From the outside, the city resembled something conjured from a dream—or perhaps a deception too flawless to be believed. Wide, clean streets of shimmering alloy coiled through blocks of green terraces and polished buildings, their frames glowing faintly under a controlled sun. No grime. No ash. No hollow-eyed laborers coughing up soot. To the Sisters of Battle and Black Dragons alike, it felt like stepping into a myth.
Seraphina led the group forward, her expression unreadable beneath the slight tension in her jaw. Behind her, Clarent followed in silence, flanked by two other Sisters and a pair of towering Astartes in jet-black armor, their bone protrusions glinting in the light. Around them, the city pulsed—not with sound or ceremony, but with sheer activity. Children ran barefoot across polished stone. Teenagers vaulted up climbing structures. Adults walked briskly, laughing, carrying bags of fresh goods or sporting athletic wear.
The group emerged into a massive park split into four regions, divided not by fences but by theme. On one field, a large football match was in full play. They watched as two players collided mid-sprint, one catching the ball and another diving at his legs. The impact would've shattered bone in a normal man. But the tackled player tumbled mid-air, landed on one hand, flipped upright, and laughed as he threw the ball back into play.
Seraphina blinked. "He should be injured."
"He isn't even bruised," muttered Garran, his voice grating through his vox-grille.
"They're enhanced," Clarent added. "But not like us. No augmetics. No servo-muscles. And the children…"
A separate field to the south showed dozens of children darting among towering trees and carefully sculpted hedges. Some balanced on narrow poles, others sprinted through obstacle courses. Their agility and coordination were beyond standard civilian training. And yet none of them moved like soldiers. They moved like... dancers. Or dreamers.
Garran didn't speak. He simply watched, his eyes narrowing beneath his helm.
Further west, the group found the transit dome. From there, the pilgrims had been escorted to a massive building shaped like an hourglass. It stood on a glinting platform suspended by magnetic levitation. Its name was etched above the entryway in a dozen languages: The Museum of Old History.
Inside, pilgrims whispered in awe.
The central hall projected a full-scale 3D hologram of Earth. Not Holy Terra as they imagined it—but the Earth of a lost age. Blue oceans. Green continents. No hive cities, no towering cathedrals. A living world. One young girl gasped as she watched time unfold in fast-forward. Pangaea splitting. Dinosaurs rising and falling. Ancient Egypt. Feudal Japan. Rome. The Renaissance. America. The modern era. The projection stopped at the year 2025.
"It is said that everything before this point was lost," one of the local guides explained. "We recovered what little we could. Some is reconstructed from data archives, some from preserved relics. Much remains unknown."
The pilgrims accepted this explanation without suspicion. After all, even within the Imperium, records of Holy Terra's past were few and heavily redacted. Some didn't even know Earth had ever been blue.
But among the Sisterhood and Astartes, doubt simmered.
"They lie," Garran said flatly. "But not to deceive. To survive."
Seraphina gave a slow nod. "They hide who they are. But they welcome us. They treat our wounded. Feed our pilgrims. This is not the behavior of heretics."
The Astropath sat in a private corner of the museum, silent once more. But his mind burned. The girl—the one with the radiant soul—she'd passed by again. And she was not alone. He saw others too: an elderly man feeding birds who radiated the same unnatural calm; a woman sweeping the steps whose soul pulsed like a lullaby. They were constructs, perhaps. But they were no danger.
He could feel it. They were created to protect, not dominate.
The Adeptus Mechanicus agent, Virek-99, examined the museum's tech quietly. Every interface was sleek and efficient. No Mechanicus sigils. No prayers. But the systems responded with perfect obedience.
"Machine Spirit content," he confirmed. "Interfaces intuitive. No heretek signatures."
Brother Garran's helmet hissed as it retracted. He wiped sweat from his brow. "What is this place?"
"I believe," the Astropath said finally, "we've landed in a forgotten dream."
That dream was interrupted as the museum's lights flickered. Then pulsed red.
<
The message came through the city's public announcement system. No panic in the voice. No fear. Just clarity.
<
Every civilian stopped.
Then moved—calm, orderly, efficient. Parents ushered children into safe corridors. Market stalls retracted into armored doors. Transit drones rerouted traffic away from key intersections. There was no screaming. No trampling. Only movement.
The Imperials looked around in astonishment.
Sister Clarent muttered, "They're trained. Every single one of them."
"Militia?" Garran asked.
Seraphina shook her head. "No. This is... something else. They've drilled this."
Overhead, interceptor ships roared past the transparent ceiling of the museum. Sleek, blue-streaked hulls glowing with anti-grav energy. Far off in the distance, the sky rippled—a faint shimmer of orbital shields powering up.
Garran slammed his fist into his palm. "They're prepared. For what?"
Seraphina looked up at the holographic Earth frozen in its year 2025 display. She frowned.
"Something's coming," she said. "And they knew it might."
Somewhere in the upper atmosphere, a fleet of unknown origin bore down on Pangea. And this hidden civilization—this anomaly in the Imperium's grim tide—stood ready.
End of Chapter Forty-Two