83: The first lesson for a green recruit is how to die.

When TW-201 opened his eyes, the world was a blur of white.

Not light.

Fog.

Thick mist seeped from the vents of the incubation pod, carrying the pungent scent of disinfectant into his nostrils.

He tried to move a finger.

The finger moved.

Then the wrist, arm, shoulder—every muscle responded to his will, yet it felt as though they were separated by a thin membrane, not quite real.

"Get up."

A voice came from beyond the mist, deep, gravelly, and carrying a metallic edge.

TW-201 propped himself up against the pod wall and sat up, the incubation fluid sliding off him and pooling into a shallow puddle on the metal floor.

He looked down at his body; muscles were knotted, skin was pale, and a surgical scar that hadn't fully healed stretched from his collarbone all the way to his abdomen.

"Put it on."

A set of gray fatigues was tossed in front of him.

TW-201 caught it.

His movements were faster than he had expected; his hands grabbed the clothes before they even hit the ground.

This made him pause for a moment.

"Don't just stand there dazed; you have three minutes."

He looked up and saw the speaker.

It was a Thunder Warrior.

At least, he thought it should be.

The other man was just as tall and muscular as he was, but a scar sliced diagonally from his forehead to his chin, and his left eye was a mechanical prosthetic flickering with a faint red light.

"I am Corvin," the man said. "Your Squad Leader. Now, get dressed."

TW-201 did as he was told.

The fatigues fit perfectly. He pulled on his boots, fastened his belt, and stood up straight.

The entire process took one minute and forty seconds.

Corvin nodded. "Not bad. At least your muscle memory is intact."

"Muscle memory?" TW-201 found his own voice sounding somewhat foreign.

"How else do you think you learned how to dress yourself?" Corvin turned and walked out. "Follow me."

TW-201 followed him out of the room where the incubation pods were located.

Outside was a long, narrow corridor, with dozens of identical chambers lined up on both sides.

Some pod doors were open and empty inside, while others were closed, revealing floating humanoid silhouettes through the glass windows.

"Those are..."

"Your brothers," Corvin said. "The ones who haven't woken up yet."

"How many of us are there?"

"In this batch? Seventy-three."

Seventy-three.

TW-201 didn't know what that number meant, but he could feel something heavy weighing down upon it.

They walked out of the corridor and into a larger space.

It was filled with crates, weapon racks, and various equipment he couldn't name.

Several technicians in coveralls were servicing a massive machine, sparks flying from their welding torches.

"This is the Logistics Area," Corvin said. "You'll be coming here often—if you live long enough."

"Live long enough?"

Corvin stopped, turned around, and looked at him, his mechanical prosthetic eye emitting a faint hum.

"Do you know what you are?"

TW-201 opened his mouth and then closed it again.

"You are a Thunder Warrior," Corvin said.

"You are a weapon created by The Emperor to unify Terra. You are ten times stronger, ten times faster, and ten times more durable than an ordinary human. You can survive in radiation zones, fight on ice plains at fifty degrees below zero, and battle for seventy-two hours straight without rest."

He paused for a moment.

"But you will also die."

"...Will die?"

"Will die," Corvin repeated.

"And die quickly—your genetic sequence is unstable. Every cell in your body is dividing, aging, and collapsing at a rate far beyond normal. You might live for three years, maybe five, or you might not even survive the next battle."

TW-201 felt his throat tighten.

"Then we..."

"We are expendables," Corvin interrupted him. "Understand? You're not a hero, not a legend, not some bullshit savior... You're a bullet. You were made to be fired at the enemy and then disappear."

He turned and continued walking.

"But before you disappear, you have to kill as many enemies as possible. That is the purpose of your existence."

[Training Ground]

They walked out of the Logistics Area and arrived at an open-air Training Ground.

There were already a dozen or so Thunder Warriors training here.

Some were lifting weights; a Thunder Warrior lifted a barbell, the iron plates clanging with a dull roar.

Some were sparring, fists slamming into armor with heavy thuds.

Others were shooting; at the far end of the range, humanoid targets were being torn to shreds by Bolters.

"TW-201." Corvin called out his number. "Go over there and train with them."

"Train for what?"

"Train how to kill."

TW-201 walked toward the Shooting Range, where a Thunder Warrior handed him a Bolter.

The gun was heavy, but it felt just right when he lifted it.

"Aim," the man said. "Pull the trigger."

TW-201 did as instructed.

Fire spat from the muzzle, and the recoil slammed into his shoulder, but he stood firm.

A fist-sized hole exploded in the chest of the target fifty meters away.

"Not bad," the man said. "Again."

He fired nine more shots—seven hit the bullseye, and two veered off into the target's shoulder and abdomen.

"Have you fired a gun before?" the man asked.

"I... don't know," TW-201 said. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember, but your body does." The man patted him on the shoulder.

"That's muscle memory—your body remembers even if your brain doesn't."

TW-201 looked at the gun in his hand.

He didn't remember who he was.

He didn't remember where he came from.

His memory was a blank slate.

