Chapter 6: The Rebel Psyker

Tyrone Hive Primus

After Grey and another soldier left to scout, the remaining troops either continued to watch Qin Mo perform his "technomantic sorcery" or sifted through the battlefield for anything useful.

As it turned out, their initial scavenging had been far too cursory. Many valuable items had been overlooked.

One such find was the power armor worn by Captain Burr's bodyguards.

At first glance, the suits had been so thoroughly torn apart that they were indistinguishable from scrap. That was why they had initially been dismissed.

"Captain Burr is missing, but all of his guards are dead. I found the only suit that's still somewhat intact," one soldier reported as he and another dragged half of a shattered power armor set toward Qin Mo, dropping it before him.

"Should we look for Burr?" someone asked.

Qin Mo shook his head, patting the chainsword strapped to his waist. "No need. I have his weapon. He's probably just another shredded corpse on the battlefield by now—only the Emperor knows where he ended up."

Without another word, he turned his full attention to the ruined armor at his feet.

The moment his eyes fell upon it, his mind unraveled its schematics and inner workings. The Rikarn-1 model—one of the few notable exports of the Talon Sector, aside from its population and psy-suppression collars.

Handcrafted by the artisan clans of the Hive World's Spire, it was exorbitantly expensive yet arguably the worst power armor available to the average human in the Imperium.

"Can you replicate it?"

The question came from one of the soldiers, but all eyes were already fixed on Qin Mo, waiting for his answer.

Even if Rikarn armor was subpar, it was still power armor.

Qin Mo didn't respond immediately. His gaze remained locked onto the suit, his mind deconstructing its every flaw.

To him, its so-called "secret craftsmanship" was laughably simple. Not only could he replicate it—he could improve it.

But something else held his attention.

The damage.

The armor hadn't been breached by bullets or lasfire. It had been ripped apart.

The chest plate—meant to shield the heart with a 20mm-thick alloy—had been shredded as if it were little more than parchment.

Only one thing could do that.

A purestrain Genestealer had been in this battle.

Qin Mo's stomach tightened. The purer the bloodline, the stronger the Genestealer.

Shredding human power armor was one thing. A purestrain could tear apart Terminator armor—the ceramite-clad shells worn by the Imperium's elite Space Marines—with terrifying ease.

They weren't just fighting rebels. They were fighting something far worse.

Qin Mo exhaled sharply and looked up at his squad. "If you see an enemy crawling on all fours and without a weapon, immediately activate your gravity shields and alert me. Don't hesitate."

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances but nodded in unison. None of them understood why Qin Mo had abruptly shifted from discussing power armor to enemy tactics, but they had seen enough of his abilities to trust his judgment.

"I can replicate this armor," Qin Mo finally admitted. "But this wreckage is beyond repair. We'll need more raw materials first."

It wasn't just about armor.

In his mind, Qin Mo had already decided—he would arm this squad to the teeth, cost and efficiency be damned.

The Planetary Defense Force was barely a step above civilians in combat effectiveness. With reinforcements unlikely, survival would depend on superior equipment.

He intended to provide it.

"Found friendlies!"

Grey's voice rang out as he sprinted toward them.

Qin Mo slung his gravity shield over his back and moved without hesitation.

....

Meanwhile One kilometer north of the 44th Regiment's last known position

The local Planetary Defense Forces were entrenched inside a towering ten-story hab-block, locked in a brutal battle against the rebels.

Most of their forces defended the front and rear entrances, while others fired down from shattered windows.

According to their scouts, the rebels numbered over twenty thousand—twenty times their strength.

Had it not been for the sudden, inexplicable retreat of most rebel forces earlier, the enemy assault force would have been three or even four times larger.

Yet, what unnerved them most was the enemy's unnatural appearance.

Among the ranks of insurgents, grotesque humanoids stood side by side with monstrosities that should not have existed.

And yet, they weren't mindless.

Their infantry advanced in disciplined formations, using their tanks as mobile cover, each step calculated.

Every ten meters, the tanks halted, turrets rotating, their cannons belching fire as they sent shells toward the hab-block.

Some rounds ricocheted off reinforced walls. Others found their mark, blasting entire rooms apart.

The enemy armor closed to seventy meters from the front entrance. The shelling shifted—no longer aimed at the windows, but at the main doors.

The PDF's first-floor defenders huddled behind reinforced barricades, pinned under the concussive blasts. They were protected from the shrapnel, but the shockwaves rattled their bodies, making return fire impossible.

....

Through the smoke, a Neophyte Hybrid emerged from a tank's cupola, his purple-bulbous head swiveling on a stalk-like neck.

"Advance, blessed kin!" he screeched, bile dripping from distended jaws. "The Four-Armed Emperor hungers!

As the infantry broke formation and surged toward the entrance, the Hybrid climbed back inside, personally taking control of the tank's main gun.

Through his targeting scope, he watched as his troops stormed the ground floor—only to be ripped apart by a wall of autogun fire from behind the barricades.

His lips curled into a sneer.

He fired another shell, annihilating the entrenched defenders.

"For the Cult! For Evolution!" he howled.

He prepared to fire again—when an eerie voice whispered into his mind.

〈A psyker and five others have entered the battle. Your rear guard failed to stop them—they have already breached the building.〉

It was the Magus.

The Hybrid commander's sneer disappeared.

Before the battle, an agreement had been made. He was free to personally command and fight, but the moment he received psychic communication—he was to retreat.

"I will fall back at once," he acknowledged.

He clapped the driver on the shoulder. "Reverse. Now."

The tank lurched backward, shifting into retreat.

The Hybrid commander kept his targeting optics locked onto the entrance, finger resting on the trigger, ready to fire at any moment.

Then, he saw them.

Six figures emerged from the wreckage of the ground-floor barricades, sprinting into the open.

At the lead was a man wielding a chainsword in his right hand and a staff in his left.

A psyker.

"Die!"

The Hybrid commander fired.

Qin Mo raised his staff—his mind warping the projectile's physical properties.

The shell froze midair.

Then, without warning—

It reversed direction, flying straight back into the tank's barrel—

And detonated inside.

The crew was annihilated instantly.

The Hybrid commander, however, survived—a psychic barrier shielding him in the nick of time.

He was the only thing left intact.

Him, and the ammunition racks inside the ruined vehicle.

"There's a psyker among them!"

Qin Mo kept running, scanning the battlefield, searching for the rebel psyker.

Then—

He activated his gravity shield and stepped forward.

Standing beside the crippled tank, he reached out.

A tremor shook the air.

The entire tank groaned, metal twisting under an unseen force.

And then—

It collapsed inward.

With a horrific crunch, the armored vehicle was flattened into a perfectly smooth slab of metal.