Chapter 152: The Warp-Sinfonia
The moment Kian Voss gave the order, he exploded into a sprint, his combat boots hammering rhythmically against the polished marble boulevard. Behind him, the Voss Guard didn't hesitate; they surged forward, rifles leveled, a wall of black ceramite following their sergeant into the maw of the theater.
A few Poxwalkers near the entrance turned their misshapen heads. Their skin was translucent, pulsing with the green heat of the rot, and they wore wide, serene smiles.
Kian slid into a tactical crouch, his autogun barking in sharp, three-round bursts.
DA-DA-DAT. DA-DA-DAT.
The heads of the closest "Laughing Ones" vanished in sprays of grey ichor. The gunfire drew more of them from the side-streets, but the thunder of the automated batteries on the distant Spire-Tip acted as a much larger "aggro-magnet." Most of the horde continued their mindless migration toward the High-Lord's fortress, ignoring the small skirmish at the theater's gates.
"Move! Don't stop for the trash! Get inside! I'll hold the lane!"
Kian stood his ground, pouring lead into the dark to keep the perimeter clear. Within seconds, his twenty men had crossed the street and breached the grand foyer of the Nightingale Theater. Kian dropped his empty magazine, slammed a fresh one home, and backed through the doors.
Inside, the squad fanned out, their tactical lights cutting through the gloom. They knelt in the shadow of marble statues, covering Kian as he entered.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The soldiers raked the entrance, dropping a dozen more Poxwalkers who had tried to follow. In the early stages of a Warp-outbreak, the physics of the Materium still held. These weren't the near-invincible plague-marines of the late-game; they were just rotted meat. A high-velocity Imperial slug to the brain-pan was still a terminal audit.
Kian grabbed the House Steward by his silk lapels. "Quick! Where is the Lady?! Lead us to the suite!"
The Steward, trembling but focused by the "Sanctified Salve" on his brow, gestured deeper into the complex. "Through the grand hall! Her private chambers are above the stage!"
Kian split the squad. "Egghead! Take ten men and hold this foyer! If anything bloated tries to squeeze through those doors, you delete it! Ash, the rest of you are with me! We're going to the orchestra pit!"
They sprinted down the main corridor and burst through the velvet-lined doors of the main auditorium.
The Steward stopped dead, let out a strangled whimper, and pointed a shaking finger toward the stage.
Kian shoved him aside and stepped to the railing. His pupils dilated as he performed a tactical scan.
The auditorium was a typical circular "Opera-Pattern" hall, designed for acoustic perfection. But the "Audience" was a vision from the deepest pits of the Warp. Thousands of Poxwalkers were seated in the velvet chairs, dressed in tattered evening gowns and formal tuxedos. Despite their distended bellies and the wood-like horns growing from their heads, they sat in disciplined silence, their vacant, milky eyes fixed on the stage.
And the stage was a masterpiece of "Warp-Dissonance."
A dozen Poxwalkers, dressed in the gold-trimmed uniforms of the theater's orchestra, were seated on the stage. They held brass trombones, cellos, and violins. They were playing.
The music was haunting—a swirling, beautiful melody that seemed to resonate directly with the human soul. But beneath the notes was a rhythmic buzzing, like a million flies, and a wet, gurgling undertone that made the skin itch.
The "Warp-Sinfonia" was a psychic weapon.
Kian felt his mind skip. For a split second, the rotting theater looked like a palace of light. He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to sit down, to relax, to join the family.
Thrummm.
His Mental Clarity (40) flared. The "Sanctified Salve" on his visor sizzled as it neutralized the psychic suggestion.
Kian snapped back to reality and looked at his men. They were all standing paralyzed, their rifles lowering, their eyes beginning to glaze over.
"BLOODY THRONE!!"
Kian didn't waste time with a speech. He lunged at his machine-gunner, ripped the Squad-Stub from the man's hands, and leveled the barrel at the orchestra.
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!!!
The heavy 8.9mm rounds shrieked across the hall. The lead trombonist's head disintegrated into a spray of black pus. A bullet punched through a brass tuba, the metal screaming as it was torn apart. The cellist was raked from chest to hip, his body collapsing into a heap of meat and wood-shards.
The music died in a discordant screech of snapping strings.
The "Audience" turned as one. Thousands of bloated, formally dressed corpses stood up, their silent smiles turning into wide, toothy maws of hunger.
Kian spat on the carpet and roared through his vox-grille:
"You rotted bastards think you have culture?! You think you can play that 'Shadow-Opera' in my sector?! You're disturbing the peace! There are people trying to sleep in this Hive! Where's your civic sense?! Where's your public morality?! VOLUME DOWN, YOU HERETIC SCUM!! VOLUME DOWN!!!"
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!!!
Kian held the trigger down, the muzzle flash illuminating his manic grin. The heavy machine gun raked the front rows, tearing through the silk and the flesh alike.
The spell was broken. The fifteen men behind him shook their heads, their vision clearing as they saw the horde of thousands closing in.
"FIRE! OPEN FIRE!" Ash screamed, his autogun adding to the cacophony.
Twenty military-grade weapons poured a wall of fire into the auditorium. In the tight confines of the circular hall, there was no need for precision. The high-explosive propellant and the over-sized calibers of the Imperial rifles turned the "formal event" into a woodchipper.
The Poxwalkers were mowed down in rows, their elegant Spire-clothes shredded as their gas-filled bodies popped like overripe fruit.
"Move up the flank!" Kian commanded, reloading the LMG. "We don't stay here to count the dead! The foyer is engaged!"
The sound of Egghead's squad fighting at the front gate echoed through the hall. The "aggro" was peaking. Every monster in the theater was now converging on their position.
"Steward! To the Lady's suite! Now!" Kian barked. "Even if she's rotted, I'm taking her head! I need her eyes for that iris-lock!"
The Steward scrambled up the side-stairs, leading the blood-drenched squad toward the high-tier private balconies. They reached a pair of ornate, double-wing doors painted in a deep, vibrant crimson.
The private sanctuary of Lady Nightingale.
☆☆☆
-> 20 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Inkshaper
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you