Mining. Extraction. Day after day. Labour until exhaustion, then the workers from the previous shift replace the weary.
On Nostramo, a labour hell, no one regards them as human. These wretches are merely the chattel of the noble lords who dwell in the spires — expendable resources.
Compare them to the serfs of M1. At least those bondsmen had sunlight, clean air, and food enough to barely sustain them.
By M30, such things had become impossibilities. The underhive born had never seen the sun; their lungs had adapted to the toxic industrial runoff. As for food... corpse-starch was considered a delicacy. Most underhive workers subsisted on one full meal every several days, their stomachs cramping around emptiness.
Nyx, walking among these labourers, made no effort to conceal himself. Their presence stirred no commotion — the majority of workers lacked the time or energy to waste on strangers.
Every swing of the pickaxe was a struggle for the meagre rations that might, just barely, fill their bellies that night.
Throughout the entire mining sector, only a handful of youths — newly inducted into the underhive's machinery — still harboured a flicker of hope in their eyes. They craved the fullness and warmth of men like Nyx; they yearned to escape this interminable labour.
"Space King above. I truly do not comprehend why this world's governor squanders such precious human resources." Chestnut gazed upon these impoverished souls, his heart a tempest of conflicting emotions.
"These men should have been chosen as your warriors."
"Ah. This is precisely why the Space King sought to unite the galaxy." Blazing Hatredexplained to Chestnut, his countenance reverent.
"In every lost human world, there are always oppressors. The Space King can liberate them all." The Hate-marines believed, with absolute conviction, that Nyx could deliver salvation to these people.
Nyx: I... I can?
Born of an era of peace, Nyx had never experienced such oppression — yet he loathed it with every fibre of his being.
Nyx knew that five men alone could not overturn this entrenched order. Outsiders could scarcely ignite a worker's uprising — even for a Primarch, whose very presence commanded awe. Yet within Nyx's heart, a voice insisted that he could not stand idle and do nothing.
Crack!
The sharp report of a las-whip echoed through the tunnels. Again and again, it struck a collapsed labourer. From his motionless state, it was evident the man had succumbed to exhaustion — even the whip's bite drew no response from his broken body.
"Stop!"
Nyx's voice detonated through the mine tunnel like thunder. Every worker still gripping a pickaxe froze, turning their hollow, empty gazes towards the source of the sound.
"You... what do you think you're doing? This is Iron Fist territory. You're not... you wouldn't dare..." The overseer, shaken by Nyx's roar, struggled to compose himself. Yet, confronted by a Primarch in full, dreadful majesty, his legs had already begun to betray him.
"He's dead..."
The labourer on the ground had ceased breathing the moment he fell. Nyx knew this all too well.
Foolish.
From the shadows, a gaunt figure offered this single, silent verdict upon his brother.
In his eyes, it was the height of idiocy to court unnecessary trouble over a corpse — such deaths occurred every minute in the Nostraman mines. Interceding for the dead was nothing but hollow performative sentiment, changing nothing.
Countless numb, glazed eyes fixed upon Nyx. He ignored them all. With heavy, deliberate steps, he approached the overseer. Beneath the man's terror-stricken gaze, Nyx seized the whip — that symbol of authority — and tore it asunder before his very eyes.
"Rest now."
Bending low, Nyx closed the old miner's eyes, his expression utterly devoid of emotion. He knew this was reckless. Futile. But the soul of the 2nd Millennium could not stand idly by in the face of such oppression.
A voice within his heart reminded him: indifference today breeds only stagnation tomorrow.
As his will crystallised, a golden aura bloomed behind Nyx's head — a radiance of warmth that none present had ever experienced.
"A... a miracle?!"
A young worker whispered under his breath. Never had he so craved this light. Born of the underhive, his cognitive horizons were narrow — he could scarcely articulate notions of a future, let alone hope. Yet, in this moment, a single thought took root in the young man's breast: he wanted to follow Nyx.
The influence of this aura continued to expand. This power was akin to the Emperor descending in humanity's darkest hour — men looked upon Him and, of their own accord, loved Him, followed Him. And now, Nyx was manifesting this very quality.
As the light shone, the numbness upon the old miner's face gradually softened. The flame long extinguished in the young miner's heart rekindled. All of them gazed upon the adolescent before them, yearning for him to grant them new purpose.
"I am Carlyle Nyx. Here, I will forge an army of rebellion."
"I will compel no one to join me. But if you wish to live as human beings — fed, clothed...warm..."
"Then follow me!"
With these words, Nyx hoisted the old worker's body upon his shoulders and strode from the mine without a backward glance.
"Hah... heh! Who in this hellhole would join your little rebellion?! March against the spire nobility with their endless arms and ammunition?!"
The overseer's body still trembled, yet he forced a mocking laugh at Nyx's audacity. His words struck the hearts of the assembled workers like a hammer-blow, causing those who had been ready to move to hesitate.
It seems no one wishes to join you, my naive brother. The figure in the shadows sighed at his brother's childishness. Only fear, purchased with savage punishment, can truly compel men to submission.
If it were me, I would make an example of this overseer — the most brutal death imaginable — and force every worker here to kneel.
"I... I'll join!"
A young worker shattered the silence. He cast aside his iron pick and hurried after Nyx without hesitation.
The first declaration swiftly drew others. Most were moved by herd instinct — yet, upon reflection, what did these workers truly have to lose? Either way, better to leave the mine, to glimpse the world outside before death claimed them.
The throng swelled. Within moments, hundreds had gathered behind Nyx — and he had not yet even exited the tunnel. Old and young alike, their eyes now bore a faint, nascent light.
How can this be?!
Such a thing was inconceivable. The young figure lurking in shadow preferred to believe it was some psychic trick — that Nyx had befuddled these men with Warp-craft.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that a company this size would attract only encirclement and suppression from the hive's enforcers and syndicates. Nyx's sentimental decisions would ultimately bring ruin upon these people.