak, did not move away, but his eyes lingered on her longer than before. A shadow of recognition passed across them, and the slightest warmth, imperceptible to anyone else, flickered behind the vacant stare.

While New Jersey forged fragile bonds with Hawk, Akagi’s curiosity led her deeper into the base. She discovered a quiet room, dimly lit by flickering candles, where a priest knelt before a golden effigy of the God-Emperor. His face was scarred—faint burns and cuts from fighting the Heretic cult, faint lines across his back from self-flagellation, a life disciplined and haunted by faith. He rose slowly as she entered.

“Lady Akagi,” he said, voice calm, respectful.

“I see you pray often,” she said softly, studying him. “To whom do you offer your devotion?”

“To the God-Emperor,” he replied. “He is our shield against darkness, the architect of humanity’s survival. Even at Atoma, when the heretics defiled cities, His light guided me. Orders, faith… sometimes impossible. Yet even then, His guidance remained.”

Akagi’s crimson eyes glimmered with curiosity. “Tell me more. What did you see at Atoma?”

The priest’s gaze softened, distant with memory. “Chaos, death… betrayal of the innocent, even by those of faith. I followed orders, and innocents perished. I survived… but my devotion was tested. My scars remind me that obedience can be flawed. Self-flagellation… a penance. Discipline to remind myself of failure.”

Akagi tilted her head, not horrified but intrigued. “I understand. I once sought to bring back my sister. My obsession nearly destroyed everything. Devotion can be salvation… and ruin.”

He inclined his head. “Indeed, Lady Akagi. One must walk carefully between zeal and wisdom. Faith is a path, not a prison.”

“I see,” she said, lifting her fan slightly. “Then devotion is most powerful when tempered by reflection.”

“I am called Father Elias,” he said simply.

Akagi considered this, then smiled faintly. “Then I will call you… Elias-dono, if I may.”

Father Elias blinked, a faint smile breaking his stoic composure. “If that pleases you, Lady Akagi.”

Over the following days, their quiet friendship grew:

• She found him cataloging supplies in the base and quietly asked his opinions on fortifications.
• He shared small personal reflections on faith, survival, and the horrors he had witnessed.
• She shared her own doubts, the near-catastrophe her obsession with her sister had nearly caused.

In each interaction, respect and curiosity wove a delicate bridge across worlds—faith and devotion, war and wisdom. Elias’s calm presence became a grounding point for Akagi, a quiet companion amid the constant hum of preparation and patrol.

The forward bastion was harsh and unyielding, yet small, quiet moments revealed the threads of life within it:

• Hawk, alone in the guard tower, watched New Jersey move through the trenches, hand resting lightly on his lasgun, fingers brushing the crimson cord. His empty eyes flickered the slightest acknowledgment as if sensing her presence even when she was not near.
• Akagi, standing before Father Elias as he whispered a prayer for the fallen, leaned closer to ask quietly, “What do you see when you pray?” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, “Him on the Throne. Remembrance. Duty. Even in despair, we cling to the light.”

Both pairs—New Jersey and Hawk, Akagi and Father Elias—found subtle, almost imperceptible ways to acknowledge one another, sharing trust, curiosity, and mutual understanding.

Night fell over the bastion. Hawk stood guard, crimson cord catching torchlight—a subtle reminder of New Jersey’s gift. She passed along the trench quietly; his empty eyes flickered toward her, the first true acknowledgment, the tiniest spark of life within the empty shell. He lowered his helmet slightly—a gesture almost invisible, yet profoundly human.

Inside the base, Akagi watched Father Elias kneel in prayer, candlelight revealing scars of combat and devotion. Their friendship was quiet but growing, rooted in shared understanding and tempered zeal.

Two threads of humanity ran through the bastion that night: one crimson, fragile, awakening; the other scarred, reflective, steady. Both quiet, personal, yet powerful—a reminder that even in the harshest crucible, small connections endured, shaping hearts in the shadows of war.

Chapter 3: Shadows of Dissension

Notes:

Redoing the chapter as I was not quite satisfied with how it came out

Chapter 3 — Shadows of Dissension

The whispers began long before the clang of boots echoed in the chapel, a week of unease having settled like dust over the Atoll base. Candlelight flickered against the cold ferrocrete, painting shadows that seemed alive. Father Veylan’s voice was fervent and sharp, carrying across the assembled soldiers and attendants.

“The Commander is tainted!” he cried. “This alliance with these… mutants! these abominations, is heresy in painted flesh. The Emperor demands us to purge these blasphemers!”

Even after a week of reflection and murmurs among the ranks, the words struck like a hammer. Loyal Guardsmen exchanged glances; their inner monologues wrestled with disbelief and duty. Private Callen, crouched against a pew, thought, I’ve served my life to the Emperor, yet I feel sick to my stomach hearing this. But loyalty… loyalty demands obedience, does it not?

Commander Klaus stood at the far end of the chapel, shadowed beneath his cap, his hands clasped behind him. He had faced mutiny before, yet the charged zeal in Veylan’s tone made this different. The priest’s eyes burned with conviction, yet to Klaus it reeked of ignorance masquerading as piety.

Inquisitor Rannick’s presence cut through the tension like a finely honed blade. His voice was quiet but unyielding. “You mistake yourself, priest. It is not your place to question the chain of command. You are the Inquisition’s instrument, not its master.”

Veylan’s face contorted with righteous indignation. His inner thoughts raced as he tried to frame himself as the savior of morality. They will see the truth! They will understand! The Commander’s path will doom us all! I am the Emperor’s hand!

Klaus advanced, voice clipped and unyielding. “You call for a purge? Begin with yourself. You sow division where unity is required. We fight for humanity, not your petty convictions. We will protect humanity, no matter the cost.”

Silence followed, hanging like the edge of a guillotine. The loyal Krieg veterans and Guardsmen felt the weight of decision pressing down; Sergeant Vanhorn muttered internally, This is absurd, this is the worst moment to start fighting each other!.

The purge began at dawn the following day. Rannick signaled, and the warband members moved with precision. Mutinous soldiers were seized; resistance was brief, futile. Bullets and shock were delivered with a precision that betrayed no hesitation, no sentiment. Within hours, Veylan’s coup was extinguished.

