"Throne’s teeth, what now?!"
"I’m a prisoner! I never even received a weapon!"
"What else? We hold the line!"
"I don’t have a gun! I don’t have a gun! I DON’T HAVE A GUN!!"
"I’ll man the heavy stubber! Take my lasgun!"
The remnants of the prisoner battalion had survived—barely. Many had nothing but shovels and hamrs, makeshift weapons that would do little against the coming onslaught.
Yet they weren’t fools.
They had rallied with the PDF soldiers instead of running, and that was the only reason they were still alive.
The half-built bunker had beco their last refuge.
A skeletal structure of ferrocrete and steel support beams, the bunker reeked of prothium, blood, and desperation. Rubble littered the floor, stained with boot treads and spent casings.
Inside, the emplaced heavy stubber spat fire, its muzzle flashing in half-ter bursts, streams of tracer rounds ripping into the oncoming enemy. Lasfire lanced out from the firing slits, precise and disciplined, cutting down traitors by the dozens.
The added firepower relieved so of the pressure on Qin Mo.
Now, he no longer had to fight off the infantry himself—he could focus solely on threats that lasguns and stubbers couldn’t stop.
Suicide bombers. Tanks.
The heretic horde was vast, far too many to kill them all before they reached the bunker walls.
Qin Mo knew it would co down to lee combat.
....
His eyes scanned the battlefield.
Kalon was dead.
Qin Mo wasn’t sure when it had happened—only that his force staff now lay embedded in the dirt where his body had once stood.
Nearby, among a heap of corpses, a chainsword stood upright, buried deep in the chest cavity of a fallen warrior.
Qin Mo extended his hand.
The two weapons levitated, spinning in the air before flying toward him, landing with a dull thud inside the bunker.
Telekinesis.
His third ability, alongside pyrokinesis and electrokinesis.
But he didn’t just arm himself—
He ard the others.
With swift, precise gestures, he used his power to drag discarded weapons and armor into the bunker, distributing whatever was salvageable.
Most of it was PDF-issue flak armor—cheap, standard-issue, mass-produced. Nowhere near as durable as carapace plating, but still capable of stopping a las-round or two before shattering.
He also retrieved bayonets and more lasguns.
The ones he found were M35-pattern, extended bayonet mounts—perfect for close-quarters combat.
The prisoners lacked training, but they knew desperation.
If they were going to die, they’d die swinging.
Then—
A distant thunderclap.
Qin Mo's blood ran cold.
Artillery.
“We’re done for.” A PDF trooper looked up, his face ashen.
All eyes turned to the sky.
The bunker was unfinished—it had no roof.
They were sitting ducks.
If even one shell landed inside, they would be obliterated.
"Focus on the fight!" Qin Mo snapped, forcing himself to stay calm.
He turned his gaze upward.
And he felt them.
Twenty shells.
Each falling individually, each a separate trajectory through the sky.
Qin Mo shifted his focus—not to the shells, but to the air itself.
The rounds should have struck ho.
But instead—
They detonated midair.
As if they had collided with sothing unseen.
Qin Mo had altered the very laws of physics, warping the air into sothing as solid as adamantium—if only for a brief mont.
The soldiers around him stared, stunned.
"Did… did he just block artillery?"
But there was no ti to celebrate.
The artillery had failed—
But the heretics were charging.
....
Their numbers had thinned, but their resolve had not wavered.
They fixed bayonets, howling in religious fervor, preparing to overwhelm the bunker defenders in a mass lee.
"Ammo count?" Qin Mo asked.
"Sir, we’re dry."
Qin Mo said nothing.
Instead, he raised his hands.
The chainsword at his feet floated into the air, its grip settling into his right hand.
The force staff drifted toward his left.
The remaining soldiers—silent, determined—fixed bayonets to their lasguns.
The prisoners gripped hamrs, shovels, anything that could kill.
Qin Mo considered saying sothing.
Sothing inspiring.
Sothing to rally them.
But he was no orator.
In the end, only one thing needed to be said.
"It is an honor to fight alongside you."
He thumbed the activation rune on his chainsword.
The weapon roared to life.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!"
"FOR THE EMPEROR!"
The defenders charged.
The first to reach the enemy was a prisoner—
Screaming, swinging a shovel.
He was imdiately swallowed by the heretic horde.
Qin Mo paid it no mind.
He leapt forward—
Into the very heart of the enemy formation.
His chainsword howled, ripping through flesh and bone.
His force staff struck the ground—
And fire erupted in all directions.
The gap his flas carved was instantly filled with more charging heretics—
Only for them to be greeted by a storm of lightning.
"KILL HIM! USE THE BOMBS!"
"FOR THE SAVIOR!"
Hearing their cries, Qin Mo turned.
He thrust his staff forward—
A bolt of searing lightning erupted from the Aquila-shaped head, arcing through the enemy ranks.
The suicide bombers it touched detonated instantly, their explosives triggering a chain reaction that obliterated entire squads.
Qin Mo exhaled heavily.
This was power.
To stand alone against hundreds.
To turn the tide of battle with sheer force of will.
But in his fury, he failed to notice sothing.
His force staff wasn’t amplifying his abilities.
It was only acting as an extension of his body.
Then—
"SHELL THEM!"
Qin Mo spun, decapitating a heretic mid-turn.
Another voice—hesitant.
"But… our own troops—"
"SHELL THEM!"
Qin Mo’s heart sank.
He had already spent too much energy.
He couldn’t warp reality again—not fast enough.
If the artillery fired—
Then—
A blinding flash.
An explosion in the distance.
The heretics froze.
Sothing important had just been destroyed.
Even the one Qin Mo had just beheaded—
Its corpse, twitching, still moving toward the blast zone, its dying mind still seeking its master.
Then—
The battle was over.
The heretics vanished, fleeing into the darkness.
Qin Mo collapsed, gasping for breath.
He looked around—searching for survivors.
They ca. One by one, stumbling, bloodied, but alive.
When they had entered the bunker, there had been two hundred.
Now—
Less than twenty remained.
"Grey." A young PDF trooper stepped forward, raising his fist in the Aquila salute.
"Sir. What are your orders?"
Qin Mo blinked.
"…You’re asking ?"
He was a prisoner.
A unsanctioned psyker.
Not an officer.
But the soldiers didn’t seem to care.
At so point, they had simply started following him.
Then—
"Your collar."
The young soldier pointed.
"It didn’t affect you at all, did it? Should we remove it?"
Qin Mo reached up, touching his neck.
And only then did he rember—
He was still wearing the psy-dampening collar.
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