As Creed continued his careful probing of Klein, asking questions that sounded idle and harmless while weighing every answer like a field report, the battle outside had already reached its inevitable conclusion.
The enemy had been broken. Their organized formations had collapsed first, then their fallback points, then the scattered pockets of resistance hiding in maintenance shafts, manufactorum ruins, and the rusted service arteries of Tyrone Hive. By nightfall, the last of them were being hunted down by patrols, drones, and exhausted infantry who no longer needed orders to know what had to be done.
By nightfall, the war was over.
Only then did Creed leave the command post.
The hololithic displays behind him still glowed with fading tactical marks: cleared districts, casualty zones, ammunition routes, and the cold green sigils of units that had survived. For most officers, leaving such a chamber after victory would have brought relief. For Creed, it only shifted the weight from one shoulder to the other. He had spent the day learning too much, noticing too much, and pretending to know less than he did.
He returned to the barracks assigned to the Cadians, a reinforced hab-section that had been cleaned, sealed, and stocked far better than most Imperial billets deserved. His comrades had gathered there as they always did after battle, not for celebration in any soft sense, but for the hard ritual of soldiers confirming who had lived, who had bled, and who had earned the right to complain.
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 few men chuckled. The officer did not.
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 did not answer at once. The question was fair, and that made it harder to dismiss. He had seen things in Tyrone Hive that no Munitorum briefing could explain: armor issued like lasguns, machines that obeyed without priests, logistics that worked faster than corruption could sabotage it, and weapons that looked too clean to have passed through the hands of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
But he had also seen clean water distributed without bribes. He had seen wounded men evacuated before clerks finished deciding whether they were worth saving. He had seen commanders speak plainly to soldiers instead of hiding behind ceremony.
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."
He meant the word. Mostly.
Just as the conversation ended, the door creaked open.
A local Underhive soldier stood at the entrance, offering an Aquila salute.
His uniform was new enough that the seams still looked stiff, but the man wearing it had the face of someone who had spent years breathing sump-air before anyone gave him a clean collar. He stood straight, boots together, rifle slung precisely, trying not to stare too long at the Cadians.
"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'?" Creed repeated.
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.
"Two understrength, disorganized regiments," an older sergeant corrected without looking up from the power pack he was cleaning. "Don't make it sound heroic when it was mostly tight corridors, bad enemy coordination, and Cadian marksmanship."
The White Shield's grin only widened. "So, heroic."
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, and they're expected to solve problems without waiting for six layers of staff officers to approve breathing."
"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 could have pressed the matter. He could have reminded them that accepting gifts from a local warlord with questionable technology was exactly the sort of thing that turned into an Inquisitorial investigation. He could have asked how many of them had already tried to inspect the armor's power systems, or whether any had considered that the Mechanicus would call half the designs sacrilege.
Instead, he looked around the room.
The men were alive. They were laughing. Some had blood drying at their collars, scorch marks on their armor, and the flat-eyed look of soldiers who had spent hours killing in darkness. But they were alive, and for Cadians, that was enough reason to speak lightly for a while.
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 amid 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, churned mud, and burning flesh.
Though asleep, he was at war.
Not in Tyrone Hive.
Home.
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.
Bastion lines gone silent. Kasr after kasr burning. Vox-channels collapsing beneath panic, static, prayers, and orders that arrived too late to matter.
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. It blotted out the bruised sky. Its shadow rolled across trenches, fortresses, gun lines, and the faces of soldiers who had never learned how to retreat.
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.
For several seconds he did not know where he was. His hand searched for a sidearm that was not under his pillow. His eyes found the ceiling instead of the sky. The air tasted of filtered metal, not Cadian dust. The distant rumble was machinery, not orbital bombardment.
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 feared 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.
The words steadied him more than any prayer could have.
But sleep refused to return.
After a few futile minutes, he gave up pretending.
So he stepped outside, onto the fortress rooftop, lighting a lho-stick with a flint-spark, and leaned against the railing.
