Warhammer 40: Doom

Chapter 37 It's him.
The recruitment office was located not far from the laboratory, in a square.

Young people who sign up for the Emperor's Army will register here and undergo genetic testing. Those who pass will have the opportunity to become the Emperor's Death Angels.

In a dark corner of the square where no light could be seen, a young man was huddled up, his black hair and black eyes clearly showing ancient Asian genes.

His body was emaciated due to long-term malnutrition, but his brows naturally carried an untamed arrogance. He had nothing, only a leather suitcase with him.

The young man was not a subject of the emperor. When he was discovered by the patrol, he was climbing the Himalayas with his bare hands, crossing the roof of the world, and sneaking into the emperor's territory.

After a series of checks, he posed no threat. In his briefcase were relics from ancient Terra, his family's ancient genealogy, recording individual names and lineages.

He climbed the roof of the world wearing only a single layer of clothing. When he was found, he had severe frostbite all over his body, but he still tightly wrapped his suitcase with rags to protect those names that had long since disappeared.

He was able to cross Mount Everest purely because of his strong willpower, but he chose to remain silent as to why he was able to persevere.

He now carries a suitcase, living on relief porridge in the conscription area, and is grateful for the generosity of the local warlord.

Although the porridge was thin and watery, I was extremely grateful. After all, in the thousands of years of war in Terra, a wise and virtuous king who provided relief and food to the wanderers was a rare find.

Meimei drank the porridge, enjoying a rare feeling of fullness during the day; then her bright eyes looked around, surveying the conscription square.

The square is vast, paved with bluestone, and surrounded by high walls, capable of accommodating tens of thousands of people simultaneously. A recruitment office is located deep within the square, accepting registrations and providing genetic testing.

Based on the test results, the recruitment office will recommend qualified young people to the military units that are more suitable for their genetic traits, so as to better utilize their innate advantages.

A long queue of people formed, and at a glance, all sorts of people appeared.

There were nobles wearing family insignia, soldiers in uniform, ragged wanderers in the wilderness, and even gangsters.

The young man shook his head, clearly not understanding.

These people were a mixed bag, varying greatly in quality, but without exception, they dedicated themselves to their lord, even sending their sons to participate in the brutal Terra Wars.

I've heard that the lord of this land calls himself "Emperor" and vows to unify Terra and bring unity to humanity's home planet.

"What a noble ideal!" The young man finished the last mouthful of porridge, licked the bowl clean with his tongue, slowly stood up, and said sincerely, "I wish you success!"

Since the Omnic Rebellion, humanity's home planet has been ravaged and scarred.

Countless heroes have risen up in an attempt to end the chaos, only to be swallowed up by the fighting. The grand ambition of unifying humanity or the aspiration to return to deep space remains unfulfilled.

He presented the bowl with both hands, returned it to the relief center with great politeness, and sat back down in the corner with the box, waiting for tomorrow's relief.

The young man's dark eyes were calm, yet his gaze was unusually intense as he swept over the tall warriors.

They stood on the walls and in various parts of the square, wearing power armor, proudly puffing out their chests, standing out like cranes among chickens.

The little giant in the distance turned his head to look, and the youth immediately lowered his head. Those genetically modified warriors had keen senses and were extremely powerful.

His eyes revealed great envy. He had gone for genetic testing a few days ago, and the results were quite good.

The genes are very pure and quite excellent, but it did not pass the selection process.

He was 21 years old, which is the peak of human physical ability, but he had missed the best age window for genetic modification.

According to insiders, the optimal stage for genetically modified soldiers is during adolescence; the older they get, the higher the risk of modification.

Risk is irrelevant; for someone who wants to gain power and have a foothold in the terrifying chaos of Terra, risk simply doesn't exist.

Ultimately, emperors were unwilling to waste time and resources on unnecessary supplies and gamble on an uncertain success rate.

The young man also refused the opportunity to become an auxiliary soldier; pride would not allow him to become a servant.

Pull the tattered cloth over your body to cover as much as possible, so as to avoid getting too much radiation dust and causing skin diseases.

He quite liked this corner of the wall; it was quiet and comfortable, near the No. 21 conscription post.

It might be a special branch of the military, because there don't seem to be many people signing up here, and the recruitment office staff seem quite relaxed.

Unbeknownst to the young man, many people in the square were watching him from the corner where he stood, their expressions strange.

The No. 21 Recruiting Office, known in the know as the "Death Recruiting Office," has never seen a single person survive the gene-editing surgery.

