"You are not needed for now," Qin Mo ordered.
Grey, who had been rushing over to provide immediate support, acknowledged the command and disengaged.
Qin Mo, ever cautious, had prepared for the worst-case scenario, but it was no longer necessary.
The battlefield had already shifted decisively in their favor.
With the immediate threat neutralized, Qin Mo strode forward, his gaze fixed upon the ruined husk of the fallen Knight. The once-magnificent war engine, a towering relic of the Mechanicum's might, lay broken and crumpled like a discarded puppet.
Smoke curled from its shattered helm, the machine spirit within silenced forever.
Then, suddenly—movement.
A gargantuan, dented arm twitched, hydraulics screeching as the Knight attempted a final, desperate strike. But before the blow could connect, Qin Mo extended his will.
The air shimmered with reality-bending power.
With a mere flick of his fingers, he seized the war machine's arm mid-motion, the colossal limb halting as though gripped by an invisible vice. Then, with the inexorable might of his mind, he ripped it clean from the Knight's frame. Metal sheared, circuits snapped, and the detached limb crashed to the ground with a deafening boom.
The Knight shuddered violently, its gyroscopic stabilizers failing to compensate for its imbalance. But before it could collapse entirely, Qin Mo reached out once more—this time manipulating the very alloys that comprised its skeletal structure.
Metallic sinews twisted under his will, joints locking in place as if an unseen god had commanded them to freeze. The war machine was now utterly immobile, bound not by chains, but by sheer dominance.
Qin Mo ascended the wreckage, scaling the shattered torso as if it were little more than a ruined edifice. The cockpit, nestled within the Knight's crushed helm, was barely intact. Wires sparked and coolant dripped from ruptured conduits, the once-sterile interior now resembling a grotesque execution chamber.
Inside, slumped against his harness, was the pilot.
Impaled.
A jagged shard of metal had pierced through the pilot's abdomen, its edges slick with crimson. His breaths were labored, each one rattling like the final exhalations of a dying predator.
"Kill… me…" the man gasped, his voice little more than a whisper. "Let me die… with it…"
Qin Mo ignored the plea.
Instead, his eyes narrowed as he examined the pilot's armor. A flight suit reinforced with ceramite plating, predominantly cobalt-blue, its pauldrons adorned with the insignia of a stylized avian. Feathers, real and artificial, decorated his helm and limbs, marking him unmistakably as a Scion of the Order of the Omniscient Mind.
So, it was as he had suspected. The Knight House had fallen to corruption.
Even now, he could sense the taint in the machine spirit—twisted, defiled, and writhing in blind rage. The vast majority of Imperial Knights shared an intimate bond with their war machines, their souls intertwining with the machine spirit through their Throne Mechanicum.
Some Knights, especially those touched by ruinous powers, left behind machine spirits so polluted that they could continue fighting even after the pilot's death.
Given enough time, some machines even learned to hate.
Qin Mo's voice was calm but unyielding. "Talon II is a Forge World, isn't it? Is your House based there? How many Knights do you still have?"
The pilot, Aelann, used the last of his strength to spit at Qin Mo's feet—a pathetic display of defiance.
Unmoved, Qin Mo raised his hand.
A deep metallic groan echoed across the battlefield as the Knight's frame bent inward, warped by unseen pressure. What was left of its internal scaffolding began to twist and compress, inch by inch, as the machine spirit screamed its final, wordless denial.
Aelann's resolve shattered instantly.
"Fi-five Knights!" he gasped, eyes wide in terror. "Please… don't—don't torture us… just make it quick…!"
"I can grant you that. But first, one more answer," Qin Mo said coldly. "How long before the rest of your House arrives?"
"They won't." Aelann's breath was ragged. "They will never come… I was the only one in my family who followed… the Lord of Wisdom…"
The Lord of Wisdom.
A treasonous whisper. A name best left unspoken.
Qin Mo had heard enough.
Without another word, he turned and exited the wreckage, raising his hand toward the sky.
Lightning split the heavens.
A single, wrathful bolt lanced downward, striking the ruined Knight dead center. White-hot energy consumed machine and man alike, vaporizing them both in an instant. When the crackling storm dissipated, only molten slag remained—a fitting grave for a traitor.
