In eight months, my world unfolded in layers of pain, precision, and learning. After the Mucranoid implantation, I thought I had known the limits of transformation, that my body had adapted enough to withstand the ongoing mutations. But as the weeks stretched into months, I realized that each phase of the gene-seed was a new crucible. Every implantation forced me to confront a fresh layer of adaptation and resilience, both physical and mental.
The Betcher’s Gland was the next test, a new frontier in the intricate and deadly anatomy that would one day make me a Space Marine. They called it the "acid maker," a curious and dangerous organ unique to our kind. It would allow me to produce and store a highly corrosive substance in specialized ducts within my mouth. In combat, I’d be able to release this acid as a weapon, a powerful means of defense or attack that could dissolve flesh and metal alike. It was the sort of mutation that separated us even further from ordinary men, marking us as something other than Human. And yet, as alien as it sounded, this organ was an essential part of the weapon I was becoming.
The Betcher’s Gland implantation came three months after the Mucranoid. I remember the day of the surgery with vivid clarity, the sterile scent of the Apothecarion, the sharp, metallic taste of the air, the stillness in my limbs as they prepared me. Unlike the earlier surgeries, this one felt both routine and significant. Seranon worked with a steady hand, his practiced movements precise and confident, yet I could feel his underlying respect for the task. This was no ordinary enhancement; it was a privilege, a mark of the Chapter’s trust in me, maybe they had seen something in him.
The actual implantation was a strange, almost surreal experience. They worked inside my mouth and along my lower jaw, threading the necessary tubes and ducts into place, their hands steady yet swift. The pain was sharp, intense, but I kept my focus, watching the shadows of their movements as best I could. Seranon’s murmured instructions blended with the low hum of the machines, and as the minutes stretched into hours, the line between my body and the machinery around me seemed to blur.
Recovering from the Betcher’s Gland was unlike anything I’d experienced before. The sensation of acid building within my mouth, the slight burn as it settled in the new ducts, took days to adjust to. The slightest mistake, an accidental clenching of my jaw, could trigger a release, and I spent the first week terrified of scarring my own mouth. Rhaegor and his team had provided strict instructions on how to control the gland, and I spent countless hours in the medicae chambers practicing, mastering the technique of holding back and releasing the acid only when needed. By the end of that period, it became almost second nature, though I was forever conscious of the lethal capability resting within my own mouth.
In the five months that followed, I had more time to train and improve my skills in the forge, especially in the delicate art of working with adamantium. By then, I had been introduced to the synthesis machines and had even been permitted some supervised handling. Each session was a master class in patience and precision. Adamantium was temperamental, requiring exact temperatures, pressure, and timing to shape properly. I watched my instructors closely, their hands steady as they navigated the machines, adjusting dials and levers with a level of care that bordered on reverence.
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A few months ago, around the time of my mucranoid implantation, I was allowed only to observe, taking notes, drawing sketches of the machine’s intricate components and parts. I studied how each piece interacted, how a slight adjustment could change the entire alloy composition. It took nearly five months before they trusted me to operate the machines independently, though always with supervision. Working with adamantium was a challenge even more exacting than the forge, a task that demanded absolute focus. One wrong move, one careless touch, and the entire batch could be ruined. But as the months wore on, I gained a familiarity with the process, a confidence in my movements that was born of both practice and respect.
During those months, I found solace in drawing, a skill I’d refined over the years but which now became a near-obsession. My sketches had grown increasingly detailed, capturing not only the structure of the machines but the vast architecture of the Imperium itself. I often sketched the towering golden spires of the Emperor’s domain, the intricate mechanisms of the machines I worked with, and the many dark, sacred symbols of the Chapter. One of the blacksmiths who supervised my forging noticed my sketches one day, nodding with approval. His quiet acknowledgment was as rewarding as any praise, a mark of respect from a master of the craft.
It was three months after the Betcher’s Gland implantation that they deemed me ready for the next, and one of the most pivotal, phases: the Progenoid Glands. This implant was central to the future of our Chapter, the heart of the genetic legacy of the Salamanders. These glands would mature within me, storing the genetic information of my lineage, ensuring that the Chapter could continue, that new Astartes could be born. The gravity of this phase weighed heavily on me; it wasn’t just an enhancement but a duty, a bond to every Salamander who had come before and who would come after.
The implantation process for the Progenoid Glands was as meticulous as it was reverent. Seranon himself performed the surgery, his hands moving with a level of care and precision that I hadn’t seen before. There was a sense of ritual in his actions, an acknowledgment of the weight of what he was entrusting to me. The glands were placed deep within my chest and neck, nestled close to my vital organs, and their presence was both foreign and profound. These weren’t just organs, they were vessels of the Chapter’s future, a burden and an honor I would carry for the rest of my life.
The recovery from the Progenoid implantation was longer, the healing process slower than with previous implants. My body needed time to adjust, to accept the glands and allow them to integrate fully. During this period, I spent much of my time refining my skills, both in forging and in sketching. The blacksmith who had taken an interest in my drawings allowed me to observe some of the finer aspects of the craft, teaching me techniques that went beyond simple metalwork. His lessons were intense, often demanding more patience and discipline than even the most grueling training sessions. But I welcomed the challenge, pouring myself into the work as my body healed.
With each passing week, I could feel the Progenoid Glands settling, becoming part of me. The weight of the responsibility they represented didn’t diminish, but I grew more comfortable with it, more resolved. The Chapter’s legacy was now a part of me, as intrinsic as my own bones and blood.