The Kansen lingered at the periphery, their reactions varied. Belfast’s gaze remained calm, though a tremor of unease passed across her features. “Master… it seems the discord has been contained… yet… such blood.”

Musashi’s golden eyes glimmered with sorrow. “Even in duty, to strike down your own… it is a bitter burden.”

Shinano’s soft voice shivered through the air. “…Commander… darkness… lingers in dreams… it is… unsettling…”

Klaus’ voice rose, carrying the harsh truth. “Where I come from, mercy is a luxury we cannot afford. In a galaxy determined to destroy humanity, division kills. Harsh measures are necessary. Discipline is necessary for survival. Hesitation or doubt costs lives.”

New Jersey frowned, her small frame quivering. “Necessary… it looks awful. Even I’ve seen battles, but this…”

Shinano’s tails curled around him protectively. “…We shall fight together… but our hearts ache… so cruel…”

Musashi’s voice softened with sorrow and restrained anger. “Even the strong must remember compassion. To scorn comrades is bitter, even if it’s necessary.”

Belfast inclined her head carefully. “Master, we perceive necessity… yet the way it unfolded… it is difficult to reconcile.”

Klaus softened slightly. “I do not expect understanding. The place we come from is merciless—so merciless that such measures are required. That’s how the Galaxy works. Compliance has to be absolute.”

The Kansen’s expressions shifted to horror tinged with pity. Belfast’s hands shook. “…To live in such a place, forced to act so… unforgiving…”

Shinano whispered, tails entwined protectively. “…To be made to strike down even your own… this one feels such sorrow… that words are not enough”

Musashi’s voice was low and anguished. “To endure such duty… we cannot imagine it. They are strong… and so lost.”

A week of tense quiet followed. The chapel and barracks held the unspoken memory of the purge like a weight pressing down on all who had witnessed it. Guardsmen who had been loyal wrestled with unease, silently questioning, silently judging. Their thoughts, however, were suppressed; the shadow of Imperial discipline held sway.

Then came the Sirens.

Alarms shredded the morning’s fragile calm. From the sea, grotesque forms emerged—indistinct combinations of machine and man, indoctrinated humans twisted by Siren cult ideology, and the synthetic Sirens themselves. Beams of energy cut across the waves, tearing at emplacements and soldiers alike.

Klaus moved through the command post with measured authority. Krieg artillery boomed, their crews firing with precision bred into muscle memory. Guardsmen took defensive positions, Ogryn auxiliaries shouted encouragement and swung massive shields to intercept deadly strikes.

“Little boats safe! Big Ogryn smash enemies!” one bellowed, crushing an incoming projectile.

The Kansen leapt into battle. New Jersey’s laughter rang above the roar of weapons. “Finally! Time to show you skull-faced robots what the Black Dragon can do!” Cannons flared, torpedoes streaked through the sky, and waves exploded with forceful brilliance.

Prinz Eugen’s voice was teasing amid the carnage. “Hehe~ Did you come here for target practice? How sweet.”

Bismarck’s authority boomed over the fray. “Iron Blood, strike! Let them learn the cost of assailing our allies!”

The battlefield was a symphony of fury and sacrifice. Guardsmen threw themselves into harm’s way, their inner monologues a tangle of fear and duty. Private Callen’s thoughts ran frantic, I am not ready. I do not wish to die. And yet… I must hold the line for them… for the Emperor…

Hawk fought furiously alongside them. Lasrifle spat fire as he shouted, “Hold! No step back!” A hybrid machine-human slammed into his barricade. Smoke rose from his armor, blood streaked his face, but he did not falter. His body laid over the remains of what where his squad, when a Krieg quartermaster found him, still moving, still clinging to life, he raised his pistol at him. “Receive the Emperor’s mercy.”

New Jersey’s shadow blazed across him, rigging flaring. “What the hell are you doing?! He’s alive! You don’t ‘mercy’ a breathing man!” She ripped the pistol away.

The Krieg soldier’s voice was cold. “He is broken. Broken tools are discarded. That’s how it is.”

Klaus intervened, voice gravel-throated. “Enough. New Jersey, go, take him to Vestal, he needs you more than we do. She will tend him.”

She obeyed reluctantly, scooping Hawk into her arms. “Hang on, kid. NJ’s got you, and she won’t let you go like this.”

The battlefield became a tableau of horror and valor. Corpses of Guardsmen, Ogryn, and Sirens littered the ground. Echoes of last breaths, shouted commands, and energy beams merged into a terrible chorus..

By nightfall, the Sirens withdrew. Fires burned low. The Atoll was littered with corpses, the survivors breathing heavily, still, shaken, and forever changed. The purge was a grim memory; the battle was a testament to resilience.

Belfast spoke quietly, her voice trembling. “Master… to witness such bloodshed… it is unbearable…”

Shinano whispered, tails curling around Klaus. “…We remain… so very sad…”

Musashi’s voice was firm but mournful. “Strength is not without cost. Remember the fallen”

Chapter 4: Ashen ghosts

Notes:

Trying with longer chapters now. Trying to polish my skills, so advise is always appreciated

The infirmary reeked of antiseptic, scorched metal, and the thick iron tang of blood. Shadows clung to the corners where lumen-strips flickered and buzzed. The groans of the wounded leaked through the dimness like the keening of ghosts, soft but unrelenting, weaving into a hymn to suffering that seemed endless.

Vestal moved tirelessly from cot to cot, her rigging stowed, her hands steady despite the hours. She worked with the precision of a surgeon and the gentleness of a sister, her calm voice softening the edges of pain.

“You’ll be fine,” she whispered to one Guardsman whose torso was wrapped in scorched bandages, each breath rattling. “Just a little longer. That’s it—steady breaths. Leave the rest to me.”

Her tone was so different from Krieg’s medicae, who issued clipped commands and wordless motions, stripping and stitching with mechanical indifference. She lingered at each cot long enough for a human word to sink in, and though most of the soldiers were half-conscious, their shoulders eased faintly at her presence.

At the far side of the infirmary, on one of the sturdier cots, Hawk lay pale beneath layers of blood-soaked wrappings. His chest rose and fell shallowly, his face damp with sweat. New Jersey stood guard beside him like a fortress incarnate. Her rigging had been dismissed, but her presence was no less imposing—arms crossed, jaw locked, stance wide as if she could fend off death itself if it dared come closer.

