Not much time passed before she arrived.
The sound of rapid footsteps echoed through the halls, sharp and purposeful. Boot heels striking marble in measured cadence, the rhythm of someone who walked with authority even when moving quickly. The footfalls grew louder, closer, announcing the approach of someone who refused to be kept waiting.
The gray-haired female judge entered the brightly lit hall.
Inquisitor Lady Glendir walked with her back perfectly straight, posture military-precise despite her advanced years. She wore the black coat of the Inquisition, decorated with the symbols of her office: the stylized "I" of the Inquisition, purity seals hanging from chains, a rosette badge displaying her authority. Her gray hair was pulled back severely, emphasizing the harsh lines of her face.
Her expression was the same indifferent mask she'd worn in the church, carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
Nolan squinted, preparing to ask his question.
But before he could speak, before he could formulate the inquiry about resources and authority, Inquisitor Lady Glendir started the conversation herself.
With a single statement that could trigger more rebellions.
"Dear Lord Angel, I sent people to assassinate the planetary governor of this hive world!"
The confession dropped like a bomb into the silent hall.
No preamble. No justification. Just flat acknowledgment of a crime that, in the Imperium's eyes, ranked somewhere between treason and heresy. Assassinating a planetary governor was the kind of act that got entire worlds placed under Exterminatus. It was madness.
And she'd opened with it.
However, Nolan seemed mentally prepared for this.
His expression didn't change. No shock registered on his bronze features. No surprise widened his eyes. He simply nodded his bald head calmly, the gesture acknowledging information received rather than judgment passed.
Then he asked the female judge with an expressionless face, his voice level and controlled.
"Why?"
A single word. Direct. Cutting through any deflection or obfuscation. The kind of question that demanded honest answers because anything less would be immediately obvious.
Inquisitor Lady Glendir began to speak.
She told Nolan about a series of investigations she'd conducted, each revelation building on the last, painting a picture of corruption so deep it had poisoned an entire world's governance.
The planetary governor here had long seized the support materials meant for the Mobian Sixth Regiment.
Supplies that should have reached soldiers on the front lines, ammunition and equipment and medical aid, had been diverted. Stolen. Sold off to line the governor's pockets while men died for lack of resources. Military glory too, victories that should have been credited to the regiment, had been claimed by the governor's family to advance their political positions.
Worse, corresponding war situation information had not even been reported to the Ministry of Military Affairs.
Battles fought. Casualties taken. Strategic situations developing. All of it unreported, hidden, buried in bureaucratic silence. The governor had been running his own private war, answerable to no one, accountable for nothing.
This was one of the reasons that ultimately triggered the rebellion of the Sixth Regiment of Mobian.
Glendir's voice was clinical, detached, reciting facts like entries in a case file. But beneath the professional delivery, Nolan could hear the anger. Carefully controlled, ruthlessly suppressed, but present nonetheless.
The planetary governor's own family power sought even more luxurious life.
They already lived in obscene comfort while workers below choked on poison. But it wasn't enough. Greed had no ceiling. They'd even dared to secretly sell Leman Russ tank assembly parts to some Rogue Traders.
Critical military equipment. Components for the main battle tanks that kept Imperial armies operational. Being sold to independent merchant-captains whose loyalties were measured entirely in profit margins.
The betrayal was staggering in scope.
Moreover, the local state religion was also implicated.
Glendir's tone grew colder as she detailed these allegations. The Ecclesiarchy here was trying to expand the scope of its faith, increase its own power through methods that had nothing to do with spiritual guidance. They'd participated in unclear things within the hive city, dealings that the Inquisitor suspected but couldn't quite prove.
This was an important factor in why Glendir had been reluctant to mobilize troops to suppress the rebellion.
She was afraid of being stabbed in the back. Feared that committing forces against the rebels would leave her vulnerable to betrayal from supposed allies. The Ecclesiarchy commanded its own militant forces, and if they chose to side against her during combat operations, it could cause even greater chaos than the rebellion itself.
But Inquisitor Lady Glendir also expressed something crucial to Nolan.
