The Weight of Knowledge

Author's note here, so we are getting very close to getting my fic being rated. So here's the deal for every five reviews I get. I would give bonus chapters from now on. Enjoy.

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Cassian walked through the hive, his footsteps blending into the endless flow of bodies. His lungs burned from the cold, metallic air, but he forced himself to breathe slower. Controlled. Measured. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Let the tension ease from his shoulders.

He had just overheard something dangerous. Khorne cultists—real ones, not just rumors. Foundry 13. He hadn't seen them, hadn't confirmed it himself, but the weight of those words clung to his mind like a parasite. Foundry 13 wasn't just some abandoned structure; it was an infestation. And if they were there, how many more were hiding in this rotting corpse of a hive?

He wasn't going to report it now. That would be suicide.

The Imperium didn't reward information. It punished knowledge. The Adeptus Arbites didn't ask questions, they executed suspects. They'd take one look at him—a lowly scribe with no connections, no authority—and assume the worst. A bullet, a disappeared body, and the problem would be 'resolved.'

But that didn't mean he couldn't use this.

Cassian adjusted his satchel, feeling the few chits inside. He had been working himself raw, grinding to build something, to survive. But now he saw it clearly—survival wasn't enough. This wasn't just about making it through another shift, another day. The hive was a battlefield, and he was playing blind. He needed to see the board, know the pieces, and move them in his favor.

That meant getting stronger.

Not just in body, though that was still a priority. He needed skills. Knowledge. Resources. What did he have right now? A stolen laspistol and a basic understanding of how to fire it. That was nothing. He didn't know how to fight hand-to-hand. He didn't know how to fix wounds beyond crude patchwork. He didn't even know how to properly use a vox-caster, let alone navigate the hive's communication networks. If he wanted to survive, truly survive, he needed all of that.

And he knew how to get it.

Information was power. He had something valuable now—knowledge of a heretical infestation. If he played it right, he could use that. The Arbites weren't fools. They were ruthless, but they understood value. If he approached them carefully, if he fed them just enough to make himself useful but not suspicious, he could carve out an advantage. Become an informant. Just enough to gain resources, training, protection. And in doing so, he could turn the hounds of the Imperium on the cultists.

Three birds with one stone.

But it was a risk. A single misstep and he was dead. The Arbites didn't trust anyone, especially not a random scribe with information he had no business knowing. He had to be careful. He had to appear innocent, uninvolved, like a man who had simply stumbled upon something too big for him.

He reached his hab, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. The moment the lock clicked, he let out a slow breath. His body ached from the day's work, but his mind was sharper than ever.

This was the first real opportunity he had found since coming to this hellhole. A chance to gain more than just scraps. A chance to grow, to carve out a future.

But first, he had to prepare.

Cassian reached his hab block, the cold steel walls pressing in around him as he entered his cramped room. The moment he shut the door, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. This was his space, as miserable as it was. A single cot, a small storage locker, and walls thin enough to hear the muffled arguments of his neighbors.

He sat on the bed, rolling his shoulders before lying down. His body felt heavy, but his mind was still sharp. Another deep breath. Then another. The familiar rhythm of controlled breathing took hold, slow and steady. His heart no longer pounded; his thoughts no longer spiraled. He allowed himself to focus only on the act of breathing, pushing everything else away.

Sleep came slowly.

And with it, the nightmares.

The faces of the men he had killed flickered in the darkness of his dreams. Blood splattered on the factory floor, the dull thud of bodies hitting metal, the choked gurgle of dying throats. Their eyes, lifeless and accusing, bored into him. His fingers twitched in his sleep, gripping at invisible weapons.

But he did not wake up screaming. He did not thrash or gasp for air.

He endured.

When morning came, he opened his eyes, exhaled deeply, and forced the remnants of the nightmare to the back of his mind. He would not let it weaken him. If anything, it was proof—proof that he was changing, that he was adapting.

He rose, stretched his sore muscles, and prepared for another day.

—

Cassian leaned against the cold metal desk, quill in hand, as the endless rows of scribes toiled in dim candlelight. The Scriptorum was as lifeless as ever—dusty air thick with ink, the only sounds the scratch of quills and the occasional cough. But today, the usual monotony was broken.

