Chapter 5: Personal Gravity Shield

Tyrone Hive Primus

"I thought the damn collar was broken."

Qin Mo raised his hand, a flicker of fire igniting at his fingertips before surging forth in a controlled inferno. The psy-dampening collar encasing his neck was engulfed in flame, metal glowing red-hot before crumbling into slag.

He should have felt relief. Instead, cold dread coiled in his gut.

Fighting under psychic suppression should have been impossible. No sanctioned psyker—no human—should have breached such bindings. The collar was no mere restraint; it was a Witch-Cage, designed to sever the soul's tether to the Immaterium. And yet, he had wielded fire and lightning, bent reality to his will—all while wearing it.

That shouldn't be possible.

There were only two explanations. Either his abilities didn't originate from the Warp, or the collar simply wasn't strong enough to suppress them.

A cold realization settled over him.

Had he been captured by the Imperium and thrown onto a Black Ship, he would have had his answer. The Sisters of Silence, nulls who radiated anathema to psychic energy, would have revealed the truth. If they could suppress him, then his power was psychic in nature, and the collar was merely defective. If they couldn't…

Then his abilities were something else entirely.

Qin Mo shuddered. No. He had no desire to test that theory. The Black Ships did not ferry their cargo to answers—they harvested souls for the Golden Throne, grinding them to ash in its unending hunger. No amount of curiosity was worth that risk.

"You alright?" Grey's voice cut through his thoughts.

"I'm fine." Qin Mo shook himself free of speculation, refocusing on their predicament. His gaze swept over the battered remnants of their squad. "First, we need to move. After that, we have two choices—either we take the tunnels further down to the Underhive, or we stay and keep fighting."

A heavy silence fell over the group.

They all understood what staying meant—death. The front lines were crumbling, and the rebels would be upon them soon. The Underhive was the logical escape route. But logic didn't always align with reality.

"If we try to leave…" Grey's expression darkened. "Will the friendlies guarding the tunnel exits even let us through?"

Qin Mo exhaled sharply. "The Hive is desperate for manpower, but deserters from the Underhive are likely executed as examples. That's just my assumption, though. I don't know for sure."

Doubt spread among them like a plague.

They had seen the bodies of deserters before—strung up on hive walls, left as a warning. Escape might mean survival… or a lasbolt to the skull.

Grey was the first to break the silence. He raised his hand. "I have family. If I get executed, they'll suffer for it. I have to stay."

"I'll stay too," another soldier muttered. "If I die fighting, at least my wife and daughter will get a widow's pension. If I run… they'll get nothing but shame."

"I don't have family," another spoke, his fists clenching. "I just want to kill more traitors. For the Emperor! For the Master of Mankind!"

One by one, those who chose to remain raised their hands—five in total.

The remaining thirteen stayed quiet, their silence speaking louder than words.

Qin Mo nodded. "Then go. But leave your weapons and ammunition behind. I need them."

There was a moment of hesitation, but only a moment. Then, in a gesture that had never been offered to their officers or noble commanders, the deserters saluted him in the manner of the Aquila.

He was a convict. And yet, without him, none of them would have survived long enough to make this choice.

"We'll leave our weapons," one of them said. "And our rations and water, too."

"May the Emperor watch over you, loyal warriors."

Lasguns, charge packs, and ammunition were stacked neatly. Canteens and ration packs followed. One soldier stripped off his jacket and boots, offering them to Qin Mo—his own uniform little more than bloodstained rags.

Then, without another word, the thirteen turned and walked away, casting glances back with every step.

Six remained.

"What now?" Grey asked, his voice quieter now that their numbers had thinned. "Do we go hunting for rebels, or do we hold this position?"

"Staying put isn't an option," Qin Mo replied. "The explosion that saved us was likely caused by friendly forces. We need to find them and link up."

He dropped to the ground, crossing his legs as he dismantled a lasgun with swift, practiced motions. "But first, I need to build something."

Grey frowned, watching as Qin Mo stripped the weapon down to its electronic components. His fingers, still smoldering with residual flame, melted the casing with precise heat.

The others gathered around, equally bewildered.

"Don't just stand there," Qin Mo ordered. "Two of you, keep watch. The rest, gather every scrap of metal and electronics you can find."

"Yes, sir."

Grey nodded, signaling another soldier to join him on lookout while the rest scoured the battlefield for salvage.

...

Thirty minutes later

A pile of disassembled weapons, scavenged electronics, and jagged scrap metal lay before Qin Mo.

"Did you guys seriously take apart Captain Burr's Chimera?" he asked without looking up.

"Yes," one soldier admitted. "I wanted to fix it, but the engine had three claw marks gouged through the core."

"Then it's junk," Qin Mo muttered, already engrossed in his work.

The others watched in fascination as he molded steel with his bare hands. The metal softened as if it had turned to clay, shifting under his will before cooling into new shapes.

Two thin rods hovered beside him, held aloft by an unseen force, acting as precise tools for fine adjustments.

Stripped wires twisted and reconnected seamlessly, circuits repairing themselves in a process that seemed almost unnatural.

Piece by piece, a backpack-like device took shape.

Grey finally broke the silence. "What the hell is that? A backpack?"

"Put it on."

Grey hesitated before slipping the device over his shoulders. He staggered under the sudden weight. "Holy shit—this thing is heavy!"

Qin Mo smirked. "It's a personal gravity shield. It'll stop solid projectiles."

Grey stared at him. "A what?"

Instead of answering, Qin Mo casually flicked a grenade toward him.

Grey barely had time to register what was happening before the pin popped free.

"Get down!" someone shouted.

Everyone except Qin Mo hit the dirt.

The grenade detonated. Shrapnel exploded outward—only to slam into the ground as if crushed by an invisible hand.

Slowly, the soldiers lifted their heads. A pile of twisted metal shards lay harmlessly around Grey's feet.

"As you can see, it protects against kinetic attacks," Qin Mo said, completely unfazed. "It runs on lasgun charge packs—each one gives you about ten minutes of protection."

There was no pride in his voice. No boast. He spoke as if crafting a personal gravity shield was nothing more than an idle pastime.

Grey took a deep breath. "And what about lasguns?"

"A lasbolt will burn straight through you and the shield," Qin Mo admitted. "But most of the rebels are using scavenged solid-projectile firearms."

"Stopping bullets is good enough," Grey muttered, still shaken.

"In war, better gear is never just 'good enough,'" Qin Mo corrected, already working on the next shield. "Now, send out scouts. Find any surviving friendlies. If we locate them, we move immediately."

The soldiers snapped to attention, their hesitation gone.

Qin Mo worked. The shield hummed.

War a waited.