The night above Tyrone Hive was not truly night. The Underhive never knew honest darkness or honest dawn. Far above, industrial light bled through layers of haze. Below, streets and transit platforms glowed with lumen-strips, patrol beacons, drone markers, and the slow movement of thousands of people who had survived long enough to mourn.
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.
The containers were large, plain, and marked not by noble heraldry but by regimental numbers, district names, and casualty codes. Men carried them on grav-sleds and armored pallets. Women walked beside them with bowed heads. Children held small lumen-candles in both hands, the glow trembling against their faces. No one wailed. The grief was too large for that. It moved through the streets in silence, disciplined because collapse would dishonor the dead and endanger the living.
If there was anywhere better to observe the ceremony, it would be atop the towering hive spires, home to tens of thousands.
But the spires had never belonged to most of the people in that procession. Their dead had come from trenches, manufactoria, collapsed hab-blocks, underhive settlements, and fortresses built from ruin. Watching from above would have felt wrong. From this roof, close enough to hear boots on metal and the muted hum of grav-engines, the loss remained human.
"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."
The admission came without drama. That made it heavier. Qin Mo did not lower his head, did not gesture, did not perform grief for an audience. He simply watched the dead pass below him with the stillness of a man forcing himself to look at the cost of his own decisions.
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.
That, more than the strange weapons, unsettled Creed. Any warlord could build a throne from fear. Any noble could demand obedience. Any commander could send men to die and call it necessity. Qin Mo had done something rarer and far more dangerous: he had given common people proof that life did not have to be filth, hunger, and orders from above.
"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."
He did not offer it lightly. Cadian doctrine was not a trinket to be handed away. It had been paid for in centuries of war against horrors most worlds only knew from sermons. But Creed had watched Qin Mo's forces fight with courage, equipment, and terrible adaptability while still lacking the deep institutional habits that made an army endure after its first commander died.
If Qin Mo intended to build something lasting, he needed more than weapons. He needed officers who could think, adapt, preserve morale, maintain supply, and keep fighting when the first plan failed.
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. Possibly very 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.
Not blindly. Creed did not do blind trust. But he had trusted them enough to listen. Enough to advise. Enough to stand in their command post and help guide their battle while telling himself it was only temporary.
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. Power armor for his comrades would have been more than enough. A practical man accepted useful payment and did not ask for trouble.
But the dream still clung to him. Cadia burning. Cadia breaking. The black shape descending. The helpless certainty that even the strongest fortress world in the Imperium could one day face a darkness too vast to endure alone.
Facing Qin Mo's calm gaze, Creed asked, "What do you intend to make of the Talon System?"
"A fortress system for now," 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. For a heartbeat, the answer sounded wrong. Too broad. Too clean. Too unwilling to bend knee before the words every Imperial soldier was trained to speak without hesitation.
Then Creed looked down at the procession again. Men, women, soldiers, laborers, children. Humanity, in all its stubbornness and frailty, carrying its dead through a city that should have devoured them. Mankind was the Emperor's charge. Perhaps, for now, that 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?"
For once, Qin Mo did not answer immediately. Not because he doubted the answer, but because the request struck a place in him that Creed could not see.
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. Because Cadia mattered.
Because a fortress world standing against the Eye of Terror was not merely an Imperial symbol, but a strategic anchor in a galaxy drowning in madness. Because letting it die would be stupid.
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.
The words settled between them like an oath hammered into steel. No parchment. No seal. No priest. No witness except a dying city's night air and the dead passing below. Somehow, that made it feel more binding.
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.
Creed looked away first, toward the distant ceiling of the hive where no stars could be seen. He imagined Cadia beyond it. He imagined the Eye burning in the void. He imagined a message crossing impossible distances, carrying only four words.
Cadia calls for aid.
And somewhere, if this promise held, Talon would answer.
But before he could press for answers, Qin Mo turned and disappeared into the shadows of the fortress.
He ended the conversation.