Chapter 1: Prisoner 444

On the world of Hive Primus, deep within the ancient labyrinth of its largest and oldest hive spire, a war was raging. In the depths of the underhive, at the only passage leading further down into the lower hive, the Planetary Defense Force had established a fortified position. Stationed here were the soldiers of the 44th Infantry Regiment, commanded by their grizzled officer, Captain Bohr.

"You worthless scum! Our forces at the front are battling the Cult of Evolution, and you're lazing around!" Bohr's voice thundered over the trenches. "Move faster, build those supply posts and fortifications! Or you'll feel the bite of my lash! Faster! Move it! We haven't got all day!"

The soldiers, hunkered down in trenches cut from the metallic ground, either eating or resting, showed no sign of defiance. But Bohr's harsh commands weren't directed at them. His rage was aimed elsewhere—toward a group of prisoners laboring nearby.

These prisoners, ragged and exhausted, moved mechanically under the weight of their fatigue, pouring concrete and hauling crates under the constant barrage of insults. Among them was Qin Mo. His tattered shirt had long been reduced to little more than rags, exposing strange black markings that snaked across his torso. These markings resembled tattoos but gleamed eerily, like metal embedded in flesh. Around his neck was a collar, marked with a simple tag: "Prisoner 444."

Unlike the others, Qin Mo's collar was no ordinary restraint; it was a psychic suppressor, a clear sign that he was an untrained psyker.

"We…" he began, but before he could finish, a voice cut through the air.

"Master."

An elderly man, leaning heavily on a staff, approached Bohr and bowed deeply, performing the Aquila salute with unwavering respect.

"Caron," Bohr sneered, looking down at his psyker servant. "You old wretch, always interrupting me. You'd better have a good reason this time."

At this, Qin Mo glanced up. A psyker servant was a rare sight, and it was clear from the exchange that the two shared a long and complex history. Despite Bohr's contempt, Caron had interrupted him countless times without punishment.

"They are exhausted," Caron said quietly, his sunken eyes scanning the prisoners. "We'll need them as cannon fodder soon enough. I suggest letting them rest."

Bohr raised an eyebrow, studying Caron for a moment before turning his gaze back to Qin Mo. It was impossible to lie to Caron, for the old psyker could sense the truth with his abilities. If he said the prisoners were at their limit, it was undoubtedly so. After a brief pause, Bohr nodded, begrudgingly granting the reprieve.

Reluctantly, a squad of supply soldiers moved forward, distributing food and water to the prisoners.

"Prisoner 444, your rations."

Qin Mo accepted the military ration pack and glanced inside. It was a locally made ration unique to Hive Primus, of higher quality than mere starch. In matters of food, there was no differentiation between prisoner and soldier—not out of fairness, but out of necessity. There simply wasn't the capacity for preferential treatment.

Opening the box, Qin Mo saw a square, white block that resembled a candle. It looked like a candle. But as soon as he took a bite, he realized it tasted worse than one. The solid mass turned to powder in his mouth, carrying with it a rancid, protein-rich stench that clung to his throat. The temptation to cough was overwhelming, but he had to suppress it, knowing that inhaling sharply would send the powder straight into his lungs.

Swallowing down the vile substance, Qin Mo discarded the empty box and pulled a battered notebook from his pocket, flipping through its worn pages. The journal chronicled everything that had happened to him since he had been transported to the grimdark universe of Warhammer. It also held memories of his previous life, the happiness and sorrow he had known before this cruel world. Qin Mo was terrified of forgetting those moments, as they were his only solace, the fragile thread keeping him from unraveling.

The entries were simple, a mundane record of life before. Things like what he did, who his family and friends were, the games he enjoyed, the music he listened to. It was a snapshot of life in the Terra of the 30th millennium, an ordinary life that now seemed so far away.

These small, ordinary recollections allowed Qin Mo to smile, even here, in the filthy trench. He was so engrossed in his memories that he didn't notice Bohr and Caron approaching.

"..."

Bohr halted in front of Qin Mo, casting a sideways glance at Caron. Without a word, Caron returned the look. The two seemed to communicate without speaking, understanding each other with a simple glance. Bohr shifted his stance, the chainsword at his hip swaying with the movement. With a deliberate motion, he let the weapon knock against Qin Mo's head.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" Bohr laughed, enjoying the startled reaction. But when Qin Mo lifted his head and stared at him, Bohr saw something in those deep black eyes—hatred, rage, and something far more ancient, something that should not be.

For a fleeting moment, Bohr imagined he wasn't looking at a prisoner, but at some primordial horror from the void between the stars.

"Psykers. They're all the same," Bohr muttered, forcing a laugh to break the tension before turning to Caron.

Caron, meanwhile, raised a hand, and the notebook floated from Qin Mo's grasp, hovering before him as he skimmed through its pages.

"What's written in there? Some psyker hallucinations or something?" Bohr asked, his voice laced with derision.

Caron shook his head. "I can't understand it."

The text wasn't in Gothic, but rather a strange, unfamiliar language, its structure bizarre. It wasn't madness though—at least not the kind one would expect from a corrupted psyker, scrawling gibberish as their mind fell apart.

"Prisoner 444," Caron said, returning the notebook to Qin Mo. "What crime brought you here?"

"I was hunted by a noble from the lower hive, so I killed him. Burned him to a crisp."

Caron fell silent, his hollow eyes boring into Qin Mo as he reached out with his mind, probing the psyker's thoughts.

Bohr grew impatient and asked, "Is he telling the truth?"

"I don't know," Caron replied. "I can't get into his mind."

"Doesn't matter. We need him," Bohr said hurriedly.

Qin Mo, still unsure why they had approached him at all, remained quiet. But Caron soon gave him an answer: "We need your combat abilities. The key to that psyker collar around your neck is in my possession. When the time comes, I'll unlock it."