Half a day later.
Deacon-Primaris David, senior envoy of the Adeptus Ministorum, descended alone into the festering bowels of Hive Tyrone's Lower Districts.
No Frateris Templar bodyguards. No Crusader-Serfs. No escort.
Only the small, psychically-gifted Felinid, cradled in his arms, its tail flicking lazily as it purred against the rosarius-draped, crimson-and-gold folds of his ecclesiastical vestments.
A bold statement.
A show of unshakable Imperial Faith.
Or madness.
The corridors of the Lower Hive swallowed him in their oppressive darkness. The stench of unwashed bodies, burnt promethium, and refuse clung to the air like an omnipresent fog, thick enough to chew.
Every shadow in the crumbling corridors hid potential predators: gangers, mutants, worse.
Yet none dared approach him. His presence alone, the unmistakable aura of an Imperial priest, forced them to slink away.
It was not respect that kept them at bay.
It was fear.
....
A lone figure approached.
Grey, stationed at the forward command post, stood the moment the priest came into view, the soft hiss of actuators accompanying his movements.
The two men regarded each other in silence.
David's eyes narrowed.
This armor…
Grey's power armor was unlike anything David had ever seen within the Imperium.
Not the hallowed ceramite of the Adeptus Astartes, nor the ponderous servo-harnesses of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It bore no heraldry, no sanctified purity seals, only sleek, matte-black alloys etched with gold hexagrammic micro-engravings.
A violation of the Mechanicus Lexicon.
Techno-heresy... or archeotech?
Something new.
Something that should not exist.
And yet, here it was.
His gaze drifted past Grey, sweeping over the assembled forces behind him.
Hundreds of soldiers, all clad in the same enigmatic warplate, all armed with weapons of unknown design.
At that moment, the armor's origin ceased to matter.
What mattered was the simple fact that it existed.
If the Imperium did not control it, it was a blade at the throat of Holy Terra.
It was a threat.
David was the first to speak.
"Are you their leader?"
His voice was calm, but his mind raced.
Surely, this man was the commander of the First Legion.
Grey remained silent.
Two heartbeats later, a razor-thin dimensional rift split open beside them, its edges crackling with blue-hued empyric static.
The air itself recoiled, charged with a presence beyond mortal reckoning.
A man stepped forth, tall and lean beneath his long, high-collared coat of charcoal-grey, trimmed with faded silver thread. His features were sharp, almost ascetic; high cheekbones, ink-blue eyes shadowed by perpetual sleeplessness, and skin that looked almost too pale for a man of the Underhive.
Around him clung an oppressive stillness; not silence, but a dissonant absence, as if reality itself grew uncertain in his presence. It was not the thunderous awe of a psyker, nor the tangible dread of a daemonic touch. It was subtler. Colder. Like the edge of a forgotten dream, or the eye of a storm that had not yet arrived.
"Qin Mo."
He spoke his own name plainly, his gaze cold and direct.
David frowned at the lack of ritual obeisance, but let it pass.
"David."
He dipped his head slightly, speaking with measured courtesy.
"It is an honor to introduce myself to a loyal servant of the God-Emperor."
Qin Mo studied David.
The man was aged, perhaps two centuries old, though sustained by augmentic intervention. His body bristled with cybernetics, subtle in their integration but undeniable in their presence.
A black canister was grafted into his spine, connected directly to his primary heart, likely a life-extension module.
At that moment a memory surfaced.
The Shapeshifter's prophecy.
"The first man you meet worships a False God in the Sea of Souls."
Qin Mo almost laughed aloud.
Because, from the perspective of other factions, the Imperial Creed itself was a form of heresy.
So the prophecy wasn't wrong after all.
David, meanwhile, was evaluating Qin Mo.
There was arrogance in this young man, not only in his expression but in his very presence.
A lack of piety.
David could see it instantly.
This was not a man humbled by faith.
But he did not call him out on it.
Not yet.
