Deep within the festering depths of Tyrone Hive, in the suffocating gloom of the Underhive, war raged.
The lowest, most wretched levels of the vast hive city had long been a lawless expanse of filth and anarchy, where life was measured in bullets and brutality. But now, amidst the decay and the echoing howls of violence, an organized battlefront had emerged.
At the only passageway connecting the Underhive to the lower Hive, a heavily fortified position had been established. The Planetary Defense Force (PDF) held the line here, manned by the weary soldiers of the 44th Infantry Regiment, commanded by Captain Burr.
“Filth-licking dregs!” he bellowed, “While true soldiers bleed in the Emperor’s name against that Evolutionist rot, you grovel like hive-scum! Move!”
"Get moving! Build the supply points, reinforce the defenses, or I’ll make sure you feel the lash!"
"Faster, faster! We don’t have time to waste!"
Burr’s furious roars echoed across the entrenchments, his voice cutting through the ceaseless clang of industry and war. Infantry soldiers crouched in trenches carved from the very bones of the hive—ancient, rusted metal laced with the grime of centuries. Some shoveled rations into their mouths, others lay sprawled against crude barricades, grabbing what rest they could before the next inevitable call to battle.
But Burr wasn’t shouting at his soldiers.
He was shouting at the prisoners.
Among them was Qin Mo.
His shirt had long since been reduced to tattered rags, exposing a body marked with strange, metallic-looking black etchings. Not tattoos. Not scars. Something else. Something unnatural.
Around his neck hung a psyker suppression collar, its surface engraved with a simple but ominous designation:
Unlike the others, his collar wasn’t merely a shackle—it was a cage for the mind, a leash for an untrained psyker.
A hunched figure approached Burr, bowing his head in respect. The motion was deliberate, accompanied by the rigid form of the Aquila salute—an act of deference to the Imperium, though it carried the air of a ritual long stripped of sincerity.
“My lord captain…” The voice was a dry whisper, like parchment dragged across stone.
Burr turned, eyes narrowing. "Kalon."
The sanctioned psyker’s presence was a necessary blasphemy.
Even in the filth of the Underhive, Kalon’s presence carried weight. His robes, once the deep violet of the Scholastica Psykana, now hung in tattered ruin, the hexagrammic wards embroidered upon them frayed and faded.
His face was a ruined landscape of scars, his milky-white eyes—pupil-less, lidless—a testament to decades of sanctioned service to the Imperium.
One who had survived long enough to be granted use within the regiment.
"You decrepit old bastard," Burr sneered. "Always interrupting me. This had better be important."
Qin Mo lifted his head slightly, watching the exchange with quiet interest.
A sanctioned psyker serving as a mere officer’s aide? That was rare.
There was history here—something unsaid. Kalon had interrupted Burr countless times, yet the captain never lashed out in true anger.
"They are exhausted," Kalon said simply, his milky-white gaze sweeping over the convicts. "We need them alive. I suggest letting them rest."
For a moment, Burr hesitated.
No one could lie in front of Kalon. If he said they were at their limit, he had already reached into their minds to confirm it.
After a brief pause, Burr exhaled sharply. "Fine."
A reluctant squad of PDF logistics soldiers soon arrived, tossing rations to the convicts with visible disdain.
"444. Your rations. The Emperor provides."
Qin Mo caught the nutrient block, inspecting it with indifference. A standard military issue, superior to the starch-based substitutes fed to lower-hive laborers. Not out of generosity, of course—simply because it was easier to distribute a single type of ration across the PDF forces and their expendable labor.
He peeled open the packaging, revealing a dull, white cube.
It tasted worse than wax.
A rancid, protein-heavy stench flooded his senses, the texture dissolving into a dry, chalky paste the moment it touched his tongue. It was less food, more nutritional punishment—engineered for efficiency, not palatability.
Instinct demanded that he gag, but he fought it down. Breathing too sharply would send the powder into his lungs, and that would be far worse than enduring the foul taste.
He forced the meal down, wiped his mouth, and retrieved a small, battered object from his pocket.
It was worn and frayed, its pages yellowed with grime. As he flipped through it, faint traces of ink and graphite peeked through the filth—memories scrawled in uneven handwriting.
This was more than a diary.
Within these pages were the fragments of another life. His life. Before this nightmare. Before this hellhole of steel and suffering. Before Warhammer 40K.
Names. Faces. Moments.
“I, Qin Mo, used to do this and that.”
“My family and friends were so-and-so.”
“When I was a kid, I experienced this.”
“I liked playing this game, listening to that song.”
Mundane, ordinary things.
And yet, as Qin Mo sat in that grimy trench, surrounded by the filth and decay of the Underhive, reading his own words...
He didn’t notice Burr and Kalon approaching.
They stopped before him. Burr glanced at Kalon. The old psyker gave no signal, yet something unspoken passed between them.
With a shift of his weight, Burr let the chainsword at his hip swing forward—
Smacking Qin Mo on the head.
"Ha!" Burr barked out a laugh. "Still awake, 444?"
Qin Mo looked up, eyes black as the void.
For a single, fleeting moment, Burr saw something in them—something vast, something ancient, something that did not belong in a mere prisoner.
A cold sweat threatened to form at the back of his neck.
Then the moment passed.
"Psykers," Burr muttered. "Always so dramatic."
Kalon, meanwhile, raised a hand.
Qin Mo’s journal floated into the air, hovering toward Kalon’s waiting palm. The old psyker turned the pages, eyes scanning their contents.
Burr smirked. "What’s he got in there? Weird psyker hallucinations?"
Kalon didn’t answer immediately. He studied the text, brow furrowing. Then, finally, he closed the journal and handed it back.
Burr frowned. "What?"
"It’s not in Gothic. The structure is strange... foreign. But it is not the scrawl of a corrupted psyker." Kalon turned to Qin Mo, his gaze unreadable. "You may be an untrained psyker, but you are still sane."
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, Kalon spoke again.
"Prisoner No. 444," he said. "Why were you arrested?"
"A noble mistook me for prey during a hunt in the lower hive," he said. "So I burned him to a crisp."
Kalon’s psychic probe drifted toward Qin Mo’s mind—only to meet nothing.
Burr frowned. "Well? Is he lying?"
Kalon exhaled. "I don’t know. I can’t get inside his head."
Burr scoffed. "Doesn’t matter. We need manpower."
Qin Mo’s eyes narrowed slightly.
He knew they wanted something from him.
Kalon confirmed it a moment later.
"We need your combat abilities," the old psyker said. "The key to your suppression collar is in my hands."
His next words sent a chill through the air.
"When the time comes... I will unlock it."