The Zealot hurtles through the silent blackness of space, an ancient titan with a gut full of cold metal and fiery engines, its bulk dwarfing the star systems it passes. Aquilae Praenuntia, the planet starts off as just a little dot in the distance. But as they get closer, it grows bigger and bigger, turning into this huge mix of movement, life, and industrial mess.


    It’s like the planet’s always hungry, never stopping. You can almost feel it shaking, like it’s alive, with thousands of machines running all day, all night, never resting. The air’s thick and yellow, like a fog that covers everything. You can see lights all over—way too many lights—flickering across the land. It’s like the planet’s covered in colonies, each one packed with people trying to build something. It’s just too crowded, a mess of factories and way too many people all crammed together.


    When the Zealot starts to land, the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Space is silent, and so is the planet below. The cities spread out like a disease. Their concrete buildings rise up like sharp teeth. The towers are tall and crazy looking. Some of them disappear into the thick yellow clouds. If you could hear it, the air would be full of machines and engines and people shouting. But it’s all just quiet. The only sound is the ship creaking as it moves through the atmosphere.


    The manufactorums stretch endlessly, vast and sprawling, a continent of rust and decay. They stand shrouded in a heavy veil of ash, the lingering residue of a thousand forges laboring in relentless unison. From their darkened bowels flows an endless tide of weaponry, armor, and machinery, crafted with a singular purpose to feed the insatiable maw of war. Even from the edge of the atmosphere, the air is thick with the acrid bite of metal, the pungent scent of sweat and oil mingling with something darker. There is a taste to it—a cold, metallic tang that clings to the air like the promise of death itself.


    And then, beneath it all, beneath the suffocating grey sky and the choking smog, are the people. Huddled masses who have long ago lost the ability to distinguish sky from smoke. They move like ants, scurrying through the streets, their eyes vacant, their bodies bent under the weight of whatever task they''ve been assigned today, or tomorrow, or the day after. It doesn’t matter. They will die here, their bones buried in the cracked concrete, just another soul to be consumed by the machine that keeps spinning.


    The planetside cities spill across the land like overripe fruit, sprawling without thought for geography or nature. You can see the outlines of what once might have been forests, deserts, or plains, but now they are overrun with the structures of man. Towering citadels of steel and concrete rise, their outer walls streaked with soot and grime, windows half-broken, doors long lost to time and rot. Some of the buildings still hum with life; others, abandoned for decades, sag beneath their own weight, hollowed-out husks of their former selves. The streets below are alive with the slow crawl of foot traffic—people carrying goods or hustling between makeshift stalls, all desperate for whatever scraps of food or water they can scrounge.


    But there’s no time to think about the madness below. The ship is coming closer, and with it, the inevitable—the mission. What will remain of this planet after Task Force X has had its say? What will remain when the Rotten King’s cult finally falls, their twisted reign brought to its knees?


    And as the Zealot breaks through the final layer of atmosphere, the vision of Aquilae Praenuntia’s broken beauty settles over. It is a world of war, of industry, of unrelenting chaos. And it is a world that, for better or worse, has never known peace.


    Aquilae Praenuntia awaits, as the ship’s engines roar one final time and the planet’s surface looms ever closer.


    The Zealot’s Medicus Station smells like antiseptic, but it doesn’t hide the stink of blood and burned flesh. The lights flicker. The floor is steel and stained. People come here broken and leave worse.


    Steel cabinets line the walls, full of sharp things. Bone saws. Clamps. Tools that cut and stitch and burn. Machines hum. Mechanical arms twitch like they’re waiting.


    Three beds sit in the middle, bolted down. Bok, Prisoner 24601, takes up two. Even then, his legs hang off the edge. His chest rises slowly and steadily. His face is carved from stone. Yosuhaku Kira, Prisoner 17703, lounges on his cot like he owns the place. One arm behind his head. A smirk that never quite fades. His eyes flick over the medical tools like he’s seen worse. Probably has. Elyon, Prisoner 666, sits straight as a spear. Her fingers twitch, like she’s writing invisible words on her skin. Her red eyes scan the room. Her lips move like she’s whispering to something only she can hear.


    The Medicae walk in. White coats. Hollow eyes. Boots clicking on steel. They don’t talk. They don’t need to. Each holds a syringe gun filled with something thick and glowing.


    They press it to the prisoners’ necks. No warning. A hiss. A burn. It’s done.


    Yosuhaku winces but doesn’t flinch. His smirk slips for a second before snapping back. “Well, that’s new. Do I at least get a safe word?”


    The Medicae ignore him. Move to the next.


    Bok exhales through his nose. No words. Just waiting.


    Elyon’s lips curl. A whisper slips past them, too soft to catch. Then she tenses. Magic recoils in her blood. She clenches her fists. Stays silent.


    The lead Medicae speaks. His voice is flat. Empty.