There was no evidence in her hand to prove the state religion's involvement.
Just suspicions. Fragments of intelligence. Patterns that suggested corruption without confirming it. The kind of incomplete picture that drove investigators mad but couldn't justify action under Imperial law.
However, Glendir did reveal her true reason for assassinating the planetary governor.
Her voice softened fractionally, losing some of its clinical edge. This was personal, not professional. This was about debt and honor rather than justice and investigation.
She had been rescued by the Sixth Regiment of Mobian in the past.
Years ago, circumstances she didn't elaborate on, a situation where she would have died if not for their intervention. The soldiers of the Sixth had saved her life, pulled her from some disaster, protected her when protection was desperately needed.
She felt pity for their plight.
Watching them suffer under the governor's corruption, seeing them pushed to breaking, knowing what they'd endured... it had moved her in ways that pure duty never could.
It had nothing to do with dirty things like power struggles.
This wasn't about advancing her position within the Inquisition. Wasn't about eliminating a political rival or seizing control of the hive. This was simpler, cleaner, more dangerous: this was about paying a debt and righting a wrong, consequences be damned.
Nolan listened to everything with an expressionless face.
His bronze features remained calm throughout Glendir's confession, processing information, weighing statements, assessing the woman before him with Primarch-enhanced perception. When she finished speaking, silence filled the hall for several heartbeats.
Then he slowly shook his bronze head.
The gesture was thoughtful, deliberate. Not disagreement exactly, but something more complex. Acknowledgment mixed with rejection. Understanding paired with refusal.
"Ms. Glendir, betrayal is betrayal."
His voice was firm, carrying the weight of absolute certainty.
"Even though the Sixth Regiment of Mobian had grievances that the Emperor would pity, they finally embarked on a road of no return that they should not choose. If they endure the grievances, they will..." He paused, letting the conditional hang. "If an important industrial hub is to be completely thrown into chaos, then no planet in the empire's territory will be able to maintain basic stability."
The logic was brutal but undeniable. Sympathy for individual suffering couldn't override the necessity of order. The Imperium ran on rules, on hierarchy, on the expectation that soldiers endured injustice rather than rebel. Break that contract and everything collapsed.
"Moreover, what if all this is an illusion as you see it, and the real reason why they started the rebellion is that they suffered from the pollution and corruption from Chaos?"
Nolan's tone sharpened on that question, driving the point home.
"How much compassion will you have for them?"
It was the fundamental terror of the Imperium made explicit. How could you tell the difference between justified rebellion and Chaos corruption? Both looked the same from outside. Both started with grievances and ended with violence. The only safe response was to assume corruption and purge everything.
"So, I will grant them final relief in the name of the Emperor. This is all I can do."
The statement was delivered without emotion. Just fact. Nolan would kill them all, put them down like rabid animals, and tell himself it was mercy.
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Inquisitor Lady Glendir, with her indifferent expression, seemed to be deep in thought.
Her mask cracked slightly, contemplation showing through the professional facade. She stared at Nolan for a long moment, gray eyes searching his bronze face for something. Understanding, perhaps. Or judgment. Or just confirmation that he meant what he said.
Then she made her decision.
Slowly, deliberately, she knelt down on one knee in Nolan's direction.
The gesture was profound in its implications. An Inquisitor kneeling to an Astartes. Someone who commanded authority second only to the Emperor himself, bowing before a Space Marine. It wasn't submission exactly. More like... alliance. Partnership forged in mutual purpose.
She completely showed her loyalty with posture and position.
"Dear Lord Angel, for the sake of the Emperor, I am willing to assist you in quelling this rebellion in the hive city that should not have happened!"
Her voice rang clear and strong, the promise binding.
Orders were issued one after another, cascading through command structures.
Each heavily armed Planetary Defense Force unit was completely mobilized.
Soldiers who'd been on standby, waiting in barracks or manning defensive positions, suddenly received deployment orders. They scrambled to assemble, checking weapons, loading ammunition, forming up in parade grounds and staging areas. The machinery of military mobilization grinding into motion after days of forced inactivity.
