Astartes are not merely warriors. Each must be capable of matching a hundred lesser men in combat. That means recruitment must be rigorous beyond reason. Only the finest candidates can even be considered, but even that is not enough. For there is a limit to what mere humans can achieve. Even with endless training, the flesh can only go so far. Athletes push their bodies for a mere fraction of a second's improvement. Runners shave off mere hundredths in their times. Olympians push themselves to the breaking point for minuscule gains. That is the limit of the human body. If true evolution is to be achieved, it cannot come from training alone. It must come through transformation.
Surgical augmentation is the only path to true strength. The flesh must be reforged, the body reshaped through brutal, invasive procedures that strip away humanity and rebuild it into something greater. But there is a problem. The Imperium has not advanced in its sciences—it has stagnated. True knowledge has been lost. What remains is not discovery, but excavation. The Adeptus Mechanicus does not develop science; it uncovers it, worships it as holy scripture, and applies it without understanding. Without a theoretical framework to improve surgical techniques, the success rate of Astartes transformation remains abysmally low. And so, there is only one way to ensure that enough warriors survive the process. More bodies.
For every hundred aspirants, only a few will endure the trials of ascension. If the Imperium requires thousands of Astartes, it must sacrifice millions to the process. But even that is not enough. The only way to increase success rates is to ensure that only the strongest, most resilient candidates undergo transformation. Physical strength is a factor, but far more important is willpower. The process is agony. The weak-willed break before they can become warriors. Thus, the Imperium does not test recruits with kindness. It does not coddle them.
Only through the most brutal trials can weakness be purged. Those who cannot endure the torment of training and hardship have already failed. Their deaths are not cruelty—they are necessity. Casualties begin long before recruits ever set foot on the battlefield. But Kayvaan had his own methods. He was not opposed to the slaughter of the weak—but neither did he see the need for pointless waste. The Astartes were already an elite force. The warriors before him were not failures—they were merely deluded. They believed they understood power. They believed their strength was enough. That delusion had to be crushed.
Kayvaan had no intention of taking the usual approach. There were other ways to break them. Ways that did not require outright butchery—only the destruction of their confidence. They had to see the truth for themselves. And so, Kayvaan's first task was simple: To show these warriors what true power really was. To shatter their self-perception. To personally annihilate their belief in their own strength.
The strong do not emerge from nothing. Every warrior who stands atop the battlefield has carved their way there through blood and fire, stepping over the corpses of their enemies. With every victory, their faith in their own strength solidifies, becoming an unshakable belief. When they look around and find fewer and fewer who can match them, when no one dares to stand before their blade, that belief becomes absolute. They are convinced that they are strong. That in battle, victory is inevitable. And within a single world, that belief may hold true.
With such conviction, they may ascend to the ranks of heroes, champions whose names are etched into legend. But to truly become stronger—to transcend—that belief is a shackle. If a warrior believes they have already reached the peak of the mountain, how can they ever climb higher? Only when they realize they are standing in a valley can they begin their ascent.
Kayvaan's purpose was clear. He would shatter their confidence. He would grind their self-perception into dust. He would force them to see their own weakness, and once they understood it—truly understood it—he would lead them forward. 'How do you make the strongest even stronger?' Those who stand at the summit must be made to see that above the mountain, there is an endless sky. And beyond that sky, an unfathomable galaxy.
"You were handpicked by the Holy See from across the world," Kayvaan's voice cut through the still air, sharp and unwavering. "You believed yourselves invincible. Warriors without equal." His gaze swept across them, eyes cold. "But now, you know the truth. Now, you have felt weakness." He turned to Jomina, the jungle huntress, and pointed at her. "You," he said. "You thought your aim was true. That your body was strong. But in the face of real power, you froze. Fear paralyzed you. I barely touched you, and you crumbled. If I had wanted to, I could have shattered your skull with a flick of my wrist." Jomina flinched, gripping her javelin tightly, but said nothing.
Kayvaan's gaze shifted to Antali, the throat-cutter. "And you," he continued, stepping toward him. "You thought your strikes were fast, your blade precise. But your 'speed' was nothing. You left yourself open. I could have ripped out your throat before you even knew I had moved." He turned next to Virgil, the Black Knight. "You believed yourself to be calm. Tactical. Intelligent." His tone was almost mocking. "Yet you knew nothing of your enemy. Your comrades stood behind you, but you charged in blindly."
Kayvaan walked past each warrior, his words relentless, pointing out each flaw without mercy. And then he reached Lancelot. "As for you," Kayvaan said, his voice laced with disdain, "you are nothing but a fool. A smug clown, strutting about as if your cleverness will keep you alive. Battle is far crueler than you realize. If you are not prepared, then perhaps you should return to your mother's arms and beg her to nurse you."
Lancelot's jaw tightened, his swollen face darkening with rage, but he didn't speak. Kayvaan turned, stepping back to face them all. "All of you," he said, his voice carrying through the courtyard. "Yesterday, your lives were in my hands. Had I wished it, you would all be corpses by now. And you know it. You felt it." Silence hung over them. Not a single one dared to deny it. "It is not a good feeling, is it?" Kayvaan asked, his tone quiet yet sharp as a blade. "Knowing your life is in the hands of another. That in a single moment, you could have died—and there was nothing you could do to stop it."
A few warriors clenched their fists, others lowered their gazes. But none dared to speak. Kayvaan's expression remained impassive. "Consider yourselves lucky," he continued. "You met me—and Pastor Marius. Even injuries that should have been fatal have been treated. You were given a chance." His gaze swept over them once more. "But now, I do more than show you your weakness," he said. "I give you the key to strength. The choice is yours. You can walk away—pretend this never happened. Forget everything and return to the lives you once knew." He folded his arms. "But understand this—if you stay, you are mine." His words carried weight, each syllable heavy with authority. "You will obey my orders. Follow my rules. Any disobedience will be punished. Severely."
A pause.
"And know this as well—this training is not safe." His voice was cold, matter-of-fact. "You may die." The warriors stiffened. "This is your only warning," he continued. "Think carefully. You have one day to decide." Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.