Bastion found it strange that there was no inquisition actively searching homes for heresy. The Adeptus Arbites, who were supposed to be the Imperium's equivalent of an FBI, seemed to enforce the Imperial Creed with wanton brutality rather than any structured investigation.
The fact that he had learned all this in just a week spoke volumes about how dire things truly were. However, none of these issues compared to the greatest problem of all—the Ecclesiarchy. Their faith had instilled a belief that human life was essentially worthless.
As soon as he arrived in his room, Bastion collapsed onto a couch and pulled out three large, tablet-sized devices—data slates, the Imperium's version of a flash drive. They stored vast amounts of information, and right now, he needed that knowledge desperately.
He had no clear understanding of this world's history, no solid strategy for ruling it, and worst of all, his own memories were fading rapidly. He could barely recall anything that wasn't deeply personal. He knew he had once been a firefighter, but he couldn't remember how to fight a fire. It was as if the fundamental knowledge of his past life was slipping away.
He needed to learn—fast. Otherwise, he'd be ousted before he could even figure out how to survive.
After all, this was a world where psykers existed—beings capable of projecting their thoughts into reality. He had no idea how their abilities worked, but he was determined to find out.
Bastion began scrolling through the data slate, which contained a detailed history of the planet. The more he read, the more inconsistencies he noticed. But questioning history was a luxury he couldn't afford right now.
"History is truly written by the victors," he muttered, tossing one slate aside and picking up another.
"My lord, here are the rest of the books," an attendant said, handing them over.
"Thank you. You may leave," Bastion instructed, watching as she bowed and exited the room.
As soon as the door shut, he reached for a book on the table before him. The pages were already half-filled with notes. It wasn't just his body that was changing—his mind was, too.
He could now absorb an entire book's contents just by flipping through it, retaining every sentence and word with perfect clarity. But it wasn't just about memory; he could fully process and analyze the information in the time it took to drop one book and pick up another.
Yet, for all his newfound abilities, the most unsettling change was the loss of his memories. He had not received any from this body's previous owner, leaving him clueless about how it interacted with others. Meanwhile, his own memories were slowly vanishing despite his perfect recall.
He didn't need a scholar or magician to explain it to him—this was clearly a side effect of reincarnation. He wasn't just his old self, nor was he Luthor Kael Bastion either. He was something entirely new, a fusion of both yet neither at the same time.
It was a strange concept, but he had already come to terms with it. Expecting to remain the same after such a miraculous event would have been foolish.
"Come to think of it, doesn't this body have any family?" Bastion mused, looking up from his book.
Apart from Elara and the endless stream of nobles seeking an audience, he had encountered no family members.
"At least there's no family drama to deal with," he thought, returning to his studies.
Though much of what he read was Imperial propaganda, he was still able to extract key facts.
First, Mordaxis had been integrated into the Imperium over 700 years ago. Due to its size, it served as a major recruitment center for the Astra Militarum, sending approximately four million civilians each year to join the Imperial Guard.
The Adeptus Mechanicus, despite their technological influence, did not hold as much power here as he had initially assumed. The blatant disrespect the Magos had shown by kicking down his door had made him think otherwise.
However, they were still a faction one should not antagonize carelessly.
The Ecclesiarchy, on the other hand, was invincible. They wielded immense political power through the Inquisition, commanded vast military resources, and enjoyed unwavering support from the Imperium—and, unfortunately, from the indoctrinated masses as well.
As for the noble families, the situation was far more complicated. His own House Luthor had once been mere farmers before gaining the Imperium's favor.
This allowed them not only to unify the planet but also to seize near-total control over it. His grandfather, for example, had been able to elevate an entire noble house with a single decree.
But Bastion wasn't sure if they still wielded that level of power now.
The one thing he did like about all this was that his ancestors had been the ones to take the planet for the Imperium—not the Imperium itself. This meant that House Luthor had near-autonomy over Mordaxis.
However, Imperial records—accessed through his new authority—made it clear that he could be executed and replaced at any moment should the Imperium suspect him of heresy.
Which, given his current thoughts, was something he was drowning in.
"I'm overthinking it," he sighed, forcing himself back into his studies.
Regardless of how much he analyzed the situation, the outcome was the same—he had to prepare for the inevitable arrival of the Inquisition.
Bastion spent the rest of the day reading, taking notes, and devising plans—both to improve the planet and to avoid his eventual execution.
"My lord, your bed has been prepared. Would you like another cup of the high-nutrient solution?" Elara inquired, her head bowed.
"Surprisingly, no. But prepare it anyway—I may wake up hungry in the middle of the night. By the way, do I have any family members?"
"My lord, your siblings have been informed, but they have not yet arrived."
"I see. You may leave."
As Elara exited, Bastion leaned back.
It was expected—there was some family drama between him and his siblings. And the fact that Elara had said nothing about his parents meant they were long dead.
Given tradition, his first duty as governor should have been to mourn the previous ruler. That only confirmed it—his parents were gone.
He felt no sadness about it.
With that matter settled, Bastion sat on his bed and reviewed everything he had learned one last time. His ability to recall information instantly was one of the sweeter perks of his mental changes.
"I've gone through history. Next is science. Let's see how advanced this world really is," he murmured as he lay down.
Strangely, he felt neither hunger nor fatigue.
Yet, while a normal person would still sleep, Bastion found himself remaining wide awake the entire night. Not a single trace of exhaustion crept in.
Instead, with each passing hour, his body seemed to be brimming with more energy. His thoughts, once singular and focused, began to fragment—but in a controlled manner. His mind processed multiple lines of thought simultaneously, almost like a high-speed computer.
He remembered reading—or perhaps it was an old memory—that people needed years of meditation to develop a mental landscape or mindscape.
Yet here he was, standing within one.
Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched before him, neatly categorized—memories, knowledge, and more. It was surreal. Then again, reincarnation itself was surreal.
When he recalled historical events, his mind automatically simulated them in vivid 3D detail. Old maps, warriors' tales, and battle records all came together in a seamless reconstruction of the past.
It didn't take long for him to realize the truth:
His family had not been the noble saviors history painted them as. They had been traitors. Opportunists who had sided with the Imperium at the perfect moment.
But, to their credit, they had made the right call.
Even if they had resisted, the Imperium would have won regardless. They had superior weapons, soldiers, and sheer numbers.
With nothing else to do, Bastion continued refining his mental archive. He wanted to research more, but he had no foundation to start from—his new mind was like a blank slate.
And just like that, morning arrived.
Not a hint of exhaustion clung to his body.
"Okay… now this is getting weird," he muttered, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
He looked completely different from the frail figure he had been just yesterday.
Yet, if he recalled correctly, the last meal he had eaten was in the afternoon the previous day.