Every Krieg medicae who so much as glanced at Hawk too long earned her glare. “He’s not dying, got it?” she snapped. “I don’t care what ‘mercy’ means to you skull-masked weirdos—he’s mine to protect. And I don’t break my promises.”

Vestal’s glance toward her carried weary patience. “New Jersey… please. Lower your voice. The others need quiet.”

“Quiet?” New Jersey barked, though her tone wavered. “When half these poor bastards are being treated like spare parts? Not a chance.”

Yet the battleship’s anger melted when she turned back to Hawk. She leaned down, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with unexpected gentleness. Her voice lowered to something only he could hear.
“Hang in there, kid. NJ’s got you. Just hold on.”

 

Klaus stood apart in the doorway, silent. His greatcoat hung heavy, stiff with dried blood and soot. Without his mask, there was no veil between him and the world now.

His face was pale and drawn, carved with long-healed scars that webbed across his right cheek and jawline, reminders of flames and shrapnel from years few cared to count. His dark hair was cropped short, more out of pragmatism than style, and his left arm—what remained of it—ended in a crude mechanical replacement, functional but far from elegant. It hissed softly as pistons flexed with every subtle movement.

At 165 centimeters, Klaus was shorter than many of the shipgirls, and his wiry frame made him appear even more fragile when set against the towering armored figures around him. His eyes, though, carried a hollow weight that pulled attention despite his stature—sunken, rimmed in red from exhaustion, yet sharp, like the glare of a man who had walked too long through shadows.

The Kansen noticed.

Bismarck, who stood nearby with her golden eyes burning, regarded him with something akin to disbelief. She had expected a towering commander of iron will and iron body. Instead, she saw a scarred man—small, battered, with a machine’s arm standing in place of flesh. Yet the aura of command clung to him like a mantle. It unsettled her.

Eugen tilted her head, her usual smirk faint. “…Heh. So this is the face you keep hidden under that skull. Not quite what I imagined.” Her tone was playful, but her eyes were sharp, searching.

Shinano’s gaze lingered the longest. She seemed to drink in every scar, every weary line etched into his face. Her dreamlike voice, soft and mournful, barely reached above the infirmary’s moans. “…Commander… even wounded steel… still shines.” Her tails quivered faintly, coiling as though to shield him from the harshness of his own soldiers’ indifference.

Musashi’s golden stare weighed him with different measure. “So this is the man who leads the faceless. Hm.” She did not scoff or pity—only observed, her voice velvet but edged.

To Belfast, though, his bare face was both a revelation and a wound. She had known his voice, his commands, the surety of his presence. But now she saw the man, not the mask: gaunt, mortal, fragile, and unyielding. She bowed her head slightly, almost instinctively, and whispered, “Master…”

Around them, Krieg’s medicae worked like machines. Fallen Guardsmen were stripped of armor and gear, their helmets stacked neatly in rows, lasguns laid in perfect order for reissue. Dog tags clinked into steel trays. No prayers. No pauses. Only reclamation.

To the Kansen, it was like watching dignity itself be butchered.

Belfast’s calm voice cracked into steel. “Commander… surely these men—your men—deserve remembrance. They fought bravely. To treat them as salvage is unconscionable.”

Bismarck’s fists trembled. “In Iron Blood, our fallen are honored, their names carried into eternity. This—this is desecration.”

Even Eugen’s levity faltered. “Heheh~ this is a little beyond cold, don’t you think? They weren’t dolls to just recycle. Doesn’t it bother you? Even a little?”

A quartermaster, his face hidden by a rebreather mask, turned to them. His voice rasped flat and final. “They are dead. Their duty is complete. The Emperor has claimed them. What remains is material. Material is reused. That is all.”

Musashi’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. Her tone carried velvet steel. “Such words dishonor warriors who bled. Do you truly believe valor deserves nothing but a tally mark?”

The quartermaster did not flinch. “Belief is irrelevant. The fallen are no longer men. They are resources spent. That’s all we are, resources to be spent.”

Shinano’s hands lifted to her lips, her tails trembling. Her dreamlike voice broke like porcelain. “…No names? No dreams? To vanish as though you never lived at all—it is too cruel.” She turned toward Klaus, her eyes shimmering. “…Commander… please… do not let yourself fade like that.”

The Kansen turned to him, one by one, waiting.

At last, Klaus stirred. His hollow eyes lifted, red-rimmed but steady. His voice came low, hoarse, weighted like chains.

“Yes,” he said. “We do not have names. We are born into regiments, issued numbers. We live as designations. We die as records in a tally.”

The Kansen flinched.

He drew a breath, as if each word dragged open an old scar. “My designation is Beta Omega One-Zero-Five-Five. That is what I am. That is all that I am.”

The silence that followed was jagged, unbearable.

Bismarck’s voice trembled with fury. “That’s just barbaric, how can you live like that!”

Eugen let out a breathless laugh devoid of humor. “…Even the Sirens don’t strip names. This is beyond twisted.”

New Jersey spun toward him, anger colliding with disbelief. “That’s cruel! You think they can strip away who they are and call that strength? You’re all people, damn it! You deserve better than being filed away like scrap metal!”

Klaus’ hand twitched at his side, his mechanical fingers flexing with a hiss of pistons. His composure cracked. His voice came raw, cracking like a man standing at the edge of a pit too deep to see, he managed a very faint smile.

“You think it cruel? Then listen.” His eyes burned with a fevered grief. “Do you know what it is to see entire regiments erased in hours? To walk battlefields where tens of thousands of your kin rot under the mud, and you are ordered to march over them again and again? If we carried names, if we remembered every face—we would drown. We would break.”

He slammed his metal fist against the doorframe, the clang sharp. “So we forget. We strip away names. We become simple resources. Just something to be used and replaced.”

The words hung like ash in the air.

Belfast’s lips parted, her voice frayed. “Master…”

Shinano pressed her cheek against his sleeve, her tails wrapping around his arm desperately. “…Even so… you still can dream. This one will not allow your light to vanish into void…”

Musashi stepped forward, laying a hand on his shoulder. Her golden eyes blazed. “Steel bears weight only so long. To erase names is to erase meaning. Let us share this weight—or you will shatter beneath it.”

