This week goal is 800 power stones. Enjoy.
The precinct was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that brought peace, but the kind that sat heavy on the chest, choking the air. The usual hum of machinery, the distant shouts of orders, even the clang of weapons being prepped — all of it felt distant. Muted. The only thing Cassian could hear clearly were the prayers. Quiet, desperate things, whispered under trembling breaths.
He passed a group of Enforcers kneeling together, each one clutching a worn pendant of the Aquila. Their eyes were closed, their lips moving silently. Another soldier sat alone on a crate, clutching his shotgun to his chest like a lifeline. No prayers. Just a thousand-yard stare.
They all knew. No one was coming to save them.
Cassian pushed on. He tried to focus on the weight of his gear, the familiar chill of the hive air, anything to drown out the gnawing dread. But the Warp made itself known. The whispers slid through the cracks, scratching at the edges of his mind. Every so often, he felt a presence — not seen, but felt — a pressure against his skull.
He shook it off as he entered the armory. The place had been stripped bare. What little remained had been claimed by those lucky enough to be first in line. He scanned the room, catching sight of Verus Dane near the back, standing next to a hulking figure of metal and ceramite. Cassian's steps slowed.
Power armor.
The suit stood tall, its dark plates worn from use but still formidable. The ceramite was scratched and dented, each mark a story from battles past. Cassian stared at it, then back at Dane, who was watching him with a faint smirk.
"Didn't peg you for a hero," Cassian muttered.
Dane chuckled. "Not a hero. Just someone who likes to stay alive." He patted the armor. "Mark VII Aquila-pattern. Old Inquisitorial stock."
Cassian blinked. "Inquisition?"
"Don't get excited." Dane waved a hand. "I pulled a few strings. The Illuminati has some sway, but you're not that special."
Cassian raised an eyebrow. "Then why am I getting one?"
Dane's smirk faded. "You're not the only one." He gestured to another set of armor nearby, slightly smaller, but no less intimidating. "That one's yours."
Cassian hesitated. "Won't people ask questions?"
"They'll assume I got it for you." Dane shrugged. "I have a special permit. Covers both of us."
Cassian stared at the armor. It looked… heavy. Not just in weight, but in presence. Like it carried the burden of every life it had saved — and every one it had failed to.
"Don't make me regret this," Dane said quietly.
Cassian stepped forward, running a hand over the cold metal. The armor hummed faintly under his touch, the machine spirit barely stirring. As he ran his fingers across the worn ceramite, something shifted. The hum deepened, resonating beneath his fingertips. A pulse. Faint, but undeniable. Almost… curious.
As he suited up, the machine spirit stirred. The servos hissed softly, adjusting with his movements, but it wasn't just the armor compensating. It felt… cooperative. Each motion felt smoother, the weight distributing perfectly. The armor responded with an ease that shouldn't have been possible.
It was subtle at first — the way the joints locked seamlessly, the servos anticipating his steps. As if the machine spirit was eager. Joyful, almost. Every motion felt more natural, the armor guiding him as much as he guided it.
Cassian flexed his fingers, and the gauntlet responded instantly. He shifted his stance, and the weight adjusted without him needing to force it. It was more than responsiveness. It was… understanding. The machine spirit wasn't just compliant — it welcomed him.
Dane noticed. "That's… faster than I expected."
Cassian glanced at him. "What?"
"The armor." Dane frowned, watching the way the suit moved with Cassian. "It shouldn't be that smooth. Machine spirits don't trust easily." He paused, eyes narrowing. "But it likes you."
Cassian felt it too. The armor wasn't just a tool — it was alive, in its own way. And it had accepted him.
He activated the chainsword, the teeth revving with a satisfying growl. Heavy, but manageable. The bolter came next. Godwyn-pattern. The mag was full, each round a promise of devastation. Finally, a plasma pistol. Dane handed it over with a raised brow.
"Careful," he warned. "Overheat, and you'll lose more than your arm."
Cassian holstered the pistol and adjusted the armor's weight. He took a deep breath, feeling the power coursing through the suit. The weight of the weapons, the armor — it all pressed down on him. But beneath it was something else. Resolve.
"Thanks," Cassian said quietly.
Dane clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Try not to die."
---
The convoy rumbled through the city's veins, engines growling as the Rhinos crawled over cracked pavement. The sky churned above, red and swollen, like an open wound in reality. What little sunlight pierced through painted everything in shades of crimson. The air stank of copper and ash.