    “Microbombs are active. Betrayal, refusal, desertion—instant cranial detonation.” He’s said it before. He’ll say it again. “You are now property of the Great Mother Wolf.”


    Another hiss. The Medicae step back. Their work is done. The prisoners sit in silence. One wrong move, one bad thought, and their heads turn to mist.


    Yosuhaku rolls his shoulders. Shoots Nocturiana a smirk. “Kinky.”


    Nocturiana glares. “Say that again and I’ll test if it works myself.”


    The Star Pod hangs in front of them like a steel coffin. The metal shines under the flickering lights. Big chains hold it up over the launch rails. The armor is covered in dents and burns from past drops. The air smells like hot metal and burning ozone. The scent of thrusters ready to fire fills the bay. Red lights flash in slow pulses, making shadows stretch across the walls. Nocturiana and the convicts walk forward.


    Nocturiana leads. Her coat snaps against her legs. The weight of duty sits heavy on her shoulders. Behind her, the prisoners march under guard. The Arbites Custodes grip their weapons tightly. Their fingers twitch over the triggers, like they expect these "elite operatives" to turn on them at any second.


    Yosuhaku Kira walks like he owns the place. His sharp grin never fades. His movements are smooth, lazy. Like a predator that knows it won’t be stopped. He looks up at the pod and whistles. “You know I like my rides a little more... spacious.”


    Nocturiana ignores him.


    Elyon moves in silence. Her red eyes scan everything. She runs through spells in her head, even though she knows the restraints in her blood make them useless. She barely looks at the guards. She watches the pod instead. Looking for weaknesses. Looking for a way out.


    Bok walks behind them. His huge body throws long shadows against the walls. His breaths are slow and deep. He has seen war. He has seen worse. A metal can dropping into a battlefield is just another day for him.


    The launch crew moves fast, sealing the clamps, checking the systems. A tech-priest, more machine than man, mutters strange prayers. His metal arms click and scrape against the pod, locking pipes, fixing stabilizers, making sure the machine-gods are happy.


    The prisoners step inside first. The air feels heavy. The walls are gray steel, the seats built for pain, not comfort. The restraints are thick. Bok’s seat isn’t even a real chair. Just a reinforced slab, built to hold his weight. He sits down with a grunt. The metal groans.


    Yosuhaku twirls his restraints around his fingers before strapping in. He winks at Nocturiana. “If this is my last ride, I expect at least a drink first.”


    Nocturiana pulls his restraints tight. Hard.


    Elyon’s fingers twitch. The moment she’s locked in, she exhales. Forces herself to be still. She knows struggling won’t help.


    Nocturiana takes the last seat. She locks her gauntlets into the controls. Her visor flickers to life. The countdown starts.


    The hatch slams shut with a loud clang. The world goes dark. The only light is the red glow from the launch console.


    A cold, flat voice crackles over the intercom. "Orbital insertion in T-minus sixty seconds. Brace for atmospheric entry."


    The pod shakes. The clamps release with a sharp hiss.


    In that moment, they all knew. There is no turning back.


    The Star Pod trembles as the clamps fully disengage, sending a deep groan through the hull. The lights flicker, bathing the cramped interior in erratic pulses of red. Outside, the infinite void of space yawns open, a hungry abyss waiting to swallow them whole.


    Yosuhaku, strapped into his seat with infuriating ease, tilts his head toward Nocturiana, his fanged smirk barely illuminated by the emergency glow. His eyes trace the curve of her gloved fingers as they hover over the control panel.


    “You know, Luna,” he purrs, voice laced with that usual mocking charm, “I’d kill for a woman with hands like yours. Slender, strong... I bet they’d feel divine wrapped around my throat.”


    The tension crystallizes in an instant. Even over the roar of the pod’s thrusters warming up, his words slither through the air like a slow-drawn blade.


    Elyon, seated beside him, rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t leave her skull. She doesn’t even bother looking at him before muttering, voice flat with disgust:


    “Will you shut up, man?”


    A beat of silence.


    Then Bok, looming in his custom-rigged slab of metal at the back, exhales a long, slow sigh. “For once, I agree with the witch.”


    Yosuhaku grins wider, unrepentant. “Hey, can’t blame a man for appreciating fine craftsmanship.”


    Nocturiana’s fingers tighten over the launch trigger. If orbital drop didn’t require both hands, she might have shot him already.


    FWOMP!!!


    The clamps release.


    For half a second, the Star Pod hangs in the abyss, weightless, like a corpse waiting to fall into its grave. Then the thrusters cut loose, a violent roar filling the cabin as the ship kicks them downward into the black void below.


    Gravity slams into them like a hammer. Elyon’s hands clench the armrests, her fangs grit against the force pressing her back. Yosuhaku laughs, because of course he does, the sound sharp and edged with exhilaration. Nocturiana barely flinches, her eyes locked on the flickering holomap display, tracking their descent with cold precision.


