Under the agreed terms of negotiation, the entirety of the First Legion was granted unrestricted passage within the Lower Hive.
For the first ti in years, the soldiers were permitted to return ho—to see their families, to breathe the thick, smog-tainted air of their past lives. To rember what they had left behind.
They were even given the option to leave military service entirely—though, for most, the choice was aningless.
Aside from a handful of officers from noble families, the majority of the First Legion had only one goal—
To bring their families to New Kato, the promised haven where unlimited fresh water and food awaited them.
Within two days, nearly every soldier had returned, their loved ones in tow, gathering at the sealed Underhive entrance—
Where, one by one, they were transmitted to New Kato.
....
But not everyone found their families.
Like Grot.
Grey spotted Grot sitting atop a weathered bunker, his massive fra slouched, his gaze distant.
Without hesitation, Grey leapt up, landing beside him.
"What’s wrong, brother?"
Grot’s voice was low, heavy.
"I didn’t find them."
Grey’s expression hardened.
"They lived in District Fourteen. But when I got there… nothing.
Our ho was rusted, covered in mold. They’ve been gone for a long ti."
Grey knew about Grot’s family—
A brother. A sister.
Survivors, like him. Strong survivors.
They shouldn’t have just... vanished.
Grey struggled to find the right words.
"Maybe… maybe they’re still out there. Maybe they’re just wandering the Lower Hive, trying to get by."
His voice faltered.
"I don’t know what to say, Grot. I just… I just want you to know I’m here for you."
Grot turned to him, his usually stoic expression unreadable in the dim lun-glow of the Lower Hive spires above.
"Did you bring your family to New Kato?"
Grey nodded.
"Yeah."
Grot gripped his hand, knocking their shoulders together.
Then—silence.
No more words were needed.
A heavy, unspoken understanding settled between them.
....
A familiar voice broke the mont.
"Co on, let’s go check out District One."
Grey and Grot glanced down.
Klein stood below, grinning up at them.
Grey raised a brow.
"Klein? Thought you weren’t coming back."
He had assud that soone like Klein—a noble—would stay in the Upper Hive.
After all, New Kato was superior to the Lower Hive, but compared to the Spire Lords’ luxury?
It was nothing.
Klein shrugged, the gesture laced with sothing bitter.
"The idiots in my family think I’m insane. They refused to co to the Underhive with ."
His voice dropped, the grin fading slightly.
"I don’t want to talk about it."
No one pushed further.
Instead, Klein’s grin returned, lighter this ti.
"Let’s just enjoy ourselves. We fought a war for almost a two years—we deserve so fun."
Grey frowned.
"District One? That’s gang territory."
For the average citizen, District One was a death sentence.
Even the most hardened criminals were stripped of everything the mont they set foot inside.
Klein smirke widen.
"It’s dangerous… for most people. But for n with money and influence? It’s a paradise."
He stepped forward, gesturing broadly.
"Trust , we’ll be treated like honored guests."
Grey hesitated, glancing at Grot.
Klein, ever the persistent one, pushed again.
"Co on, Grot—who knows? Maybe your family joined a gang.
This might be the best chance to find them."
It was ant as a joke.
But Grot considered it.
His brother was strong—more than capable of surviving.
If he had joined a gang…
It wouldn’t be surprising.
Without another word, Grot stood, stepping down from the bunker.
Grey sighed, following him.
Together, they headed toward District One.
....
It quickly beca apparent that the gangs of District One were eager to curry favor with the First Legion.
District One was a festering artery of cri and excess, a labyrinth of twisting alleys, towering hab-blocks, and smog-choked manufactorums.
Flickering neon sigils advertised everything from pleasure dens to illicit tech-markets, their glow barely cutting through the ever-present haze of chem-waste and engine exhaust.
In the depths below, sump-rats the size of hounds prowled refuse-choked alleys, while overhead, rusting walkways crisscrossed the skyline, ho to snipers, lookouts, and those too desperate to live anywhere else.
They treated them as warlords, their re presence enough to make the hive-scum bow. Every ganger, cutthroat, and augtic-riddled brute they passed showed deference, their usual bravado replaced with wary obedience.
Even without Klein spending a single Throne, they were treated like nobility.
A woman—her entire body cybernetically modified for aesthetic perfection—was assigned as their personal guide.
She led them through the neon-lit streets, ensuring they experienced the best District One had to offer.
The spires above were lost in the ever-present smog, while below, the underbelly of the hive pulsed with sin and excess.
It was a perfect night.
Drinking. The kind that burned and left lesser n blind.
Exotic food—cooked Grox at, imported at obscene cost.
The gangs of the Lower Hive were eager to impress. They t several major gang bosses, each one eager to curry favor, each one ensuring their every whim was t.
Everything was free.
....
For their final destination, their guide escorted them to the gladiatorial pits—one of District One’s greatest attractions.
A high-class private suite awaited them, lined with silken banners and its vantage point offering a perfect view of the bloodstained sands below.
“Bet well, honored ones,” she purred, handing them cred-sticks worth a Leman Russ’s weight in gelt.
"Each of you has a wagering credit of ten thousand Thrones."
She smiled, the faint hum of her augtics barely audible over the rising clamor of the crowd.
"A gift from the arena. Win, and you’ll take ho far more. Lose, and you still walk away with thousand Thrones in your pocket."
Klein raised an eyebrow, amused.
"That much? That’s enough to feed an entire regint for a month."
....
Grot eyed the tokens, then randomly picked a na from the roster.
"Heavy Hamr. Sounds good."
Grey and Klein exchanged glances, then shrugged.
Neither recognized any of the fighters.
"I’ll bet on Heavy Hamr too."
"Sa."
Their guide logged the bets into the system with a flick of her wrist, her interface implant pulsing softly.
....
As the arena lights dimd, the vox-casters roared to life, shaking the very walls of the stadium.
"Introducing tonight’s most anticipated fighter…!"
A dramatic pause.
"Grox! Grox! GROX!"
The crowd erupted.
A monstrous brute erged from his holding cage, his cybernetic fra gleaming under the spotlights.
Two ters tall.
Armor plating fused directly into his body, his Arms surgically replaced with massive blades.
He roared, raising his blade-arms in challenge.
The cheers intensified.
Then, the announcer spoke again.
"And now… the fool who will be slaughtered by Grox!
Heavy Hamr!"
....
The second gladiator entered.
Compared to Grox, he was pathetic.
One arm flesh. One arm crude cybernetics—a botched, haphazard augntation clearly done in a back-alley shop.
His body bore the telltale scars and cybernetics of desperation, a man who had sold himself to survive.
Klein muttered, his voice laced with disinterest.
"He’s a Deep Pit Slave."
"What’s a Deep Pit Slave?"
Grey frowned.
"Never heard of it."
Klein scoffed, leaning back.
"You haven’t heard the term—but you’ve seen them."
He gestured vaguely at the hive below.
"So guilds manipulate people into debt.
The debt is impossible to pay.
And when they can’t… the guild ‘generously’ offers a solution.
They get ‘enhanced’ for factory work. Cybernetic labor slaves."
Grey grimaced.
"And so escape, becoming gladiators.
Until they die."
....
Grot remained silent.
The arena felt distant, the gladiator’s face obscured by the harsh glare of the lights.
But his build… his posture…
Sothing felt familiar.
A slow, twisting unease settled in Grot’s gut, crawling up his spine like ice-cold steel.
His hands tightened into fists.
And for the first ti that night—
He wasn’t enjoying himself anymore.
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