Bismarck’s iron discipline faltered. Her voice came low, almost a plea. “Do not tell me all you accept this. That you accept this. You lead them—you are more than a resource.”

Klaus’ gaze fell back to the rows of helmets, the reclaimed rifles. His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged. “…On Krieg, there is nothing else to be, that’s what we are and what we’ll be... but thanks… for acknowledging us, it’s more than what we deserve”

New Jersey shook her head, her eyes wet but burning. “You’re wrong. You don’t fight on because you forget. You fight because you remember—because you make damn sure their sacrifice means something. If all they are is resources, then their lives mean nothing. And I don’t believe that. Not for a second.”

The medicae kept working. Dog tags clinked into trays like the toll of hollow bells.

And for the first time, the Kansen understood: Kriegsers were not simply cold. They were broken, wounded in ways no healing could mend. They had become shadows of humanity so they could fight forever.

And though pity stirred in their hearts, it was pity laced with grief.

 

At the far end of the infirmary, Akagi lingered by one cot, her usual predatory grace dimmed.

There lay Elias, the priest who had stood beside the regiment since the purge. His robes were soaked in crimson, his breathing shallow, his lips pale. His hands clutched a worn copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus, its pages blotched with his blood.

Akagi, who so often smiled with mischief and cruelty, now bent beside him with quiet reverence. Her amber eyes trembled as she whispered, “…Why do you smile, little priest? You are dying.”

Elias’ lips cracked into the faintest curve. “Because… my duty is done. I carried light… into darkness. And now…” His chest rattled. He fixed his eyes on hers, unafraid. “…May your light shine… as bright as the Emperor’s.”

For a heartbeat, Akagi’s mask slipped entirely. Her eyes widened, her breath catching. She clutched his hand as if she could anchor him here. “…Foolish… foolish man.” Her voice wavered, uncharacteristically fragile. “Why give such words… to one like me?”

But Elias only exhaled softly, his eyes closing. And then he was still.

Akagi’s grip tightened once more before she laid his hand gently across his chest. For the first time since she lost her sister, her smile was gone.

The infirmary quieted in waves, as if the shadows themselves leaned closer.

Klaus stood unmoving, hollow eyes fixed on the reclamation piles. His mechanical hand twitched. Around him, the Kansen’s gazes pressed close, some pitying, some furious, all uncomprehending.

In that silence, numbers and names collided, and the wound between two worlds yawned wider than ever.

And yet, in that wound, something fragile endured—an ember neither Krieg’s doctrine nor endless war could fully smother.

The day of the ceremony dawned gray, the sky heavy with clouds that neither broke nor parted. It was a stagnant, leaden sky, the kind that seemed to press down upon the bastion with the weight of sorrow itself. The battlefield beyond lay scarred and silent, marred by blackened craters and half-collapsed trenches, broken earth steaming faintly where Siren weapons had seared it. Shattered plating and twisted hull fragments still jutted from the soil, remnants of the monstrous foe they had barely survived. The stench of smoke and dried blood clung stubbornly to every surface, sinking into stone and cloth and skin alike.

The bastion itself bore the scars as well. Its walls were streaked black with lasfire, its battlements pitted and cracked from explosions. Courtyards were stained dark, their cobblestones still wet where blood had seeped deep into the cracks. The infirmary groaned under its burden, filled with the sound of groans, bandages, whispered prayers. And above it all, the silence of the dead hung heavier than the cries of the living.

Amidst that silence, unease grew.

The Kansen had seen Krieg’s ways. They had seen the dead stripped and tallied like resources. They had seen dog tags tossed into sacks like stones, not names. They had seen Krieg’s silence, the refusal to pray, to grieve, to even acknowledge that these were men and not husks to be recycled by death. That horror had lodged in their minds like a thorn, and in the days after the battle it festered.

The tension between the Kriegers and the others—Valhallans, Cadians, Mordians, and the shipgirls themselves—rose quietly but inexorably. Soldiers avoided eye contact in the halls. Whispers carried venom. Even meals were taken apart, Krieg on one side, others on the other. It was a division like a wound, threatening to split deeper with every passing hour.

It might have remained so, festering, had Richelieu and Hood not stepped forward.

They found Klaus in the infirmary, standing among the wounded. The short figure of the commander looked worn thinner than steel scraped raw. His mechanical arm clicked softly as it adjusted its balance, the faint hiss of pistons drawing more eyes than he perhaps realized. Klaus was not tall—smaller even than Belfast, dwarfed utterly by the towering presences of Musashi and New Jersey. But the way he stood, scarred face unmasked now for all to see, lent him a strange, unyielding gravity. His dark eyes were red-rimmed, haunted, his cheek marred by old lacerations and burns. He seemed both too young and too old at once: a man whose body suggested late twenties, yet whose gaze had carried centuries of attrition.

The mask had not returned since it was shattered.

That, more than anything, seemed to unsettle those around him.

Richelieu stepped first. Her robes of white and gold looked startling against the soot-stained stones, her blonde hair veiled neatly, her Bible clasped tight to her chest. Her bearing was serene, but her blue eyes carried a heaviness that no serenity could erase.

“Commander Klaus,” she began softly, her voice carrying warmth and grief alike. “We cannot let this field remain silent. The men who lie here—your men, mine, all who fought—they are not numbers to be recycled. They are souls, each precious in the eyes of God.”

Klaus’ gaze flickered. He looked torn, as if her words touched something long suppressed. His reply rasped from a throat long strained.

“On Krieg, we bury no one. The dead are the dead. Their use lies in their death. To remember is to commit heresy.”

Before Richelieu could answer, Hood stepped forward. She cut a different image: sharp uniform pressed immaculately despite days of toil, her boots ringing crisp against the stone. Her poise was unbroken, chin high, the weight of command flowing from her every movement.

“Commander,” she said firmly, her voice like the clear toll of a ship’s bell, “in the Royal Navy we honor the fallen with ceremony. Their names are spoken, their service recorded, their lives remembered. To fight without remembrance is to fight as shadows. I will not see this host become shadows.” She folded her hands behind her back, the steel in her tone unmistakable. “Your traditions may differ. But know this: as long as I stand here, we will remember them.”

The words struck like a hammer. Soldiers from every corner paused to listen.

