The forge had become a second home for Daedren, its roar the background symphony to his thoughts and the heat of its fires a comforting embrace. Each day he refined his skills, hammering out flaws in his technique and understanding, just as he hammered impurities out of raw steel. Six long months had passed since his seventeenth birthday, and in that time, he had transformed again, both as a smith and as an Astartes-in-progress.

The neophyte’s days were filled with steel and iron, working tirelessly to perfect his craft under Torhak’s stern gaze. His hands, once clumsy and uncertain, now wielded the hammer with precision and strength. He could create swords, knives, and smaller weaponry without hesitation. The resistance of metal no longer frustrated him. Instead, it had become an unspoken dialogue between creator and material, one he spoke fluently. But while he could shape blades and hilts, manipulate steel and plasteel into elegant, deadly forms, he still had yet to grasp the full art of smithing.

That, however, would come with time.

And now, after months of steady progress, another trial awaited.

Daedren stood outside the apothecarion’s heavy iron doors, the chill of anticipation gripping his spine despite the fact that his body had grown accustomed to the sweltering heat of the forge. He had received the summons early that morning, his time for the next phase of implantation had come. The last six months of intensive training had hardened him, both physically and mentally, his body swelling with new muscle and his frame broadened by the slow yet relentless work of the Ossmodula. He was ready.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward. The doors swung open with a creak of ancient metal, revealing the dim, sterile interior of the apothecarion. The stark contrast between the fiery glow of the forge and the cold, clinical atmosphere within sent a shiver through Daedren’s spine. The scent of antiseptics and machine oils filled his nostrils, a reminder of the grim nature of what awaited him.

The apothecary’s assistants greeted him with nods, their faces obscured by dark cowls. They ushered him through the narrow hallways lined with metal slabs and strange medical devices, tools of the trade for one of the most critical and delicate tasks of the Chapter. As he moved deeper into the facility, Daedren’s eyes were drawn to the preserved organs and gene-seed containers held in stasis behind reinforced glass. They pulsed with a faint, eerie light, almost alive despite their containment.

“Neophyte Daedren,” a deep, rumbling voice called out, breaking his concentration.

Daedren turned to see a new Apothecary. The Apothecary Seranon, he was standing at the center of a small operating chamber, flanked by two servitors armed with delicate, multi-jointed tools and scalpels. The apothecary’s massive form was clad in the dark green power armor of the Salamanders, his face obscured by the imposing, skull-faced helmet of his order. Only his eyes were visible, cold and calculating, gleaming with the same kind of analytical intensity Daedren had seen in the forge master’s gaze.

“You have done well to reach this stage,” Seranon said, his voice muffled slightly by the helmet’s vox-grille. “Your previous implants have integrated successfully, and your physiology has shown a remarkable resilience. That is fortunate, for today we will introduce three new gene-seed organs: the Preomnor, the Omophagea, and the Multi-lung. Each will further enhance your body’s capabilities, but the risk is not negligible.”

Daedren inclined his head respectfully. “I am ready, Apothecary.”

Seranon’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, as if measuring his resolve. Then he nodded once, sharply. “Very well. Remove your garments and lie on the operating table. We shall begin the procedure shortly.”

The assistants moved around Daedren as he complied, their hands deft and efficient as they prepared him for the operation. The chill of the chamber seeped into his bones as he laid back on the cold, hard surface of the table. The sensation was jarring, a stark reminder of how vulnerable he truly was without the forge’s heat to shield him.

Seranon’s servitors moved into position, their mechanical limbs whirring softly as they adjusted various instruments. Daedren forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he steeled himself for what was to come. He knew that this phase of the implantation would be different. He had read about the organs, their functions, their integration processes. Each one would alter him in a profound way, reshaping his body and mind.

A low hum filled the room as the apothecary activated a console, and a holo-display flared to life above Daedren, showing the schematic of a Human body. The positions of the three new implants were highlighted in bright red.

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“We will begin with the Preomnor,” Seranon intoned, his voice calm and steady. “It is a specialized implant that will act as a pre-digestive stomach, filtering out poisons and toxins before they can harm you. It will allow you to consume substances that would kill a normal Human, an essential adaptation for surviving in hostile environments.”

Daedren nodded minutely. He had heard stories of Salamanders consuming everything from corrupted water to alien flesh in the field, their bodies impervious to the poisons and venoms that would incapacitate lesser warriors. The thought of such power sent a thrill through him, but he kept his expression neutral.

