Chapter 8: Strange Dream

Tyrone Hive Primus

"So, half of the rebel forces attacking your position just… disappeared?"

"Not half—all of them."

On the rooftop of the battered hab-block's highest level, the survivors huddled around a small, makeshift fire. The meager flames crackled as they fed on broken furniture and scraps of promethium-soaked cloth, casting flickering shadows across the soot-stained walls. Around them, spent lasgun power packs lay in neat rows, absorbing the fire's residual heat to recharge—an old Underhive trick born from desperation.

Gray recounted how he and Qin Mo had ended up here, though he deliberately omitted certain details—such as the existence of the gravity shield, or the psyker's true identity. The other survivors of the 44th Infantry Regiment shared an unspoken understanding. No one mentioned that Qin Mo was a unsanctioned psyker prisoner.

Not out of loyalty. Not even out of respect.

Simply because, in the grand, merciless calculus of the Imperium, he was still useful.

As of now, only the surviving members of the 44th knew that Qin Mo was alive. If the rebels were crushed, they could fabricate evidence of his death, erasing his existence from the official records. Let him vanish into the depths of the Underhive, where the long arm of the Administratum rarely reached.

And if the rebels weren't defeated…

Then everyone in the Underhive would die anyway, and reports would be meaningless.

A figure stepped forward—an officer of the 47th Infantry Regiment, his uniform frayed and spattered with grime, yet still worn with the rigid discipline of a lifelong soldier. He removed his cap in solemn respect.

"As the commander of the 47th, I salute you. I grieve for the loss of your comrades."

A moment of silence followed. Without command, every soldier present followed their officer's lead, bowing their heads. The only sound was the crackling fire and the distant echoes of gunfire from below.

Three minutes passed before the commander finally spoke again, voice low and careful.

"That psyker… Forgive me, I struggle to find a more respectful title—has he been trained and sanctioned by the Imperium?"

"Of course," Gray answered without hesitation. "Otherwise, how do you think he got the Aquila emblem on his staff?"

The officer exhaled slowly, relief washing over his weathered features. "That's good to hear. An unsanctioned psyker… well, we both know what would happen if he lost control."

His words were spoken in passing, but Gray felt a chill creep up his spine. A buried memory surfaced—one he wished he could forget.

He had been a child, no more than eight standard years old, when a psyker in the Lower Hive lost control.

It had begun with grief. The man had accidentally killed his own wife and daughter, a burst of raw warp energy tearing them apart at the atomic level. In his anguish, he had collapsed beside the empty space where their bodies had once been and wailed, his cries reverberating through the endless corridors of rusted steel and filth.

The air itself rippled, twisting with unseen currents. The walls groaned, warping as the Immaterium bled into realspace. Every soul in the sector felt it—that suffocating, invisible pressure, as if the sky itself had begun to breathe.

By the time the echoes of his despair faded, eighty thousand men and women lay dead—the entire forward division of the Planetary Defense Force obliterated in a psychic storm.

Some had been fused into the walls, their twisted faces frozen in agony, screaming forever in silence. Others had left behind nothing but blackened shadows on the ground, like fragile ghosts scorched into the Hive's surface

That single catastrophe had shattered the PDF's strength, tilting the balance of power toward the rebels.

And Qin Mo…

Gray had seen his power firsthand. If he ever lost control—

He clenched his fists, forcing the thought away.

"You know, he doesn't seem the type to break," the officer remarked. "His emotions are unnaturally stable. Did he ever show signs of… instability?"

"Never," Gray admitted. And it was true—Qin Mo was eerily composed, even in the heat of battle.

"What's his name?"

Gray hesitated before answering. "A strange name. Qin Mo."

The officer's brow furrowed. "That sounds familiar… My grandfather once told me of an angel named Qin Xia. He fought alongside one of my ancestors during the assault on the Karim Star Gate. Later, he perished aboard the Lance of Heaven, his soul returning to the Golden Throne."

"Sir, I remember reading about that in an old chronicle. Wasn't the angel part of the White… something Chapter?"

"No, no," the officer said firmly. "My grandfather was clear—it wasn't a Chapter. It was a Legion."

Silence.

"A Legion?" one of the soldiers scoffed. "That would mean… what? Thousands of years ago?"

"Thousands?" The officer let out a quiet chuckle. "Try tens of thousands."

The members of the 47th continued their discussion, fascinated by the old war tale. The survivors of the 44th, however, remained silent. Their minds were elsewhere.

Gray, in particular, wanted to check on Qin Mo. But he also didn't want to disturb him. So, he simply sat in silence, watching the fire.

....

Inside a room at the top of the building, Qin Mo lay asleep on a makeshift mattress, dreaming.

He dreamt of soaring through the void, the stars his playground. He dreamt of bending planets to his will, shaping entire worlds as a sculptor shapes clay.

Impossible dreams.

Yet, they had plagued him long before he ever arrived in this cursed universe.

Then, the dream shifted.

Illusions peeled away, and he awoke—not in the hive city, not in the battlefield, but in a vast, gilded chamber. Marble columns stretched high into the heavens. The bed beneath him was impossibly soft, the air thick with the scent of incense and forgotten memories.

A soft sobbing drew his gaze.

In the corner of the chamber sat a girl, weeping into her hands. But something was wrong. Her form shimmered and twisted—one moment a cat, the next an old man, then a tank, a lumber saw, and back again.

"Traitor…"

She lifted her head. Her eyes burned with an unfathomable rage.

Qin Mo frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I… I don't know." She clutched at her shifting form, distressed. "I've forgotten so much… but I know one thing. I must call you a traitor."

Her form solidified—into that of a nobleman, his robes lined with the sigils of a forgotten empire. His movements were impossibly fast.

Hands clamped around Qin Mo's throat.

"You devoured my friend."

"Give them back!"

....

Qin Mo jolted upright, gasping for air.

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, trying to shake off the residual terror.

"Damn it…" He exhaled, steadying himself. "I must be more exhausted than I thought."

Something stirred in his memory. Rising to his feet, he retrieved his staff from the corner of the room. With a precise touch of psykinetic energy, he melted away the Aquila emblem, revealing a hidden parchment.

The last surviving page of his lost journal.

He hadn't kept it purely for sentimentality. Deep down, he believed—hoped—that one day, science or sorcery might allow him to reconstruct the rest.

He scanned its contents briefly, then concealed it once more.

The door swung open.

A soldier stepped inside, stiffening into a crisp Aquila salute. "Sir, the commander requests your presence at a meeting."

Qin Mo arched a brow. "A meeting?"

"Uh… you're not willing to go?" The soldier looked nervous.

Qin Mo smirked. "Fine, fine. I get it."

As he followed the soldier through the dimly lit corridors, he noticed something. Every trooper he passed stepped aside, heads lowered in deference.

Gray must have kept his secret.

If they had known he was a psyker prisoner, they would have recoiled in disgust—or worse.

So… those gravity shields hadn't been for nothing, after all.

Qin Mo smiled to himself.