Hearing the officer’s resolute response, Qin Mo nodded in satisfaction.
He turned, preparing to lead Grey and the others toward the next battlefield when—
A single soldier stepped forward, his hands trembling, his face pale but defiant.
Qin Mo slowly turned his head, his expression unreadable behind the warplate.
The soldier hesitated. But then, with gritted teeth, he forced out the question that haunted them all.
“Does holding the line here actually mean anything?”
They had all thought it.
This fool had merely been brave—or desperate—enough to voice it.
After all, the original offensive plan was in ruins.
The men still manning the trenches weren’t staying out of courage or loyalty.
They simply had nowhere else to go.
“The longer you hold this position, the more time I have to assess the situation on the other fronts.
Then, I will regroup all remaining forces, we will purge the underhive of heretics, and we will march out of here victorious.”
On the surface, a sound strategy.
But even the most optimistic fool could tell the latter half of his statement was a lie.
No one truly believed they would all leave the underhive alive.
But what other choice did they have? Hope was the only currency left.
Muttering rippled through the trenches.
“How the hell did we end up in this mess…?”
“Who came up with this offensive plan? Were we just pawns in some nobles’ schemes up in the spire?”
Resentment was building.
The officers noticed—their hands instinctively went for their sidearms.
The standard Imperial response to insubordination: execution.
But before they could draw, Qin Mo raised a hand.
He simply stood there, watching. Silent. Unmoved.
He understood something they did not—men were not servitors.
Carbon-based lifeforms had limits.
These soldiers were at the breaking point. If force was used now, they would shatter completely.
They weren’t refusing to hold the line. They were cursing the incompetence of High Command. The idiocy of the hive’s ruling class.
They were just venting.
As the outbursts died down, Qin Mo finally spoke.
“Are you done whining?”
The trench fell silent.
Cold eyes swept over them.
“Then get back to the fortress and fortify your defenses.”
“Even if our chances of cutting our way out of the underhive and kicking the Governor’s teeth in are less than one in a thousand… we have to try.”
No rousing speeches. No false promises.
Just one undeniable truth:
The soldiers didn’t cheer.
They trudged back toward the fortress.
Their faces were ashen, hollow.
Yet somewhere, deep within, they still clung to the faintest hope—that they might survive.
That one day, they would settle the score.
The officers exchanged grateful glances with Qin Mo before following their men inside.
With that settled, he and Grey moved out.
Amid the ruins of a collapsed hab-block, a small squad had taken refuge in one of the few intact structures.
But Qin Mo wasn’t resting.
He was using his flames to recharge power cells.
Grey, likewise, remained awake, deploying drones to scout the next defensive position.
"Are you sure there’s supposed to be an outpost here?"
Grey’s helmet tilted slightly as he examined the empty landscape.
"Why wouldn’t there be?" Qin Mo replied without looking up.
"Because it doesn’t exist."
"I’ve scanned this area multiple times. Nothing."
He had used the drones’ bio-signature scanners over and over, sweeping different locations—but the designated outpost simply wasn’t there.
The underhive was an endless expanse of darkness. Searching with visual feeds alone would take forever.
Qin Mo paused his work, finally looking up.
“Switch to thermal imaging.”
Qin Mo didn’t even glance at him.
"I installed voice recognition in the armor precisely so people like you wouldn’t fumble with controls."
“Fine. Fine. Thermal imaging mode.”
The drones made another pass.
This time, they found it.
The missing outpost was right where the map indicated—deep in the heart of an old gang stronghold.
“Four regiments stationed here, huh?”
Through the drones’ feed, Grey observed the scene.
No desperate last stand.
Soldiers were reinforcing fortifications, setting up kill-zones, strengthening defenses.
Qin Mo stood and started walking toward the outpost.
“Aren’t we bringing the others?”
Qin Mo didn’t answer.
Grey glanced back at their resting comrades… then at the sentry drones hovering overhead.
Satisfied they were safe, he followed.
The outpost was a large plaza surrounded by towering hive spires.
Once, this had been a black market. A hub of illicit trade, smuggling, and human misery.
Now, it was a fortified bastion of the Planetary Defense Force.
The defenders barely looked up when Qin Mo and Grey landed.
The moment they saw power armor, they lost interest.
There was work to be done.
Civilians were among them.
Yet they helped—hauling heavy weapons, reinforcing barricades, mending armor.
This was not a broken army.
This was a disciplined force, well-prepared and unwavering.
Grey nudged Qin Mo, gesturing to their left.
Two soldiers were tending to a civilian who had lost both legs.
One held a bowl of food.
The other, a canteen.
Everything was methodical. Efficient.
A female officer hurried toward them, excitement in her eyes.
"Are… are you part of the Lord Marshal’s bodyguard?" she asked eagerly.
"No, we’re just regular soldiers. Not part of the Lord Marshal’s retinue." Grey replied.
The woman’s face visibly fell. "I thought the Lord Marshal had sent his forces. I thought… we were saved…"
She hesitated, then asked, "Are you here seeking refuge? Regardless, we need more hands. You’re welcome to join us."
Grey turned to Qin Mo, expecting an answer.
But Qin Mo didn’t respond.
His gaze swept across the outpost, and something within him twisted.
An overwhelming revulsion.
Like a man with severe OCD stepping into a filth-ridden latrine.
“…I want to build an incendiary bomb.”
His voice was tight. Teeth grinding.
“Big enough to burn this entire cesspit to the ground.”
An unprovoked, irrational desire for destruction?
Only one thing could explain that.
“I AM NOT OUT OF CONTROL!”
Flames licked at the seams of his armor.
His faceplate glowed white-hot.
Molten slag dripped from his helmet.
Grey’s blood ran cold.
This wasn’t normal overheating.
He was about to unleash fire.
There was no enemy in sight.
“This place… is lost…”
Qin Mo’s voice crackled with heat.
Flames spat from his mouth.
His gauntlet rose—finger leveled at the officer in front of them.
“…She’s one of them.”
His voice was an inferno.