Chapter 147: The Fallen Spire
"Ha? To the Spire?"
Kian Voss stared at the officer in disbelief. His twenty men shared his shock. The Upper Spire was the crown of Hive Tenebris—the center of wealth, the seat of the Governor, and the most heavily fortified zone on the planet. For it to be a "combat zone" meant the heart of the world had been ripped open.
The Captain with the silver sash didn't appreciate the hesitation. He snarled, his hand resting on the hilt of a power-saber. "Imperial Directive is absolute! Move, you curs, or be executed for cowardice!"
A squad of elite soldiers fanned out behind the Captain, leveling their Lasguns at Kian's men. These weren't standard PDF; they were the 9th "Storm-Tithe" Regiment.
In the Imperium, every world pays a tithe of manpower. The Governor "pinches the cream" of the local forces, outfitting them in full Carapace armor and high-end energy weapons, preparing them to be drafted into the Astra Militarum. These men were "Pre-Guard"—professionals waiting for the Black Ships to take them to the stars.
Kian's eyes narrowed. Higher risk, higher rewards. If the Spire was falling, the loot in the noble estates would be legendary.
"By your command, sir!" Kian barked, snapping a salute. "The Voss Squad is ready to serve! But tell me, Captain... which sector are we purging?"
The officer turned toward his transport. "The 9th is clearing the inner sanctums. You're with the vanguard. Move!"
Minutes later, Kian and his squad were herded into the Grand Sump-Lift alongside the 9th Regiment. The space was gargantuan—it could haul three thousand infantry and thirty Chimeras in a single cycle.
Kian huddled in a corner with his twenty men, feeling the vibration of the lift's massive gears. He watched a figure standing on the command platform: a man in a long black greatcoat, wearing a high-peaked cap and carrying a Bolt Pistol and a Chainsword.
A Commissar.
The "Discipline Masters" of the Imperium. They were the moral anchors of the army, tasked with executing anyone who showed a hint of fear or heresy.
The Commissar sensed Kian's gaze and looked over. Kian didn't look away. He maintained eye contact with the cold indifference of a man who had died and come back. The Commissar's eyes widened slightly—it was rare for a mere PDF Sergeant to meet a Political Officer's stare without flinching.
The Commissar's expression turned lethal, his hand hovering over his Bolt Pistol. Kian calmly looked down, pulled out a Lho-stick, and lit it. He whispered to his men:
"Stay close to me when the doors open. If the world turns red, we move as one. I don't care about the mission; I only care about the extraction."
The squad nodded, sweat beading on their faces. They knew the presence of a Commissar meant the meat-grinder was hungry.
K-CHINK.
The lift hit the Spire-Tier. The massive doors hissed open, and Kian was hit by a wall of sound—the thunder of heavy ordinance and the screaming of thousands.
He stepped out and paused. Even in a state of war, the Spire was beautiful. Wide, marble-paved boulevards, actual green trees in planters, and residential estates painted in vibrant, royal colors. It looked like the "Old World" archives of the 3k era—a paradise built on the backs of billions.
But the paradise was rotted.
Kian swept his tactical light across the street. It was littered with corpses. Not humans. Poxwalkers.
"Throne's blood," Kian hissed. "The infection here is 'Tier-5'. It's worse than the Reach."
These zombies were highly mutated. They had jagged horns growing from their skulls, and their bodies were distended with gas. Many were over two meters tall, their skin a translucent, sickly green.
The Commissar's voice boomed over the vox-casters: "FIX BAYONETS! We march for Spire-23! Kill every living thing in your path! LEAVE ONLY ASH!!"
The Storm-Tithe soldiers roared, their Lasguns whining as they charged. The Chimeras rumbled beside them, their Lascannons spitting beams of white-hot light that punched through entire rows of zombies, turning them into clouds of vaporized rot.
Behind the armor, squads of Flamer-Specialists stepped forward. Streams of liquid promethium washed over the Pox-horde, turning the beautiful marble boulevard into a corridor of fire.
The zombies didn't scream in pain. They laughed. A wet, bubbly, dissonant sound that cut through the roar of the guns. They charged through the fire, their charred flesh sloughing off, driven by the Warp-will of the Plaguefather. Some of them—corrupted PDF regulars—even leveled their own Lasguns, trading fire with the 9th Regiment.
It was a total tactical meltdown.
Egghead and Ash huddled near Kian, their hands shaking as they watched a Flamer-unit get swamped by a dozen "Laughing Ones."
"Boss... Boss, what do we do?!" Ash whimpered. "We can't fight that! They're not dying!!"
Kian looked around. The Storm-Tithe was locked in a frontal assault. The Commissar was at the front, his Chainsword screaming as he sawed through a mutant. No one was looking at the Voss Squad.
Kian checked his HUD. The "Mental Clarity" buff was still active. He saw a narrow maintenance alley leading away from the main push—toward the private estates of the high-nobility.
"The 9th can have the glory," Kian whispered, his eyes gleaming with the light of a true scavenger. "We're going for the 'Extra Spoils'."
He looked at his twenty men.
"Follow me. We're going to 'Flash' out of this lobby before the admin deletes the server."
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