Chapter 2: Artillery

Tyrone Hive Primus

Qin Mo's lips curled into a faint smile as he stared at Kalon.

"Unlock a psyker's collar?" he asked. "Are you sure about that?"

Psykers were dangerous abominations.

Untrained psykers were worse—walking catastrophes, ticking time bombs waiting to detonate.

Losing control was bad enough, but the real horror was what lurked beyond reality. A psyker's soul burned like a beacon in the Warp, drawing the attention of the Four Ruinous Powers. At any moment, a whisper, a flicker of temptation, or a moment of weakness could transform them into puppets of Chaos, vessels through which the nightmares of the Immaterium could spill into realspace.

To remove a suppression collar?

That was suicide.

And yet, Kalon said it so casually.

"Worry not, mongrel," the old psyker rasped. "Your leash stays coiled. Should I loose it, you will burn bright… and brief." His pupil-less eyes gleamed with cold certainty. "Die to the cult's filth, or by my hand. Either way, you serve the Throne."

Qin Mo's gaze shifted to Kalon's staff.

A golden scepter, its tip adorned with the Imperial Aquila.

It wasn't just an old man's walking stick. It was a weapon.

"From this hour," Kalon intoned, "you labor not with hands, but with waiting. Conserve your strength… for the pyre."

Then, without another word, he turned and left.

Burr lingered for a moment, glancing at Qin Mo with an expression that was neither pity nor contempt—just calculation. Then he followed.

Qin Mo rolled his eyes and lowered his head, flipping open his journal.

It was one of the two things keeping him sane.

The first was reading his past records—memories of a life that felt more like a dream with each passing day.

The second was designing.

Weapons. Technology. Devices. Schematics filled the pages of his journal—some absurd, some plausible, all crafted with a precision that surprised even him.

He had never been a scientist. He barely understood calculus.

And yet, whenever he focused on an invention, the necessary knowledge surfaced in his mind like it had always been there.

"Maybe I've been blessed by Tzeentch," he muttered.

A joke.

The first time he had spoken that name aloud, he had immediately regretted it. This was Warhammer 40K.

You didn't say their names unless you wanted to draw their attention.

Yet… nothing had happened.

Maybe it was because "Tzeentch" was just a translated name. Maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, since there were no whispers in his head, no daemonic claws raking at his soul, he had stopped worrying about it.

Right now, his mind was fixated on one design in particular—

A Gravity Shield.

A localized gravitational distortion field that rendered physical projectiles worthless. The wearer remained unaffected, but within a two-meter radius, gravity would spike a hundredfold.

Bullets would be crushed midair.

Shells would implode before impact.

A defense that nullified conventional ballistics.

The blueprint was complete.

Now, it just needed to be built.

And Qin Mo had already thought of a hundred different ways to do it.

"Perfect."

Satisfied, he closed his journal and let his gaze drift downward, toward a puddle at the bottom of the trench.

Technically, it wasn't water—it was coolant fluid, likely from a malfunctioning lasgun, spilled by some idiot who hadn't checked his weapon properly.

The liquid reflected his face perfectly.

Qin Mo admired his own reflection for a moment, then sighed.

"Qin Mo, you're a damn genius."

But as he basked in his own brilliance, something flickered in the reflection.

Something small.

And getting bigger.

His expression froze.

"What the hell is that?"

His hand moved instinctively, reaching out to touch the puddle—

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the object shuddered.

It wasn't in the puddle.

It was above him.

"BOOM∼!"

A massive explosion erupted overhead.

Metal shards ripped through the trench, sending bodies flying. A fraction of a second later, the thunderous roar of the blast rolled through the battlefield.

....

Every soldier, every prisoner, every soul in the sector jerked upright, their heads snapping toward the source of the blast.

The frontline trench was gone.

Their minds stalled.

Until the second shell landed—

Right in the middle of their position.

The detonation was instantaneous.

Ten soldiers—men who had been eating, resting, existing—were suddenly gone. Their bodies reduced to shredded, unrecognizable gore.

A jagged metal fragment spun through the air, lodging itself in the ground at Burr's feet.

"ARTILLERY!" Burr's roar cut through the bedlam as he dove into filth.

Kalon, standing beside him, did not flinch.

Instead, he raised his staff—

And slammed it into the ground.

A purple energy field erupted around them, a shimmering barrier of psychic force.

The first two shells had been ranging shots.

Now, the real bombardment began.

The sky screamed as dozens—no, hundreds—of shells rained down like the wrath of a vengeful god.

Blinding flashes.

Deafening explosions.

Agonized screams.

The trenches disintegrated under the bombardment.

The PDF soldiers were completely unprepared—they weren't even in cover.

Not that it would've mattered.

The defenses weren't finished.

And now, they never would be.

Huddled within Kalon's psychic barrier, Burr could do nothing but watch as his men were torn apart.

"How the hell are they shelling us?!" he demanded.

This was supposed to be the rear lines. The PDF was advancing downward, pushing deeper into the hive.

For the Evolution Cultists to hit them here—

They would have to already be behind them.

Burr shivered.

Whether they had punched through the front or somehow flanked them, the result was the same—

Half the garrison was dead.

"We have to fall back!" Burr shouted. "Use your psyker powers! Order a retreat!"

"No."

Kalon's voice was cold. His hollow eyes locked onto the thickening smoke.

Something was moving within it.

Figures.

Dozens. Hundreds.

The enemy was emerging.

They weren't just shelling them.

This was a full-scale assault.

A wave of cultist soldiers charged toward the trenches, weapons raised, their frenzied screams carried by the howling wind.

Burr's blood ran cold.

A retreat now meant total collapse.

And in the Underhive, a routed force was as good as dead.

"That psyker!" Burr hissed suddenly. "That psyker! Find Qin Mo! Unlock his collar! Let him take the hit first!"

Kalon hesitated.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"It… might be our only option."

His eyes closed as his psychic senses reached out—

But he was too late.

Qin Mo had already taken a direct hit.

He wasn't dead.

But his body was riddled with shrapnel.

And if someone had thermal vision, they would see something impossible—

The heat from the explosion was flowing into him.

His flesh was absorbing it.

His wounds were closing.

But his mind, rattled by the impact, was still foggy.

Half-conscious.

Caught between wakefulness and dreams.

Qin Mo saw a vision.