    Outside, the stars blur into streaks of white fire as the pod tears through the atmosphere. The metal shell shrieks under the pressure, the walls trembling as friction sets the hull alight, turning them into a burning spear plummeting toward Aquilae Praenuntia.


    Inside, heat rises. A klaxon wails, warning them of turbulence. Nocturiana barks over the noise:


    “Brace for impact!”


    The Star Pod rips through cloud cover, and for the first time, the planet below is visible—a sprawl of blackened steel, neon veins cutting through endless, teeming streets, the Capitolium stretching beyond the horizon.


    Then comes the real drop.


    The thrusters sputter, redirecting just in time to stop them from punching a crater into the ground. Instead, they slam down hard into the outskirts of the city, shaking the pod like a dying beast. Metal groans. Restraints dig into their bodies. Then, stillness—a breathless, eerie silence.


    The hatch blasts open, releasing them into the cold, polluted air of Capitolium’s industrial outskirts. Smoke curls from the pod’s hull, its landing thrusters hissing as they cool. The city looms ahead—a monstrous labyrinth of machinery and filth, gothic towers wrapped in cables and soot.


    Nocturiana unbuckles first, stepping out onto the hard metal ground. She doesn’t need to turn to know the others are following.


    They’ve arrived.


    The air outside is thick. It stinks like engine smoke, burning fuel, and something rotten. Like old meat left under a hot lamp. The whole city hums under their feet. A deep, heavy sound that never stops.


    Nocturiana steps out first. Her boots hit metal. Her eyes sweep the area. The city looms ahead—rusty pipes, flickering neon signs, shadows twisting between the giant buildings. No guards. Not yet.


    She looks back. “Grab your weapons.”


    Bok grunts and reaches behind his seat. He pulls out a stun baton. The tip crackles with blue sparks. But the real beast is the shield-saw… a brutal mix of defense and destruction. At first glance, it looks like a heavy, round shield—thick, reinforced, built to take a beating. But along the edges, jagged spinning blades roar to life, turning it into a weapon just as deadly as any sword. The metal teeth whir and grind, ready to shred anything that gets too close.


    The center of the shield is solid, a thick slab of ceramite and steel, designed to absorb impacts and block heavy strikes. The handle on the back is reinforced with shock dampeners, keeping the wielder’s arm from snapping under the force. A trigger near the grip activates the saw, sending a deep, hungry growl through the weapon as the edges blur into a whirlwind of steel.


    It can block. It can carve. It can maim. A weapon made for warriors who refuse to choose between defense and attack.


    Yosuhaku moves slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world. He picks up a knife—black, smooth, sharp. It shines like oil in the light. Then he reaches into a side compartment and pulls out a handful of coin-bombs. Small, thin, covered in strange markings. He flips one between his fingers, then tucks it into his coat.


    Elyon’s eyes glow faintly as she grabs her weapon. A battle-trident. Dark metal. Sharp edges. It almost looks alive, veins of energy pulsing under the surface. She spins it once. The air hisses as the blades cut through it.


    Yosuhaku smirks. “No guns?”


    Nocturiana doesn’t blink. “Do you really think I’d trust any of you with a gun?”


    Silence. Then Yosuhaku laughs. “Fair point.”


    Nocturiana steps forward. She doesn’t look back. “Move out. We have a mission to finish.”


    They fall in line behind her, disappearing into the neon-lit underbelly of Capitolium.


    Capitolium is packed. People everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Moving like a slow, tired wave. The air is gross. Hot. Sweaty. Oily. Something sharp and rotten mixed in. The whole place stinks like rust and old blood.


    Above them, huge factories spit black smoke into the sky. The buildings are so tall they lean over the streets, like they’re watching. Holo-signs flicker on every wall. Some work. Some don’t. Ads flash in a bunch of weird old languages. Vendors push food at people. Gray protein bars. Recycled paste. Stuff nobody wants, but everyone eats. In the alleys, shady figures trade glowing vials, whispering real quietly.


    Elyon sniffs the air. Her nose twitches. “Do you smell that?”


    Yosuhaku scrunches his face. “Yeah. Smells like shit.”


    Elyon ignores him. Her eyes get REAL sharp, pupils big. She looks at Nocturiana. “Do people practice magic here?”


    Nocturiana keeps walking. Her boots clank against the metal grates. “Magic is banned. Everywhere.”


    Elyon smirks. She taps her battle-trident with her fingers. “Then we got a problem. There’s a cult nearby. I can feel it.”


    Nocturiana stops. Turns slowly. Stares. “Explain.”


    Elyon tilts her head. Like she’s listening to something nobody else can hear. “The air is thick with it. Blood magic. Forbidden stuff. Something bad is happening here.”


    Yosuhaku grins. Sharp teeth. Like he’s excited. “Well, that’s interesting.”


