Chapter 251: Applause and Praise? (Patreon)

Flames erupted from the Warp-gate of writhing, incandescent tendrils, scorching the abominations that had been forcibly manifested into realspace despite the activation of the Blackstone Pylons.

Qin Mo’s gaze lingered on the once-proud silhouette of the Path of Glory, and a pang of grief and fury welled up within him.

For the Talon Navy, the Path of Glory was more than just their first warship. It was a symbol, the very spearhead of their naval heritage.

He had known from the beginning what such symbols meant in the grim darkness of the Warhammer universe. In an Imperium where myth was as binding as law, a ship could be a saint as much as steel. Its destruction was never just a tactical loss, it was a wound to faith, to morale, to history itself. 

Once lost, the consequences rippled far beyond the battlefield. That was why he had personally overseen her reinforcement, ensuring her hull was braced with expensive alloys, and most importantly, that her bridge would never fall. So long as the bridge endured, the ship could never truly be counted as destroyed.

But now, even though the bridge remained intact, the vessel had been dragged screaming into the Immaterium. The difference between that and annihilation was vanishingly small.

Her captain, Sain Varrek, had been among the first crew to serve under Admiral Adam during the fleet’s founding. The thought that even if he lived, he would now suffer an eternity of torment in the Warp twisted Qin Mo’s gut.

It was a reminder that, with all his power and mastery of science, he was still, in the grand scheme of the universe, another greater ant. He had thought himself prepared for the madness of the Warp, its claws and whispers, but the ship itself had refused to obey its highest-priority protocols.

One Path of Glory for one Vengeful Spirit. Was it worth the trade? Strategically, it was a bargain beyond measure, the very flagship of Horus traded for a single cruiser of Talon origin. Yet value was not only counted in tonnage or tactical exchange. Some wounds cut deeper than numbers.

The void war raged on.

Several of Chaos’s major warships had already been dragged into the Warp. The rest, cut off from reinforcement, were hunted down and destroyed. Finally, the mass of Warp-spawned tentacles began tearing apart the Terminus Est, the great vessel that had formed the gate. Once its vital components were consumed, the portal collapsed in an instant, leaving nothing but frozen, drifting chunks of mutated flesh.

With the Warp suppressed, those remains no longer writhed with unholy vitality. Instead, they froze solid, shriveled, and cracked beneath the cold vacuum of space.

“Is the war… over?” asked Creed, lifting his head to Qin Mo, who was now resembling his original humanoid form.

“It’s over,” Qin Mo replied, withdrawing his power.

The Thirteenth Black Crusade was finished. For the Imperium and for Chaos alike, this campaign had reached its end.

Chaos, of course, never counted their Crusades as numbered campaigns. To them it was not the “Thirteenth,” but merely another surge in an endless, eternal war that would last until the galaxy’s final days. Yet even they would be forced to admit, this battle was concluded.

“…Good.” Creed let out a long breath of relief. He reached into his desk and produced a file, sliding it across to Qin Mo.

Qin Mo accepted it and began reading. It was a compiled report from the Imperial Navy.

Because the Talon Fleet had held the Cadian Gate, the Navy had been able to redirect forces elsewhere across the Segmentum Obscurus. Worlds thought lost to the Ruinous Powers had been held. Entire sub-sectors had been spared. Billions of Imperial citizens lived who would otherwise have perished screaming beneath the tread of heretic warbands.

At the end of the report, the Imperial Lord Admiral Quarren had written a personal request. He wanted Creed to act as mediator, to arrange a meeting with Qin Mo regarding the purchase of particle lances, an Talon armament whose precision and yield far outstripped the macrocannon broadsides and plasma batteries of the Imperial Navy.

“If Quarren agrees to equip his ships with Dimensional Engines, I’ll gift him the particle lances for free,” Qin Mo said, handing the file back.

Creed accepted it silently, lighting a fresh cigar. He shook his head. “It’ll never spread. Navigators and Astropaths would become obsolete. No faction tied to them would ever let your Dimensional Engines take root.”

He drew deep, then exhaled slowly a plume of smoke. His voice carried the weight of command honed on a thousand battlefields.

