As Creed subtly probed Klein, the battle had already reached its inevitable conclusion. The enemy forces had been shattered, their remnants hunted down through the twisted, rusted arteries of the Hive City.
By nightfall, the war was over.
Creed left the command post, stepping away from the hololithic displays and the weight of responsibility. He returned to his comrades, who, as was their tradition, had gathered in their barracks for post-battle conversation.
The moment he entered, all eyes turned to him.
"Did you spend the day playing staff officer again?" one of his superiors asked, arms folded.
Creed instinctively answered honestly. "Yes."
A long pause. Then—
"I know you see them as good people and want to help," the officer said, his tone measured but firm. "But let me remind you, these people are far more suspicious than the enemy. Aren't you even a little curious where their technology comes from?"
Creed held his tongue, saying nothing, though the urge to argue burned in his chest.
"Don't pull that stunt again," the officer warned, voice dropping to a low, steely whisper. "This is your final warning. We can repay them for repairing our ships, but don't overstep your bounds."
Creed nodded solemnly. "Understood."
Just as the conversation ended, the door creaked open.
A local Underhive soldier stood at the entrance, offering an Aquila salute.
"You all fought in the battle. The Lord Commander invites you to the memorial service for the fallen. Afterward, there will be a banquet and a screening of 44th Regiment: Last Stand."
"Thanks, but we'll pass." The officer declined immediately.
The soldier, betraying no emotion, nodded and left.
Creed frowned, his brow knitting. "Wait… why are we being considered combatants? Just because I played staff officer?"
One of his officers hesitated before responding, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
"While you were tied up at command," he began, sheepish, "A tunnel in District 13 was breached by the enemy. So we… well, you know... stepped in."
"'Stepped in'?" A fresh-faced White Shield trooper grinned, his eyes gleaming with the reckless pride of youth.
"We held off an entire enemy assault force in those tunnels. A single company repelled two enemy regiments!" he declared proudly.
Creed was taken aback. "I had no idea."
"Of course you didn't," one of his comrades chuckled, leaning back against a stacked crate of lasgun charge packs.
"The battle in District 13 was coordinated directly by the local regimental commanders. Their command structure works differently from ours—each regiment handles a wide range of responsibilities on its own."
"You even understand their command structure?" Creed asked, genuinely surprised.
"I have to analyze every bit of combat intelligence I can." The soldier smirked. "Besides… I wanted to negotiate a good deal on their power armor."
Creed sighed. "Alright, alright."
He smiled and chose not to press further.
Their laughter soon filled the room, bouncing off the cold metal walls, a rare moment of levity amidst a life of endless war.
For the Cadian Shock Troopers, their time in Tyrone Hive was practically a vacation. Even facing two enemy regiments in the tunnels felt more like sport. Their spirits were high, unburdened by the grim weight that usually followed battle.
They were Cadians. This was what they were made for.
....
Midnight.
Creed lay in his cot, drenched in cold sweat, his muscles twitching, his breath ragged. The darkness pressed heavy against him, thick with the phantom scent of ozone and burning flesh.
Though asleep, he was at war.
Drop pods streaked across the sky, painting fiery scars through the atmosphere.
Artillery thundered across the planet, the distant thunder of Titan cannons shaking the earth.
The war grew ever more desperate.
Reports of disaster flooded in one after another.
Creed saw himself striding along the blood-soaked trenches, rallying his men, his voice hoarse from countless orders. Every Cadian fought like a daemon, but it was not enough.
The tide was irreversible.
And then—
A massive, ominous black object descended upon the land.
Cadia. Burning. Breaking. Dying.
Creed woke with a jolt, the cot rattling under him. He gasped for breath, fists clenching the blanket as though trying to hold onto something slipping away.
He was a Cadian, born and bred in the system closest to the Eye of Terror.
Every time the forces of Chaos launched a Black Crusade, Cadia stood as the Imperium's first line of defense.
As a Cadian, he feared nothing.
Cadia fears no foe and neither did Creed.
Yet, like many of his kin, he had dreamt more than once of Cadia's fall.
And every time he awoke to find Cadia still standing, he did as any true Cadian would.
He raised his middle finger toward the Eye of Terror.
He couldn't see the sky from the Underhive of Tyrone.
And this wasn't Cadia.
But still, Creed raised his middle finger toward the ceiling.
"Cadia stands," he muttered fiercely.