Only some blurry fragments remained.

Firelight, screaming, the smell of blood.

But he knew how to fire a gun.

He knew how to kill.

"Rest for ten minutes," Corvin's voice came from the edge of the Training Ground. "Then assemble. The Commander is going to speak."

[Assembly]

Ten minutes later, all the Thunder Warriors gathered in the center of the Training Ground.

TW-201 stood in the back row of the formation, looking at the tall, silent figures in front of him.

He counted—one hundred and twenty-seven people in total.

No.

One hundred and twenty-six.

One spot was empty.

"That's a veteran's spot," someone whispered beside him. "He fell in the Battle of the Bridge of Sighs."

TW-201 didn't ask further.

At the front of the formation, C-19 stepped out.

He wasn't wearing power armor, just a simple set of fatigues, but there was an undeniable pressure emanating from him.

His eyes were golden as they swept across everyone's face.

"Tomorrow morning at six," C-19 said, his voice not loud but clearly audible to everyone. "We attack the Mariana Deep Palace."

No one spoke.

"That is a fortress built eleven thousand meters deep on the ocean floor—the water pressure is eleven hundred times that of the surface. An ordinary human would be instantly crushed into a meat patty at that depth."

He paused for a moment.

"But we are not ordinary humans."

"We are Thunder Warriors; we are The Emperor's weapons. We were created to go to places ordinary humans cannot go and kill enemies ordinary humans cannot kill."

"Tomorrow, some of you will die."

"Maybe half."

"Maybe all."

"But before you die, you will win victory for The Emperor."

He turned and left without saying another word.

The formation dismissed.

TW-201 stood in place, watching the others disperse in small groups. Some went back to continue training, some headed to the Cafeteria, and some just sat on the ground, silently staring at the sky.

"First time hearing a speech like that?" Corvin walked up to him.

"Yeah."

"You'll get used to it," Corvin said. "The Commander doesn't like nonsense. He only tells you three things: where we're going, who we're killing, and how many of us will die."

"He said... maybe all of us."

"Yeah," Corvin nodded. "It's possible."

"Then, are you afraid?"

Corvin glanced at him, his mechanical eye flickering.

"Afraid?"

He paused for two seconds.

Then he raised his right hand and slammed it hard against a nearby metal pillar. The fist's impact on the metal produced a dull roar, and a fist-sized dent appeared on the pillar's surface.

"I'm fucking terrified," Corvin said, his voice low. "But what's the use of being afraid?"

He shook his hand, blood seeping from his knuckles.

"Go eat—eat as much as you can before tomorrow."

[Night]

Night fell.

TW-201 lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.

It was a small, cramped room.

Only a bed, a locker, and a dim yellow light.

There was a nameplate on the wall with his number engraved on it: TW-201.

No name.

Only a number.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind was filled with C-19's words.

"Tomorrow, some of you will die."

He imagined what it would be like to die.

Would a bullet from the enemy pierce his skull? Would he be crushed into meat paste by a gravity weapon? Or would he suddenly collapse, coughing up blood until he died?

He didn't know.

But he knew he likely wouldn't survive tomorrow.

The door was suddenly pushed open.

Corvin walked in, holding two bottles of alcohol.

"Want a drink?"

TW-201 sat up. "Are we... allowed to drink?"

"We can," Corvin tossed a bottle to him. "As long as you don't get drunk. Don't let the other Squad Leaders see; they'll say I'm coddling the rookies."

They sat on the edge of the bed and clinked their bottles together.

The alcohol was strong, burning his throat.

"You know?" Corvin said. "I was a rookie once, too."

"How long ago?"

"A year."

A year.

TW-201 remembered what Corvin had said.

"You might live for three years, maybe five."

"Then you..."

"I'm nearing my end," Corvin said. "I can feel my left hand shaking sometimes, and my vision is starting to blur. These are the precursors to genetic collapse."

"Then why do you still..."

"Still stay here?" Corvin laughed. "Because I have nowhere else to go. I don't remember who I am or where I came from. The only things I remember are this Legion and these brothers."

He took a large gulp of alcohol.

"So I will keep fighting until I fall."

"And then?"

"And then?" Corvin looked at him. "And then there is no 'and then.' I'll die, I'll be recycled, my body will be sent to the incinerator, and then nothing will be left."

"Just like you."

TW-201 gripped the bottle tightly.

"I don't want to die," he said.

"No one wants to die," Corvin said. "But we don't have a choice."

He stood up and walked toward the door.

"Get some sleep—tomorrow will be a long day."

The door closed.

TW-201 sat alone in the dark, still holding the bottle.

He thought of C-19's words.

"You are The Emperor's weapons."

Weapons.

Bullets.

Expendables.

He looked down at his hands.

These hands could lift half a ton, tear through steel plates with bare fingers, and pull a trigger ten times in a single second.

But these hands wouldn't last more than a few years.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would go eleven thousand meters deep into the ocean.

Tomorrow, he might die.

But before that, he would kill as many enemies as possible.

Because that was the purpose of his existence.