Tyrone Upper Hive
A vast crowd had gathered in the plaza, nearly four thousand strong. These were not common laborers or factory dregs but the privileged merchants and nobles of the upper hive—figures of wealth and influence, now stripped of both.
Fear gripped them. Their whispered conversations—pleas for guidance, desperate reassurances—faded into hushed murmurs as they clung to family and friends.
Then, Venomsting appeared.
The moment his figure emerged, clad in battle-worn carapace armor, the crowd fell silent. Thousands of eyes locked onto him as if he alone could guide them from the abyss.
He let the silence linger, let the weight of expectation settle upon them before speaking.
"As you all know," Venomsting began, his voice measured but laced with grim acceptance, "the First Legion has turned traitor."
Gasps rippled through the gathering. Some had already heard rumors, but hearing it confirmed from his lips made it real.
"These heretics are formidable," Venomsting continued, "and in open battle, we stand little chance. However—" his voice sharpened, carrying across the square like the bark of a commissar—"I swear to you that my forces will stop at nothing to ensure your safe evacuation to Talon II."
He turned slightly, glancing at his attendant.
The attendant, a thin man with hawkish eyes, narrowed his gaze and nodded. His lips curled in a thin, reassuring smile. "The transports are ready."
Venomsting exhaled through his nose and turned back to the crowd. "You heard him! MOVE! Get to the transports now!"
He clapped his hands sharply. "Do not waste time! You are the first wave of evacuees—there are many more who must follow! The faster you move, the more lives we can save!"
His attendant pivoted, gesturing toward the far end of the plaza. "This way!"
No one hesitated. Families clung together, rushing forward. Some even knelt as they passed Venomsting, whispering hurried prayers of gratitude, as if he were the Emperor's chosen agent in their darkest hour.
To them, he was a savior. He and his soldiers from Talon II were doing everything they could to evacuate civilians—far more than theGovernor, who had vanished without a trace.
They did not know the truth.
They did not realize their salvation was a lie.
....
The Landing Zone
The evacuees were led down a wide avenue, past the towering hab-blocks of the upper hive, emerging into a massive open-air landing zone.
Rows of heavy transports—blocky, utilitarian ships with scorched hulls and open boarding ramps—stood waiting. A flotilla meant to carry them to salvation.
No one questioned why the ships remained powered down. No one asked why their engines remained cold.
The situation was too dire for such concerns.
One after another, the civilians flooded into the transports. When each vessel reached capacity, its ramp groaned shut, sealing them inside.
....
Inside the first transport, an elderly noble found himself shoved toward the cockpit area. Wrinkling his nose at the stench of sweat and fear, he muttered under his breath:
"That Emperor-damned bastard Klein wasted his trip back here. The least he could've done was warn us about the First Legion's betrayal!"
Someone else grumbled. "Bloody hell, why haven't these transports taken off yet?"
No answer came.
Instead, outside, Venomsting strode to the center of the landing zone, now clad in different attire—robes embroidered with glyphs that twisted the air around them, their sigils pulsing with an unnatural glow.
In his grasp, he held a staff of darkened adamantine, its head adorned with a shimmering Tzeentchian eye, watching, unblinking.
His lips moved.
A whispered incantation, spoken in a language not meant for mortal tongues.
A blue mist—thick, unnatural, tinged with the scent of ozone and warp-fire—began to spread.
Venomsting raised his staff—
And slammed it against the ground.
A sharp clang rang out—
And the ships changed.
The cold steel of their hulls twisted, shifting from plasteel and adamantium to something… else. Something alien. Something eternal.
The transports, once their promised salvation, became cages of unyielding ceramite.
The first screams erupted from inside.
Flames—warp-born and unnatural—ignited beneath the landing zone, bathing the ground in eerie blue fire.
Venomsting turned away, his attendant falling into step beside him.
The man's voice was hushed, almost wary. "Is this truly necessary for the vanguard?"