....
Emerging from the ruins, Qin Mo turned his attention back to the battlefield, preparing to unleash havoc among the enemy ranks.
However, a transmission from Klein made him redirect his focus.
"The enemy is collapsing on all fronts."
"Initiate teleportation in one minute," Qin Mo ordered, immediately returning to the Underhive fortress to power the teleportation arrays.
Unlike conventional forces, the First Legion did not need to march to victory—they simply willed themselves into position.
The battle had already reached its conclusion. The Knight had fallen. The enemy's fragile morale had shattered. What remained was nothing more than scattered prey, running blindly in the hopes of finding an escape that no longer existed.
Across the battlefield, panic consumed the traitors. No longer an army—no longer squads or battalions—only terrified individuals, each driven by the same, primal instinct: flight.
But there was no escape.
The First Legion's regiments materialized ahead of the retreating forces, blocking their path with overwhelming firepower. There was no battle now—only execution.
....
Within the command chamber, Ursarkar E. Creed watched in silence. His fingers tapped against the console, his mind racing even as his face betrayed nothing.
Mass-scale teleportation.
An utterly absurd capability.
Destroying an army outright was never easy. A true annihilation battle required extensive preparation—strategic positioning, logistical support, contingency plans, an abundance of transport ships, and a secure supply chain for the engaged forces.
Warfare, as Creed knew it, required strategy. Logistics. Air superiority. Secure supply lines. Yet these warriors needed none of it.
Out of ammunition? Teleport to resupply.
Surrounded? Teleport out of the encirclement.
Enemy retreating? Teleport ahead and cut them down.
Even though some enemy forces still managed to flee, Creed knew: total annihilation was inevitable.
Mass teleportation alone was enough. And that was before factoring in their soldiers clad in powered armor.
Creed turned to Klein. "Who developed this technology? Who manufactures your weapons? You wouldn't happen to have a Forge World supplying you, would you?"
Klein smirked. "A Forge World? In Talon I? You think someone just swooped in to help us? Look around, Creed—our world is in ruins. Our war has been fought in utter isolation. You're the first off-world visitors in millennia… and there aren't many of you left either."
Creed let Klein ramble. It was a habit of his. Yet buried within the noise was something truly troubling.
Klein had no intention of answering his question.
"Enough." Creed raised a hand, cutting him off. He lowered his gaze, refocusing on the battle.
Considering the sheer mystery surrounding their weaponry and technology, Creed had no choice but to contemplate the worst-case scenario—
A headache began to form at Creed's temples. He exhaled slowly, returning his gaze to the hololithic display. If the High Lords of Terra ever learned of this… if they declared Talon a heretical anomaly… if they dispatched the Astra Militarum to annihilate them…
How would this war unfold?
Against the Imperial Guard, Qin Mo's forces would be vastly outmatched in manpower.
Even without factoring in elite regiments like the Cadian Shock Troopers, the standard Guardsmen would outclass Qin Mo's forces in training and discipline.
After extensive deliberation, Creed realized there was no easy answer.
It would become a war of attrition.
They would dispatch the Astra Militarum, the Adeptus Astartes, the Mechanicus Skitarii Legions, Knight Houses, even Titans... Each escalation would drag Talon deeper into oblivion.
It would be a war of extinction.
Yet, despite his grim calculations, Creed found himself reluctant to see such a day arrive.
These were not heretics born of ambition or greed. These were survivors, humans pushed past their limits, clinging to something greater than despair.
He knew what these soldiers had endured—they had been betrayed by their governor, sent to die in a hopeless war, and yet they survived.
And now, they fought against the Heretics of an entire star system.
"I must warn you." Creed addressed Klein once more. "Your use of unregulated technology and weaponry… you know what that entails."
Klein met his gaze, and for once, his expression was serious.
"We know," he said simply. "But the Talon I belongs to its true masters now. And from this day forward, it will thrive."
Creed narrowed his eyes.
"The true master of Talon… the Emperor? Or your Lord Commander?"
Klein laughed. "The Emperor, of course. But tell me, Creed… did you have a different answer in mind?"
Creed scoffed, rolling his eyes, and returned his focus to the ongoing battle.
He ended the conversation.