    Nocturiana clenches her jaw. This mission just got worse.


    The hospital sits at the end of the street. Big. Old. Forgotten. The walls are stained. The smell is bad. Thick. Heavy. Rotten.


    Nocturiana looks up at it. “You’ve got to be kidding.”


    Elyon shakes her head. Her fingers twitch. “No. It’s here. The smell is strong.”


    Yosuhaku flips a coin between his fingers. Grinning. “So, is this where I use my coin bombs? Just a couple. Maybe three.”


    Nocturiana stares at him. “No.”


    Bok crosses his arms. His shadow covers them all. “We should check inside first. Talk to the doctors.”


    Nocturiana nods. “Agreed. Let’s move.”


    Inside, it’s quiet. Too quiet. The air smells weird. Like medicine. Like blood. The lights flicker. Shadows stretch across the floor.


    Cots line the walls. Kids lie in them. Small. Sick. Wrapped in thin blankets. Some stare. Eyes empty. Some turn away. Whispering.


    The guy at the front desk stiffens when they walk in. His uniform is clean but worn. His eyes flick to their weapons. “You need to leave those here. No weapons in the ward.”


    Nocturiana steps closer. Her voice is low. Sharp. “We’re on Sacrament business. Move.”


    The guy hesitates. Swallows. Nods. He steps aside. Won’t look at her.


    Nocturiana walks past him. “Take us to the Head Director. Now.”


    The guy at the desk shifts. His hands fidget. “The Head Director isn’t here today,” he says. His voice is tight.


    Nocturiana narrows her eyes. Her voice turns sharp. “Then get me the Assistant Director.”


    The guy nods fast. Steps out from behind the desk. “This way.”


    They follow him. The halls are white. Clean. The smell of antiseptic burns the nose. It gets quieter the deeper they go. Too quiet. The sounds of sick kids fade away. The silence feels wrong.


    They pass nurses. Their faces are empty. Doctors too. Tired. Hollow. No one looks at them.


    The guy stops at a wooden door. The brass plaque is dull. Assistant Director Emil Varros. He knocks once. Looks at Nocturiana. Unsure.


    She shoves past him. Opens the door.


    Inside, Emil Varros sits at a messy desk. Papers stacked high. He is thin. Wiry. His mustache is neat. Deep lines cut his face. The office is dim. Curtains shut tight. One lamp glows. Shadows stretch across the bookshelves.


    Varros looks up. His eyes dart between them. “Can I help you?”


    Nocturiana steps closer. Towering over the desk. “That depends. We’re investigating a cult. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”


    Varros blinks. Scoffs. Shakes his head. “A cult? In a children’s hospital? That’s absurd.”


    Yosuhaku leans against the doorframe. Smirks. “You’d be surprised. Lots of desperate people in places like this. Easy prey for the wrong crowd.”


    Varros adjusts his collar. Looks uncomfortable. “This is a medical facility. Our only job is to take care of the patients. If you have real proof, go to the Adeptus Custodes. Otherwise, I need you to leave.”


    Elyon steps forward. Her stare doesn’t blink. “You smell like fear.”


    Varros freezes.


    Nocturiana leans in. Her voice drops low. “Now, why would that be, Assistant Director?”


    Varros straightens his back, attempting to regain some composure. “I have more pressing concerns than entertaining baseless accusations. If you’re done wasting my time, I must ask you to leave.”


    Nocturiana doesn’t move. Her golden eyes bore into him like twin suns, heatless and unrelenting. “If there’s nothing to hide, I assume you won’t mind us taking a look around.”


    Varros’s jaw tightens. “That… won’t be necessary.”


    Nocturiana slowly pulls out a small, metal badge from the folds of her coat and holds it up. The Sigil of Sanctum Militarum catches the dim light, its polished surface gleaming like a miniature sun. The room seems to shrink under its presence.


    “You recognize this, don’t you, Varros?” Her voice is cold, almost amused. “Or do you need a reminder of where your authority stands compared to mine?”


    Varros gulps. A bead of sweat trails down his temple. The air grows heavy, suffocating.


    “I… of course, Luna,” he stammers. “You’re welcome to look around.”


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Nocturiana smiles faintly, a wolf baring its teeth. “Good. Then let’s not waste any more time.”


    The team moves out of the office, filing into the dimly lit corridors of the hospital. The smell of antiseptic and something else—something stale, metallic, wrong—hangs thick in the air.


    Bok grunts, adjusting his shield-saw on his back.


    “We start with the lower wards,” he rumbles. “Check the patients, the staff.”


    Nocturiana nods. “Agreed. Eyes open. If there’s rot in this place, we burn it out.”


    The team splits into formation, their boots echoing softly against the pristine floors as they descend deeper into the heart of the hospital.


