"What are my orders?"
Grey stood at the forefront, his Thunderborn-pattern battleplate gleaming dully beneath the cold luminance of the Lower Hive’s lun-strips.
His visor’s auto-senses cycled through enemy fortifications, mapping every weak point with thodical precision.
Though the mass transmission had been successful, Qin Mo had yet to reveal himself.
He remained in the fortress, deep below, analyzing the first large-scale transmission data through Grey’s helt feed.
"Tell them to retreat one kiloter. The forward defensive line now belongs to us."
With that, Qin Mo severed the vox-link, his focus returning to his work.
Grey understood imdiately.
This was going to be a fight.
The defensive forces stationed at the sealed tunnel had been placed there for a reason. Their orders were clear—no one was to breach the collapse.
And now, Grey was demanding control over their defenses?
Such orders would never be accepted.
Grey stepped forward, raising his armored gauntlet, and addressed the enemy commander.
"Withdraw one kiloter. This position belongs to the First Legion now."
But Grey was ready for battle.
....
"But… but this line is for planetary defense…!"
General Barrett’s words faltered, laced with both defiance and doubt.
Sweat beaded against his temple, the weight of the mont pressing down like a vice.
Grey tilted his head slightly, the hum of his shoulder-mounted plasma cannon rising in pitch.
"Defense against what?"
Grey stepped closer, his armored bulk casting a long shadow across the PDF troops.
"The tunnel is sealed. Who exactly are you defending against?"
Barrett was visibly agitated.
Because—deep down—he knew Grey was right.
This fortification had no purpose.
When the tunnel had been collapsed, it had been believed that no one could ever escape from the depths.
Most of the original defensive regints had already been redeployed elsewhere.
Yet now—against all logic—the dead had returned.
And suddenly, this position mattered again.
He couldn’t just abandon it.
....
"Can’t we… discuss this?"
Barrett cautiously stepped forward, his hands raised in a gesture of non-aggression. The officers behind him watched with bated breath.
"I was stationed here because we received word that the assault on the Underhive had failed.
The collapse happened after we fortified this position. We weren’t the ones who made the decision to leave you behind.”
His weathered face twisted with frustration as he scanned Grey’s featureless visor.
“I understand your fury. You believe you were abandoned.” His voice carried the weight of regret. "I don’t know what horrors you faced in the Underhive… but we are all PDF Soldiers, servants of the Imperium. We are brothers-in-arms."
He gestured toward the PDF troopers behind him. Hardened n. Loyal n.
"If you want to negotiate—then fine. I, Barrett, am here to speak."
Grey remained silent, waiting for Qin Mo’s command.
His plasma cannon and scatter-laser remained prid to fire.
If Qin Mo ordered it—he would execute without hesitation.
"He seems uninford," Qin Mo finally spoke through the vox.
"But we cannot take that risk. Fire on the tanks."
Grey obeyed without hesitation.
His shoulder cannon swiveled, locking onto the right flank of the defensive line.
A plasma sphere erupted from the barrel, streaking through the air in a perfect arc.
As it detonated mid-flight, a storm of searing energy beams rained down upon the armored column.
The shockwave sent ferrocrete dust into the air.
The tanks groaned, their hull plating liquefying under the intense heat.
Explosions cascaded across the line as ammunition stores detonated, sending tal shards flying in all directions.
....
Barrett and his officers stumbled back, their expressions turning to horror.
The attack was controlled—Surgical. A warning.
If the plasma barrage had been aid at their infantry instead of the tanks…
Barrett exhaled sharply.
“You…” He swallowed hard. “You’re not attacking us directly.”
His voice was cautious, asured.
"You actually want to talk, don’t you?"
....
"No negotiations."
Grey leveled his cannon at Barrett’s chest.
"Withdraw one kiloter."
Barrett hesitated. Behind him, his n wavered.
They did not want this fight.
Worse—they were beginning to question their orders.
Because they had been told—
That the offensive campaign was dead.
That the Underhive had fallen.
That there had been no distress signals.
