Nightfall in the Fortress
Qin Mo returned to the underground sanctum via teleportation.
Tonight, he did not conduct research.
Tonight, he reviewed the execution order.
Before him, a massive holo-screen flickered to life, the noospheric relay feeding combat footage extracted from the auspex logs of Grot's power armor. The images unfolded in jagged bursts of pict-captures and vox recordings—the chaos of the First District, the destruction of the arena, the obliteration of the so-called Champion of Blood's idol.
The feed replayed each moment in forensic detail—from the first blow of madness to the final, dust-choked collapse of the coliseum. Each scream, each rupture of ceramite and shattering of flesh, was recorded without bias, without remorse.
At Qin Mo's side, Yoan stood silently, arms crossed, his expression impassive as he absorbed the sequence of violence.
....
To Yoan, there was nothing particularly unusual. If anything, he thought Grot had displayed a remarkable level of restraint.
But Qin Mo saw something deeper.
"Did you notice how Heavy Hammer lost control?"
Qin Mo's finger traced the screen, pausing at a frame where the berserker's Axe struck with unnatural fury, his movements more frenzied, more unhinged, than any mere thirst for vengeance should allow.
Yoan nodded slowly.
"Yeah, he got more violent. But that's normal, isn't it? He was taking revenge."
Qin Mo's gaze did not waver.
"And did you see his statue? The so-called Champion of Blood?"
Yoan frowned.
The screen zoomed in—highlighting the crude idol, its brass features twisted into a monstrous grin, blood pooling unnaturally around its base.
A cold shiver crawled over Yoan's skin.
"That thing feels... wrong."
Qin Mo nodded, the glow of the holo-screen casting stark shadows over his face.
"Because it is.
"When an man gives in to his thirst for slaughter, when the act of killing ceases to be a means and becomes the end in itself... there are... entities that will take notice."
He did not say the name aloud, but in his mind, the conclusion was clear—
Khorne the Blood God, Lord of Rage, Taker of Skulls.
Most Chaos cultists never even realize what they are worshipping.
The Ruinous Powers whisper in the guise of gods, ancestors, fate itself—whatever form ensures devotion.
They are insidious, offering not lies, but truths carefully shaped to ensnare the desperate and the wrathful alike. A warrior seeking justice may hear the call of an avenger-god. A ruler striving for perfection may heed the whispers of a deity of order. A scholar hungering for knowledge may unknowingly open the way for something far darker.
It has happened before.
Qin Mo thought of Argel Tal, the once-noble warrior of the Word Bearers, who had sought understanding and, in doing so, had torn the veil that kept the Warp at bay. He had not seen himself as a servant of Chaos, not at first. He had believed he was guided by the divine, by something greater than mere human ambition. And in the end, he had been devoured by the very power he once thought he could wield.
To Heavy Hammer, the Champion of Blood was simply a god who granted him strength in his moment of despair—so he offered his loyalty in return.
That was how it always began.
Yoan understood at once. The realization settled upon him like a heavy weight.
The Champion of Blood was no mere delusion.
It was an invitation.
A door.
And Heavy Hammer had walked through it willingly.
....
"He is a problem."
Qin Mo's voice was calm.
"And I intend to solve it."
Yoan straightened, snapping into a flawless Aquila salute, his posture rigid with discipline.
"Give the order, and I will execute him."
"No."
Qin Mo tossed a photograph into Yoan's hands.
"You have a different target."
Yoan flipped it over—
And his expression hardened.
The image depicted Deacon-Primaris David, his aged features half-shrouded in the dim candlelight of his sanctum.
On the back, an exact location was written—
The Grand Cathedral of Lower Hive Tyrone.
Qin Mo's voice turned cold.
"Kill him. And kill the creature in his arms."
Yoan hesitated.
"...the Jarlcat?"
"Yes. It is unfortunate to waste a Warp-sensitive Felinid... but I suspect he is beyond salvation."
Yoan nodded once, slipping the photo into his armor's storage compartment.
Qin Mo held up a small artifact—a pendant, lined with glowing blue etchings, its surface thrumming faintly with latent power.
"Take this. Even if I am not with you, my power will be."
Yoan took the pendant without question.
"I will not fail, my Lord"
Then—
He vanished into the teleportation field.
....
As Yoan deployed, Qin Mo picked up his Vox-communicator.
"Grey. Get the Thunderborns ready for teleportation."
A moment later, Grey's voice crackled through.
"We will be assembled in two minutes. What's the objective?"
Qin Mo's eyes shifted to the leftmost holo-screen.
A recon drone feed displayed a slum deep within the First District.
A gathering of scarred, chain-wrapped men encircled a roaring figure, bathed in firelight—
Heavy Hammer.
Brandishing a war axe, blood streaked across his augmetic frame, his voice thick with madness as he bellowed commands to his growing cult.
Qin Mo exhaled.
"Upon arrival—execute every last one of them."
....
The slums reeked of filth and sweat, the air thick with rot and the copper stench of blood.
Atop a heap of severed heads, Heavy Hammer beheaded another wretch and lifting the severed head high, roaring to his followers.
"PRAISE BE TO THE CHAMPION OF BLOOD!"
A chorus of voices howled in response.
"PRAISE THE CHAMPION!"
"PRAISE THE CHAMPION!"
The firelight danced against his weapon, the brass sheen seeming to pulse—
As if the metal itself was alive.
"We are warriors! The weak are but offerings!"
He turned, pointing to the last remaining survivor of his "initiation trials."
A frightened wretch, trembling as a rusty laspistol was shoved into his hands.
"Fight!"
Heavy Hammer lunged at him.
The wretch barely had time to raise his weapon—
Before his arm and the gun were severed in a single stroke.
Before his vision faded into darkness.
"FOR THE CHAMPION OF BLOOD!"
Heavy Hammer lifted his axe again, ready to continue his ceremony—
But this time, his followers did not echo him.
One of them raised a shaking hand, pointing past him, eyes wide with raw terror.
Heavy Hammer turned.
And saw the air rip open.
....
Three tearing distortions of energy ripped open in the filthy slum air.
From the void, three towering figures stepped through—
Their Thunderborn armor gleaming, their weapons primed.
One of them hurled a beacon into the center of the slums.
Heavy Hammer's eyes widened.
He knew this armor.
He had seen it before—
On his brother.
But what he failed to realize—
Was that even if Grot had been dismissed, four others still wore the same armor.
And the fourth—
Had just materialized behind him.
....
"WATCH OUT!"
A shouted warning made Heavy Hammer twist instinctively—
Just in time to evade a hammer swing meant to cave in his skull.
The fourth Thunderborn was Gray.
Gray had waited for the first three to deploy, ensuring the beacon locked down the area—
Before teleporting in at point-blank range.
He adjusted his grip—shifting from a downward smash to a sweeping strike.
The gravitational force surged, the air distorting as the hammer struck.
The entire right half of Heavy Hammer's augmetic body imploded,
Metal twisted. Flesh ruptured. Bone shattered.
Heavy Hammer staggered, coughing black blood, yet still, he did not fall.
Instead, he glared up at Gray, eyes burning with fury.
"You attacked unarmed civilians."
Gray's voice was calm. Cold. Unrelenting.
"You disgrace your brother."
Heavy Hammer roared.
"DON'T MENTION MY BROTHER!"
He stumbled back toward his followers, gripping his war axe with his remaining arm.
But Gray noticed something disturbing.
Heavy Hammer's severed arm had fused itself to his weapon—
Warp corruption confirmed.
Gray's grip tightened on his hammer.
"All units—terminate target."
The execution had begun.