The Kansen gathered: Bismarck and Eugen, their Iron Blood uniforms still flecked with grime; Belfast at Hood’s shoulder, silent but watchful; Musashi and Shinano standing with the weight of Yamato steel; Richelieu; New Jersey towering protectively near Hawk, who leaned still weakly on a crutch. Even the non-Krieg Guardsmen edged closer—Valhallans with fur-lined coats, Mordians in crisp discipline, Cadians still weary-eyed but proud.

The courtyard filled with expectation.

Richelieu opened her Bible, the leather worn but clean. Her voice rose in solemn Latin, her French lilt giving every syllable an almost musical sorrow.

“Dominus illuminatio mea et salus mea; quem timebo?
Dominus protector vitae meae; a quo trepidabo?
Una petii a Domino, hanc requiram: ut inhabitem in domo Domini omnibus diebus vitae meae.”

Her words flowed over broken stone and cracked steel, the old psalm rising like a candle flame against the gray. It was no Imperial litany, no Creed. It was something older, gentler, rooted in faith that had never spoken of the Emperor as divine.

When she finished, she bowed her head. “May the Lord receive them, each and every one. Though your creed does not yet know Him, I believe He knows them still.”

Silence followed, but it was different from the silence before.

Then Hood stepped forward, boots striking once, twice, against the courtyard stone.

“I am no priest,” she declared, her voice sharp, clear, resonant, “and I would not presume to speak as one. But I can speak as an officer. These men fought not for plunder, not for glory. They stood because duty called them. In the Royal Navy we say: there is no greater honor than to serve. We do not forget those who serve. A soldier remembered is a soldier immortal. Whatever creed you follow—Imperial, Iris—remember this: to strip away their names is to kill them twice.”

The words rang through the assembly.

Valhallans bowed their heads, muttering the name of the Emperor. Mordians raised their arms in salute, rigid and sharp. Even the Cadians lifted lasguns in reverence.

But the Kriegers stood unmoving, their masks facing forward, silent and unreadable.

Until Klaus spoke.

“I am Beta Omega 1055,” he said quietly. His voice was calm but heavy, like stone dragged through water. “That is my designation. That is all I was given.” He looked up, his scarred face bared, his mechanical arm flexing faintly. His eyes, raw and weary, looked directly at Richelieu, at Hood, at the Kansen. “On Krieg, to be nameless is the norm. A number cannot grieve. A number cannot falter. But…” He swallowed hard, his voice catching. “…I no longer wear the mask.”

He turned sharply toward his soldiers, whose eyeless masks stared back.

“Masks off.”

For a heartbeat, nothing. The silence deepened. Then, slowly, reluctantly, it began.

The hiss of seals breaking. The scrape of leather straps. One by one, the masks came free.

And faces emerged.

They were not what anyone expected.

Not grizzled veterans. Not scarred killers.

But youths.

Boys with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Gaunt figures, pallid from rations, some so young they looked barely sixteen. Haunted eyes stared back, lifeless and flat, the spark of childhood long since extinguished. A few bore scars already, burns or puckered wounds, but most were simply thin, skeletal, exhausted—faces that should have been laughing in streets, not carved hollow by endless trenches.

The Kansen gasped.

Bismarck’s breath caught audibly; her gloved fists clenched, jaw tight with horror. Eugen’s usual smirk died on her lips, leaving only silence. Shinano lifted a trembling hand to her lips, her tails bristling as though struck with cold. Musashi’s eyes narrowed in sorrowful disbelief, golden irises flicking from one face to another. New Jersey muttered under her breath, fists trembling at her sides.

“Goddamn kids…”

Even the non-Krieg Guardsmen faltered. A Valhallan captain whispered hoarsely: “Throne… they’re children.” A Cadian sergeant shook his head slowly, muttering prayers. Mordians stiffened, but their eyes betrayed unease.

Belfast’s gaze lingered longest. Her blue eyes fell on Klaus, on the way his mechanical arm shifted faintly in the pale light. Her voice, low and sorrowful, broke the silence.

“And yet they would have had him fight as a child, if the others are anything to judge by.”

The words dropped like a stone into still water.

Klaus said nothing. His face was taut, unreadable, but his silence gave the answer.

Musashi’s voice followed, soft but piercing. “You look no older than your late twenties, Commander. Tell me—how many years have been spent in battle? Were you ever given a childhood at all?”

No answer came. But none was needed. His silence spoke louder than words.

The ceremony pressed on, but its air was irrevocably changed.

Richelieu raised her voice again, speaking of mercy, of light that could not be extinguished by war. Hood lifted her hand in salute, her posture regal, leading Guardsmen and Kansen alike in honoring the fallen.

The Kriegers stood without their masks. Some kept their gazes forward, empty. But a few—very few—looked on with something that might have been longing, or disbelief, or fear. None reached for their masks again.

Among the crowd, whispers rippled.

Bismarck leaned toward Eugen, her voice a sharp whisper. “They sent children into war. Entire generations broken before they even lived.”

Eugen shook her head, her usual cynicism stripped bare. “Not even the Iron Blood did this.” She looked at Klaus, her smirk gone, her voice oddly soft. “What kind of world forges men like that?”

Elsewhere, Hood exchanged a glance with New Jersey.

“They look scarcely younger than your cadets back in the Royal Isles, Hood,” New Jersey muttered, her voice edged with fury.

Hood’s face remained steady, but her eyes burned. “Children should never be soldiers. Yet here they stand. And yet—look how disciplined they are. How lifeless.”

“Lifeless,” New Jersey echoed bitterly, shaking her head. “Like they already gave up on living.”

Hood’s jaw tightened. “And yet they still fight.”

The words struck New Jersey silent.

The ceremony ended in reverent quiet. Richelieu closed her Bible with care. Hood gave one final salute, her hand trembling ever so slightly. The Guardsmen dispersed, shaken. The Kansen drifted, murmurs heavy with grief.

The Kriegers stood maskless still, and for the first time since any had known them, their faces were seen.

They were broken. Gaunt. Lifeless. But seen.

And Klaus, standing at their center—scarred, weary but unyielding—was no longer shadow nor number. He was human.

The bastion still stank of blood and ash. Grief still clung like chains. But beneath it all, something fragile had taken root.

The possibility that remembrance might live, even in the soil of Krieg.

 

Chapter 5: Laughter of the deadmen

Notes:

Reuploaded the chapter as I used an old file.