But sleep refused to return.
So he stepped outside, onto the fortress rooftop, lighting a Lho-Stick with a flint-spark and leaned against the railing.
....
Before long, another figure joined him.
Creed turned—it was Qin Mo, his expression unreadable in the half-light.
Without speaking, Qin Mo moved to the railing, his eyes fixed on the streets below.
A procession was underway.
The orbital shipyard had been completed.
Now, the ashes of the fallen were being escorted toward the shipyard, carried by a silent column of soldiers and civilians.
If there was anywhere better to observe the ceremony, it would be atop the towering hive spires, home to tens of thousands.
"There's someone I knew in there."
Qin Mo said, watching the large containers of cremated remains.
"A regimental commander who idolized me... he died in this war. He died because of my mistake."
Creed exhaled a cloud of smoke, the ember at the end of his Lho-Stick burning brightly for a moment.
"May his soul rest upon the Golden Throne." Creed said solemnly.
Qin Mo said nothing.
His gaze remained locked on the slow, mournful march of the dead.
Creed, meanwhile, reflected.
He had learned much about the man beside him.
He knew what Qin Mo had endured.
He was one of the 44th Regiment's last survivors.
He had fought tirelessly, shoring up collapsing defenses, turning the tide of battle again and again.
It was no surprise that soldiers saw him as a savior.
But Qin Mo was no tyrant.
Unlike many Hive Lords, he did not hoard resources while his people starved.
His "servitors" patrolled the streets, but the people lived well.
Every household had clean water, fresh food, and decent housing.
A standard of living unheard of in most Hive Cities.
"With the shipyard complete, you'll be able to leave soon," Qin Mo said, breaking the silence. "As a reward for your fight in District 13, I'll issue power armor to each of you."
Creed nodded slowly.
"And in return, I will help you establish an officer training system, and develop tactics suited to your forces. I'll do everything I can."
Qin Mo turned to him and asked, his voice almost hesitant.
"You're not afraid I'm a heretic?"
Creed shook his head.
He knew Qin Mo was not a heretic.
Even if his technology was… questionable.
Then, a thought struck Creed.
From the moment he arrived in Tyrone Hive, he had instinctively wanted to come to the Underhive.
He was not a man who trusted easily.
Yet somehow, he had always trusted the people down here.
Qin Mo spoke again.
"I lack experience training armies. And I have no idea how to cultivate military leaders. You've helped me greatly."
Then, he turned to Creed, facing him fully.
"I owe you a favor. Name it."
Creed almost dismissed it. Repairing their ship would have been enough, but he hesitated, thinking of something deeper.
Facing Qin Mo's calm gaze, Creed asked. "What do you intend to make of the Talon System?"
"A fortress system," Qin Mo replied immediately. "Safe and strong. Every citizen ready for war. Every district orderly, even the deepest Underhives."
Creed nodded thoughtfully, then asked. "Will you fight for the Emperor?"
"I will fight for mankind," Qin Mo answered.
Creed stiffened at first, the indoctrination of countless sermons bristling inside him, but then he nodded slowly. Mankind was the Emperor's charge. Maybe it was enough.
Both fell silent, watching as the procession carrying the ashes disappeared into the distance.
Finally, Creed spoke. "I don't want material rewards. I only ask for one promise."
"Name it," Qin Mo said.
Creed locked eyes with him, voice grave.
"You will command a powerful army and fleet one day. My request is this—
Should Cadia ever face its darkest hour… will you aid us?"
To Qin Mo, this request was redundant.
He knew that one day, Abaddon the Despoiler would launch the Thirteenth Black Crusade.
He would never sit idly by and allow Cadia, a world with Blackstone Pylons that suppressed the Warp, to fall.
Regardless of whether the future Lord Castellan Creed sought aid, aid would come.
Because Qin Mo despised the Warp.
Without hesitation, Qin Mo answered. "When the time comes, you need only send one message, and aid will come."
Creed narrowed his eyes. "And what would that message be?"
Qin Mo's voice was unwavering.
"Cadia calls for aid."
"And Talon will answer."
Creed nodded firmly.
For the first time, he felt a sense of fate—as though he was meant to come to the Talon Sector.
As though the Emperor Himself had guided his path here, amid the ruins of one world, to forge the salvation of another.
But before he could press for answers, Qin Mo turned and disappeared into the shadows of the fortress.