Kratos5627
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Ashes and Oaths
🕑 Added 2025-03-10 07:46:29 +0000 UTC
Cassian walked in silence.
His boots pressed against the cracked ferrocrete, the rhythmic crunch of dirt and spent casings beneath his feet the only sound as they made their way back to camp.
No one spoke.
Not at first.
Derrus was limping, one of the remaining enforcers had a lasburn along his arm, and the last two were coated in dried blood—some of it theirs, most of it not.
And Cassian?
He was exhausted.
Not just physically, though his body ached like hell—but mentally. His mind throbbed, his skull felt like a vice was pressing against it, and his senses were still adjusting to the sheer weight of his newfound awareness.
The Warp had brushed against him.
And he had walked away.
That fact alone should have been impossible.
Yet here he was.
---
"We are not telling anyone," Derrus finally muttered.
Cassian’s gaze snapped to him.
The others grunted in agreement.
"Damn right, we’re not." One of the enforcers—Jarrik, if Cassian remembered correctly—spat blood to the side.
"They’d burn him," the other—Markhov—sighed. He was the youngest of them, barely in his twenties.
"Or worse," Derrus said darkly.
They all knew what happened to psykers in the Imperium.
Execution was merciful.
Cassian exhaled. He had expected fear, disgust—even rejection.
Instead, they were protecting him.
"You sure about this?" Cassian’s voice was hoarse.
Derrus stopped walking, turning to face him.
There was a long silence.
Then Derrus smirked.
"You saved my ass back there. So yeah, I’m sure."
Jarrik shrugged. "I’ve seen enough horror in this Emperor-damned war. You? You’re still Cassian."
Markhov grinned tiredly. "Besides, if you ever go full witch, we’ll just shoot you."
Cassian snorted.
"Fair enough."
The tension broke.
It wasn’t laughter, not exactly, but it was something close—a bitter camaraderie, an unspoken oath.
Whatever happened next, they would keep this between them.
Cassian, however, wasn’t about to take their word for it.
As they walked, he strained his telepathy, reaching out to their minds—just barely.
Not enough to invade, not enough to pry.
Just enough to listen.
What he found was comforting.
There was no fear. No hatred. No betrayal.
Only tiredness, respect, and the grim acceptance that they were all in this together.
For the first time in hours, Cassian allowed himself to breathe.
---
They reached the camp soon after.
The atmosphere was different now.
The constant murmur of soldiers talking, the hurried footsteps of runners delivering reports—it all carried an edge of panic.
Something had changed.
Cassian glanced around.
The few remaining Arbites were huddled in groups, faces pale. Enforcers moved with urgency, their armor still caked in gore.
"This isn’t good," Markhov muttered.
They heard the reports as they passed.
"Sector 32—lost."
"Hive militia routed."
"Arbites fortress—overrun."
"Casualties—too high to count."
It was a litany of failure.
Cassian’s gut twisted.
They had lost.
Maybe not completely.
Maybe the war wasn’t over.
But the tide had turned—and it had turned against them.
Derrus exhaled sharply.
"Go. Get some rest. I’ll handle the briefing."
Cassian nodded and turned toward the medical bay.
He needed stitches. A lot of them.
---
The medical bay was chaos.
Medics shouted orders, men screamed in pain, and the air was thick with the scent of blood and disinfectant.
Cassian shuffled in, dropping onto a cot.
A frazzled-looking medicae officer strode over, her uniform stained red.
"What’s your damage?" she asked tiredly.
"Everything," Cassian deadpanned.
She snorted. "Welcome to the club."
She pulled a scalpel from her kit and gestured at his torso.
"Shirt off."
Cassian peeled away the bloodstained fabric, hissing as it stuck to the wounds underneath.
The medic winced.
"Damn. You got turned into ground meat."
"Feels like it."
She set to work, stitching the wounds with efficient brutality.
Cassian gritted his teeth.
"Where’d you get hit?" he muttered.
The medic didn’t stop working.
"What?"
"You’re too calm," Cassian pointed out. "Means you’ve been through worse."
She paused, then smirked.
"Feral world, hive scum, military service—take your pick."