Venomsting smiled faintly.
"Our enemy is not ordinary," he murmured. "I intend to leave behind… cattle."
He gestured toward the trapped civilians. "They will still have a purpose. They will be thrown into the next war."
The attendant hesitated. "This ritual—what exactly does it do?"
Venomsting's eyes gleamed. "It will disrupt their teleportation technology."
"But, my lord—"
Venomsting raised a hand, silencing him with a look of indulgent patience.
"Knowledge and wisdom," he said softly, "are our greatest weapons."
The attendant inclined his head. "...As you say, my lord."
Venomsting chuckled. "Of course I'm right. You still have much to learn, old man."
....
Underhive—Fortress
Qin Mo sat motionless within the depths of the hive-fortress, his hands pressed firmly against the teleportation matrix.
Energy surged through him, drawn from the very matter of the hive, converted into raw dimensional force.
This was mass teleportation.
Every cycle displaced hundreds of thousands of First Legion warriors—a process that drained the system entirely, only to have it replenished in the next instant.
The strain was immense.
Teleportation coordinates shifted constantly, each jump demanding meticulous recalibration. The enemy's movements were erratic, their resistance greater than anticipated—
But Qin Mo endured.
He had to.
....
Then—without warning—
The energy flow halted.
The teleportation device, instead of depleting, began to overload—
A deep, ominous hum filled the chamber. Blue-white lightnings snaked across its surface, erratic, volatile.
If even one discharge struck the chamber's walls—the entire fortress would be vaporized.
Qin Mo swiftly redirected the excess energy, stabilizing the system before disaster struck.
What in the warp is this?
"Was our army wiped out?" he muttered, reaching for his vox unit.
Before he could activate it—
The door burst open.
Klein strode in, his expression urgent, his movements tense.
"The army has temporarily halted its assault," he reported. "Something strange is happening in the Lower Hive."
Klein relayed everything he had gathered.
As Qin Mo listened, he finally understood the cause of the disturbance.
The interference was warp-based—a crude but effective anti-teleportation field.
Its presence was saturating the Lower Hive akin to a warp-based EMP, completely crippling any technology reliant on the Immaterium, creating an Immaterium-dampening effect.
The enemy's weaker psykers had been forced to abandon their abilities entirely, taking up lasguns instead.
Meanwhile, on the front lines, Gray had discovered that his power armor's psy-resistance systems were overloaded. His helmet's HUD was flooded with warning markers, all detecting anomalous warp activity.
And it wasn't just Gray—other troops were reporting the same. To avoid walking into a potential trap, the army had chosen to halt its advance until further analysis could be conducted.
The exact mechanism behind this disruption was unclear—perhaps it was caused by a powerful psyker.
But one thing was certain: the enemy had deliberately targeted their teleportation tech.
His lips curled into a smirk.
They misunderstood.
They assumed that First Legion's teleportation system was standard Imperial Warp-based teleportation, which involved brief exposure to the Immaterium. Under normal conditions, this method was relatively safe—the transit was too brief for warp entities to take notice.
But since it still relied on the warp, disrupting it could cause catastrophic consequences.
If the enemy's interference had worked as they expected, Qin Mo's soldiers wouldn't have merely been stranded mid-teleport. No—they would have been completely obliterated, lost to the madness of the warp forever.
For a brief moment, Qin Mo felt genuine admiration for the enemy psyker who devised this strategy.
"What's our move?" Klein asked.
"None of this has anything to do with us," Qin Mo said, placing his hands back onto the teleportation array. "Continue the attack."
Klein, reassured, saluted and left to relay the orders.
The energy reservoir emptied almost instantly.
Then, in the next moment—
It refilled.
The army was once again deploying via dimensional teleportation.
A slow grin spread across Qin Mo's face.
A chuckle rumbled in his throat.
"Material technology, kid," he muttered.
And with that, another wave of teleporting soldiers descended upon the enemy.