The docks still shimmered faintly with the scent of ozone and the low hum of energy fields. From his vantage, Klaus stood rigid, watching as the Kansen leapt across the carriers with a precision that spoke of centuries of honed instinct. Their movements were not merely efficient but graceful—like a dance rehearsed beyond mortal comprehension. Shinano drifted through her squad with dreamlike poise, Musashi’s steady hand guiding every formation, Belfast’s white gloves adjusting crates and ledgers with flawless order before she, too, joined the procession.

The Storm Raptors glided on silent engines, each carrying strike teams already prepared for deployment. Klaus noticed how the Kansen adjusted without words—slight tilts, shifts in their balance, correcting the carriers’ angle so the wind favored their launch. To him, it was simple coordination, another military ballet. To Littorio, observing from the high rail of the observation deck, it was divine spectacle.

“Magnifico!” she cried, spreading her arms as though announcing it to an invisible audience. Her voice rang clear, proud. “This elegance, this perfection—it is as though the very heavens themselves have chosen to bless us!”

Zara leaned languidly against the rail at her side, her smile smooth, teasing. “Ciao, Commandante. I am Zara, heavy cruiser of Sardegna. My sisters and I are yours to command. Do not let our grace distract you from our firepower, hm?”

Explosions blossomed across the Siren outpost in the distance. Precision strikes leveled bunkers, while carrier-based squadrons wheeled overhead with deadly synchronicity. The mission unfolded like clockwork. Klaus permitted himself a single nod.

“Welcome,” he said simply. “Additional firepower is always welcome.”

When the strike teams returned—without loss, without failure—the Sardegnan ships said nothing. They simply bowed their heads, their poise unbroken, as though to admit they were impressed would be redundant.

 

Later, when the docks quieted and the wargear was stowed, Klaus sat in his quarters. The coat hung from his chair, his posture heavy with fatigue. Shinano drifted in, her tails curling like mist, her voice carrying the weight of half-dreams.

“This one has seen many commanders,” she whispered, her crimson eyes half-lidded. “They break beneath burdens less than yours. And yet, you endure.”

Belfast entered behind her, gliding silently with a silver tray. She set down a cup of tea, bowing with mechanical perfection that nonetheless carried warmth. “Master, I must insist. Rest is not indulgence—it is necessity. Efficiency demands it.”

Klaus accepted the cup, staring at the faint steam curling above its surface. “It is never enough,” he muttered. “Not for them. Not for me.”

Belfast’s gaze softened, her hand brushing the edge of his sleeve. “And yet, Master, you have carried this battle flawlessly. Your men trust you. We… trust you.”

Shinano tilted her head, tails swaying like drifting lanterns. “Even the smallest step toward understanding is progress.”

Klaus took a sip, savoring the faint respite. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed lighter.

The moment shattered with the sound of boots against steel. The Krieg detachment returned from patrol—mud still smeared across their masks, trench coats dripping with sweat and grime. They lined before him with perfect discipline. One stepped forward and saluted sharply.

“Commissar,” the soldier intoned.

The word sliced through the air like a blade. Shinano’s ears twitched. Musashi’s hand curled instinctively around her katana. Belfast’s porcelain poise faltered just a fraction. New Jersey tilted her head, hand on her hip.

“Wait—Commissar? Like, some kinda rank? Or a job? What gives?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes narrowed.

Klaus rose, straightening his coat. His voice carried the weight of iron. “A Commissar enforces discipline. Holds soldiers back until the exact moment to charge. Too soon, and the line breaks. Too late, and they die. If I fail, if they falter—I am shot.”

The Kansen blinked, the room growing colder. Littorio’s hands lowered slowly from her theatrics, her expression darkening. “So… you restrain them not to protect them, but to control them?”

“Yes,” Klaus said, his tone sharp. “Discipline. Timing. Precision. Do what’s necessary.”

Shinano’s voice drifted like mist. “This one… cannot imagine such restraint. To leash warriors who yearn for death until the moment demands it…”

Musashi’s voice rumbled like a storm. “Such cruelty… and yet, perhaps necessity. You carry their lives with every command.”

Belfast’s hand brushed his sleeve again, voice steady but quiet. “Master… you do not falter. Not even under such a weight.”

Klaus chuckled, but it was mirthless, brittle. “On Krieg, soldiers are resources. Victory is measured in bodies spent. Whether theirs… or the enemy’s. And if they disobey they become servitors”

Behind him, the Kriegers laughed—a hollow, joyless sound, muffled by their rebreathers. It echoed like the dead.

Enterprise’s stoic mask cracked, her hand lifting to her lips. “You turn soldiers into… servitors?”

Klaus nodded once. “Those who falter. Those who fail. Flesh turned into machine. A body repurposed for duty, stripped of thought.”

The Kansen recoiled. New Jersey grimaced. “That’s… seriously messed up.”

Littorio muttered, “To treat life as coin to be spent… Dio mio…”

Zara’s usual smoothness vanished, her tone hardening. “That is not discipline. That is butchery.”

Musashi’s eyes flashed gold. “And you enforce this? You condemn them with your command?”

Klaus’ voice was steel. “I do what must be done.”

Shinano’s ears lowered, her tails drooping like withered branches. “This one cannot fathom such shadows… to carry death as constant companion.”

From the corner, Efrain smirked faintly. “Fall outta line, and you get recycled into a toaster. Efficient. Horrifying… but efficient.”

Mordecai, the lone Cadian among the trench-born, spoke quietly. “Efficiency at the cost of humanity. That is the Imperium’s way.”

The silence weighed heavy. Littorio whispered, almost reverently, “No wonder you walk already as the dead.”

Belfast leaned closer, her voice steady but her eyes shining with dampness. “And yet, Master… you are not alone. Not anymore. We are here.”

For a fleeting moment, Klaus’ mask cracked. A flicker of human grief, of yearning, broke through. But the steel returned as quickly as it had faltered. Duty smothered it, as always.

The cantina was alive in ways it had never been before.