Seranon gestured to one of the servitors, and the machine’s arm extended, holding a syringe-like device filled with a viscous, faintly glowing substance. The apothecary took it carefully, his massive hands surprisingly delicate as he adjusted the device.

“You will feel discomfort,” he warned, his gaze piercing.

Daedren clenched his jaw. “I am prepared.”

With a single, precise motion, Seranon injected the substance directly into Daedren’s abdominal cavity. A shock of pain radiated outward from the point of contact, spreading through his torso like liquid fire. Daedren sucked in a sharp breath, his muscles tensing involuntarily. The sensation was a searing, burning pressure that seemed to burrow deeper and deeper into his flesh.

The seconds stretched into eternity as the implant began to integrate. Daedren could feel it shifting inside him, the viral machines and genetic material burrowing into his organs, altering them once more. His vision blurred, the world narrowing to a tunnel of pain and heat.

“Breathe,” Seranon’s voice cut through the haze. “Focus on your breathing. Let your body accept the changes.”

Daedren forced himself to comply, his breaths shallow and ragged as he fought against the pain. The minutes dragged by, each one a battle against his own flesh. But slowly, agonizingly slowly, the burning sensation began to fade. The pain dulled to a deep, throbbing ache, and he could feel the implant settling into place, its functions activating one by one.

“You have done well,” Seranon murmured, his tone approving. “The Preomnor is in place. Now, we move on to the Omophagea.”

The apothecary gestured again, and the servitor presented a second device, this one far more complex. A thin, needle-like appendage extended from its end, glistening faintly in the harsh light of the chamber.

“The Omophagea, also known as the ‘Remembrancer,’ will be implanted in your spine, near the base of your skull,” Seranon explained. “Its purpose is to allow you to absorb genetic memories and knowledge from the flesh of other creatures. It is a powerful tool, but a dangerous one.”

Daedren’s heart skipped a beat. He had read about the Omophagea, about how it could grant an Astartes the ability to learn from their enemies, to understand them in ways that went beyond mere observation. But he had also read the warnings, the risks of madness, of contamination, of losing oneself in the memories of the devoured.

“Do not fight the sensations,” Seranon warned softly. “Let the implant become part of you.”

Daedren braced himself as the needle sank into his neck, piercing the flesh and bone with a sensation like ice. A surge of energy shot through his spine, and for a moment, his vision flared white. Images flashed before his eyes, fragmented, chaotic, like the half-remembered fragments of a dream. He saw figures he did not recognize, felt emotions that were not his own.

The world tilted, and Daedren’s hands clenched into fists as he fought to stay conscious. It felt as if his mind were being split open, exposed to a thousand alien thoughts. Memories of creatures he had never seen, places he had never been, swirled through his consciousness, each one more vivid than the last.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The needle withdrew, leaving Daedren gasping for breath. His vision cleared slowly, the images fading into the background of his mind.

“The Omophagea has taken hold,” Seranon said quietly. “Your mind is strong, neophyte. Many falter at this stage. Now, for the final implant, the Multi-lung.”

The apothecary held up a small, spherical device, its surface covered in fine, branching filaments. “The Multi-lung is an advanced respiratory organ. It will allow you to breathe in toxic atmospheres, underwater, and even in the vacuum of space for short periods. It will be grafted directly into your chest cavity, integrating with your existing lungs.”

Daedren nodded weakly, his body trembling from the strain of the previous implants. But he gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain still as Seranon made the incision. The pain was sharp and immediate, but Daedren had learned to accept it, to let it wash over him like the heat of the forge.

The Multi-lung settled into place with a strange, almost alien sensation. Daedren felt his chest tighten, his breathing hitching as the new organ began to merge with his body. The sensation was suffocating, as if his lungs were being crushed under an invisible weight. But he focused on his breathing, forcing each breath to come slower, deeper.

Minutes passed...By the time the process was complete, Daedren’s body was drenched in sweat, his limbs trembling from the effort of remaining still.

But he had done it. The Preomnor, the Omophagea, and the Multi-lung, all three implants were now part of him.

Seranon stepped back, his gaze sweeping over Daedren’s prone form. “Rest now, neophyte. Your body has endured much. But you are one step closer.”

Daedren closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him like a wave. His body ached, his mind was heavy with the lingering echoes of the Omophagea’s memories. But beneath it all, there was a fierce, unyielding pride.