"Who do you represent?" Qin Mo asked.
"The Hive and the Holy Ministorum," David's answer was calm, assured.
"Let's talk."
Qin Mo turned, leading the way back to the First Legion's encampment.
As they walked, Qin Mo observed David closely.
The priest's hand idly stroked the psychic Felinid, its purring unbroken, undisturbed.
That meant one thing: David felt no fear.
No tension.
He was certain that he would not be harmed.
He believed the First Legion dared not rebel.
That was his assumption.
But assumptions were dangerous.
....
In the bunker, two adamantium-reinforced chairs faced one another.
Qin Mo and David took their seats.
And the negotiation began.
David's eyes swept the camp, observing the battle-hardened warriors moving with purpose and discipline.
A quiet sigh escaped him.
"Poor children."
His voice dripped with pious pity.
"What horrors did you endure in the Underhive?"
Qin Mo's expression did not change.
"A war."
He offered no further elaboration.
Then, he listed his terms.
"My men are to be granted full freedom of movement within the Lower Hive.
They are permitted to reunite with their families.
They are permitted to relocate their families to New Kato, a reclaimed sector in the Underhive.
They are permitted to trade for supplies and transport resources."
David's face remained neutral.
But at the mention of relocating families, a flicker of concern passed through his features.
"You intend to return to the Underhive?"
"Yes."
David lowered his head, thinking deeply.
Right now, the only leverage the Spire Lords had over the First Legion was their families.
If they allowed them to be taken to the Underhive, they would lose all control.
But if he refused…
David sighed again.
He extended his will, reaching out to attempt to probe Qin Mo's mind.
For nearly a full minute, he searched.
Nothing.
So, he turned to Grey.
Still nothing.
David's stomach churned.
Their power armor was blocking his psychic scan.
That meant advanced psychic dampeners or warp-nullifying materials tech usually restricted to Black Ships or the Inquisition.
This gave him the clue that this wasn't just some ragtag Underhive army lucky enough to find a forgotten archeotech or a xenos cache.
This was something else entirely.
....
Qin Mo's voice sharpened.
"Speak. Yes or no?"
David exhaled slowly.
"Yes."
Qin Mo smirked.
"Good. First negotiation complete."
He stood and walked away.
As Qin Mo departed, David realized that was only the first demand.
More would come.
If he wanted to prevent disaster, the best course of action…
Was not diplomacy.
It was war.
To brand the First Legion as heretics.
To eliminate them before they became something unstoppable.
But David had been a soldier once.
He knew what war against Qin Mo and his miracle army would bring.
A reckoning.
To his calculation, the rest of the Hive PDF had slim chances against the First Legion.
And the source of their technology was still unknown, possibly alien, or worse, unsanctioned STC recovery.
As Qin Mo was about to vanish, David called out, "You fought so hard to escape the Underhive. And now you send them back? Are they merely tools for your ambitions?"
Qin Mo paused.
Then, he turned back, his gaze piercing.
"They are free. They choose their own fate. I force no one to return."
David's frown deepened.
"A dangerous gamble. What if they all choose to stay?"
Qin Mo simply smiled.
Then a dimensional barrier shimmered around him.
A flash of light.
And he was gone.
....
David stood motionless, his mind racing.
This was spiraling beyond control.
The Ordo Hereticus must be summoned.
Yet Tyrone Hive, no, the whole Talon Sector was just a speck of unimportance to the Inquisition.
Unless…
An invitation issued in the name of the Ecclesiarchy.
That might change things.
As David turned to leave, his psychic Felinid suddenly stirred.
It squirmed in agitation, sensing… something.
David calmed it, retrieving a small container from his robes.
The Felinid purred, using fine telekinesis to lift a writhing white grub into its mouth.
It crunched audibly, then purred louder, clearly satisfied.
Grey grimaced through his helm's vox.
"Cute. But its diet's vile."
A voice crackled through his vox.
"No idea how that old bastard raised it to eat that."