The smell of salt and oil mingled with the scent of roasted fish and old wood, lanterns swaying faintly in the sea breeze that slipped through open shutters. The sound of waves lapping against the docks echoed faintly beneath the raucous laughter of sailors and shipgirls alike, though tonight it wasn’t the usual drunken merchants or fishermen filling the room. Tonight, the long hall belonged to soldiers of Krieg, Guardsmen from different regiments, priests, psykers, a Commissar with scars carved deep into his flesh, and ship-spirits born from steel and sea who had taken to watching them with curiosity—and, if some dared admit it, affection.

The Kriegers sat together as always, but without their masks, the difference was staggering. Their helmets lined neatly against the far wall looked like a row of skulls, mute witnesses to the strange evening. Their faces, pale from lack of sun and marked by scar and burn, were exposed for perhaps the first time since boyhood. Eyes sunken and weary, yet sharp; mouths thin and straight, save for the faintest flickers of expression that might have been smirks if one looked closely.

The maskless regiment looked more like orphans than monsters now.

Enterprise sat at one of the long tables, posture elegant but guarded, chin resting against her gloved hand as her golden eyes flicked from one Krieger to the next. She was quiet, as always, but there was a weight behind her gaze that none of the Kriegers seemed to shy away from. Beside her, New Jersey sprawled with her boots half on the bench, hands folded behind her head, grinning wide.

“They don’t smile, do they?” New Jersey said, voice carrying across the table. “Not even once. I mean, c’mon—you boys gotta crack a grin sometime, right?”

Enterprise’s lips quirked, ever so faintly. “Do they even joke?”

The Kriegers looked at one another. Helmets might have tilted in silent unison had they been wearing them. Instead, a soldier with short-cropped hair and a jaw like chiselled stone spoke, voice flat and unadorned, as though reciting a report.

“I once volunteered for a mine-clearing operation,” he said. His eyes were hollow, his delivery bone-dry. “Command said I wasn’t heavy enough to trigger the charges. Biggest shame of my life.”

New Jersey slapped the table, throwing her head back. “Now that’s a joke! Damn, you guys really do have a sense of humor, huh?”

Honolulu, sitting with her knees together and her hands fidgeting against her skirt, looked horrified at first—but then let out the smallest, reluctant laugh. “Th-that’s… really dark, but… yeah…”

Enterprise didn’t laugh, but her eyes softened. The corners of her lips tugged upward—slightly.

Zara, standing tall beside Littorio, folded her arms beneath her chest and inclined her head. “Impressive. Such bleakness turned to levity… it is not what I expected.”

Littorio raised one sharp brow, looking as though someone had told her the sea flowed backwards. “They can joke? Truly?”

From the center of the table, Klaus observed in silence. The Commissar sat like a statue carved of old iron, his greatcoat draped behind him, scars catching the lanternlight in cruel relief. His mouth was grim, his eyes hooded. Yet he watched his men with a faint curiosity, as though even he was surprised.

Honolulu, blushing and wringing her hands, glanced nervously toward him. “Um… C-commander? Do… do you ever laugh?”

The cantina went still. Dozens of gazes flicked to Klaus—Kansen, psykers, even one priest at the back of the room who had been nursing watered-down ale. For a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Klaus’s lips twitched upward. Just faintly. “On occasion,” he said, voice dry as desert sand. “When the joke is worth the laugh.”

A murmur passed among the Kriegers. Some looked down, some forward, but a few allowed the faintest ghost of anticipation to crease their features.

That was when one stepped forward.

He was young. Barely nineteen, though Krieg years aged a boy faster than most worlds. His uniform bore burns along the hem, ash still clinging to his sleeves. A scar cut across his jaw, but his eyes gleamed—not with despair, but with mischief.

The Watchmaster clasped his hands behind his back, standing stiff as on parade, though the smirk on his lips betrayed the stiffness. “Permission to attempt, sir?”

Klaus arched one brow. His eyes narrowed. Then he inclined his head. “Go ahead.”

The cantina hushed, as if the tide itself had paused outside.

The Watchmaster straightened his spine. His voice was sharp, steady, carrying over the tables with parade-ground clarity.

“What do a good joke and a Krieger have in common?”

Every ear leaned forward. Enterprise’s eyes narrowed, golden and sharp. New Jersey smirked, waiting. Belfast’s brows drew together in quiet worry. Honolulu’s lips parted, nervous.

The young Krieger’s smirk grew into a grin sharp enough to cut.

“They don’t get old.”

For one heartbeat, silence.

Then Klaus barked a laugh.

It came raw, rough, unrestrained—the kind of laugh a man hadn’t allowed himself in decades. He slapped the table with a scarred fist, his chest heaving, his scars tugging as his mouth stretched into something dangerously close to joy. The sound ripped through the cantina like gunfire.

“You get it!” he roared between gasps. “Because we are already dead!”

The Kriegers broke next. Snickers, dry chuckles, dark mirth spreading like sparks through powder. A few allowed themselves to grin openly. One wheezed as though choking on smoke, another pounded a hand against his thigh, grinning madly.

It was laughter, real and black as the trenches.

The Kansen froze, stunned.

Belfast, closest to Klaus, instinctively placed a gloved hand against his sleeve, her eyes wide and soft. “My lord…” she whispered. There was wonder in her voice, almost reverence.

Honolulu blushed crimson, her mouth trembling into a nervous smile. “Y-you really can laugh…”

New Jersey pointed across the table, cackling. “Now that’s comedy! Damn, I love it!”

Eugen leaned forward, her crimson eyes gleaming with mischief, lips curling. “From now on… you’re Joker.”

The name stuck at once. The Krieger tilted his head, grin widening. “Joker…” he said softly. “I like it.”

The regiment murmured it, some smirking, some nodding. Joker. A name among the nameless. A shard of individuality stolen back from death.

Enterprise’s gaze lingered on Klaus, and though her face was composed, something fragile and unspoken lingered in her golden eyes.

Musashi’s lips curved in a faint, regal smile, her hand resting against the hilt of her blade. “Even the dead can laugh. Good.”

Shinano, dreamlike and serene, tilted her head, her voice soft as mist. “This one… sees bonds being woven. Laughter is not forbidden.”

From the Sardegnan side, Zara inclined her head in calm admiration. Littorio remained unsettled, brows drawn, but could not quite hide the flicker of interest.

Even the psykers whispered to one another, eyes wide. One murmured, “They… laugh?” Another priest muttered shakily, “Dead men laughing… perhaps this too is faith.”