“I’m no void admiral, but in the time it takes to smoke one of these, I can already think of a crude way to bypass Navigators and Astropaths. Fit a fast corvette with your drive, let it shuttle messages between systems. Inefficient, yes, but still more reliable than the Astropathic transmission and the soul-binding risks of the Astropaths. And as for Navigators, why rely on them if you never touch the Warp at all?”

Creed walked to the window of his office and continued, his profile framed by the void and Cadia’s scarred surface beyond.

“Since the Emperor’s Great Crusade, the Imperium has chained itself to Navigators and Astropaths. Ten millennia of reliance has swelled them into empires of their own. Navigator Houses rule like nobility, while the Adeptus Astra Telepathica bleeds psykers dry in the Emperor’s name. If your engines break those chains, expect chains of another kind to be cast upon you.”

He didn’t bother to sugarcoat the threat. He was warning Qin Mo plainly: press this matter, and the consequences would be dire.

But Qin Mo already knew. He knew more than Creed suspected, and his silence carried the weight of secrets buried too deep to share.

When Qin Mo didn’t answer, Creed let the silence hang. Then, unexpectedly, the Supreme Castellan barked out a laugh. His grizzled face, rarely touched by mirth, broke into a smile.

“Emperor’s mercy. I still can’t believe it. A Whiteshield recruit, lost in the storms, drifting to the Talon Sector. He befriends the First Legion’s Lord Commander, makes a pact, and when Cadia’s hour of crisis arrives, the Noble Lord keeps his word. Now here we are. Fate, eh?…”

“To be honest,” Qin Mo murmured, “I doubt it was mere storms that brought you to Talon System. Fate had other designs.”

Creed gave a grave nod. He had long suspected the same. Back during the Volscani Rebellion, he had once thought his rise to Castellan mere happenstance, born of rebellion and necessity. Nor had he understood why Qin Mo had placed Klein at his side. Only later had he come to see the hand of destiny in it all.

“Cadia stands,” Qin Mo said. “And so long as it does, you will be remembered as the greatest Castellan in history. Refuse rejuvenat treatments, and the next time we meet, you’ll likely be little more than a box of augmetics.”

“True enough. Last time you saw me, I was still a young officer. Now, middle-aged, worn, and stubborn,” Creed said with humor, though the lines in his face spoke more of hardship than years.

“When I depart Cadia, I’ll leave you a gift.” Qin Mo said.

“Oh?” Creed arched a brow.

“A machine that conjures cigars without end. Each cigars infused with nanotech, ensuring your health and extending your years as far as possible.”

Creed smirked. “Then do me a favor, Lord of Talon. Include an iron lung with it.”

“…”

The two shared a rare moment of laughter.

But soon Creed’s smile faded. He puffed in silence, eyes shadowed, thoughts turning dark.

At last, he spoke. “Before you leave Cadia, I ask one thing. See to it that General Thane becomes Castellan in my stead. If he does not already… then make sure he does.”

Qin Mo blinked. “What? Why Thane? He’s your rival, even your enemy. He opposed you during the Volscani Cataphracts revolt. Why name him?”

Creed shook his head. “He’s a poor tactician, yes. But he understands how to stabilize Cadia after war. Cadia is not only bastions and battlefields, it is the people, a creed. If I fall, Thane is the best choice to keep that flame from guttering out.”

“Wait. If you fall? Why wou—ah.” Qin Mo stopped himself. Realization struck.

Creed’s actions in this war had been… irregular. Necessary, but far from sanctioned. And in the Imperium, such deeds seldom earned applause or praise. More often, they drew inquisitorial scrutiny.

“Castellan,” a voice broke in.

Jarran Kell entered the chamber, his expression grim. He hesitated before speaking. “The Inquisitors request an audience. Privately.” He shot an uneasy glance at Qin Mo and added. “Alone.”

“I understand.” Creed nodded, his voice calm. He swiftly scribbled an order, one final command: ensure the Talon fleet’s unimpeded withdrawal from the Cadian Gate, no matter what followed.

So long as he bore the title of Castellan, his word would hold. The Talon people would depart unchallenged.