Time seemed to stretch endlessly as the ritual continued, the agony ebbing and flowing in waves. Some Neophytes fell to their knees, overcome by the pain others by sheer exhaustion.
When the last of the gene seed had been administered, the Apothecary stepped back, and Acastus returned to address the Neophytes once more.
“The hardest part is yet to come,” he said as he glanced over to Enoch and gave him the nod.
He gestured to the Battle Brothers standing silently around the room and thirteen among them stepped out and headed to the side covers of thirteen tombs slide over and Acastus pointed to them.
“These are your homes” He pointed to the tradition of old “Entombment.”
“These are your future brothers. They will teach you, train you, and guide you through your trials. But make no mistake—this is only the beginning. You are Neophytes now, but you have not yet earned the right to call yourselves Space Marines.”
Acastus' gaze swept across the group, landing on each of them in turn.
“Tonight, you rest. We will see who among you truly has the strength to endure.”
With that, he turned and left the chamber, followed by the silent Battle Brothers. Cassius felt his body begin to shake as the pain slowly twirled in him, the burn of the transformation still lingered in his veins. He glanced over at Kane, who was pale but steady, the same grim determination in his eyes.
As the chamber emptied and the red glow of the braziers flickered in the dark, Cassius found himself wandering straight into a coffin as the plated battle brother slid the top back on.
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Cassius lay motionless within the cold confines of the sarcophagus, the hiss of pneumatics and the hum of life-support systems the only sounds in the blackness that surrounded him. His body, still healing from the gene-seed implantation, twitched involuntarily as his muscles tore and mended, growing stronger with every passing moment. His mind, however, was far from still.
It began as a faint whisper, a stirring at the edge of his consciousness. His breath came in shallow gasps, the heavy atmosphere of the sarcophagus pressing down on him. The darkness became suffocating and oppressive. Then the whisper grew louder—a distant voice calling to him, filled with both anguish and power. Suddenly, the darkness shattered.
Cassius found himself standing on a scorched battlefield, the sky above swirling with molten clouds of red and fire. The ground was blackened, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh and ash. The world around him seemed to tremble with an ancient rage as if the very fabric of reality was tearing apart. He could feel the heat against his skin, yet it was not his body that burned—it was his soul.
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In the distance, a figure emerged from the fiery storm—a towering, radiant being bathed in blinding red fire, wings of pure flame unfurled behind him. His form was majestic but terrifying, the embodiment of both wrath and grace. His armor was golden, intricately wrought with symbols of valor and nobility, yet tarnished with the weight of millennia. His face, though obscured by the intensity of the light, radiated both sorrow and fury, his eyes burning with an inextinguishable flame.
Cassius recognized him instantly. It was Sanguinius—the Primarch of the Blood Angels, the great winged angel who had died at the hands of Horus. But this was not the serene, noble image of Sanguinius that Cassius had seen in murals and statues. This was a vision of the Primarch as he had been at the moment of his greatest sacrifice—burning with the wrath of a god, consumed by a battle he knew he would not survive.
The Primarch soared through the heavens, his wings beating against the molten sky, each flap stirring the flames that raged around him. The fire twisted and coiled, forming the shape of a great phoenix, its wings outstretched, its fiery beak open in a silent cry.
The phoenix burned brighter and brighter until its light was almost unbearable, a beacon of both hope and destruction. It flew higher and higher, ascending toward the heart of the storm where the sky was darkest, and there, the phoenix was consumed—exploding in a brilliant burst of flame, scattering embers across the heavens like stars.
Cassius fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the intensity of the vision. His heart pounded in his chest, the searing light of the phoenix reflected in his wide, disbelieving eyes. The world around him rippled and warped, the heat intensifying until it felt as though his flesh would melt from his bones.
Then the voice came. Deep, resonant, filled with both sorrow and authority.
"Why do you falter?"
Cassius looked up, his eyes straining against the brightness. Sanguinius now stood before him, his wings spread wide, the fire burning ever more fiercely around him. His face, still bathed in light, was no longer obscured. The Primarch’s eyes met his, piercing through him with an intensity that made Cassius feel as though every secret, every doubt, and every fear he had ever harbored was laid bare before him.
"You have my blood within you," Sanguinius said, his voice low but filled with power. "And with it, my burden."
Cassius felt his throat tighten. He could not speak, could not move under the weight of the Primarch gaze. His mind was flooded with flashes—moments of Sanguinius's life, his triumphs, his sacrifices, his final stand against Horus. Each image was a bolt of agony that tore through Cassius’ soul.
"I see the future," the Primarch continued, his voice tinged with sorrow. "And I see the fire that awaits us all. It will burn, as it always has. And like the phoenix, we must rise from the ashes, even if we are to be consumed by the flames."
The words echoed in Cassius’ mind, reverberating through him with a weight he could not fully comprehend. He wanted to speak, to plead for guidance, but his voice remained silent. All he could do was kneel before the burning figure of his Primarch, watching as the red fire continued to rage around them, threatening to engulf everything.
The ground beneath him cracked and split, molten lava bubbling up from the fissures. The air became thick with the heat of the inferno, choking the breath from his lungs. And yet, through it all, Sanguinius remained, standing tall, his wings outstretched, a solitary figure of strength and defiance against the storm.
His vision blurred as the heat became too much. His skin began to blister, his flesh seared by the intensity of the fire, and yet he could not look away. He could not pull himself from the burning gaze of his Primarch.
"Rise, my son," Sanguinius whispered, though his voice now sounded distant, as though carried on the winds of the firestorm. "Rise and be reborn."
As the final words echoed in his mind, the flames surged forward, engulfing Cassius. He screamed—silent, agonized—and the world dissolved into searing light.
Then, darkness.
Cassius awoke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest. He was back in the sarcophagus, the cold metal pressing against his skin, the rhythmic hum of the life-support systems returning to his ears. But the heat of the vision, the intensity of the fire, still lingered in his bones.
He lay there, gasping for breath, his mind reeling from what he had just seen. The vision of Sanguinius, bathed in gold fire, still burned in his mind’s eye, the words of his Primarch echoing in his soul.
*Rise, and be reborn. *
Before he knew it his eyes closed once more, and the visions replayed again from the beginning he would burn.