They carried many heavy weapons and necessary ammunition.
Not just las-rifles this time. Heavy bolters. Autocannons. Missile launchers. The kind of equipment you brought when you expected serious resistance. The kind of firepower that could level buildings and break fortified positions.
A step-by-step cleaning mission began toward the interior of the hive.
Methodical. Organized. Room by room, corridor by corridor, clearing and securing each section before advancing. The tactics of urban warfare applied with professional precision.
At the same time, teams of fanatic believers from the state religion joined the operation.
Led by five hundred holy agents, professional warriors of the Ecclesiarchy, they joined Nolan's command one after another. Each group arrived with zealot's fire in their eyes, eager to prove their faith through violence, ready to die for the Emperor without hesitation.
At this moment, Nolan stood at the entrance of the central nest.
He wore his Six-Armed Iron Cavalry Terminator, the green ceramite gleaming under harsh work lights. Beside him, David stood in his Blood Angels power armor, the regimental banner held high, colors bright against the industrial gray.
Nolan glanced back at the fanatical believers behind him.
Hundreds of them, packed into the corridor, armed with whatever weapons they could carry. Chainswords and flamers and improvised clubs. Their faces showed religious ecstasy mixed with combat anticipation. They would follow him into hell itself if ordered.
Then he slowly put on his metal helmet.
The gesture was final, preparatory. Sealing himself into his armor, becoming something more than human, transforming into the Emperor's Angel these people needed to see. Mag-locks engaged with soft clicks. The helmet's systems came online, eyepiece lighting up with targeting data.
Accompanied by David holding the warband's flag high, Nolan advanced.
The suppression force, with Nolan at the head of the formation, slowly moved toward the newly repaired middle nest passage.
Their footfalls echoed through empty corridors. Hundreds of boots striking ferrocrete in organized cadence. The sound of an army on the march, disciplined and determined.
Soon after, the rebels responded.
They'd received news of the advancing forces through whatever communication networks still functioned in the hive. Scouts reported the numbers, the composition, the terrifying presence of Astartes leading the assault.
They launched a fierce battle with the Planetary Guard.
Las-fire streaked through passages in crimson streams. Bolter rounds exploded against makeshift barricades. Grenades detonated in enclosed spaces, shockwaves bouncing off walls. The middle nest erupted into warfare, each side trying to gain advantage through superior position and firepower.
However, Nolan and the Crusader fanatics joined the fight.
The rebel front collapsed almost instantly.
There was simply no contest. Terminator armor advancing through las-fire like it was rain, shrugging off hits that would have killed normal soldiers. The Blood Scythe cutting through barricades and bodies with equal ease. Crusaders charging with storm shields locked, power swords carving through rebel formations.
What should have been a prolonged battle ended in minutes.
David, who temporarily took over command authority of the Planetary Defense Force, coordinated the pursuit.
He mobilized attack directions through vox-channels, directing units to cut off escape routes, herding rebels into kill zones. His tactical processing was inhuman in its efficiency, seeing the battlefield from a hundred perspectives simultaneously, optimizing every decision.
Inside the middle nest, a cat-and-mouse chase began.
Rebels fled through corridors they knew intimately, using knowledge of local terrain to evade pursuit. But David's coordination was relentless, Planetary Guard units appearing in their path, cutting off exits, forcing them into smaller and smaller pockets of resistance.
It only took three days.
Seventy-two hours of continuous combat. Fighting through corridors and workshops. Clearing residential blocks and industrial facilities. The whole middle nest became a battlefield, and the suppression forces ground through it with mechanical inevitability.
The entire middle nest was completely recovered.
Every section cleared. Every rebel position destroyed. The strategic heart of the hive back under Imperial control, production lines secured, Leman Russ assembly facilities protected.
The stubborn rebels left corpses everywhere.
Bodies littered corridors in heaps. Blood pooled on floors, already drying to rust-brown stains. The air reeked of death and burned propellant. Hundreds dead, maybe thousands, the price of their betrayal paid in full.
