Date: 003.M42 Location: Baal System · Blood Angels Deep Munitorum Vault 04 Perspective: Quartermaster Valerius

  This is illogical. It borders on a viotion of the Omnissiah's Edicts.

  Quartermaster Valerius stared intently at the dataste in his hand. Since the Great Rift severed the gaxy, every bolter shell in the Baal Defense Zone should have been a one-way expenditure. According to logistical algorithms, standard bolter stocks should have hit critical depletion three months ago. By all rights, the Astartes should be forced to use those inferior, hand-pressed recycled rounds—the ones that jam every tenth shot.

  Yet, today’s report fshed a single, impossible figure: Surplus 12%.

  With a grim expression, he walked into Deep Munitorum Vault 04. The racks, which should have been barren, were now stacked with rows of pristine ammunition crates. These boxes bore no dust, no battle damage. Their surfaces gleamed with a cold, lead-gray finish, looking as if they had slid off a high-precision automated assembly line only seconds ago.

  Valerius pried open one of the crates. The casings inside shimmered with a terrifyingly cold metallic luster. The machining precision was micron-perfect, surpassing even the master-crafted output of Terra’s core manufactorums.

  However, this perfection was the very source of his dread—these rounds were "bald."

  There were no micro-etchings of the Machine God’s scripture. No devout Litanies of the Emperor. No wax purity seals, and no scent of consecrated oils. They were clean, concise, and practical to the point of bsphemy.

  “These cannot be the product of any known Forge World,” the accompanying Techmarine whispered. His auspex sensors were twitching wildly, reacting to some unknown magnetic signature. “The molecur structure is hyper-ordered. It’s as if the metal cooled under the pressure of an artificial gravity well. Sir, this looks less like forging and more like… natural growth.”

  “Where is the source?”

  “Unknown. They simply appear, mixed within raw ore shipments from the frontier mining worlds. No shipping manifests, no identification codes. It is as if the ore simply ‘grew’ into ammunition during transit.”

  Valerius picked up a bolt round. The heavy weight in his hand carried an inexplicable chill. The Imperium viewed unblessed weapons as unclean, potential conduits for warp-curses. Yet, frontline reports told a different story: these rounds never jammed, their propelnt burn was perfectly consistent, and their penetration metrics were 15% higher than Munitorum standard.

  “Do we report this to the Inquisition?” the Techmarine asked uneasily.

  Valerius smmed the crate shut. The sharp metallic cng echoed through the silent vault. He let out a cold ugh, his eyes reflecting the pragmatism of a man pushed to the brink by reality.

  “Report it? And let the Inquisition confiscate our only hope?”

  He turned, waving a dismissal.

  “Log it as ‘Battlefield Salvage.’ As long as these things kill xenos, the Blood Angels will take them—even if they were shipped express from the deepest pit of hell.”