Cassian sat inside one of the Rhinos, shoulder to shoulder with other soldiers. Enforcers, Arbites, conscripts — all crammed together, their faces drawn and pale. Some muttered prayers. Others sat in silence, eyes hollow. Across from him, a Sister of Battle knelt with her head bowed, fingers wrapped around a rosary. She whispered softly, her words barely audible.
The Rhino jolted over a broken street, and Cassian felt the armor's servos compensate. He glanced down at his gauntleted hands, flexing his fingers. The suit felt heavier now. Not just in weight, but in meaning.
Yet, the machine spirit… it was there. A constant presence. It didn't whisper like the Warp — it guided. When the Rhino hit a bump, the armor shifted subtly, keeping him steady. When his grip tightened on the bolter, the gauntlet adjusted, perfecting his hold. It wasn't obedience. It was cooperation.
Outside, the city was unrecognizable. Rivers of blood carved through the streets, pooling in the gutters. Buildings sagged under their own weight, their walls slick with something dark and pulsing. Twisted shapes shambled through the ruins — some still vaguely human, others… not.
The Warp pressed against his mind, the whispers growing louder. Cassian squeezed his eyes shut, forcing them back.
They reached the shrine at midday — or what would've been midday. The sky had darkened, thick with storm clouds that churned unnaturally. The shrine loomed before them, once a place of worship, now defiled. Blood slicked the stone steps. The walls pulsed, as if the building itself were alive.
And they were waiting.
The cultists came first. Hundreds of them, clad in rags and armor fashioned from scrap. Some wielded autoguns, others crude blades. Behind them came the mutants — twisted things with too many limbs, skin stretched tight over bulging muscles.
And then… the daemons.
Fleshhounds loped through the crowd, their eyes burning with a savage hunger. Bloodcrushers rode behind them, massive beasts of brass and muscle, their riders wielding hell-forged weapons. Juggernauts thundered alongside them, metal hooves cracking stone beneath their weight.
At the heart of it all stood the Chaos Champion. He towered over the others, muscles rippling beneath armor stained with gore. His helmet was adorned with a crown of spikes, and in his hands he held a massive axe, its blade dripping with blood.
And above them all, a Bloodthirster. The greater daemon loomed over the battlefield, wings outstretched, eyes blazing with hatred. Each breath it took sent ripples through the Warp, warping the air around it.
Cassian swallowed. The whispers in his head grew louder. The machine spirit pulsed in response, steadying him.
"Steady," Dane said quietly. "We hold the line."
Cassian tightened his grip on his chainsword. Around him, the Arbites readied their weapons. The Sisters stood tall, their faith a beacon in the darkness. The Mechanicus troops checked their rifles, red lenses glowing faintly.
The Chaos Champion raised his axe. The daemons howled.
And the last stand began.
—-
The air was thick with the stench of blood and sulfur, and the sky burned crimson. Cassian stood on the precipice of hell itself, watching the daemon horde surge across the ruined hive. The machine spirit of his power armor thrummed against his skin, a steady pulse like a heartbeat, as if it sensed the carnage to come. He shifted his weight, feeling the armor move with him — not sluggish or heavy but fluid, like a second skin. The connection was almost comforting. Almost.
"Cassian!" Verus Dane's voice cut through the din. The Arbites veteran stood nearby, visor down, boltgun in hand. "You ready for this?"
Cassian glanced at him, gripping his chainsword tighter. "No one's ready for this."
Dane let out a dry chuckle. "Fair."
The ground trembled beneath their boots. The horde was close now. Cassian's mind reached out into the Warp, searching for the familiar ripple of thoughts. He felt them — the soldiers around him, hearts pounding, prayers whispered under their breath. But beyond them, like oil seeping through the cracks, there was something else. Hungry. Malevolent. The daemons.
"Steady!" a Sister of Battle roared, her voice amplified by her helmet. Her squad stood tall, bolters at the ready, purity seals fluttering in the wind. Mechanicus Skitarii lined up beside them, their red robes stark against the ash-covered ground. Cassian saw conscripts gripping their lasguns with trembling hands, while the Arbites held the line, shields raised.
Then the first wave hit.
The cultists came screaming from the ruins, their bodies twisted with mutation, flesh splitting and reforming before Cassian's eyes. Lasfire tore through their ranks, but they kept coming. Behind them, the daemons emerged. Bloodletters, their crimson blades dripping with molten ichor, charged with howls of rage. Flesh Hounds loped alongside them, eyes burning with unnatural light. A Bloodcrusher rode atop its Juggernaut mount, the ground shaking beneath its hooves.
