Raynor did not hesitate. The arrow had been loosed; there was no turning back. The plan had to be implemented with absolute resolve.
He understood the rigid adherence to "oaths" and "logical imperatives" that defined Cassius's character. Or, more precisely, he relied on the Space Marine's absolute commitment to agreements and cold data.
Since Cassius had pledged that no data would be purged until the mission was complete, he would not voluntarily break that pact until the Tyranid infestation was officially declared eradicated.
This certainty gave Raynor the courage to continue walking the razor's edge. It was, in a strange sense, a silent affirmation of Cassius's integrity.
After providing the coordinates of two more insignificant nesting sites to maintain the illusion of "continuous intelligence," Raynor revealed the existence of the "Tyranid Armory." He withheld the precise coordinates, offering only a general sector, and expressed "concern" regarding the readings. He claimed that, based on Alpha's vague perceptions, the bio-signals there were massive in scale and radiated an intense energy signature.
He added that a "heavy sense of oppression" lingered over the site—a psychic weight so profound that even Alpha felt threatened and dared not approach. He even hinted that Alpha's recent disappearance was a result of injuries sustained while scouting the perimeter, forcing the creature into hiding to recover.
As he concluded his report, Raynor watched the static image of Cassius on the comms-link, trying to gauge the reaction behind that expressionless white helmet.
Cassius did not hesitate. His voice was a flat, emotionless drone: "The information has been recorded. We will verify."
The Sergeant did not truly believe Raynor's explanation, but with Alpha's trail gone cold, the "hiding while injured" logic was a surface-level match for the data. True to form, Cassius wasted no words. He immediately issued commands to the Tech-Priests and reconnaissance units to begin a full-scale search of the "high-threat area" at the base of District 8.
Meanwhile, Raynor continued to play his other role to perfection: the "diligent inspector," consumed by the Chaos Cults of District 7. He even orchestrated a loud, public raid on a suspected cultist hideout, seizing a few blasphemous trinkets to ensure his "victory" was widely publicized and his alibi remained ironclad.
Information gathering proved more grueling than anticipated. The environment at the base of Zone 8, bordering the Ninth Restricted Area, was nightmare territory. It was choked with industrial toxins, leaking radiation, and the geological instabilities left behind by millennia of hive-warfare. Even the advanced auspex arrays of the Sons of Medusa were severely scrambled.
However, after days of meticulous scouting and the sacrifice of several servo-skulls, conclusive evidence was finally obtained. Cassius personally led a brief, high-risk infiltration of the border to confirm the readings.
The data presented to him was harrowing. It was not a mere nest; it was a massive "biomass foundry."
Preliminary scans suggested the complex spanned tens of square kilometers, burrowing deep into the planet's crust. The interior roared with concentrated biomass signals and abnormally high energy spikes. Most alarming of all, the recon units captured signatures of multiple "Tyranid Behemoths." There was even a brief, terrifying fluctuation from a much larger entity.
The diagnosis: an early-stage incubation of a suspected "Bio-Titan."
This was undoubtedly a core vanguard outpost—a project the Genestealer Cults had likely been nurturing for decades in preparation for the arrival of the Hive Fleet. Its scale and threat level eclipsed every previous target, including the Bishop's lair.
Cassius stared at the suffocating red warning zones and the spiraling danger parameters on the holographic projection. His deep blue eyes were devoid of emotion, reflecting only cold, tactical clarity.
He believed he finally understood Raynor's "plan."
The Bishop's post had been a test—a way to measure the squad's firepower and their ability to handle the unforeseen. This military factory, however, was the "killer move." Raynor intended to use these xenos horrors to do his dirty work. In a "reasonable" war of attrition, Raynor hoped to eliminate Cassius—the greatest threat to his secrets. He might even intend to bury the entire Sons of Medusa squad beneath the rubble to ensure no witnesses remained.
It was ruthless and efficient, perfectly matching the mortal's habit of using any tool at his disposal.
But Cassius sensed a deeper layer. The man entangled by that strange, rosy power possessed a mind too deep for simple treachery. Were there other traps laid within the foundry? Would Alpha appear when the first shots were fired? Was Raynor truly content to merely "use" someone else to do his killing?
Regardless of whether it was a conspiracy or a desperate gamble, one truth remained: the Hive had to be purified. Its existence was a catastrophic threat to Necromunda. As the Emperor's Angel of Death, Cassius's duty was indisputable.
He gave the order. The entire squad was mobilized for top-tier maintenance and resupply. Tactical doctrines for engaging super-large bio-constructs and heavy units were distributed. The strike was set for twelve standard hours.
He would tear this Hive apart with his own hands. And then, he would deliver the Emperor's judgment to Raynor and Alpha alike.
With only five hours remaining before the assault, a heavy, steely silence hung over the outpost. The air was thick with the tension of impending slaughter.
Magos Cyrus Guhart, the accompanying Tech-Priest, requested a private audience with Cassius. The Sergeant met him in the priest's makeshift workshop—a place redolent of sacred oils, ozone, and the low hum of the Thinker Array.
Cyrus was not standing at his consoles as was his wont. Instead, the Magos sat upon a simple metal stool. His primary multi-functional mechadendrite was trembling, throwing occasional sparks. Cassius's enhanced senses detected a faint metallic tang beneath the smell of engine oil.
It was the scent of blood.
"Magos Cyrus," Cassius said, his voice level. "Did you petition the Machine God for a 'prophecy' again?"
In the Cult Mechanicus, "prophecy" was the result of a high-ranking priest linking their consciousness directly into a vast array of logic-engines, performing near-infinite calculations amidst a deluge of data while offering prayers to the Omnissiah. It was a brutal process that could burn out biological grey matter and fry neural implants.
"I did, Sergeant," the Magos replied, his voice a mechanical rasp.