Drinks were raised. Glasses clinked. The cantina swelled with voices, laughter echoing from the walls. The Kriegers, though stiff, leaned just slightly toward their neighbors. Joker earned claps on the back, dark grins from his brothers. Klaus, still smiling faintly, leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

New Jersey lifted her mug high. “To Joker! And to dead men who laugh!”

The Kriegers raised their cups in silent salute. The Kansen followed, their voices bright, their expressions warm. Even Belfast—ever proper—smiled as she lifted her glass.

For the second time after a long time, the Kriegers were not simply faceless soldiers. They were seen.

And for a fleeting night, in a cantina by the sea, dead men laughed with the living.

The cantina eventually quieted, though not by much. The laughter had left an echo in the air, like the ringing after a great bell. Even the sea outside seemed calmer, its waves a soft applause against the docks. 

The Kriegers sat more loosely now, though loose for a Krieg was still stiffer than any sailor at attention. Helmets remained on the shelf, untouched. A dangerous intimacy lingered: for the first time, the shipgirls saw them as people, not faceless wraiths from a forgotten front.

Joker’s name carried on lips like a talisman. Even the older Watchmasters muttered it with something like pride. Klaus himself still smirked faintly, as if surprised that his lungs remembered how to laugh.

Enterprise leaned against a wall near the door, arms folded, her golden eyes tracking every movement. She was quiet, but her gaze betrayed something rare—something between admiration and unease.

Belfast, ever graceful, set down her polished glass and addressed the Commissar directly. “My lord, if I may…” She hesitated only briefly. “Seeing you and your men share such mirth—it does my heart good. Yet it leaves me troubled as well.”

Klaus tilted his head, amused. “Troubled?”

Her voice softened. “That it is such a rare sight. As though laughter is rationed, like ammunition.”

The Kriegers glanced toward her. None spoke, but none denied it. Klaus, for his part, said nothing, only met her eyes with the steady calm of a man who had lived too long in silence.

Honolulu looked away, her cheeks burning. “I-It’s just weird… you guys act like you’re machines, but you’re not. You’re…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re kids too.”

The word hung like smoke. The Kriegers shifted, some staring hard at the table, some at the floor, some at nothing. Joker, however, grinned with teeth white against ash-smeared skin. “Kids don’t dig trenches,” he muttered, dark amusement still tugging at his lips.

Eventually, the night wore down. Lanterns dimmed, mugs emptied. The cantina keeper, a nervous old man who had spent the evening pretending to scrub a counter while watching history unfold, finally shooed them toward the door.

The Kriegers filed out into the cool night, their boots striking the boards in near-unison. The Kansen followed, softer steps trailing behind. The air was heavy with salt, moonlight glimmering on the waves.

Belfast fell into step beside Klaus, her gloved hands folded neatly before her. “My lord,” she said gently, “forgive my boldness. But might I walk with you?”

Klaus gave a small nod. “As you wish.”

Honolulu found herself drifting toward Joker, of all people. She tugged nervously at her sleeve, eyes darting everywhere but his face. “Um… so… y-you really like telling jokes like that?”

Joker tilted his head, smirk sharp in the moonlight. “Good ones. The ones that sting.”

Honolulu swallowed, then giggled—soft, shaky. “Y-you’re scary, you know that?”

“That’s the point,” Joker replied, and for once his tone wasn’t just bleak—it was playful.

Enterprise walked behind them, her gaze sharp as always. Yet she watched not for enemies, but for cracks—cracks in the façade, cracks where light might seep through.

Back at the barracks, the Kriegers prepared as always: uniforms folded neatly, boots aligned, cots squared with military precision. Yet tonight, the shipgirls did not leave. Instead, they lingered. Some stood by doors, others sat on empty bunks, their presence an intrusion that none of the soldiers protested.

Unicorn, clutching her little plush, hovered near one of the younger Kriegers. Her voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t… have nightmares?”

The boy—he could not have been more than seventeen—looked at her, eyes shadowed. “Nightmares end when you wake,” he said softly. “Krieg never wakes.”

Unicorn’s lip trembled. She hugged her plush tighter, and for the first time, the Krieger seemed to soften. He reached out one gloved hand and—awkwardly, stiffly—patted her head. Unicorn’s eyes widened, then she smiled through tears.

Musashi sat cross-legged against a wall, her sword across her lap, watching Klaus with the calm patience of a predator. “You laugh, Commissar. But can you rest?”

Klaus exhaled slowly, his scarred face unreadable. “Rest is for the grave.”

Shinano’s dreamlike voice drifted from the shadows. “Even graves… may bloom with flowers.”

He did not answer, but his hand brushed against Belfast’s, whether by accident or not even he could say. The maid said nothing, only let her fingers rest there, gloved warmth against scarred flesh.

The Kriegers remained stiff, regimented, faceless even without their masks. Yet something had changed. Joker leaned back on his cot, arms behind his head, smirking faintly. The young one who spoke to Unicorn left his helmet at the foot of his bed instead of cradling it in his lap. A scarred veteran allowed himself the smallest sigh of contentment.

And Klaus—grim Commissar, iron in flesh—sat with the faintest trace of a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The shipgirls saw it. They felt it. And though none dared say it aloud, they knew something vital had cracked open tonight.

Not much. Not enough to heal centuries of death and discipline. But enough for laughter. Enough for a joke to carry like a torch in the dark.

Enterprise, before retiring, paused at the doorway. She looked back at the Kriegers—at Klaus, at Joker, at the faceless children who had been taught they were dead long before their time.

“You’re wrong,” she said softly. Every golden eye in the room fixed on her.

She didn’t flinch. “You’re not dead. Not yet. And as long as you can laugh—” she glanced at Joker, then back to Klaus, “—then you’re alive.”

And with that, she stepped into the night.

The silence that followed was heavy. But for the first time in years, it was not unbearable.

Klaus leaned back, exhaled slowly, and allowed himself a final murmur before the lights dimmed.

“Dead men laugh,” he said quietly. “And tonight, so did we.”

The Kriegers lay down in their bunks. The Kansen lingered close, quiet guardians of fragile humanity.

And in the darkness, scarred lips curled into faint, private smiles.

Notes:

First attempt in writing something in a while, following chapters will be more fleshed out, just had to get the idea out of my head. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Correcting the chapter as I was not satisfied with how it came out.