Cassian raised his hand, reaching into the Warp. Power surged through him, icy tendrils clawing at his mind. He pushed forward, feeling the machine spirit respond in kind. The armor moved with him, faster, smoother. His telepathy swept out like a wave, slamming into the minds of the cultists. Some fell to their knees, clutching their heads, while others turned their weapons on each other.
"Advance!" Dane roared, leading the Arbites forward. Cassian followed, his chainsword roaring to life. The first Bloodletter lunged at him, its blade slicing through the air. Cassian ducked, driving his sword into its gut, tearing through muscle and bone. The machine spirit hummed with satisfaction.
To his left, a Sister of Battle was locked in combat with a Flesh Hound. Cassian raised his boltgun, firing three shots into its skull. The creature howled, collapsing at her feet. She glanced at him and gave a curt nod before returning to the fray.
The battle was chaos. Boltguns barked, chainswords roared, and the air was thick with the scent of promethium and blood. Cassian fought like a man possessed, his mind and body working in perfect harmony with the machine spirit. He felt its guidance, subtle but constant — a tilt of the head to avoid a blow, a shift of the foot for better balance.
Around him, the battle raged. Dane fought beside him, bolter blazing. The Sisters of Battle unleashed holy fire, incinerating the daemonic horde. Mechanicus troops advanced, their arcane weaponry cutting down cultists in droves. Cassian fought with everything he had, each swing of his sword a prayer for survival.
The air was thick with the stench of blood and burning metal. Cassian's helmet display flickered as the machine spirit within the power armor whispered to him, guiding his movements. The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Bolter fire cracked through the air, cutting down charging cultists, while the screams of the dying mingled with the guttural roars of daemons.
Cassian moved like a blade through the storm. His chainsword roared to life, teeth biting into the flesh of a mutated heretic, tearing through meat and bone. Blood sprayed against his visor, the helmet's auto-senses dampening the sound, but the psychic echoes of pain still rang in his skull.
A Bloodletter lunged at him, its wicked hellblade swinging down in a vicious arc. Cassian barely dodged, feeling the heat of the Warp-forged weapon slice through the air inches from his head. He fired his boltgunpoint-blank into its chest, the beam scorching a hole through the daemon's flesh, but it barely slowed down. Snarling, Cassian drove his chainsword into its gut, ripping upward as the machine spirit hummed with approval. The creature screeched, dissolving into a cloud of ash and embers.
To his left, a Sister of Battle fought with righteous fury, her power sword carving through cultists as her bolt pistol spat death. Cassian saw her get overwhelmed, a pack of Flesh Hounds tearing towards her. Without thinking, he reached out with his mind, the strain making his vision blur.
"RUN!"
The Sister staggered as his telepathic shout hit her mind. She turned just in time to avoid a snapping maw, her sword cutting through the daemon's neck. Cassian collapsed to one knee, his nose bleeding from the exertion. The power armor's machine spirit pulsed, almost as if encouraging him to stand.
A Juggernaut charged through the ranks, the creature's hooves cracked the stone beneath them, and cultists were trampled in its path. Cassian barely rolled aside as it barreled past, smashing into a squad of enforcers. He raised his lasgun, firing shot after shot into the daemon's thick hide, but it was like trying to kill a tank with pebbles.
Then, Verus Dane's voice boomed over the comms. "Cassian, MOVE!"
Cassian turned just in time to see Dane slam into the Juggernaut with a thunderous impact, his power maul crackling with energy. The machine spirit surged in Cassian's armor, amplifying his movements as he sprinted to join the fray.
The battle raged on. Cassian fought with everything he had. His psychic powers flickered and flared, buying him precious seconds against the tide of madness. His shots found their mark more often than not, guided by a mix of instinct and the machine spirit's whispers. Every movement felt sharper, faster, more precise.
But even as he fought, he felt the pull of the Warp. The daemons whispered to him, their voices like knives in his mind. He clenched his jaw, forcing them out with sheer willpower. The power armor's machine spirit responded, its presence a steady hum against the chaos.
And then he saw it — the Herald. Towering above the carnage, its armor was a deep crimson, adorned with skulls and dark sigils. It locked eyes with him, and Cassian felt his blood run cold.
The Herald roared, charging straight for him. Cassian raised his chainsword, the machine spirit flaring in response. This was it. One wrong move, and he was dead.
He braced himself. The final battle had begun.
----
For advanced chapters
patreon.com/Kratos5627