The whispers had started early, weaving through the rows of overworked scribes like a creeping shadow. It wasn't just gossip—it was fear, the kind that made people check over their shoulders and lower their voices even when no overseer was in sight.

Cassian didn't react, but he listened.

"An entire sector gone, just like that," one scribe murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"How many were taken?" another asked, shifting uneasily.

"No one knows. Some say dozens. Others say hundreds. The Arbites came in, locked everything down, and that was it. Anyone even suspected? Gone."

"God-Emperor preserve us," someone muttered.

A nervous chuckle. "They say there were heretics there, Khorne worshippers. A whole nest of them."

"Heretics, sure," the first voice said bitterly. "But you think it was just them? Anyone who was there when they arrived—gone. No trials, no questions."

"That's how it always is," another voice cut in. An older scribe, voice rough from years of inhaling ink and dust. "You lot think the Arbites are the law? No. They are the executioner's axe. They don't investigate, they don't weigh guilt. They cut. And if you're standing too close to the guilty, well… Emperor have mercy on your soul."

Cassian kept his face impassive, his quill moving steadily across the parchment. But inside, his mind raced.

He had known it was coming. Knew the Imperium's response would be swift, merciless. But hearing it confirmed, hearing the fear in their voices—it hammered the truth home. If he had made one wrong move, if he had been just a little too close to that sector… he wouldn't be here.

The Arbites were not to be approached lightly.

He had to be careful.

---

Days passed, and Cassian fell into routine.

Work. Training. Rest. Repeat.

His body adapted. The exhaustion that had once left his limbs trembling after training sessions was now a dull ache, familiar and manageable. His endurance grew, his movements sharper, his mind clearer. The nightmares persisted, but they no longer rattled him. He endured them, used them.

And then, one night after his shift, he met Joran again.

The old worker spotted him first, raising a hand in greeting. "Cass, there you are. Took your time."

Cassian smirked. "Had to finish up work. Unlike you, I still have a shift to get through."

Joran scoffed, leading him into a dimly lit drinking hole. It was a small place, the kind that stank of sweat, cheap alcohol, and the desperation of men who knew tomorrow wouldn't be any better than today. But here, in the low murmur of conversation and the clink of metal cups, there was something else—a strange sort of warmth.

They sat at a rusted table, Joran passing Cassian a dented cup filled with something that burned on the way down.

"To surviving another week," Joran said, raising his drink.

Cassian mirrored the motion. "To surviving."

They drank, the warmth spreading through him, dulling the ever-present tension in his muscles. Joran set his cup down with a sigh, rubbing his face. "Heard about that purge?"

Cassian nodded. "Hard not to. Everyone's talking about it."

Joran clicked his tongue. "Brutal work. Fast, clean, no loose ends." He exhaled, shaking his head. "Reminds me why I keep my head down."

Cassian studied him for a moment. "Is that what you always do? Keep your head down?"

Joran scoffed. "What else is there? You think we're gonna change the Imperium?" He leaned back, drumming his fingers against the table. "Nah, Cass. We ain't heroes. We ain't nobles. We're just men trying to get through the day."

Cassian took another sip, mulling over his words. "Still. That doesn't mean we stop trying to be more."

Joran raised a brow. "More, huh?"

Cassian met his gaze. "Skills. Resources. Knowledge. If you have those, you're not just another body in the machine. You have options."

Joran chuckled. "Options? Like what?"

Cassian tapped the rim of his cup. "Like knowing how to handle yourself. Knowing how to fight. Knowing things that others don't. That kind of power makes a difference. Maybe not on the grand scale of the Imperium, but here? In the hive? It matters."

Joran was quiet for a moment, then grinned. "Look at you. Thinking ahead, planning. Almost makes you sound dangerous."

Cassian smirked. "Only if you're on the wrong side of it."

Joran laughed, shaking his head. "You're something else, Cass." He raised his cup again. "Alright. To options, then."

Cassian clinked his cup against Joran's, the metal ringing softly.

There was no grand rebellion here. No bold declarations. Just two men, in a dark corner of a dying city, finding what little light they could.

For now, that was enough.

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Word count: 1700