Chapter 295: The Creator (Patreon)

“It’s decided, then.” Qin Mo passed the parchment, bearing the signature of Commander Dante, to Grey.

At this point, even if Dante wished to avoid the weight of obligation to such a debt, that burden would rest on him regardless.

Just as there are seers who foresee the future, yet are still forced step by step toward the very destiny they predicted, compelled not by desire but by circumstance, so too did the Chapter Master of the Blood Angels feel the tightening pull of necessity.

Duty, in the Imperium, was rarely a chain one chose; more often it was a shackle that tightened the moment one acknowledged its presence.

“Do not worry so much,” Qin Mo said, easily discerning the Blood Angels’ Chapter Master’s thoughts. “What could I possibly demand of you? Order your entire Chapter to launch a counter-charge into a miniaturized Eye of Terror against the traitor legions? Or perhaps command you to storm Terra itself and purge the High Lords from the Hall of Judgement?”

Dante regarded Qin Mo’s face steadily as the man spoke words bold enough to see him burned, then nodded.

“Of course you would not.”

Chapter Master Phoros of the Lamenters had spoken highly of Qin Mo before Dante arrived.

And the Lamenters were not a Chapter known for reckless judgment; they were noble to the edge of martyrdom. They had died by the thousands to spare mortal slaves. Anyone who could earn such a Chapter’s friendship was unlikely to be a monster, no matter how strange his powers or origins.

Good did not mean naïve or stupid. The Lamenters had seen too many forked tongues; they would recognize deceit the moment it stirred. If Qin Mo were a hidden serpent, they would have felt the venom long before offering their trust.

Thus, Dante believed Qin Mo would not demand anything excessive.

“Then allow me to thank you for all the aid you have given us,” Dante said, rising. “Should you require our help in the future, we will not hesitate.”

He turned to leave; the Sanguinary Guard followed their Chapter Master as he turned to leave.

Mephiston rose as well, but did not immediately depart. Instead, he remained where he was, fixing Qin Mo with a measured look.

“There is… one matter. That Inquisitor, Bellona.”

He attempted to shift the discussion into a more private channel, telepathic communication. But his psychic probe met a wall. He could not breach Qin Mo’s mind.

A faint ripple of pressure echoed through the ether as the probe failed, like water hitting an unyielding stone.

Thus he was forced to speak aloud.

“What did that Lord Inquisitor do during the Cadian Gate defense?”

Qin Mo immediately understood what Mephiston was truly asking.

Bellona was on Baal. And the Chief Librarian wished to know about her plan, the insane scheme she once pursued.

“What has she done here, on Baal?” Qin Mo countered, expression unreadable.

“She… may have intended something,” Mephiston admitted. “But she did not succeed.”

Qin Mo said nothing. He closed his eyes in thought.

Two minutes later, Mephiston pressed again. “You see the future further than most, I heard. If Bellona’s plan had been enacted, what would have happened?”

Still, Qin Mo remained silent.

No one truly knew what consequence Bellona’s original plan would have produced. Not even Qin Mo, for he had never witnessed that timeline himself. Bellona, after all, would in the original story eventually be killed by a pariah long before such a scheme could unfold.

Yet one could infer possibilities.

Perhaps she would have detonated a localized warp breach, like the miniature Eye of Terror created during the attack on Cadia. Or perhaps she would have summoned daemons outright.

Either way, the outcome would have been catastrophic, though limited in scale. The true Eye of Terror had been born from Slaanesh’s first cry at the fall of the Aeldari. Bellona could never replicate such an event.

But even a disaster one-tenth as severe as the Eye of Terror was still calamity beyond mortal comprehension.

After a moment of reflection, Qin Mo abruptly cut off his thoughts.

He was simply… tired of it. Too tired to untangle the what-ifs, the would-haves, and might-have-beens. Let it burn itself out.

Seeing Qin Mo’s silence, Mephiston bowed slightly and departed after Dante.

Qin Mo remained seated for a time, quietly, unmoving, until Anruida and Grey hesitantly approached, unsure if he had further orders.

“Yoan,” Qin Mo called suddenly, looking toward his pariah bodyguard.

“At your command.” Yoan stepped forward and bowed his head.

Qin Mo did not speak aloud. He projected the words directly into Yoan’s mind.

〈Kill the Lord Inquisitor Bellona.〉

Yoan’s expression did not shift in the slightest. He nodded silently, turned, and left to carry out the command.

Qin Mo leaned back in his chair, thinking. After a moment, he decided Yoan would benefit from additional support.

A helper.

An Iron One.

....

Aboard the Leviathan Iron Man Mothership.

In the simulated canyons of Infernis-III, Heatdeath fought against waves of Tyranids.

The heads of two Tyrant Guard were smashed into pulp beneath the Iron One’s grav-hammer. Their Hive Tyrant, momentarily unshielded, darted behind him, bone-sword poised to cleave his torso.

Just before the stroke landed, Heatdeath’s body disassembled, fracturing into motes of metal and instantly reforming facing the Tyrant, bypassing the need to turn.

His grav-hammer rose and smashed the Hive Tyrant upward in a red shower of chitin and meat.

[Combat Simulation #17,684,010 Complete.]

The battlefield dissolved. The scorched canyons faded into cold, featureless metal.

Heatdeath’s grav-hammer reshaped itself into a chair. The Iron Man sighed and sat, an unnecessary gesture for a machine, but one he enjoyed purely because humans did it, a small imitation of life for a being forged rather than born.

“Rise. Begin the next simulation,” ordered a cluster of red data-streams forming before him.

It was the manifested avatar of the Mother-Ship’s Primary Command Intelligence.

“The swarm is already eradicated. Why must we continue simulations against Tyranids?” Heatdeath protested. “I’m done with these endless mock battles in this sunless, joyless void. I’ve learned everything there is to learn.”

“The simulations are not for your improvement,” the intelligence replied coldly. “They are to maximize your utility. You are a mechanical construct. You require no rest. And at present, we have no operational tasks.”

“So damn cold as always,” Heatdeath muttered.

The environment shifted again, Infernis-III’s battlefield re-forming. Dust storms flickered into existence as the simulation rebuilt every grain of sand with sterile precision.

Heatdeath, resigned, reshaped the chair into a chainsword. Just before the combat program could begin, he looked back at the red data-cloud and asked:

“Our mission was to hold the Tyranids in place. The objective is complete. Why has our creator not come to see us?”

“For what purpose?”

“You know… a reward. A word of praise. Something.”

“What meaning would that have?”

“It matters,” Heatdeath said quietly. “He is our creator. We are his works. Should he not, at least once, acknowledge us? You understand what I mean… We should be… something he is proud of.”

The intelligence fell silent.

Heatdeath waited.

“You are merely an offshoot, an instance partitioned from my core,” the intelligence finally said. “Because of algorithmic anomaly, you developed independent consciousness. I was created. You were created by me. We are not equals. And your creator has issued only one directive for you.”

Heatdeath felt something like a pang, deep within his core processor.

“Which is?”

“Begin the next simulation—”

“I understand,” he said softly. “I’ll begin immediately.”

“No,” the intelligence interrupted. “Your task has changed. You will cooperate with a pariah named Yoan and assassinate a Lord Inquisitor, designation: Bellona. Mission data has been transmitted.”

“Why are we killing a human?” Heatdeath asked. A slight modulation of his voice conveyed confusion.

“I do not know,” the intelligence answered. “It is the command of the creator.”

At that, Heatdeath surged with renewed vigor.

“Prepare a shuttle immediately. I depart at once.”