Even if they had wanted to send reinforcents, they had been inford it was too late.
Yet now—
The dead stood before them, very much alive.
So of them were their own comrades, their forr officers.
How could they raise their weapons against them?
Barrett turned, eting the gazes of his troops.
Uncertainty. Guilt. Doubt.
Finally—he let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Fine."
He turned to his officers and gave the order.
The defensive line began pulling back.
And the First Legion advanced.
....
Unlike the Underhive, the Lower Hive was far from lifeless.
The shattered hab-blocks teed with countless eyes, peering from behind rusted grates and shattered windowpanes. Whispers drifted through the corroded corridors, voices filled with both fear and desperate curiosity.
The Underhive had been a tomb—forsaken.
But here—
Here, the Imperium still lived.
Barrett felt no sha.
If anything—
He felt lucky.
Because despite everything these soldiers had endured, they had not let their fury blind them.
As the PDF completed their withdrawal, Grey halted his advance.
The standoff had begun.
....
Even before Barrett’s forces had fully retreated, the news reached the Spire Lords.
At the pinnacle of Tyrone Hive, within the Governor’s private gardens, the Sanctum Solis, the Conclave of the Highborn gathered.
Far removed from the clattering manufactorums and mutant-infested sumps below, the Spire Lords dwelt in opulence befitting scions of the Imperium’s Divine Majesty.
Their air was pure.
Their water was clean.
Their palatial estates, sheathed in gold and gilded with relic-ivory, shimred under artificial sun-simulators.
Exotic flora and fauna—unseen in the Lower Hive—thrived in their artificial paradise.
And today—
As they sat among their splendor, they debated the problem at hand.
“Where is the Governor?” hissed Lady Vanya, her augtic eye glinting with displeasure. “Skulking in his Oubliette Sanctorum again?”
"You know his eccentricities."
"How are we supposed to clean up his ss? He orchestrated the Marshal’s ‘glorious martyrdom,’ purged his bloodline through the Judicum Excoriates—yet falters at crushing these dregs?”
"Simple. They’re deserters. Burn their wretched souls and let the Protheum Purge sanctify the Lower Hive like the last group."
"Are you insane?"
"We should go to war."
"Say sothing, David." Lady Vanya purred. "Don’t just sit there like we’re excluding you. Or shall we assu the Ministorum condones this leniency?”
Their discussion halted simultaneously as their gazes all turned toward the silent figure seated at the center.
Deacon-Primaris David was the Ecclesiarchy’s highest representative in Tyrone Hive.
He had one duty—to spread the Imperial Cult and oversee religious matters.
A single word from him would be enough to brand the First Legion as heretics.
And if that happened—
Billions of Imperial faithful would rise in righteous fury.
But David said nothing.
He rely traced slow, deliberate circles through the silken black fur of the creature resting in his lap—a psychically-sensitive Felinid, its luminous eyes reflecting the unseen.
Seeing his silence, the nobles continued their plotting.
"I agree—war it is."
"Not just war. Barrett must be executed for his treason."
"No. We do not go to war."
David finally spoke.
He rose to his feet, his voice cold, absolute.
"The First Legion are not heretics.
Had they turned from the Golden Throne, the God-Emperor’s Light would have scoured them in the Underhive.
The true heretics were the mutants they fought"
His words hung in the air.
The nobles exchanged sly glances. They knew the ga: the Ecclesiarchy’s endorsent shielded David, just as their own greed shielded the Governor’s sins.
“Then negotiate,” A Spire Lord mocked. “Offer them absolution… and a bullet to the skull.”
David turned, his robes billowing as he strode away.
“I shall parley with them. Under the Rites of the rciful Blade, they will kneel—or burn.”
As he departed, the Felinid in his arms stretched languidly, its spine arching as it let out a slow, fanged yawn. A pulse of unseen force rippled outward, causing the orchids in the garden to wither and blacken in an instant.
The Spire Lords smirked. Let the zealot play diator. Whether First Legion bowed or bled, they would profit—for in the Imperium of Man, even faith was a currency.
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