Chapter 307: One Who Walks the Right Path (Patreon)

After making the decision to investigate the past, Yoan terminated the vox-link and immediately set out for Lower Hive District One Hundred.

If he wanted to uncover the truth behind the so-called “Usurper” spoken of by the current Governor’s family, the mystery surrounding the death of the former, short-lived Governor, the most direct method available to him was to ask Chen Ye.

A century was more than enough time to twist written records and oral histories alike. Just as Klein, who had retired from service to become a Rogue Trader, had only been gone ten years, yet was already remembered in rumor as a half-mythical opportunist in rumor and hearsay.

But Chen Ye was different.

As an Adeptus Astartes of the White Scars, he would clearly remember his childhood, events from before he was taken from the world and reforged in the Emperor’s image.

While Yoan departed to conduct his investigation, Anruida remained at the summit of the hive-spire, continuing his meticulous review of the Governor’s vast librarium. Data-slates, vellum scrolls, and cogitator stacks were cross-referenced and collated as he extracted further intelligence on the hive’s internal structure.

His role was not merely to indulge in luxury at the summit of the hive-spire. He needed to untangle the web of relationships between the noble houses of this hive city. If there were blood-feuds or ancient vendettas festering beneath the surface, it would be best to resolve them before Beisu I was formally incorporated into the Gate of Talon.

“You are looking for something in particular?”

A languid, carefully measured voice carried across the chamber.

Anruida turned toward the doorway. A corpulent, middle-aged man stood there, clad in layered robes of office whose fabrics concealed personal armor beneath, his face adorned with a carefully cultivated, benign smile.

This was the planetary Governor of the hive: Anton.

“I’m researching the history of this hive,” Anruida replied, his attention only partially diverted as his augmetic optics continued to index data-slates and tomes. “There is a question I would like the Governor to help me answer.”

“It would be my honor. Please, ask.” Anton nodded amiably.

“How did your father kill the descent of Ta’an?” Anruida asked calmly.

At the sound of the name, Anton froze. His smile stiffened slightly as he searched his memory, clearly unable to place it.

Only after Anruida clarified, reminding him that Ta’an was the individual the nobility referred to as the Usurper, did understanding dawn.

“Oh, him,” the Governor said, his expression settling back into composure. “I am more familiar with the name he adopted after seizing the governorship. According to the ancient records my family preserved, imitating the traditions of the noble houses, his name was Zhen-Kai.” He gave a soft, dismissive chuckle. “Most noble families cling to their customs and bloodlines. Even that lower-hive filth, after defiling the throne of the hive, felt the need to mimic such traditions…”

“Regardless of his name,” Anruida interrupted coolly, “how was he killed?”

For two seconds, Anton remained silent. His expression did not change, but whatever animation had remained in his eyes went dull.

Then he inclined his head in a gesture of apology.

“I truly regret that I cannot answer. I am not familiar with those events. My father knew the details, but he returned to the God-Emperor’s side twelve years ago.”

Anruida acknowledged this with a brief nod.

His augmetic eyes swept across Anton’s biometric readouts, drawing data from subtle shifts in posture, respiration, and neural activity. There were no indicators of deception. The Governor was telling the truth, or at least believed he was.

Anton’s father had been the legitimate Governor before Ta’an seized power. After seven or eight decades, the family had reclaimed the position. It was likely the elder man had never spoken of that humiliation to his son.

“Is there anything else I may assist you with?” Anton asked, his tone respectful but cautious.

“Not for now,” Anruida replied.

Yet Anton did not depart immediately. Instead, he hesitated, then elected to raise another matter.

“I intend to initiate a long-planned military operation in Lower Hive District One Hundred. Out of respect for the great and merciful Lord of Talon, and His honored servants, I deemed it proper to inform you, especially as Beisu I will soon be incorporated into the Talon Sector.”

Anruida noted with interest how cooperative this Governor was being. Both Anton and the noble houses under him were making conspicuous efforts to demonstrate their enthusiasm for integration into the Talon Sector, an attitude Anruida knew was far from common.