Earlier, a steady stream of people had also gathered in front of Gate 21, eager to sign up and give their lives for the Emperor.

For the next few months, news that no one had passed the modification surgery spread like wildfire among the nobility, causing the number of applicants for the 21st to dwindle. To date, a large number of excellent candidates have lost their lives in the modification experiments, dying on the operating table.

To sacrifice oneself for the emperor, regardless of life or death, is naturally one's duty, but no one is willing to die a humiliating death on the operating table.

Some powerful and influential families have already warned their members not to go to the No. 21 conscription office.

To waste one's precious life on a fatal modification surgery is to fail the emperor's expectations, bring shame to one's family, and invite ridicule from others.

Even with a success rate of only one percent, or even one in a thousand, countless people would still eagerly sign up for the modification surgery and dedicate themselves to the emperor.

Tens of thousands of people went in, but not a single one survived; the 100% mortality rate has not yet been broken.

There was pity, there was ridicule, there was schadenfreude, but most of all there was expectation. Countless eyes met and swept over the young man.

The No. 21 conscription office is no safe haven.

With fewer and fewer willing subjects available, genetic engineers have begun to arrest people nearby. Perhaps in the next moment, this poor homeless man will be taken away for experiments.

The young man knew nothing of these things. He had no superhuman senses. He quietly leaned against the corner, hugging his suitcase to rest, avoiding wasting his energy so he wouldn't have to wait until the next time he could eat porridge.

"Where are the people here?"

As the young man was about to go to sleep, he heard a voice. He had never been so direct in his perception of the power contained within the voice!
Deep and resonant, like spring thunder exploding in one's ears, like a ray of sunshine dispelling the gloom that shrouds the heart.

Completely awake, the young man sat up and craned his neck to look. There stood a golden-armored warrior, wearing magnificent golden armor with a red tassel on his helmet, a red cloak hanging on his back, and holding a spear.

"grown ups!"

Exclamations of awe filled the air, countless voices converging into words of reverence. In the recruitment square, the surging tide of people receded, everyone kneeling on the ground, shouting "Sir!"

Everyone present trembled, deeply moved by the appearance of the golden-armored warriors. The Imperial Guards' arrival was like the emperor himself.

The young man swallowed hard, forcibly suppressing the urge to worship, his eyes fixed on the golden figure, yearning for that power.

He thought to himself, "Is he the lord of this place?"

Perhaps only a lord is worthy of such power, only a lord possesses such majesty and nobility.

The genetic engineer behind the Imperial Guard stepped forward and explained in a slightly embarrassed voice, "My lord, after tens of thousands of failures, many people have lost faith in Number Twenty-One. No noble scion or military family can withstand such endless losses for long."

"They sent their best offspring here to be transformed into death angels, only to receive devastating news and find corpses."

The imperial guard pondered for a moment, then nodded, the plume on his helmet swaying in the wind: "I understand."

After speaking, he took a step forward, his power armor treading on the bluestone path, playing a symphony between metal and stone, the spears clanging and ringing.

A powerful, deep voice, amplified through the helmet's internal megaphone, resounded across the recruitment square: "I am the Imperial Guard! I need a warrior to give his life!"

"Wow!"

In the square, the crowd kneeling on the ground, almost everyone, raised their arms and no one hesitated, all eagerly signing up.

Even though they knew that once the Imperial Guards walked out of Gate 21, their path would lead to certain death.

"Very good!" The Imperial Guard was very satisfied and prepared to select a fine young man. Just then, Superman's senses caught a scrutinizing gaze.

Looking back, I saw a ragged homeless man lying half-reclined in a corner not far away, his hands supporting him on the ground as he gazed longingly at me.

His emaciated body was extremely weak, and his thin face was sallow. Only his eyes were clear and bright, but instead of fanatical worship, they held scrutiny and observation.

Beneath the golden helmet, the imperial guard frowned. He hated such scrutinizing gazes, but the desire for power in his eyes burned like fire.

Then, the Imperial Guard Superman's mind raced for a moment, and an idea popped into his head.

The genetic sorcerer once said that the 21st Gene Prototype is not picky about the age of the recipient, has an extremely high compatibility level, and can be used by anyone.

He raised his golden arm, his middle and index fingers together, and pointed at the thin, homeless man in the corner: "He's the one!"

(Left Zero, Right Fire! Thunder God, help me! Vote now!)

　Hehehe! This is the one!
　　A casual choice led to the birth of the first Space Marine of the Twenty-First Legion.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)