Chapter 21: The Overwhelming Power Crushing Astartes

It was obvious that most people did not believe the claim of being a medical sister, and even their gazes toward Rod grew somewhat hostile. Especially the political commissar of the Astral Army, who, as the spiritual leader of the troops, needed to be familiar with every soldier.

Rod stood before them, tall and broad-shouldered, with yellow skin, black hair, and dark eyes—features that set him apart from the other soldiers. Such distinct physical traits would have been recognized instantly if he had served in the army.

“Soldier! Were you a deserter? I never saw you in previous battles,” the Imperial Commissar said coldly, staring Rod down. If he was a deserter, immediate execution would follow. The Empire had no room for cowards; any display of weakness or fear was a desecration of the Empire and the Emperor himself.

“I’m not part of the army. My previous uniform was damaged, so I had to wear this Astral Army outfit,” Rod replied.

“Then take it off! You have no right to wear that uniform! Wait—actually, we’re short on manpower. You’re now conscripted,” the Commissar said. He had intended to make Rod remove the uniform, but an extra soldier was always valuable.

The young man’s physique was impressive—among the Astral Army, he was exceptionally robust. Recruiting him would be a wise choice.

“Are you sure you want someone like me, half a gene-primal, to join the Astral Army?” Rod asked.

Hearing the words "gene-primal," a nearby battle sister couldn’t hold back any longer. She snorted coldly and swung her chainsword toward Rod’s head.

To dare impersonate a gene-primal was blasphemy against the Empire and disloyalty to the Emperor. As the Emperor’s daughter, she would not tolerate such insolence.

With a loud bang, the battle sister was flung over ten meters away at incredible speed, her power armor dented deeply by a punch.

“What’s going on? I was just telling the truth! No need to be so eager to chop me down,” Rod said as he retracted his fist.

A joke! With his physical strength, he had sent a power-armored battle sister flying effortlessly—and he had held back. Had he aimed for her head, she would have been instantly killed.

At that moment, the others on the battlefield finally realized what had happened, staring at Rod in shock. To punch a power-armored battle sister that far with a bare fist was extraordinary. Even an interstellar warrior could do this, but only while wearing power armor.

The battle sister spat out blood foam, snorted again, and raised her chainsword to charge at Rod once more.

“I was holding back! Otherwise, you wouldn’t even be able to get up now. If you want to embarrass yourself, come on—but this time, I won’t hold back,” Rod warned her.

This warhammer world was truly one where conflicts quickly turned to violence—religion had become too extreme.

“Wait! Sister, this is a misunderstanding. Rod’s physical strength is extraordinary, and I have tested his genetic sequence. He is of the purest human bloodline, not some mutant, hybrid, or psyker,” the medical sister said anxiously.

“Stand down, Sister Tori!” the senior sister nearby ordered, stopping the battle sister from attacking again.

At that moment, an Astartes Chaplain—the Emperor’s Death Angel and leader of the Polar Warriors—stood before Rod.

“Your strength is indeed formidable. Now, give me your best punch so I can gauge your power, and then we’ll discuss further,” the Chaplain said.

Rod nodded and approached the Astartes Chaplain. This time, he did not hold back. Though he restrained his monstrous strength somewhat, he unleashed nearly all his might in a single punch.

Inside the Chaplain’s helmet, a warning alarm beeped repeatedly, indicating the force behind the blow was tremendous.

An Astartes could easily dodge such an attack, but to test Rod, he took the punch head-on.

With a thunderous crash, the Chaplain clad in deep blue power armor was blasted away like a cannonball, tumbling twice across the ground.

He flew farther than the battle sister had and lay unmoving for some time. His power armor was damaged, with a large chunk of the chest plate shattered.

“Chaplain!” several nearby interstellar warriors shouted in alarm, rushing to their leader. Two even drew their bolt pistols, aiming at Rod’s head.

“Wait, wait! Don’t shoot—I want to talk to him,” the Polar Warrior Chaplain coughed out blood, wiped the bruising from his mouth, and looked at Rod with disbelief.

The raw power of that punch had shaken him. Without his power armor, he would have been dead instantly. Even with it, he estimated he could survive only a few punches before being crushed.

The difference in physical capability was absolute, akin to a mortal soldier compared to an Astartes Chaplain.

To overpower an interstellar warrior with sheer muscle was something only the Imperial Guard or a gene-primal could achieve.

Could he truly be a gene-primal? No—he said he was only half one.

“I need to run another genetic sequence test,” the Chaplain said, stepping closer.

This time, the gene test was conducted not by the medical sister but by an interstellar warrior, who took some of Rod’s hair and ran the analysis. They also physically examined Rod.

“Chaplain, the genetic sequence is perfect—undeniably human. There are no signs of postnatal augmentation or surgical modifications,” the warrior reported.

Any subtle enhancements would leave traces, whether in interstellar warriors or the Imperial Guard.

No surgical scars, yet possessing such formidable strength—only a gene-primal could explain this.

But how was that possible?

“You said you are half a gene-primal. Can you explain?” the Chaplain asked.

“The Astartes are crude copies of the gene-primal, but I am a relatively perfect replication. Though more refined, I have yet to reach the true level of a gene-primal, so I am half one,” Rod explained.