    The air inside the hospital hangs thick with antiseptic and something cloyingly sweet, like rotting fruit masked by perfume. Nocturiana leads the team through the pristine, white-tiled corridors, boots clicking in a rhythmic cadence. Patients in sickly green gowns watch from their beds, their sunken eyes tracking the strangers with wary curiosity.


    Then, Yosuhaku breaks formation.


    A nurse—tall, curvaceous, with deep red lips and a scandalous hint of cleavage peeking through her pristine uniform—passes by, and Yosuhaku is on her like a shadow. He sidles up beside her, flashing his signature, lopsided smirk.


    “Excuse me, miss,” he purrs, his voice a silk thread through steel. “Are you part of the treatment here? Because I’m suddenly feeling lightheaded.”


    The nurse blinks, confused, before she realizes she’s being flirted with. She gives a polite but uncertain smile, gripping the clipboard against her chest.


    “I—”


    “Yosuhaku.”


    Nocturiana’s voice slices through the air, cold and sharp as a knife against bone.


    Yosuhaku pauses mid-turn, lips still curled into his grin, but there’s a twitch in his jaw. He turns his head just enough to see her standing a few feet away, arms crossed, golden eyes locked onto him like a predator sizing up its prey.


    “Back in formation,” she orders, her tone flat, unforgiving.


    The nurse looks between them, the tension making her shift uneasily on her feet. Yosuhaku holds his gaze on Nocturiana for a beat longer, then sighs theatrically, giving the nurse a lazy two-fingered salute.


    “Another time, perhaps,” he says with a wink before sauntering back toward the group.


    As he falls in step beside Elyon, his smirk falters into a frown.


    “She’s really trying to kill the fun,” he mutters under his breath.


    Elyon snorts. “I’d rather she kill you.”


    Nocturiana says nothing, but the glare she throws his way promises he’s on thin ice.


    The team moves forward once more, deeper into the bowels of the hospital.


    They go down the stairs. No one talks. The only sound is their boots on metal.


    The lights flicker. Ugly yellow. Shadows stretch long across the walls.


    At the bottom, the air feels wrong. Too still.


    The basement is big. Empty. Just old junk lying around. A busted gurney. Some crates. A broken IV stand is leaning in the corner like it''s waiting for something. The floor is dusty. No footprints.


    Yosuhaku claps his hands. The sound echoes.


    “Well,” he says, looking around like he’s bored. “This is the saddest basement I’ve ever been thrown into. And trust me—I’ve been in a few.”


    Elyon ignores him. She takes a slow breath through her nose. Her fingers twitch.


    “The scent is strongest here,” she says. Her eyes narrow. “But I can’t find the source. It’s like it’s—” She turns. Frowns. “Hidden.”


    Bok steps forward. The floor creaks under his weight. He lifts a big hand. Knocks on the wall. Once. Twice.


    Nocturiana crosses her arms. “What are you doing?”


    Bok doesn’t answer. He keeps going. Knocking on different spots. His face gives nothing away.


    Then—hollow.


    He stops. Knocks again. Same hollow sound.


    Without a word, Bok pulls back his leg and kicks. Hard.


    CRACK.


    The wall breaks. Bricks fall in. A tunnel opens behind them. Dark. Deep. The air smells thick and sour.


    No one speaks.


    Nocturiana steps up and looks inside. Then glances at Bok.


    “Good work.”


    Bok grunts. Brushes the dust off his leg.


    Yosuhaku leans in and lets out a low whistle.


    “Secret tunnels under a children’s hospital,” he says, grinning. “Oh yeah. That’s not creepy at all.”


    Nocturiana grips her weapon.


    “Move in.”


    They step into the dark.


    The air grew colder as they pressed forward, their footsteps muffled by the damp stone beneath them. The walls of the tunnel narrowed, the flickering light from their torches casting jagged shadows that danced like specters along the curved ceiling.


    Then Elyon stopped.


    She took a sharp breath, her eyes locking onto the rough stone wall beside her.


    The number 666 was scrawled in thick, black ink.


    She traced her fingers over it, the dried substance flaking beneath her touch. Her eyes shifted, scanning the surrounding walls—more numbers, more calculations, all centered around the unholy trinity of digits.


    Equations spiraled outward in messy, feverish handwriting, some scratched so deeply into the stone it seemed the writer''s fingers must have bled. The markings twisted and looped in incomprehensible patterns, as though the mind that had written them was unraveling with every stroke.


    Elyon murmured under her breath, eyes narrowing.


    “This isn’t just scripture… It’s a formula,” she said. “But for what?”


    Bok stepped beside her, arms crossed. “Don’t like the look of this.”


    Nocturiana didn’t reply. Her focus was forward, down the long corridor ahead, where a faint, unnatural glow pulsed against the walls.


    Green fire.


    They moved cautiously, pressing into the shadows as they neared the chamber beyond.


    The space opened into a vast, vaulted hall, the ceiling vanishing into darkness above them. At the center of the chamber, a great emerald flame crackled within a sunken pit, casting an eerie, shifting glow across the figures kneeling before it.


