The bodies in the square were cooling, the fires sputtering out under a gray drizzle, when the first report came in.
A vox-operator from the Orestian Rifles, voice tight with static and fear:
"Sir—movement in the catacombs beneath the Ecclesiarchy spire. Not cultists. Heavy. Armored."
Varian and Malcor shared a glance.
Aurelius didn't need to be told what "armored" meant. He had felt it during the psyker's last moments — a pressure deep beneath the street, like molten iron behind a wall, watching, waiting.
"Seal the square," Aurelius ordered. "No civilians down there. No troops, unless they're ready to die."
The entrance to the catacombs was an arch of crumbling stone, sealed with a gate now torn apart from the inside. The smell was the first warning — scorched oil, old blood, and the faint ozone tang of corrupted power fields.
Aurelius's Observation Haki probed the dark.
Three distinct presences — huge, deliberate, moving with the patience of predators. Their intent was not like the frantic, jagged hunger of the cultists; it was focused, cold, and entirely without fear.
He descended first, Varian and Malcor at his back. The passage narrowed, forcing them into single file, then widened into a chamber lit only by the guttering flames of braziers hammered from looted Imperial icons.
And there they were.
Chaos Space Marines. Black armor trimmed in brass, the Eye of Horus glaring from their pauldrons. One bore a chainfist still wet with stone dust. Another hefted a reaper autocannon, its drum feed swaying as he moved. The third — their leader — carried a power sword that hummed with a hungry, unnatural light.
"You are far from the Eye, Custodian," the leader said, voice a serrated growl through his helm's vox.
"And you are far from the mercy of your corpse-god's light," Aurelius replied, stepping forward until the golden plate of his armor caught the brazier's fire.
The Marines moved first. The autocannon roared, shells tearing gouges from the walls, but Aurelius was already moving, his Observation snapping into sharp clarity — the faint flickers of movement half a second before they came. He sidestepped each shot, closing the gap in three strides.
Varian crashed into the gunner, spear punching through corrupted ceramite, but the chainfist-wielding Marine came from the flank, weapon roaring as it swung. Aurelius met it with his spear shaft, Armament coating flaring black — and still the impact shuddered down his arms, almost tearing the weapon from his grip.
The leader came in then, power sword arcing for Aurelius's helm.
He could feel the strike before it landed — and here, instinct told him the truth: if it connected, even Armament might not hold.
Aurelius drew deep, letting his Conqueror's Haki swell, not as a burst but as a crushing field centered on the leader. For a moment, the Marine's motion faltered — just enough for Aurelius to slip inside the guard and drive a gauntleted fist, blackened with Armament, into the Marine's helm.
Metal buckled. The Marine staggered, but did not fall.
And Aurelius felt the strain — his future sight flaring brighter, faster, burning through his focus like dry parchment in flame. Every motion around him became too sharp, too loud, each possible outcome fighting for his attention.
Malcor fell under a backhand from the chainfist Marine, his armor cracked at the shoulder. Varian roared in challenge, taking the blow meant to finish him.
Aurelius forced the visions to narrow — to choose. He locked onto the leader, ignoring the chainfist, ignoring the autocannon's dying cough. The next second unfolded in his mind like a drawn blade: step, feint high, cut low, twist the spear, finish.
He moved exactly so.
The blade of the Guardian Spear slid under the leader's pauldron, severing the power feeds to his arm, then swept up, taking the head clean.
The remaining two broke — not in fear, but in tactical withdrawal, dragging the body of their leader into the deeper dark.
When the chamber was silent, Aurelius stood over the scorch-marked stone, his breath steadying.
Varian was helping Malcor to his feet. "They'll be back," Varian said.
"Yes," Aurelius replied. "And next time, they won't hide in the dark."
He turned toward the catacomb's depths, his Haki still stretched thin, sensing the echo of those cold, unbroken intentions retreating deeper into Caltrius.
"This is no longer a pacification," Aurelius said. "This is a hunt."