"What in the Emperor's name happened here?"
When several nearby Genestealer cultists rushed back after sensing something amiss with the hive, they were met with a scene none of them could have anticipated.
"By the Four-Armed God-Emperor…"
Before them stood nothing but devastation—or to put it plainly, a ruin.
The crude, makeshift walls were fractured with deep, jagged cracks, the materials having crumbled into powder under intense sonic resonance. As they ventured deeper, lifeless bodies lay strewn across the ground, each one clutching their ears in agony. Blood leaked from every orifice—even their pores—twisted expressions of torment frozen on their faces.
"May the Four Hands of the God-Emperor guide you back beneath His throne," murmured the lead cultist, kneeling beside one of the fallen. He grit his teeth and gently closed the victim's wide, terror-filled eyes, unable to imagine the torment they had endured in their final moments.
They pressed on. Corpses littered the path. Yet not one among them showed fear.
They had long since surrendered themselves wholly to their faith—what reason had they to flinch at death?
The death of comrades only stoked the fire of their hatred.
But soon, unfamiliar bodies began appearing among the dead.
"That's—!"
"An Angel… one of the Emperor's Angels?"
They knelt reverently around the twitching black figure lying on the ground. A brief examination confirmed their dread—the Angel was dead. The spasms were no more than fading nerve signals.
Even the Emperor's Angels had fallen?
A hush of sorrow swept through the group, but it lasted only a moment. Realization dawned, and fear turned to urgency. If even the Angels had been struck down… what of the Patriarch?
Without another word, they sprinted toward the hive's heart. The deeper they went, the more the truth bled into view—layer upon layer of corpses, each more gruesome than the last.
When they finally reached the hive's central chamber, the sight sent them into unspeakable rage and anguish.
Their Patriarch—the voice of the Four-Armed Emperor, the holy progenitor of their bloodline—lay slain. That once-sacred form, radiant and divine, now reduced to lifeless flesh. All vitality gone.
"Find survivors! Hurry!"
The cultists scrambled desperately through the fallen, searching for anyone left alive. Eventually, they uncovered a handful of survivors.
"Over here! Someone's alive!"
"Another one here!"
"Found one more!"
The injured were gathered swiftly. A Plague Adept stepped forward—an alchemist-savant blessed by the Emperor's genes, capable of crafting serums that converted outsiders into loyal worshipers of the Four-Armed God-Emperor. These lifeweavers were typically solitary and reclusive, but this was far from an ordinary circumstance.
With a dose of concentrated stimulants, the survivors began to stir.
The first to awaken was a boy named Putana, a fourth-generation descendant who looked no different from an ordinary human.
"He's waking!" cried a violet-skinned hybrid acolyte with three arms, crouching beside him and clutching his hand. "Tell us—what happened? Who attacked our Angels?"
Putana's lashes trembled before he managed to open his eyes. A faint whisper escaped his dry lips:
"Heretics…"
"Heretics? The ones spreading plague across the hive?" the acolyte asked grimly.
They had been battling those heretics across the lower hive under the Emperor's name. But for those scum to strike their Patriarch in the midst of it all?
Trusting his comrade's words, the acolyte didn't doubt him for a second. He gently laid Putana down and moved on to tend to the others.
The second to awaken was a girl named Kia. Her battered frame trembled as her eyes opened. Her first words, laced with venom and fury, were:
"Those cursed heretics… slaughter them all! Wipe them off the face of the hive!"
"What did they use?" asked the acolyte. "Ordinary weapons couldn't possibly harm our Angels."
"They had powerful weapons at first—but we could hold our ground. Until… until they unleashed some sort of sound-based weapon—something we couldn't understand." Kia shuddered at the memory. "If we're going to retaliate, I'll lead the charge! I'll rip their heads off myself, drain every last drop of their blood as an offering to the Golden Throne!"
"You need rest first," the acolyte said gently, patting her head before turning to another stirring figure.
Roy had just been helped upright by fellow cultists. In his hand was the scepter engraved with the Four-Armed God-Emperor's sigil—a symbol that should only belong to a High Priest.
"The heretics used… some kind of power beyond comprehension," Roy said with a wry smile. "They summoned warriors devoted to their chaos gods. We tried to fight back… but failed. Those warriors vanished without a trace."
"This isn't your fault," the acolyte said softly. Even the Patriarch and the Angels had fallen. The survivors' very existence was a miracle. What more could anyone ask?
"Before the Patriarch died, he told me… he'd found a relic of the Dark Age of Technology. Iron Man," Roy said, closing his eyes and speaking with fading breath. "He said this machine might be able to cure the plague. If we heal the people, the heretics' plan will unravel on its own. That's why they targeted him."
"Iron Man!" the acolyte was stunned. But if this came from the Patriarch, then it must be obeyed.
"Where is this Iron Man?" he asked.
"Near the access tunnel to the lower hive. At… Israelle's house," Roy said with some hesitation. "But… is it really okay? This is Iron Man we're talking about…"
"The Patriarch's will is the Emperor's will. We obey. That is all."