    Hooded figures chanted in low, droning voices, their heads bowed, their bodies swaying in unison.


    But it was the man at the front who made Nocturiana’s blood run cold.


    The Head Director.


    He stood before the flame, arms raised, his eyes reflecting the sickly green light as though it had consumed him from the inside. His lips moved in silent prayer, his expression one of rapture.


    Yosuhaku exhaled sharply, his grin widening.


    “Well,” he whispered, tilting his head toward Nocturiana. “I think we found our heretics.”


    The cultist walks slowly. Carefully. Like he’s holding something holy. His arms are stretched out. A kid rests in them. Small. Weak.


    The fire crackles. Ugly green. Shadows crawl up the walls.


    The kid kicks. But not hard. Too tired. Too scared.


    Then a voice cuts through the air. Sharp.


    "Step away from the child."


    Nocturiana.


    She steps out of the dark. Her laser pistol is up. Steady. Her golden eyes glow in the firelight.


    The cultists hiss. Their chanting stops. They all snap toward her. Hungry.


    The kid twists. Slips free. Hits the ground hard.


    Then he runs.


    He bolts past Nocturiana. Gone into the dark.


    For a second, everything is still.


    Then the cultists lunge.


    Nocturiana shoots first.


    Red light burns through the dark. A cultist drops. Smoke rises from his chest.


    Chaos.


    Yosuhaku takes a step back. Then another. Then another.


    He turns.


    A massive hand grabs his collar.


    Bok yanks him back. Then throws him forward like a bag of trash.


    Yosuhaku hits the floor. Hard.


    "Traitor," Bok rumbles.


    Then he steps past and swings his shield-saw.


    It roars to life. Spinning blades tear into the nearest cultist. Flesh. Cloth. Bone.


    Elyon moves fast. Her battle-trident glows violet. It stabs deep into a hooded figure.


    The cultist gurgles. Then drops.


    Yosuhaku groans. He pushes himself up. Dusts off his coat like nothing happened.


    "You could''ve just asked me to fight, you know," he mutters.


    Bok cracks his knuckles. "Didn’t think you’d listen."


    Yosuhaku sighs. Then grins.


    A coin spins between his fingers.


    "Alright, fine. Let’s have some fun."


    He flicks the bomb into the fight.


    And the real battle begins.


    The chamber erupts into chaos.


    Nocturiana lunges first, her pistol flashing, each shot searing through the dark like a dying star. A cultist’s skull bursts in a fine mist of red, his body crumpling before his screams catch up with him. Another leaps at her with a wickedly curved dagger, but she sidesteps, fluid as a specter, her fist hammering into his throat. He chokes, staggers, and she finishes him with a shot between his eyes.


    To her left, Bok wades into the fray like a living avalanche. Cultists rush him, blades gleaming, but he swings his shield-saw in a wide, merciless arc. The whirring teeth scream as they bite into the first body, spraying a crimson arc across the stone. The second cultist tries to leap back, but Bok drives forward, slamming his shoulder into him with the force of a battering ram. The man collapses, wheezing, ribs caved in—before Bok crushes his skull under his boot.


    Across the chamber, Elyon moves like a phantom, her trident a blur of silver and violet. A cultist lunges at her, chanting something in an ancient tongue—but she dances away, effortlessly, twirling with unnatural grace. Her free hand snaps up, and the air around her hums with unseen energy.


    A heartbeat later, chains of shadow burst from the ground, wrapping around the cultist’s limbs, rooting him in place. Elyon doesn’t hesitate. She thrusts her trident forward, piercing clean through his chest, lifting him off the ground like a macabre banner. The cultist gurgles, twitches, then goes limp, sliding off the gleaming metal.


    Yosuhaku?


    Yosuhaku slips between the fray, untouched, unseen. He weaves through the combat, a grin carved into his face, his coin-bombs flicking between his fingers like a gambler playing a rigged game.


    A cultist charges him, dagger poised—but Yosuhaku is faster.


    He steps inside the attack, his movements effortless, graceful. A knife flashes in his hand—a quick flick of his wrist, and the cultist stumbles back, clutching his throat, gurgling on his own blood.


    “Too slow,” Yosuhaku purrs, and he slips another coin-bomb into the man’s belt before shoving him into a cluster of robed figures.


    A second later—boom.


    Flames roar, engulfing the cultists in a hungry explosion. Yosuhaku laughs, twirling his knife.


    “Oops.”


    Nocturiana sees the fire flicker in his eyes, the gleam of something cruel and delighted. She doesn’t have time to chastise him. Another cultist rushes her, howling, his mouth splitting wider than humanly possible, jagged teeth gleaming in the green firelight.


    Nocturiana doesn’t flinch.


    She drops low, spins, and sweeps his legs out from under him. As he falls, she rams her boot into his face, crushing his jaw with a sickening crunch.


