Even after being reincarnated, I had to be born in a damned place like this.
My home was the lower hive of a hive world.
My family consisted of my mother and me. Just the two of us.
They said my father had been a Guardsman and had died fighting.
Perhaps because of that, our home was a little larger than those of other families.
...Other homes were about the size of a one-person goshiwon room, while ours was the size of a cramped slum dwelling.
Ever since I was young, my mother and I had slept while taking turns standing watch.
There were countless thieves willing to steal even bread and soup made from corpse-starch, since there was never enough to go around.
The lasgun left behind by the father I had never met in this life was incredibly useful.
In my previous life, wasn't this called a flashlight?
It was a very, very useful thing.
As I recall, I was seven years old.
A man from the neighborhood forced his way through our door. Startled, I shot him with the lasgun and killed him.
...It wasn't as though I remembered feeling sad because I had killed someone.
There were corpses lying everywhere just ten steps from our door.
I only remembered being excited over the knife and handful of clonicks—the currency used on the planet—that robber had carried.
That day, my mother and I were able to fill our stomachs with more corpse-starch bread and soup than usual.
I knew what the bread and soup were made of, but I ate them eagerly.
There was nothing else to eat, and often we did not even have that and went hungry. It was a feast.
Other households were often victimized by robbers and thieves, but the legacy Father had left behind protected us to the very end.
Eventually, I became skilled enough to shoot robbers in the head so I could recover the clothes they wore without ruining them.
Whenever I caught a robber like that, I stripped him naked and threw the corpse into the street.
Before long, the robber would become corpse-starch—daily sustenance.
Thanks to that, in a hive full of frail, sickly children, I was sturdier than the rest.
I was able to become a Guardsman.
They said they would pay 5,000 clonicks—twenty years' worth of my mother's wages—to anyone selected, so tens of thousands of people, myself included, came forward to become Guardsmen.
Because I had the best stamina and was a good shot, I was conscripted before anyone else in the hive.
Mother was happy.
"Your father was a Guardsman too... my son... You must... you absolutely must come back so we can meet again..."
Refusing the clonicks, Mother spoke to me with a face caught halfway between tears and joy.
I would survive.
I resolved to settle a planet, become a noble, and give my mother a comfortable life.
"So this is the end."
Faith in the Emperor, for someone reincarnated from another world?
I had it in abundance.
I knew perfectly well what kind of world Warhammer was. If my soul were not guided to a place where faith in the Emperor dwelled, I would suffer for all eternity.
Faith would influence the Warp, and perhaps my soul could be saved.
Knowing that, I praised and prayed to His Majesty the Emperor more fervently than anyone else. The regimental Commissar and Priest even held me up as a model Guardsman.
And because I displayed shooting skills superior to any other Guardsman, the regimental commander rewarded me with a bolter.
The bolter saved my life countless times.
My numerous achievements allowed me to be promoted to Sergeant.
I thought that if I served only a few more years, I could head out to settle a planet, become a noble, and let Mother live in comfort, but...
Now this was the end.
I looked beyond the trench.
An enormous mass of Greenskins was advancing toward us.
I stroked the bolter I had been rewarded for my exceptional marksmanship and devotion.
"Machine Spirit, please remain with me until the end. You are the bearer of death and our protector..."
A light briefly flickered from the bolter.
Ah... Emperor upon Terra, protect my mother back home and receive my soul.
My squadmates each offered their final prayers to His Majesty the Emperor.
"When I fire, unleash a volley. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Let us all meet again at the Emperor's side."
If I were cast into the Warp, then please, let me go somewhere where faith in His Majesty the Emperor had gathered.
Damn it.
I spotted a Nob.
The moment it opened its mouth to roar, I aimed inside and pulled the trigger.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAA... GAAACK!"
The Nob's head burst apart under the bolter round.
At the same time, my squadmates began firing their lasguns.
Just as I had trained them, they formed three-man teams and concentrated their fire on individual targets.
The charging Ork Boyz fell one after another, and though the thirty men of my squad fought harder than any other squad...
...against a horde of tens of thousands of Orks, we were no more than a small earthen wall piled up before an incoming tide.
When they came close enough that I could feel the Orks' breath...
My squadmates gripped their bayoneted lasguns, instinctively realizing that this was the end.
I changed magazines and raised my head above the trench.
I saw an Ork Shoota aimed at me.
I was certain I would be hit by that bastard's shoota.
My body froze in an instant.
Then, at the same time, a tremendous roar thundered down from the sky.
"Strike from the heavens, brothers!"
A transmission issued from the vox-caster carried on the vox operator's back.
Even as the deafening roar left my ears ringing, I heard the transmission clearly.
After shooting the Ork Shoota Boy who had been staring blankly at the sky, I looked up as well.
A black dot began growing larger and larger.
Then I saw it clearly.
An inverted omega insignia painted blue.
Ultramarines.
Boom!
With a sound like an artillery shell detonating, angels of death began to emerge from the drop pods.
The Guardsmen along the front line erupted into cheers.
At the same time, I became uneasy.
Space Marines, because of Orks.
When I had looked at the sky earlier, I had seen at least ten of those drop pods.
...Would I survive?
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