Cassian raised an eyebrow. "Feral world? You don’t look the type."
"Yeah, well. You don’t look like someone who should’ve made it out of that manufactorum alive, either," she shot back.
Cassian snorted.
"Fair point."
The medic tied off the last stitch, pressing a bandage against his ribs.
"You’re patched up. Try not to get eviscerated again."
Cassian exhaled.
"No promises."
She patted his shoulder.
"Good. Means you’ll live longer."
—-
Cassian dragged himself to the commissary, his body aching, bruised, and raw. His stomach felt like a gaping void—the kind of hunger that gnawed at his ribs, demanding to be filled.
The scent of warm broth, spiced grox meat, and fresh-baked ration loaves hit him like a shock, and for a moment, the battlefield images in his mind blurred.
Men lined up, plates in hand, their movements sluggish. Some had fresh bandages, others had hollow eyes—empty from what they had seen. Conversations were hushed, spoken between bites of food and tired sighs.
Cassian took his tray, loaded it with as much as regulations allowed—a slab of seasoned grox, a bowl of thick corpse-starch stew, a wedge of stale bread, and a cup of lukewarm recaf. It was the closest thing to comfort he was going to get.
He found a corner seat, away from most, and started shoveling food into his mouth.
The meat was tender, seasoned with salt and a hint of some spice. The stew was thick, filling, and surprisingly rich. Even the bread—though hard—soaked up the broth well enough.
He forced himself to eat.
Every bite was a battle.
His mind kept flashing back—blood-soaked corridors, the scent of charred flesh, the grotesque mutations of his former comrades. The howls of daemons, the laughter of the warp pressing against his skull.
But he kept eating.
He forced the images down with each bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.
Conversations floated around him.
"They’re saying the northern sectors got hit worse than us—whole divisions wiped out."
"I saw an Arbites squad break ranks and run—got cut down by their own."
"Hivers are going missing. Not in the battlefield—just vanishing."
"Warp storms are growing. Some of the commanders aren’t reporting back."
Cassian ignored them.
He focused on the food.
He ate everything.
Not out of pleasure, not even out of necessity—but because he had to.
When his tray was scraped clean, he stood, mind heavy, body heavier.
He trudged back to his quarters.
---
The moment Cassian hit the bed, he was gone.
Sleep took him like a black tide.
And then—the nightmares came.
Screaming.
Rotting faces, melting flesh.
Warped voices crawling into his skull.
But Cassian didn’t fight it.
He let the horror wash over him, like waves against stone. He did not resist, did not struggle—he observed.
The blood. The agony. The madness.
And then, as the dream twisted, as reality blurred into something unnatural—he let go.
And slept.
His mind remained his own.
---
Cassian awoke with a sharp inhale.
The last echoes of his nightmare clung to him like the scent of dried blood, but he did not react. There was no cold sweat, no gasping for breath—just a quiet moment of stillness.
His body felt heavy, yet stronger.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the slight shift in his muscles, the way his movements carried more force, yet remained just as controlled. His fingers clenched into a fist—tighter, firmer, unyielding.
"Physique has reached 10/10. Upgrading to E-tier..."
A familiar sensation crept over him, subtle yet undeniable. His body adjusted, refined itself. It wasn’t a drastic change, but rather an optimization—a machine running with well-oiled precision instead of grinding gears.
Then, a second realization.
"Dexterity has reached 10/10. Upgrading to E-tier..."
His grip, his balance, his sense of control—it all sharpened, like a blade finally honed to perfection.
But the system didn’t stop there.
A silent prompt unfolded within his mind, three distinct paths forming before him.
---
Physique Perks:
1. Adept Conditioning – "The body learns physical skills twice as fast. Muscle memory forms quicker, and fatigue resistance increases."
2. Adaptive physiology- “Grants you a physique that has developed a remarkable ability to integrate and adapt to foreign enhancements.
3. Adaptive Endurance – "The body adjusts to stress far quicker. Environmental hardships such as extreme cold, heat, or exhaustion have a reduced impact."
---
His eyes flickered over the choices, weighing each carefully.
Adept Conditioning was useful. The ability to learn physical skills at double the speed meant every movement, every action, would refine itself faster. Training would become effortless.