    Bok, standing amidst a pile of broken bodies, growls. “This all of them?”


    “No.” Elyon’s eyes glow faintly. She looks past the carnage, toward the pulsing green flames.


    The Head Director still stands.


    He has not moved. He watches them, lips curled into a knowing smile.


    Something shifts in the fire.


    Something rises.


    The battle isn’t over.


    The Head Director stands at the edge of the fire. His arms are up. Like he’s waiting for a hug.


    The green flames flicker. Pulse. They look hungry.


    A nasty wind rushes through the chamber. The dead cultists twitch. Like the fire won’t let them go.


    Then he steps forward.


    The second his foot touches the fire, his robes go up like dry paper.


    The flames crawl fast. Cloth. Skin. Muscle.


    He screams. But not like he''s scared.


    Like he likes it.


    The air goes thick. Heavy. Rotten.


    Elyon gags. She stumbles back, covering her mouth.


    Yosuhaku curses. He pulls his coat up over his nose.


    The Director’s skin melts off in big, bubbling chunks.


    His arms stretch. His fingers twist. They clump together into nasty, clawed stumps.


    His back bulges. His spine cracks.


    Maggots spill from his wounds. They wiggle across his slimy, pulsing skin.


    Then a sound rips through the chamber.


    A deep, gurgling howl. Like something drowning. But laughing.


    The thing in the fire is not a man anymore.


    It towers over them. Its flesh drips off in thick, wet ribbons.


    A giant horn sticks out of the side of its melting skull.


    Its belly sags open. But the guts don’t fall out. They squirm. They crawl.


    Bok grips his shield-saw. His jaw tightens.


    "I fought one of these before," he says. Like it’s no big deal.


    Yosuhaku stares at him.


    "Oh, good," he says. "Then you can tell us how to kill it."


    The creature roars. A deep, sick noise. The air shakes.


    The ground rumbles as it steps forward. Green fire still burns in its hollow eyes.


    Nocturiana raises her pistol.


    "We don’t let it leave this chamber."


    Then it charges.


    The beast lunges, its bloated mass moving with unnatural speed. The ground shudders beneath its bulk, and the air thickens with the reek of rot and burning filth. Nocturiana barely has time to roll aside before a massive, clawed fist slams down where she stood, cracking stone, sending dust and bone chips flying.


    Bok meets the charge, shield-saw roaring to life. He plants his feet, braces—then the impact comes like a wrecking ball. The force sends him skidding backward, boots digging trenches in the grime-covered floor. He grits his teeth, muscles straining against the sheer weight of the demon’s grotesque strength. Pus and black ichor spray from the creature’s wounds where Bok’s blade bites in, but the monster only laughs—a wet, phlegm-filled cackle.


    Yosuhaku moves like a shadow, darting behind the beast, flicking his wrist. A coin-sized bomb arcs through the air, lands in a gaping sore on the demon’s back—boom! Flesh bursts, spraying the walls in clotted gore.


    The monster doesn’t flinch.


    Instead, it lashes out with a meaty, rotting fist, catches Yosuhaku mid-step. He’s flung across the chamber, slamming into a stack of rusted surgical trays. Metal and bone clatter to the floor as he groans, winded.


    Elyon hisses a curse, hands weaving in intricate gestures. Dark mist coils around her fingertips, crackling with barely-contained power. She slams her hands together—lightning erupts, arcing toward the demon’s exposed gut wound.


    The spell strikes true. The stench of seared rot fills the air. The demon staggers, its laughter cut short as electricity dances across its ruptured flesh.


    Then, it turns its burning gaze on her.


    Elyon barely has time to throw up a warding sigil before the demon vomits forth a tide of bile. The acidic sludge splashes across the chamber, melting stone, eating through metal like wax. Elyon screams as droplets sizzle against her arm, burning through fabric, scorching skin.


    Bok roars and charges again, slamming his shield into the beast’s side, forcing it back a step. One step. That’s all he gets before the demon’s fist slams into his ribs, lifting the massive warrior off the ground and sending him crashing into a support pillar. Stone cracks, dust rains from above. Bok groans, but forces himself up, wiping blood from his mouth.


    Nocturiana fires again and again, her laser pistol searing black holes into the demon’s hide. It barely notices. She curses under her breath—this thing isn’t slowing down.


    The demon snarls, turns to her. The green fire in its sockets flares.


    Then it moves.


    Nocturiana doesn’t have time to dodge.


    The massive, clawed hand slams into her chest, lifting her off her feet, crushing air from her lungs. She gasps, struggles, but the grip is unrelenting.


    "Weak," the demon gurgles, its voice thick with decay. "Like all your kind. Flesh, bone—temporary. I am everlasting."


    It tightens its grip.


    Nocturiana feels her ribs crack.


    Pain lances through her body.


