Chapter 38: Preparation—

"How much do you know about them?" Archmagos Cawr asked.

Good. He was willing to inspect the merchandise.

Romulus pondered for a moment. Compared to the Craftworld Aeldari, the Imperium's knowledge of the Drukhari was remarkably limited, often conflating these xenos with mere Aeldari corsairs. The Drukhari operated with such secrecy, and their mastery over the Webway was so far superior to that of their kin, that the Imperium often couldn't even identify the culprits behind many of the horrific mass abductions that plagued its worlds.

Furthermore, the Drukhari were not considered a primary threat to humanity. Though Commorragh was vast, it was a drop in the ocean compared to the scale of the Imperium; such raids didn't even register as a rounding error in human population growth, so the Administratum naturally paid little heed to these xenos. To even distinguish the Drukhari from other Aeldari required the expertise of a senior xenos scholar, let alone understanding the political ecology or military reserves of Commorragh. Besides the sharks standing behind him, very few who entered that hellhole ever came back out alive.

Of course, Romulus couldn't simply admit he was using a daemon host to see through the veil. If he wanted to avoid trouble within the Imperium, he had to keep his associations with anything in the Immaterium—other than the Emperor himself—strictly hidden.

"A Salamanders strike cruiser was once abducted to Commorragh, prompting a crusade fleet that included the Salamanders and several other Chapters to launch an expedition. They managed to withdraw only after destroying nearly half the city."

This was the first and last direct confrontation between the Imperium and the Drukhari during the Great Crusade of the 30th Millennium, an event that permanently altered the political landscape of Commorragh. Romulus spoke clearly; the matter concerned Vulkan, the Primarch of the Salamanders, and even if the Archmagos had purged his own memory banks, he should still have some impression of it. If not, Romulus would have to waste his breath explaining the specific traits of the Drukhari in detail.

This cryptic response left Marshal Orlando, who was eavesdropping, increasingly bewildered. When had the Salamanders ever been dragged to Commorragh? And which Chapters had sent fleets there, only to return unscathed? Why did the Black Templars' crusade fleets, which were scattered across the galaxy, know nothing of this? And why were they not invited to such a massive crusade?

"Have you been there?"

"They can handle it."

Romulus ignored the question, gesturing toward the Imperial Fists standing behind him, silent as machines. They were the ones who would assist the Carcharodons in capturing the Drukhari shortly.

"And this psyker?"

"The very existence of a psyker dampens the connection between reality and the Warp; the effect on the Drukhari is much like that of a Blank on a psyker," Ramses explained.

Archmagos Cawr nodded in understanding, then began to scrutinize this unit of 'Deathwatch' whose numbers and equipment defied conventional logic. Their Terminator armor was master-crafted, the decorations exquisite yet devoid of religious iconography. The Imperial Fists were clad in lighter Raven-pattern power armor, wielding flintlock-style las-rifles that possessed slightly less raw destructive power, though Cawr knew well that such weapons were renowned for their precision. They were scouts, relying on experience to lock onto enemies in the dark and guide their brothers.

The price of a mistake was the death of a comrade. If they could rely on experience to track the movements of the Drukhari, then such a unit could not possibly have been trained in this current era, where humanity no longer engaged in large-scale conflicts with the Dark Eldar.

And...

A glimmer ignited in Cawr’s eyes. Countless data streams surged within his massive frame, integrating this intelligence and running simulations to verify its authenticity. The very air around him grew hot.

Correct.

Was it a coincidence?

No.

Therefore—there was only one answer.

After a brief silence, the audio-array system emitted a few muffled thuds, venting visible steam. The metal, massive as a titan, shifted with a clatter of interlocking plates.

"I accept your proposal."

Cawr laughed. Only Orlando was left wondering what the Archmagos found so amusing. He glanced back at the Chaplain, who was staring at his black sword, then at Inquisitor Aglaia, who was scribbling furiously on parchment with eyes shining with excitement. He felt as though he were the only one who didn't understand the situation.

*Click.*

Cables scraped against the deck, throwing off sparks. The Archmagos stepped aside. A servo-skull joined the group, and he raised his right hand—from back when he was still human—pointing toward the mechanical lift leading to the stern of the craftworld.

"You have five minutes."

...

"Why the Imperial Fists?" Ramses asked, puzzled, as the lift ascended.

The Black Templars were currently in a state of mental disarray, completely unable to grasp the situation. Of course, no one had considered bringing them along; they weren't familiar with them, and coordination would likely be hindered by friction.

"Because the genetic profile of the Imperial Fists is better suited for this type of operation; they are easier for me to manage," Romulus replied.

Actually, the Raven Guard would have been the best fit, but there was no time to swap them out. Besides, he hadn't intended to focus on this kind of grueling, high-speed combat mode from the start; now he had to make do with what was available, picking those whose base attributes were best suited for a breakthrough. After all, the warriors he personally controlled had their limits; being able to coordinate a joint push with the Cadian armored regiments was already pushing his capacity.

"Hmm."

The lift reached the top. Ramses carried his coffin forward, indicating no further issues. He didn't count on the Blood Angels, and the Ultramarines were trained as heavy infantry, with their five-dimensional data skewed toward that role; adjusting their parameters would take time. The Imperial Fists were indeed suitable; after all, before Dorn's return, they were masters of naval warfare and boarding actions—one only had to look at the naval master Pollux or the Excoriators to know that. Their innate stats were biased toward this, a genetic specialty that didn't require the artificial conditioning the Ultramarines would need.

He then turned to Tyberos.

"The one hundred and thirty Carcharodons will be divided and scattered among our men, with no more than five per squad. I will place a psychic aegis upon you, and then I will use my arts to suppress the entire Drukhari activity zone."

"Must it be exactly one hundred and thirty?" Tyberos confirmed.

"Correct."

Ramses looked at the Shark with a serious expression. If the Carcharodons didn't hold such disdain for the Ecclesiarchy, he would have had Arabella send thirteen sisters to lead a pre-battle prayer for everyone. Of course, the number itself wasn't what mattered—the Emperor was. But this number held a certain connection to the Emperor on a Warp-level, and Ramses liked using it.

*Pop.*

A faint ripple stirred in the Warp, surging toward the golden sun. Ramses made a quick psychic phone call.

Yes, the Emperor was still watching. No problem.

Transmigrators weren't so squeamish; they were thorough pragmatists. After all, if praying to the Emperor in 40k actually worked and increased the mission's success rate, then one prayed.

Objective reality was not mere superstition.