Underhive—Fortress Command Center
"We'll deal with the future when it comes," Qin Mo said, his voice measured. "Right now, we need to deploy forces and secure the Lower Hive."
Gray gave a curt nod before turning on his heel, already moving to relay the orders.
Klein remained behind, his role as a strategic advisor keeping him at Qin Mo's side. The hololithic map before them flickered with tactical overlays, projecting the shifting tides of conflict across Tyrone's war-torn districts. The lower hive was a wretched labyrinth of rusted manufactorums and crumbling hab-blocks—now a battlefield in the making.
After a moment of contemplative silence, Qin Mo asked, "Given your understanding of the nobility, do you think all of them have embraced this so-called Order of the Omniscient Mind?"
Klein furrowed his brow, rifling through years of experience with the Imperium's so-called upper class.
"Hard to say," he admitted at last. "Nobles believe in all sorts of groxshit. I once heard about a group convinced that drowning themselves in excess could reverse aging. And the worst part?" He exhaled sharply. "I later found out it actually worked."
Qin Mo's expression remained unreadable as Klein continued, his tone darkening.
"Heretics come in every flavor imaginable. If there were more than three habitable planets in the Talon system, I guarantee we'd be drowning in them."
The words carried a bitterness that ran deeper than mere frustration.
Once, Klein had dreamed of peace. Of leaving behind the endless, grinding cycle of war. He had harbored fantasies of trade, of travel—of seeing the galaxy beyond the ruins of warzones and hive gutters. He had simply wanted to travel, to see the galaxy.
But such dreams had long since withered.
Even if Qin Mo led them to victory once more, Talon's worlds would remain scarred, its Hive cities reduced to little more than irradiated husks and crumbling slums.
"This system is a wretched cesspit," Qin Mo muttered. "Like most of the Imperium."
Klein didn't reply. He didn't have to.
"But we keep struggling forward."
Qin Mo stood, placing a hand on Klein's shoulder.
"Do what you must. I have work to do."
"Understood."
Klein saluted, then turned and strode out of the command chamber, his footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridors beyond.
Qin Mo exhaled slowly before returning to his research station. A dozen screens flickered to life as he resumed his work—each one dedicated to a different project, each demanding his attention.
Shipboard weaponry.
Structural alloys.
For a Star God, none of this was difficult. He did not require endless shipments of different mined ores; he would forge an adaptive alloy from the elements directly, combining the strengths of multiple elements into a single alloy—an ultimate fusion of resilience and versatility.
The idea had taken root while constructing the shipyard hull. His understanding of metallurgy had evolved beyond mortal limitations—he could now restructure metals at the atomic level—a form of absolute alchemy.
Not true creation, of course. Even he required raw materials.
But once perfected, this alloy would require fabrication devices to properly mass-produce—machines capable of churning out war materiel for both automated forges and manual workshops.
Although machines were infinitely superior to humans, the hive population was vast. The unaugmented masses needed something to do—if only to justify their continued existence.
His research extended beyond mere alloys and ships.
Gray and his elite troops required enhancements.
Thunderborn-pattern power armor needed further refinement.
And then, there was the matter of Exterminatus-class weaponry.
The Heretics would unleash something catastrophic before this war ended. Qin Mo knew it. And when they did, he needed countermeasures ready—just as he had devised the "pesticide" bioweapon to eradicate Tyrone's Genestealer infestation.
Though Qin Mo loved research, he often felt spread too thin.
There was too much to do.
Too many fronts.
Yet, he had no intention of establishing a research division.
Innovation was a weapon. One that he alone would wield.
Aside from himself and a select few Blanks, no one in the Talon system would be permitted to innovate.
....
Upper Hive—Governor's Manor
The Governor's throne was a grandiose relic of polished adamantium, inlaid with gold filigree and draped in rich crimson cloth.
Venomsting lounged atop it, one leg lazily thrown over the armrest. His feet rested upon the bare back of a kneeling slave girl, her form trembling under his weight.
In one hand, he swirled a golden goblet of aged amasec.
In the other, a bottle of the same vintage.
The former Governor had possessed a truly exquisite wine cellar.
Even as he received ill tidings, Venomsting remained at ease.
"The ritual failed," his attendant reported, kneeling. His voice was steady, though a tremor lurked beneath the surface. "Not one survivor returned from the Lower Hive.
Forgive me, my lord. This must be my failure. I must have displeased the Omniscient One."
Venomsting took a slow sip of his wine before responding.
"No," he said, voice soft. "The failure is mine."
His attendant froze.
This was… unexpected.
Venomsting never accepted blame. Ever.
And yet, today, he did so without hesitation.
There was no further explanation. Instead, Venomsting upturned his goblet, allowing the dark liquid to spill onto the polished marble floor.
Then, without warning, he kicked the slave girl, sending her sprawling into the mess of spilled amasec.
She gasped, scrambling back to her knees, eyes wide with fear and confusion.
She did not know why he had struck her.
Neither did Venomsting.
He simply felt like it.
A slow smile curled across his lips.
"No one speaks.
Or I rip out your throats."
Venomsting adjusted his posture, folding his legs beneath him. Then, he closed his eyes, beginning his insight ritual.
This was not a gift from the Omniscient One.
This was his power.
It was a power he was born with—one that had grown stronger after his conversion to the Omniscient One.
His attendant hesitated before whispering, "What do you seek, my lord?"
Venomsting's eyes snapped open.
His hand shot forward—stopping just shy of his attendant.
He had forgotten.
The man's throat had long since been removed.
For a moment, he considered killing him outright for the audacity of interruption him.
But he relented.
Instead, he closed his eyes once more, diving deeper into his vision.
"I am searching," he murmured. "For the origin of their teleportation technology. For the principles behind it. And why our ritual had no effect."
His attendant nodded and waited in silence.
Venomsting's vision shifted.
The Governor's manor faded.
A new sight emerged—the fortress deep within the Underhive.
He waited.
By past experience, his vision would soon penetrate its walls, revealing its secrets.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Half an hour.
And nothing.
Instead—
The fortress was fading, growing darker and more indistinct.
Then, something stepped forward.
A mass of nothingness.
Not transparent.
Not shadowed.
Not anything.
It had no color.
It defied form, logic, reality itself.
Venomsting could not describe it—only that it was utterly blank.
Then, the void expanded, devouring his vision.
His mind screamed.
Blood filled his nose and throat, his body convulsing violently.
He had reached his limit.
And yet—he saw nothing.
A moment later, his panicked attendant was upon him, slamming him onto the floor, slapping his face until the unnatural glow in his eyes receded.
When he finally stilled, the attendant whispered, "Your insight… did it fail?"
Venomsting gasped for air.
"No.
This was not failure.
I simply… could not see."
A heavy silence hung between them.
Then, at last, Venomsting's lips curled into a vicious grin.
"It doesn't matter,
I will make them pay.
I will burn the one who created this technology.
And I will offer him to the Omniscient One."