    Her vision darkens.


    The others are down. The beast is winning.


    Not like this.


    With the last of her strength, she raises her pistol. Presses the barrel directly against the demon’s eye socket.


    And fires.


    The shot sears through the demon’s eye socket, sending a spray of boiling black ichor into the air. The beast howls—a soul-rending wail of agony that shakes the walls, the green fire in its remaining eye flickering wildly. It stumbles, clawing at its face, its massive bulk swaying as it struggles to process its own pain.


    Nocturiana lands hard, rolling as the demon loosens its grip, gasping for air as her ribs scream in protest. But there’s no time to feel pain.


    “Hit it!” she snarls.


    Bok surges forward, ramming his shield-saw into the demon’s gut. The whirring teeth of the saw chew through necrotic flesh, splitting rotten muscle and festering organs. The demon lurches, off-balance, its talons swiping wildly at the air, but it can’t see.


    Yosuhaku moves like a whisper of death, slipping behind the thrashing beast. He pulls a coin bomb, flicks it into the open cavity of its torn side, and steps back just in time for the detonation. The explosion sends the demon reeling, a chunk of its torso now missing, rancid viscera splattering the stone floor.


    Elyon grins through bloodied lips, her hands weaving arcane sigils. A surge of shadowy force slams into the demon’s back, sending it crashing forward, its bulk hitting the ground hard.


    The team doesn’t hesitate.


    Bok charges in first, his massive boot slamming into the demon’s back.


    “Stay down, filth!” he growls, delivering another bone-crunching stomp.


    Yosuhaku follows suit, grinning wickedly as he drives his heel into the demon’s jaw.


    “Not so high and mighty now, are you?” he taunts, delivering another kick that snaps the creature’s head to the side.


    Elyon’s trident comes down hard, impaling through one of its hands, pinning it to the ground.


    “This is what happens to the weak,” she sneers, twisting the weapon until the bones snap.


    The demon writhes, screeching, but it is losing.


    Bok lifts his stun baton, its metal prongs crackling with stored energy. He crouches over the demon’s face, pressing the baton directly into its gaping, ruined eye socket.


    He smirks. “Let’s see if you can laugh this one off.”


    And then he turns it on.


    The surge of raw electricity rips through the demon’s skull, coursing through its decaying body. Its muscles seize, its mouth opens in a silent scream, and the sickly green flames in its wounds begin to burn inward, collapsing, imploding into itself.


    Its flesh shrivels, melts, its bones blacken and splinter. The body twitches violently, spasms one last time—


    Then explodes from the inside, leaving behind nothing but charred remains and foul-smelling ash.


    The room falls silent, save for the team’s ragged breaths.


    Bok spits to the side, flicking demon gore from his shield-saw.


    “Told you. Fought one of these things before.”


    Outside the hospital, the streets are flooded with the gleaming blue armor of the Adeptus Custodes. They stand in rigid formation, their presence imposing, each warrior a towering colossus of ceramite and divine authority. Their visors reflect the gloomy neon haze of Capitolium’s skyline, red-lit slits staring with unreadable judgment. The air hums with the distant thrum of drop-ships hovering above, their searchlights sweeping across the cracked pavement.


    The Assistant Director, his once-pristine robes soiled with sweat, is dragged out in shackles, his face pale, his lips muttering frantic prayers that the Emperor might forgive him. The Custodes do not answer. His pleas dissolve into a strangled gasp as he’s thrown into a waiting transport.


    All around him, doctors and nurses are being rounded up—some wailing, others stoic, their faces drained of hope. The Custodes offer no explanations, no mercy, only iron-bound decree.


    From the hospital doors, a squad of Medicae personnel emerges, struggling under the weight of a massive stretcher. The remains of the demon lie within—a charred husk, its form barely recognizable as once-human. The smell is unholy, an acrid mix of burnt flesh and corruption, making even the most hardened warriors grimace beneath their helmets.


    A few meters away, Nocturiana sits on the open ledge of an ambulance, her posture relaxed, though her fingers drum against a steaming cup of coffee. The bitter aroma cuts through the stench of death, a rare moment of normalcy amid the chaos. The black liquid ripples slightly as she lifts it to her lips, taking a slow, measured sip.


    Behind her, the rest of the team is patched up by the Medicae. Bok, his massive frame draped in bandages, winces as a needle stitches a wound on his arm. Yosuhaku, his usual smirk dulled by exhaustion, leans back as a Medicae seals a gash on his forehead. Elyon, silent, watches as her own injuries are tended to, her eyes still flicking back to the hospital, as if expecting something else to crawl from its depths.


    The city around them continues as it always has—the people of Capitolium pay no heed to the battle fought within their midst. Neon billboards flicker, traffic drones on, the weight of their sins lost in the ever-churning machine of the hive-world.


    Nocturiana exhales, watching the steam rise from her cup. She knows this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.