Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 462 The Emperor's Ascension Festival

The warm light of the stars in the Rostov sub-sector generously pierced through the huge observation windows of Novaya Zemlya Airport, scattering shimmering golden spots of light across the cold, smooth metal deck, as if the benevolent gaze of an emperor had descended.

For District D-7—a mutant community that gradually found its place under the protection of the Imperial Order—three months were like a crucible, quietly reshaping its internal resilience and sense of belonging.

The sacred bells of the Ascension Day resounded throughout the airport, and a unique celebration woven from order, new hope, and Sister Figueir's limited approval brought a different kind of vitality to this once silent industrial space.

In the air, the fuel rods lit by residents to dispel the chill deep within the pipes emitted a familiar warmth with a metallic aftertaste, like the background whisper of the resilient life in District D-7.

Today, however, a new and comforting aroma blends in—the warm scent of baking festive whole-grain biscuits with their enticingly caramelized edges.

This was an extra ration specially distributed by the Imperial administration to celebrate Ascension Day. Although the quantity was not abundant, it was like a spark of celebration, igniting a long-lost sense of anticipation and satisfaction in the community. The aroma happily permeated the pipes and shacks.

The narrow passageways of the shantytown have shed their gloom and become vibrant display corridors. Residents took the initiative to decorate their homes with waste materials.

The discarded pieces of insulating cloth are carefully cut and flattened to become a "canvas".

The colored copper cores and plastic sheaths of discarded cables are stripped, torn into strips, and then twisted into colorful ropes.

The children excitedly helped sort the materials and discussed color schemes.

The residents fixed the "canvas" on both sides of the passageway and gathered around, using bone needles or wires to carefully sew and assemble colorful ropes into a double-headed eagle pattern.

Although the design is simple, it is full of heartfelt meaning—the eagle wings outlined in red copper are majestic, and the feathers filled with blue plastic symbolize loyalty.

They vary in style, but together they express an identification with the festival and the nascent empire.

Under the specially brightened emergency lights, these "festival decorations" come to life: the simple fabric base sets off the bright colors of the ropes; the copper wires refract light like leaping stars, and the plastic strips emit a soft matte finish, weaving together a unique industrial wasteland aesthetic.

They are no longer humble testaments, but rather a unique tribute from the residents to the Empire and the festivals, made with waste materials, skillful hands, and a spirit of cooperation; they are the blossoming of the resilient soul of District D-7.

In the passageway, residents stopped to admire the scenery and exchange tips. Rare smiles and a festive warmth flowed quietly through the steel space.

These "festival decorations," gleaming under the specially brightened emergency lights, are no longer humble symbols, but rather creative tributes offered by community members to the empire and the festival.

The patrol and guarding steps seemed to carry a touch of festive solemnity.

The searchlights from above swept softly across the area, like a protective gaze, ensuring that this hard-won celebration would unfold peacefully within an orderly framework.

Sister Figueir's silver-white figure appeared punctually in the main passage of Sector D-7, like a festive guardian angel. The sound of her power armor stepping on the metal floor sounded more like the steady and reliable drumbeats of a celebration today.

As she surveyed an area where relatively cleaned and tidy discarded engine parts were piled up, a lively little figure, amidst encouraging glances from those around her, leaped out from behind a pile of colorful insulation cotton like a nimble little animal.

He was a little boy with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, and two small horns on his forehead swayed gently as he ran.

With innocent excitement, he ran up to Figsin and, without hesitation, raised his tightly clenched little fist high, then solemnly opened his palm.

Lying quietly in the palm of my hand is a "sacred object" that shines with a warm, bronze luster—it is made from a small, carefully polished piece of a discarded hydraulic piston rod copper sleeve. The outline of the double-headed eagle is rounded and smooth, and the fine feather patterns on the eagle's wings are clearly visible.

It was clearly a masterpiece carved by a little boy with his exceptionally dexterous fingers, perhaps due to a mutation, using a small file he had found, and spending countless hours of his spare time carving it out bit by bit. The metal surface was covered with fine, childlike scratches, yet it appeared exceptionally warm and shiny from repeated caressing and rubbing.

Figsin's steps came to a steady stop, his armored head bowed slightly.

The cold goggles seemed to soften with a barely perceptible gleam, intently gazing at the "sacred object" that embodied the child's heart and the community's hopes, and at the boy's slightly flushed face, radiating pride and anticipation. The surrounding air was filled with warm expectation.

After a moment, Figesin nodded very slightly but very clearly.

There were no words, but the tacit approval shone like sunshine.

A battle nun stepped forward from behind her, her hand covered in terracotta armor extending out. The action was no longer a routine acceptance, but rather carried a solemn meaning as she steadily and carefully took the bronze badge, which carried the warmth of a child and the joy of the festival.

She held it in her palm for a moment, as if to feel its weight, before putting it away.

A bright smile spread across the little boy's face as he ran happily back to his friends, as if he had received the highest reward, eliciting a small, well-meaning cheer.

The festive atmosphere reached its climax around the central altar.

The Sky Eagle Altar, symbolizing the rebirth and unity of District D-7, is now shining with a brand-new brass luster.

The residents lined up in more orderly rows than usual, their faces relaxed with the holiday spirit, to receive the festive coarse grain biscuits that symbolized the Empire's care.

Outside the altar, near bundles of neatly wound recycled cables, several young people were talking excitedly, their eyes occasionally glancing reverently at Figsin, who was patrolling nearby for holiday security.

The boy nicknamed "Little Wrench" had an extra, nimble finger on his left hand that was trembling slightly with excitement.

He had personally witnessed Figueirin protecting his home like a divine warrior descending from the heavens through the B-7 pipeline, and that power and majesty were deeply imprinted in his heart.

At this moment, under the encouraging and supportive gaze of my companions, a pure sense of courage and closeness arose spontaneously.

As Figesin's reassuring silver-white figure drew near once more, "Little Wrench" took a deep breath, her eyes resolute, filled with boundless trust in her guardian, and swiftly and clearly extended her finger—

With utmost care, he gently touched the cold rose relief on the handle of the rose-shaped explosive gun at Figesen's waist, a symbol of power and protection.

The touch is firm and reliable, like touching a protective foundation.

Figsin's steps remained steady, his body, which covered Tao Gang's, moved as if it were a rock, as if he tacitly approved of this closeness that stemmed from trust.

Her armored helmet gave the boy a very subtle, but this time clearly directed, nod. The red light from the helmet visor seemed to gently sweep across the boy's face, which was glowing with excitement.

There were no reprimands, only the deep, reassuring hum of the power armor's servo system, like the most comforting background music during a holiday.

The boy withdrew his hand, his face beaming with immense joy and pride.

He excitedly exchanged glances with his companions, as if they had completed a sacred ritual, their hearts filled with the warmth and strength of being recognized.

(End of this chapter)