The survivors retreated back to the lower nest.
Where both the combat environment and personnel composition were more complex. Where the toxic atmosphere would degrade equipment. Where gangs controlled entire sectors and loyalty to the Imperium was questionable at best.
They even frantically blew up the giant elevator connecting the middle nest.
The massive industrial lift that moved thousands of tons of material daily, destroyed in a series of controlled demolitions. Support cables snapped. The platform plummeted into darkness. The connection between levels severed, trying to prevent the suppression forces from continuing their pursuit.
Nolan was not worried about this.
He'd expected the move, anticipated the rebels' desperation. Destroying infrastructure was the obvious play when you were losing, trading long-term recovery for short-term tactical advantage.
He ordered David to lead technical workers from the middle nest to quickly repair the giant elevator.
Engineers and Tech-Priests descended on the wreckage, assessing damage, calculating repair timelines. With David coordinating their efforts, applying ancient knowledge and modern improvisation, the work proceeded faster than anyone expected.
Meanwhile, Nolan took action.
Wearing his Six-Armed Iron Cavalry Terminator, he approached the damaged elevator shaft alone. He stared down into the darkness below, kilometers of empty space dropping toward the lower nest. The gap was too wide to jump. Too deep to survive falling.
So he found another way.
Nolan took the giant elevator down alone, riding the partially repaired platform.
It descended through darkness, grinding against damaged guide rails, servos screaming with the strain of supporting weight they weren't yet ready to bear. The ride was rough, dangerous, the platform swaying and shuddering. Any normal human would have been terrified.
Nolan simply checked his weapons and waited.
The elevator reached the lower nest, and he stepped into darkness.
The environment hit him immediately. Toxic atmosphere thick enough to see, visibility reduced to meters. The air tasted of chemicals and decay even through his breathing filters. Emergency lumens provided scattered islands of dim light in an ocean of shadow.
And the rebels were waiting.
They'd fortified this level, prepared defenses, set up ambush positions covering the elevator. Las-fire converged on Nolan's position the moment he appeared, hundreds of weapons firing simultaneously.
But he relied on the Terminator's terrifying firepower and defensive abilities.
The refractor field caught most shots, deflecting them harmlessly. What penetrated hit ceramite steel and Uru-gold, armor designed to withstand punishment that would vaporize tanks. And Nolan returned fire with overwhelming force.
The gauss blaster atomized cover. Storm bolters chewed through positions. The Heart of the Furnace painted entire sections in plasma fire. He advanced through the rebel positions like an avatar of destruction, unstoppable and terrible.
He forcibly created a large open area for follow-up troops to enter.
Clearing a beachhead through sheer violence, killing anyone who tried to contest it, establishing a secure zone where the elevator could deposit reinforcements. Every squad that descended found space already bought with rebel blood, positions already secured by Astartes might.
The tactic bought more preparation time for everyone.
Planetary Guard units filed down the repaired elevator in organized waves, establishing defensive positions, securing the perimeter. Fanatics followed, adding their zealot fury to the growing Imperial presence. Within hours, the beachhead had become a fortress.
However, the rebels who seemed to have completely fallen into madness triggered something unexpected.
Some special changes that Nolan could not have anticipated.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The continuous roar of bolter fire echoed through the lower nest.
Storm bolters automatically controlled by servo mechanical arms continuously ejected dazzling flames. The muzzle flashes strobed in the darkness, brief moments of brilliant light that illuminated the hellish landscape. Tracer rounds drew glowing lines through toxic fog.
The flames that exploded in the air repeatedly illuminated the extremely dim space.
Each detonation was a miniature sun, casting stark shadows, revealing glimpses of the lower nest's architecture. Rusted infrastructure. Collapsed buildings. The detritus of centuries piled in mountains of industrial waste.
Nolan stood behind a broken wall, wearing his Six-Armed Iron Cavalry Terminator.
The barrier was barely adequate cover, just fragments of ferrocrete and twisted rebar. But it served its purpose, giving him a position to work from, somewhere to anchor his firing solutions.
