Chapter 1: Relinquish

War. A pitiful sport of survival, where pride and emotions rampage like no other, where the living and the dead riot around the same side of the coin. Luck, strategy, power—what else does this mayhem need to fuel it even more? Humanity, in its thousand years of warfare, did what it could do best, empowering it ever beyond its predecessors, letting what was left of its species descend into nothing but conflict.

Such were the thoughts of the old man, who had lost what was left of him as a human. He had no wife, no legal heir, no father, no mother. Living as an orphan from birth to his old age, he knew nothing about what love truly meant; his childhood, thrown into the dark abyss of war, had accustomed him to it. Nevertheless, life couldn't be more harsh, robbing him of both legs and an arm in a conflict with rampaging orcs right after his ceremony.

There, he thought he had achieved some form of acceptance, being honored with the badge of commissar. But sadly enough, losing parts of his physique forced him into retirement, cornering him all the way back to where he started: the bottom of the slums. He had thought he was meant for something greater, giving himself fully to the God Emperor of Mankind. But his prayers were cast aside, turning him into a useless, feeble old man with only an arm left to manage his life.

"Haaaa…" he sighed, pulling out his half-broken eyeglasses.

Having been in a wheelchair for decades, he was tired. He wished he had died while in battle, rather than living a sorrowful life like this. But what could he do, other than rot and read books for all his remaining days?

He placed the book he was reading on what remained of an old shelf, its title proclaiming The Song of Ice and Fire. It was fascinating to read this one book, which he had found on Terra during his ceremony.

"…The Song of Ice and Fire. This world of fantasy seems much better than ours, where there is only war," he complained.

Wheeling his chair to the nearby bed, he pulled his body toward it, struggling to even climb onto the dirty, laced sheets. He pulled harder with his only weak hand, finally hoisting his own body onto the bed, his breathing growing heavier than usual. He wanted to complain more, as all old men do, but he was tired—tired of his old body, tired of this life. He wanted to sleep, to just doze and never wake up. His wrinkle-filled eyes turned heavy as his breathing and thoughts gradually faded into slumber.

…The Song of Ice an…

He wanted to dream, to dream more of the epic story he had just read. But his body began to shake, vibrating along with the bed, as the bed trembled with the quaking floor.

"What is… happening…?" he questioned, jolted awake from his near sleep.

Crack… crack… crack.

Even without his glasses, he could see his ceiling as it fractured with every quake, dust and debris filling his room. He hoped it was only a light earthquake, but no—the shaking only grew stronger and stronger, forcing him to push his body forward. As every living man does, he worried something would happen to him.

Cough! …Cough!

He wanted to escape, trying to reach his wheelchair, but what could the old man do? With every tremor, his wheelchair rolled further away.

…Why am I even trying? he thought, his mind turning hollow. …Let's just stop…

Boom!!

Crashing into his minuscule room, clad in blue armor, there they were. His old eyes gazed at them in awe: the giants, the warriors of mankind. How could he not know? It was all there—their chests bearing the Imperial insignia, the unbreakable symbol of loyalty, their shoulders marked with the emblem of their chapter.

He felt shivers as they gazed upon him with beaming red light—a feeble man who was on his way to death. Why wouldn't he shiver? They were the iron, they were the wrath, they were the angels of the God Emperor himself.

"…Why?" he questioned, his voice trembling with more excitement than confusion.

It was said a single human could never have the fate or the luck to see a single Marine—the demigods who protected their homeland, their whole race. But it seemed his worthless life had finally borne fruit, as he saw not one, but three of the angels.

Stomp!

He smiled gladly with every quake of the floor, with their every step breaking his house even further. He didn't know why they were here or how they had come, but to a man who only wanted death, a death at the hands of the God Emperor's angels was more honorable than dying by the bedside.

"…All hail the God Emperor," he prayed, waving his remaining hand.

He closed his eyes, and as they drew closer, he knew a strike of pain was coming. But the pain was only a prayer, a way to connect with his god. So let it be—let them pierce through this old sack of meat and free him from this misery. He felt it, a sensation, but it wasn't pain—it was a pull, lifting him from his bed.

He opened his eyes, confused as to why the angels of death hadn't claimed his life, only to see a crimson hand piercing out from the bed. It was huge, adorned with nails sharper than any blade he had ever seen or wielded.

"What the fuck?" he questioned.

He had gone to war with the orcs, with heretics, with aliens, but not this. He could feel it—his instincts screaming a certain discomfort emanating from the hand as it ripped through the floor, its dark horns carving out from the tattered hole. Its skin was red, like the blood it was painted with, its yellow eyes piercing him—not the angels, but him and only him.

"…Demons?"

He had thought they were just myths, legends passed down to the people to train their minds to be incorruptible, to face any foe with clear determination. He, too, had been trained to a degree—to resist compulsion, hypnosis, and the rise of emotions when facing the enemies of the Warp.

But he felt nothing but a vague sense of discomfort as the glare tried to encase him in fear. He merely eyed the demon back, his gaze showing no fear, no anger. He turned to see if the angels would defend him.

But before he could fully turn, his instincts urged him to dodge, as if his life depended on it. He knew within that millisecond that the demon behind him had charged.

Bang! Bang!

He heard gunshots—ear-piercing gunshots—which his vision didn't dare to follow. They might have been aimed at the demon or another enemy, as the shots echoed all around his broken room. He felt a pang of remorse for his ruined home, but what could he do? With no legs and only one hand, he could only swing helplessly as the Marine holding him moved with impossible speed. He didn't know how it was possible; the armor clearly looked heavy. He felt like he was on a rollercoaster racing at the speed of sound.

The howls and screams of the red creatures assaulted his ears, though his eyes couldn't keep up. Gunshots rang out after gunshots, the sound of chainsaws piercing the so-called demons—that was it, that was all.

The Marine holding him finally paused after relentless movement, murder, and mayhem. A hurl of rice he had eaten earlier erupted from his stomach, vomiting out. He couldn't help it; such was the circumstance he had been thrown into—a victim in this sudden conflict between demons and angels.

"Wha… what is happening?" he asked.

The Marines only looked at him, saying nothing. He could only sigh it off as he glanced back at his former room, where many demons lay dead on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, their blood staining his cracked walls to an extreme degree.

"…Really, what the fuck is happening?"