Adaptive Endurance had merit as well. The ability to resist exhaustion, to ignore the elements—in a place like this, that was invaluable.
But Adaptive physiology...
Cassian clenched his jaw.
A perk that could allow him to evolve through various enhancements that imperium has without any risks. It was too tempting.
"I will need this."
He selected it.
Instantly, cooling sensation washed over his body.
Knowing his future path is secured. He turned to the screen.
Then, another prompt.
---
Dexterity Perks:
1. Precision Refinement – "Increased fine motor control. Hand-eye coordination is significantly improved, and precision-based actions require less effort."
2. Cat’s balance - “ Improved sense of balance, can grant the ability to maintain stability on precarious platforms.
3. Flicker Reflex – "Reaction time is drastically improved when under threat. Dodging, parrying, and counter-attacks are instinctive."
---
Cassian’s fingers tapped idly against his palm as he thought.
Precision Refinement would make everything sharper—his handwriting, his trigger discipline, even his blade work. Every movement would become cleaner, smoother, more efficient.
Cat’s balance was mediocre compared to others in this.
Flicker Reflex was tempting. Instinctive reactions, near-immediate responses. It would give him an edge in life-or-death combat.
But Precision Refinement was better for him now.
A constant, passive improvement to every action. A surgeon’s steadiness, a marksman’s discipline.
He made his choice.
For the second time, his body adjusted. The smallest flaws in his hand movements vanished, his reflexes became smoother, his grip unwavering.
His physical foundation was now perfected.
----
Cassian let out a slow breath, his thoughts blending seamlessly into action as he moved to wash up.
Cassian let out a slow breath, his thoughts blending seamlessly into action as he moved to wash up.
---
Cassian turned the rusted faucet, letting the water run.
For a moment, it was clear.
Then, it turned red.
Thick. Viscous. The scent of iron filled the air.
He stared at it, expression unreadable.
A moment later, the water ran clear again, as if it had never changed.
He didn’t react.
The warp’s influence was growing.
Stepping outside, he was met with a sky that was wrong.
What had once been a dull, grey expanse of smog-choked clouds had now turned a deep, blood-red. Faint streaks of black lightning flickered in the distance, twisting like living things.
The air was heavy, oppressive.
Cassian barely noticed.
His mind was elsewhere, focused on his thoughts, on what came next.
As he walked through the camp, murmurs surrounded him.
---
"The Emperor protects... The Emperor protects..."
"It’s getting worse. Every day, it’s getting worse."
"We should’ve left this place. It’s cursed—damned."
"Pray. Just pray. It’s all we can do."
---
Men knelt, muttering litanies under their breath.
Some held prayer beads, clutching them so tightly their knuckles turned white. Others simply stared at the sky, expressions hollow, faith wavering.
He saw fear.
Cassian ignored it.
Fear was irrelevant.
His steps carried him to the commissary once more.
The scent of warm food barely masked the undercurrent of unease. The conversations were quieter, tenser.
He loaded his tray with more than before. He needed fuel.
The food tasted the same. The ration bread was stale, the grox meat tough, the corpse-starch stew thick and heavy. But he ate regardless, each bite methodical, controlled.
As he listened to the reports coming in, the pattern was clear.
The Imperium was losing.
Entire divisions wiped out.
Entire sectors overrun.
Cassian said nothing.
He merely ate.
And thought.
—-
Cassian Vail – Status Page
Age: 14
Race: Human (Imperium)
Occupation: Former Imperial Scribe, Adeptus Arbites, Psychic Aspirant
[Stats]
Physique: E (1/20)
Dexterity: E (1/20)
Intelligence: F (9.2/10)
Wisdom: F (9/10)
Affinity: F (8.6/10)
Perk Points Available: 0
[Perks]
Adaptive physiology
Precision Refinement
[Skills]
Lexicon Proficiency – Level 12
Melee weapon proficiency – Level 18
Physical Conditioning – Level 42
Hand-to-Hand Combat – Level 28
Firearms Proficiency – Level 35
Mental Discipline – Level 1
Telepathy – Level 1
—-
