Chapter 164: The Purgator's Waltz
Kian Voss strode through the Spire-level boulevards, the heavy iron flamer-tank on his back and two high-capacity fuel drums clutched in his hands.
His destination was the Nightingale Theater, roughly eight kilometers through the rotted district. He needed to reclaim the remaining Lasguns and that Cogitator Array—the "Brain" of his future Intelligence Center.
With his Mega-Strength and Endurance injectors still surging through his blood, the thirty kilograms of gear felt like a child's backpack. He moved with a rhythmic, pounding pace, his boots cracking the marble tiles as he covered the ground with predatory speed.
Halfway to the theater, he stopped. Parked haphazardly on the edge of a luxury residential block was a Chimera Armored Transport.
Kian paused, scanning the vehicle. The hatches were open, and the external armor showed no sign of weapon impacts or explosive damage. It sat silent, looking like a discarded toy. Kian climbed into the cockpit; a quick glance at the diagnostic runes confirmed his suspicion: the fuel-meter was at zero. It had been abandoned simply because it ran dry during the initial panic.
"Throne... such a waste of Imperial assets," Kian whispered. He checked his belt. He had several bottles of Sanctified Spirits and Sanctified Oil intended for the flamer.
A mobile bunker is worth more than a full tank of fuel, Kian calculated.
He moved to the rear fuel intake. Using a flicker of Psionic Intent, he pried the armored covering away and poured two bottles of the high-proof holy spirits and a vial of the sacred ointment directly into the promethium reservoir.
He returned to the pilot's seat and mashed the ignition rune. Nothing. The battery was cold—likely drained by the previous crew leaving the internal lights on.
No matter. Kian began a "Search and Audit" of the interior lockers. He found a standard-issue Imperial maintenance kit. Inside was the "Manual Protocol": a heavy, rotating crank-handle designed for emergency starts.
Kian hopped down to the front glacis plate. He found the access port for the engine's primary cylinder. He slotted the handle and braced himself.
Starting a Chimera's engine manually was a task usually reserved for two Ogryns or a specialized servitor-team. The compression was massive. But Kian had Strength 40 coursing through his muscles.
He began to crank.
One rotation. Two. He put his entire transhuman weight into the motion, his muscles cording like plasteel cables.
Grind... grind... chug.
A cloud of oily black smoke erupted from the exhaust. The engine gave a violent shudder, the Machine Spirit coughing as the "Sanctified Blend" entered the injectors.
VROOOOM!!
The beast roared to life. The low, rhythmic thrumming of the engine echoed through the silent street. Kian patted the hull, feeling the vibration.
"Good girl. I'm taking you out of this sewer and giving you a real war. Now, let's go see a show."
He climbed inside, sealed the hatches, and slammed the gear-lever. The Chimera lurched forward, its treads screeching against the marble as it accelerated toward the theater.
Minutes later, the armored transport hissed to a halt in front of the Nightingale Theater. Kian observed the exterior through the periscope and hissed through his teeth.
The plaza was swarming. Hundreds of Poxwalkers had gathered at the foyer, their distorted bodies swaying in unison. Worse, the "Warp-Sinfonia" had started again. The music drifted from the open theater doors—a haunting, discordant melody that signaled the arrival of a high-tier infection node.
As the Chimera approached, the zombies turned. They began to shuffle toward the tank, their vacant smiles widening.
Kian grabbed his flamer-unit, opened the driver's hatch, and pulled himself up. He stood waist-deep in the hatch, the nozzle-wand held tight.
The cultists closed in, their wet murmurs filling the air. "Join us, brother... the Grandfather has a seat for you... share the joy..."
"I'm more of a 'Solo' act," Kian snarled. He pulled the trigger.
A thin, concentrated stream of fire erupted from the nozzle—a liquid snake of promethium and Sanctified Oil.
WHOOSH.
The fire traveled thirty meters, splattering across the front row of the horde.
The reaction was catastrophic for the "Unclean." The Sanctified Oil didn't just burn their flesh; it reacted violently with the Warp-energy holding their rotted bodies together. The Poxwalkers didn't just burn; they liquefied. Their grey-green skin sloughed off like melting wax, exposing blackened bone as they let out shrieks of soul-deep agony.
The "Holy Purgation" acted as a sanity-bomb. Those caught in the outer splash-zone were hit by the Emperor's resonance. Their mental filters shattered. They saw the reality of their own rotting intestines and the horror of their "brothers," triggering a wave of suicidal panic.
Kian methodically swept the line, raking the hundreds of zombies with the golden flames. After three long bursts, the plaza was a graveyard of scorched carbon and broken minds. The survivors had vanished into the shadows, howling in a terror that no chemical stimm could suppress.
Kian shouldered the tank, hopped down from the Chimera, and began his march toward the theater doors.
The music inside faltered. The Poxwalkers within had heard the screams of their kin. Thousands of distorted shapes began to spill out of the foyer, curious to see the source of the heat.
They stopped at the threshold, staring at the piles of their incinerated brothers and the armored man standing before them. A wave of instinctive, ancestral fear rippled through the horde.
Kian lit a Lho-stick, the smoke curling around his tactical visor. He leveled the flamer-wand at the main doors.
"Why'd the music stop?" Kian mocked, his voice a metallic rumble through his vox-grille. "Keep the show going! I thought you lot loved a good dance! What's wrong? Not in the mood for a bit of sun-fire?"
The horde hissed, but Kian didn't give them a second to think. He squeezed the trigger and held it.
ROAR.
A continuous torrent of golden flame flooded the theater's entrance. The hallway became a furnace of Divine Fire. The Poxwalkers caught in the tunnel were turned into ash before they could even scream. The Emperor's resonance, amplified by the high-pressure spray, turned the foyer into a "Sanctified Zone" that no daemon-spawn could breach.
Amidst the crackling of fire and the scent of burning rot, Kian Voss laughed, his voice a choir of one in the middle of a burning hell.
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