He shot at the Whirlwind missiles rising in the distance.
The rebels had somehow acquired or salvaged Imperial artillery, multiple-launch rocket systems designed for area bombardment. They were using them to repeatedly attack the direction of the giant elevator, trying to destroy it again, trying to cut off Imperial reinforcements.
Nolan's gauss blaster tracked the missiles in flight, green beams intersecting trajectories, atomizing warheads before they could reach their targets. It was precision shooting at impossible ranges, the kind of marksmanship that only enhanced genetics and targeting systems could achieve.
Not far behind him, reinforcements adjusted to the environment.
A large number of local defense forces and fanatics who'd just entered the lower nest were adapting to the harsh conditions. They fumbled with breathing masks, filters clogging almost immediately with the toxic atmosphere. Some coughed despite the protection, lungs rejecting air that barely qualified as breathable.
They were trying to restore combat capabilities as soon as possible.
Checking weapons. Loading ammunition. Forming up into squads and fire teams. The transition from the relatively clean middle nest to this polluted hellscape required adjustment, and they worked to make it quickly.
"My Lord, the Crusaders have received an order from the Caliph Bishop."
The mechanical voice from David suddenly reached Nolan's ears through the vox-channel. The Man of Iron's tone carried subtle inflections that might have been disgust if machines could feel such things.
"They are forbidden to enter the lower nest." A pause for emphasis. "Do I need to go back and take over the command again, or... directly attack the Caliph Bishop?"
The offer was delivered matter-of-factly. David would kill a high-ranking Ecclesiarchy official if ordered, consequences be damned. The Man of Iron's loyalty to Nolan transcended any institutional allegiance.
Nolan, wearing his metal helmet, stared at the lower nest space.
It had temporarily fallen into silence after his counter-battery fire destroyed the missile launchers. The darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by scattered emergency lumens and the occasional muzzle flash from distant skirmishes.
He spoke in a low voice, his decision already made.
"David, ignore him for now! After we deal with the rebels in the lower nest, we will have plenty of time to play tricks on them."
The Caliph Bishop's power games could wait. First priority was suppressing the rebellion. Political maneuvering came second to tactical victory.
"Wait, what is that?"
Nolan's voice cut off mid-thought.
He'd noticed something abnormal in the scope of his eyepiece. Movement in the distance, approaching from deeper in the lower nest. His targeting systems highlighted it, enhancing the image, compensating for darkness and atmospheric distortion.
What he saw made his enhanced biology recoil.
A train traction head that kept emitting thick green mist.
The vehicle was massive, a industrial locomotive designed to haul cargo through the hive's vast transit network. But something was terribly wrong with it. The green mist poured from every gap in its structure, billowing out in clouds that moved wrong, too thick, too deliberate.
And it was rushing toward the direction of the giant elevator!
The locomotive was accelerating, building speed, heading straight for the Imperial beachhead with obvious hostile intent. A battering ram of metal and corruption aimed at their most critical asset.
Nolan stared at the green mist floating back and forth.
His Primarch genetics screamed warnings. The Emperor's blood in his veins reacted with visceral revulsion. Every instinct honed through Warhammer 40K simulations identified the threat immediately, recognized the signature of something that shouldn't exist.
The next second, a very ominous premonition completely occupied his entire mind!
This wasn't just a ramming attack. This was something worse. The green mist was familiar in the worst possible way. He'd seen its like before, in memories inherited from Omegon, in fragmentary knowledge from the Rangda Wars.
This was contamination. Corruption. Possibly Chaos, possibly xenos, possibly something that defied categorization entirely.
And it was seconds from reaching Imperial forces.
Nolan's reaction was instantaneous.
"Everyone! Disperse immediately! All disperse! Concentrate heavy firepower to completely blow up that train head!"
His voice erupted from the vox-speakers at maximum volume, amplified to overcome the ambient noise, carrying across the entire beachhead with desperate urgency.
"Quick, quick, quick..."
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