The Warrior Gathering

Rhianna heard the collective gasp of the onlookers. A perfect duel—beautifully executed, filled with tension, an unexpected climax, and a decisive, humiliating defeat. It was exactly the kind of fight that would be told and retold in the taverns and castles of the land. She sheathed her weapon and mounted her horse, her voice clear and commanding as she looked down at Tiberius's unconscious form. "Tiberius, you are too weak. The Blue Knights have no use for weaklings." With that, she gave a sharp tug at the reins, spurred her horse forward, and rode away with her attendant, leaving behind a stunned silence. Merchants, mercenaries, and commoners alike stared at each other, struggling to process what they had just witnessed.

'The Blue Knights?' What kind of organization was that? If Tiberius had been conscious, he would have cursed her to the depths of the warp. 'Who said I wanted to join?' But whether he wanted to or not, the legend of the Valkyrie and the Blue Knights was already taking root, burning through the continent like wildfire. Even in a world where news traveled slowly, it could not keep up with Rhianna's relentless, methodical campaign.

The first to react were the Champion Knights. With no grand tournaments or great wars to test their mettle, the so-called champions had built their reputations through jousts and ceremonial duels. They dressed in ornate armor, flattered noblewomen, and charged at each other with lances for spectacle. But now, a woman—an unknown warrior in cyan armor—was actively hunting champion knights and leaving them defeated in her wake.

"Have you heard? The Valkyrie has arrived in Marseille."

"What? I thought she was still in East Prull!"

"That's old news. She defeated every champion knight in East Prull. Prince Nandengran challenged her to a duel, mocked her before the fight, and she took his head."

"What about Old Nanden? He wouldn't just let his grandson be executed?"

"What could he do? It was a duel, a sacred knightly contest. He watched his grandson be beheaded and couldn't even object. Old Nanden is a man of honor, and in his eyes, the rules of a duel are absolute. The boy lost—death was the price."

"But couldn't Nanden himself challenge the Valkyrie?"

"Challenge a woman? That would be humiliating. And let's be honest—Nanden's old. Putting on armor would probably break his back."

Upon hearing the news, several Champion Knights rushed home, packed their belongings, and vanished before the Valkyrie could reach them. When Rhianna arrived in Marseille, she found no challengers waiting.

Kayvaan considered this a mild success. It meant her name carried weight now—enough that knights feared the possibility of crossing swords with her. The tour had accomplished its goal. With Rhianna's reputation established and the Blue Knights becoming a name whispered across the land, Kayvaan called an end to their campaign. Their next destination was Vansagan. By the time they arrived in the Holy City, the first snow of winter had begun to fall.

At the headquarters of the Holy See's knight orders, twenty of the strongest young warriors that the Holy See could muster had been gathered. Under normal circumstances, Kayvaan would have thrown them into an arena, letting them fight until only one survivor remained. It was the most efficient way to weed out the weak. But his forces were still in their infancy, and both the Astartes and their planetary auxiliaries were suffering from a dire manpower shortage. Wasting promising warriors in meaningless bloodshed would be counterproductive.

Instead, he chose a different path. These warriors would be trained alongside the recruits from other planet. A joint assessment would be conducted by Pastor Marius and the Astartes technical officers. Those who failed to meet combat standards would be relegated to the local auxiliary force, the Blue Knights, while the strongest would ascend into the ranks of the Knights Templar, forming the first elite force under Kayvaan's command.

If everything proceeded as planned, this training program would take five years to produce its first batch of warriors—an accelerated process. By the standards of an Astartes warband, it was a dangerously short time. Under normal circumstances, training a proper force would take at least fifty years to ensure absolute perfection. But time was a luxury Kayvaan didn't have. He needed soldiers now, even if it meant forging them in war rather than in training halls.

Still, the thought unsettled him. A true warband should be a perfect machine of destruction, refined over decades. This would be a rushed project, an imperfect force. But it was necessary. And in the end, perfection was not required—victory was.

Lancelot carefully cut a piece of steak from his plate, skewered it with his fork, and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the tenderness and rich flavor. 

Lancelot had been the first to arrive in Vansagan. The moment he heard the summons, he ignored his uncle's objections, abandoned his post in the Holy Sword Knights, and set out with unwavering determination. He had to be here. His entire life had been spent preparing for something greater, something beyond the endless cycles of mortal politics and petty skirmishes. He dreamed of ascending beyond the filth of this world, of fighting in the War in Heaven, of standing before the God-Emperor Himself. And now, he waited.

His excitement burned beneath the surface, barely contained by his discipline. He knew he had to be patient. A miracle like this happened once in millennia. That it had come in his lifetime was already beyond fortune. He had no right to ask for more. But not everyone was as patient as him. With a loud crack, the wooden table in front of him split apart, sending plates and food flying across the dining hall. Lancelot reacted instinctively, catching his plate mid-air, the steak and sauce still perfectly balanced. Others were not so lucky—dishes clattered to the floor, and the entire room fell into chaos. "Damn it! How long are we supposed to wait?!" The furious roar came from a massive figure across from him. "Are these priests playing games with us?!"

Mistrust of the Holy See was common, and for good reason. The clergy were infamous for their schemes, their half-truths, and their hidden agendas. Many in the room were already questioning whether they had been tricked. "Thor, mind your surroundings," Lancelot said coldly, still holding his plate. "This is the Pope's hall, not some northern mead-hall."

The massive warrior turned, sneering. "Oh? Look at the little white knight, getting all brave." Thor ripped open his shirt, revealing a chest covered in thick, dark hair. He pounded his chest like a beast and grinned. "Come on then! Hit me with your little fists, and if I even flinch, I'm not a man!"