“What is the objective of this operation?” Anruida asked.

“To eradicate a heretical cult known as the Savior of Light,” Anton replied evenly. “Preparations began seventeen years ago. The time to act is now.”

Anruida did not respond immediately.

A memory surfaced, how the hive’s ruling elite had never ceased hunting the descendants of the so-called Usurper. Imperial historians of Beisu I had long speculated that those bloodlines had fled into the depths of the lower hive, beyond easy reach.

District One Hundred was among the most likely refuges.

After a moment, Anruida said, “I advise that you postpone this military action.”

Anton maintained his gentle smile. After two seconds of consideration, he nodded.

“As you wish.”

With that, the Governor excused himself and departed, his footsteps receding into the distant corridors of the spire, leaving Anruida alone among the data-vaults.

Anruida immediately transmitted a secure message to Yoan, informing him of the Governor’s stated intent to launch a military operation in District One Hundred.

From the Talon Sector’s earlier integration campaigns to the current Gate of Talon initiative, Anruida had seen too many planetary governors who paid lip service while acting in defiance behind closed doors. He and Yoan both knew the operation would likely proceed regardless.

Thus Anruida sent only one final instruction:

“If they do begin the operation, teach them a lesson they will not forget.”

....

Lowerhive District One Hundred

Chen Ye moved through the narrow streets with steady purpose, his massive frame forcing the crowds aside as he advanced alongside a psyker whose eyes had been crudely sewn shut with ritual wire. The air was thick with chemical haze, incense smoke, and the stench of unfiltered industry.

Behind them marched hastily assembled local militias, men and women drawn from manufactoria shifts and hab-blocks, armed with autoguns, stubbers, shock mauls, and scavenged weapons of dubious reliability.

Whenever the blind psyker halted and extended a trembling hand toward a section of ferrocrete wall, declaring that this would be where the enemy broke through, part of the militia would split off to reinforce it. Elderly men and children followed in their wake, hauling scrap metal, plating, and collapsed machinery to shore up the defenses.

“That’s all of them,” the psyker finally said after two hours. “These are the walls the enemy will breach. We’ve reinforced them. Do you believe it will work, my lord?”

Chen Ye regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath his topknot and scarred features, then turned to examine the patched fortifications. After a measured pause, he nodded once.

The militia and the civilians erupted into cheers, confidence surging through the district like a brief electrical discharge.

But Chen Ye felt no satisfaction.

That nod had been nothing more than a physical lie.

The psyker’s foresight had shown that the Governor would indeed launch a military assault, and that several neglected sections of wall would collapse under sustained pressure, hence the frantic, improvised reinforcement.

Yet Chen Ye was a veteran of wars beyond counting. He had fought in conflicts where continents burned and worlds screamed.

He knew such crude fortifications would accomplish little.

Still, with the enemy approaching, doing something, anything, to bolster morale was preferable to allowing despair to take root.

“You and the guards should remain with your master,” Chen Ye said, his voice calm as he drew his paired power swords from their mag-locks, the weapons thrumming softly as they energized. “The coming battle will be trivial for me, but I cannot be everywhere at once. If the enemy feints and strikes elsewhere, I may not be able to protect you both.”

“My true master is a scholar of immense knowledge,” the psyker replied calmly. “He spent one hundred and twenty years teaching me to wield prophecy with greater precision, and to crush minds more efficiently. Such a master has no need of my protection.”

Chen Ye offered no reply.

Psykers were always like this, cryptic, unsettling, shaped by minds that no longer aligned with linear thought. He neither knew nor cared where this so-called master was, nor why he had never shown himself.

Leaving the psyker behind, Chen Ye headed toward the northern wall.

According to the prophecy, that was where the fighting would be fiercest.

“Contact!” someone shouted in warning.

Chen Ye had just reached the parapet when he saw them.

Black-and-gold ceramite power armor advancing through the haze. The unmistakable silhouette of a shoulder-mounted heavy weapon tracking targets with mechanical precision.

Not enemies.

But old friends, who had once departed… and now returned.