Daedren lay once more upon the cold, metallic surface of the operating table in the Apothecarion, his breath slow and measured. The sterile, slightly metallic scent of the chamber filled his nostrils, mingling with the acrid undertone of disinfectant. The room hummed softly, a chorus of machines and the subdued murmur of the Apothecaries moving about. The smooth, white walls of the chamber seemed to close in around him, but he pushed the sensation aside. He had been here before and endured. He would do so again.

Today, the procedure would be the implantation of the Larraman’s Organ, or Phase 5 of his transformation. Where the Haemastamen had altered his blood, changing its composition to better support the new organs, the Larraman’s Organ would elevate his physiology to something truly beyond Human. This organ, no larger than a clenched fist, would be integrated into his chest cavity, near his heart. Once functional, it would release Larraman cells, specialized cells that could clot blood instantly, sealing wounds almost as soon as they were inflicted. This was what would give him, and all Astartes, the legendary resilience that allowed them to keep fighting through injuries that would kill even the toughest Human warriors.

But the implantation process was known to be one of the most dangerous in the early stages of gene-seed integration.

“Daedren,” came the steady voice of Brother Harvath, the chief Apothecary who had overseen his transformation thus far. His voice was calm, reassuring, though a note of gravity tinged his words. “This procedure is delicate. The Larraman’s Organ must be placed precisely, and any deviation could cause catastrophic damage to your cardiovascular system. You must remain as still as possible throughout. Focus your mind.”

Daedren nodded slowly, his muscles tense but controlled. “I understand, Brother Harvath.”

Harvath nodded, satisfied, and gestured to the assistants around him. “We will begin the process now.”

As the first sharp sting of the needle penetrated his arm, Daedren felt a slight rush of a mild sedative spreading through his system, not enough to dull the pain entirely, but enough to steady his body, slow his pulse, and lower his natural instinct to flinch. The pain of each procedure was a part of the transformation, a necessary trial that would shape him into what he needed to become. But the Salamanders did not wish for their neophytes to suffer needlessly.

The surgical lights above him flickered on, casting harsh, white light across his bare chest. Daedren’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, his breathing slow and rhythmic. He could feel the slight tug as the surgeons made the first incision, cutting into the flesh and muscle of his upper chest. The pain was sharp and immediate, like a red-hot blade slicing through his skin, but he forced his body to remain still.

“The incision is clean,” murmured one of the assistant Apothecaries, his voice low but clear. “Proceeding with sub-muscular separation.”

Daedren felt a series of small, precise cuts as the layers of his chest were carefully separated. Each movement of the blade sent a ripple of pain through him, but he kept his breathing steady, pushing through the sensation. This was nothing compared to the pain he had endured in the forges of Nocturne, or the brutal physical strain of the trials. Pain was a companion now, something to be expected, endured, and mastered.

The pressure in his chest increased as the surgeons began to carve out a small cavity for the Larraman’s Organ, carefully avoiding the delicate blood vessels and the edges of his secondary heart. Each motion was calculated, deliberate. Daedren could feel his heartbeat quickening, a steady drumbeat echoing in his ears, but he focused his mind, narrowing his world to a single point of calm amidst the storm of sensations.

After what felt like an eternity, he heard Harvath speak again.

“The cavity is prepared. Administering stabilizer.”

There was a soft hiss as a syringe was pressed against his side, injecting a stabilizing agent directly into his bloodstream. Almost immediately, a strange numbness spread through his chest, not quite blocking out the pain, but dampening it, making it distant, like a murmur at the edge of his senses.

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“Bring the organ forward.”

Daedren didn’t dare move his head, but he could hear the soft, wet sound of the Larraman’s Organ being lifted from its stasis chamber. It was small, almost delicate, but the Apothecaries handled it with a kind of reverence. This organ, though unassuming in appearance, was a cornerstone of the Astartes’ superhuman abilities. Without it, he would never become a true Space Marine.

He felt a surge of cold as the organ was lowered into the cavity within his chest. For a moment, there was only the sensation of pressure, as if a heavy weight had settled just below his heart. Then, pain exploded through his body, a searing, blinding agony as the organ was connected to his circulatory system. He gasped, his body arching involuntarily against the restraints as the Larraman’s Organ came to life, releasing its first wave of Larraman cells into his bloodstream.

“Steady, Neophyte!” Harvath’s voice was a sharp command, cutting through the haze of pain. “Breathe through it.”

Daedren forced himself to exhale slowly, fighting against the instinctive urge to struggle. The pain was almost unbearable, like his veins were filled with molten steel, but he focused on his breathing, drawing in slow, controlled breaths. The heat in his chest intensified, spreading outwards in tendrils of fire that seemed to burn through his entire body.

“Initial cellular integration is within acceptable parameters,” one of the assistants reported, his voice tight with concentration. “Heart rate elevated but stable.”

Harvath nodded. “We will proceed with neural integration.”

Daedren barely registered the words. His entire being was consumed by the sensation of the Larraman’s Organ settling into place, its influence spreading through his bloodstream. The organ was not just a passive addition; it was reshaping him, altering the very nature of his biology. He could feel it, tiny changes rippling through his cells, strengthening the walls of his blood vessels, enhancing the regenerative capabilities of his body.

Time seemed to lose meaning. Minutes stretched into hours, each second a battle to maintain his focus, to keep his mind from splintering under the strain. The pain ebbed and flowed, sometimes a sharp, stabbing agony, sometimes a dull, throbbing pulse that seemed to resonate in his bones. But slowly, gradually, it began to lessen, the fire in his veins cooling to a steady, controlled burn.

“Neural integration is complete,” the assistant Apothecary announced, his voice tinged with relief. “Vital signs stable. Cellular response is optimal.”

Harvath leaned over Daedren, his face swimming in and out of focus. “You did well, Neophyte,” he murmured. “The Larraman’s Organ is functioning properly. Your body will continue to adapt over the next few weeks, but for now, the worst is over.”

The Apothecaries worked quickly to close the incision, sealing the flesh and muscle with a combination of surgical sutures and advanced bio-sealants. The pain began to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. Daedren closed his eyes, letting the darkness wash over him as the last traces of the sedative took hold.

He had survived. Another phase complete. Another step closer to becoming an Astartes.

The two months that followed were a blur of training and recovery. Daedren’s body, now bolstered by the Larraman’s Organ, healed faster than ever before. Cuts, bruises, and potentially broken bones that could have taken days or weeks to mend were now reduced to mere hours of discomfort. His endurance, already superhuman, seemed to know no bounds. He could spar for hours, push himself to the brink of collapse, and still rise again, ready to continue.

Every day, he honed his skills in the forge and in the training halls, his body and mind growing sharper, stronger. He perfected his technique with the hammer, crafting small blades and short swords with increasing precision. Each knife, each short sword, was a testament to his progress, a symbol of his growth.

The Larraman’s Organ, though small, had changed him fundamentally. He could feel it in the way his body responded to injury, in the way his muscles seemed to knit themselves back together after every grueling training session. The pain was still there, but it was distant now, a background hum that he could push aside, focus through. His body was becoming something more, something greater.

Two months passed in a flash, and then, just as he was beginning to feel truly at ease with his new capabilities, the call came again.

“Neophyte Daedren,” Brother Harvath’s voice echoed through the comm unit in his quarters. “Report to the Apothecarion. It is time.”

Daedren’s heart leapt in his chest. He knew what this meant.

The final implant before he could be considered a fully operational neophyte, a scout of the Salamanders, ready to take his place alongside his brothers. It would be the last piece of his transformation before he could join a combat squad, and he would not falter now.