[System Prompt: Consume 20 deception value points to exchange for 'Miniature Psychic Storm (Special Effects Edition)'?]
[Current deception value balance: 35 points.]
Cyril's heart was bleeding.
These were points he had worked so hard to swindle from the Grey Knights.
He had been saving them for a life-or-death situation, but now he had to waste them on these Lower Hive thugs.
But there was no choice. If he didn't shock and awe them today, he would truly be finished here.
Exchange!
He roared the command in his mind.
If he was going to put on a show, he might as well go all out.
Zzzzt—!!!
A visible arc of blue electricity suddenly erupted from Cyril's fingertips.
It wasn't real psychic lightning, but a holographic projection effect created by the system.
But in the eyes of these uncultured Lower Hive brutes, this was a divine miracle, or perhaps demonic witchcraft.
As the electric arcs danced, the surrounding air seemed to solidify.
A low whispering sound, as if from the depths of the Warp, echoed in everyone's ears.
Though not loud, the sound felt like icy needles piercing directly into their brains.
The rifle in Jack's hands nearly slipped to the ground.
"A P-Psyker?!"
His voice instantly changed pitch, as if an invisible hand had gripped his throat.
In the Imperium, what did an unsanctioned Psyker mean?
It meant uncontrollable destruction. It meant the Inquisition's Black Ships. It meant a fate ten thousand times more terrifying than death.
Cyril looked at them with an expressionless face, his eyes filled with lofty, detached disdain.
His left hand remained behind his back, while his right palm held aloft that non-existent "thunderstorm."
At the same time, he very discreetly flicked open a tiny hidden mechanism in his sleeve with his thumb.
Poof!
A puff of magnesium powder was ejected, instantly igniting in mid-air.
The blinding white light exploded in the narrow pipeline. Combined with the system's blue electric arc effects, it looked exactly like a small Plasma Grenade detonation.
"Ah! My eyes!"
"Witchcraft! It's witchcraft!"
The Iron Crow Gang thugs let out a chorus of screams, covering their eyes and scrambling backward.
The intense visual impact, coupled with their instinctive fear of Psykers, completely shattered their psychological defenses.
Cyril didn't actually launch an attack.
He merely took one slow step forward.
That simple step, in Jack's eyes, was like the tolling of a death knell.
The man wreathed in blue lightning was like a demon god walking out of the Warp.
"Kneel."
Cyril said softly.
His voice was not loud, yet it seemed to explode directly in the depths of their souls.
That was the system's "Psychic Pressure" sound effect package. Though it caused no real damage, it was more than enough to scare people.
Clatter!
The rifle in Jack's hands clattered to the ground.
His legs gave way, and he fell to his knees with a splash in the filthy water.
"S-spare me, my lord! Spare me!"
He didn't even dare to look up at that terrifying figure, just desperately kowtowed.
Seeing their leader kneel, the other gang members didn't dare resist. They dropped their weapons and knelt in a wave like harvested wheat.
"Scram."
Cyril uttered only one word.
These thugs, who had been so arrogant moments ago, now acted as if they had received a royal pardon, scrambling and crawling away in retreat.
Some even lost their shoes in the panic but didn't dare turn back to retrieve them.
In less than ten seconds, the narrow pipeline was left with only a mess of discarded weapons and the lingering smell of smoke.
[System Prompt: Detected 'extreme panic' emotional fluctuations from Iron Crow Gang members.]
[Deception value +15.]
[Current balance: 30 points.]
Good, got some points back. Only lost 5 points net.
Cyril secretly breathed a sigh of relief. His left hand, hidden behind his back, had actually been trembling slightly the whole time.
If those guys had actually opened fire earlier, he would have been riddled with holes by now.
He slowly withdrew his right hand, and the blue electric arcs dissipated.
He turned and looked at Scarface, who had long since collapsed on the ground.
The look in Scarface's eyes now was not just fear, but something approaching fanatical reverence.
If he still harbored a sliver of doubt about Cyril back in the morgue... Then now, he was absolutely certain!!!
The man before him was definitely no ordinary Undertaker.
He was a monster in human skin, a high-level Psyker with terrifying power!
"Seen enough?"
Cyril clapped his hands, as if he had just finished some trivial chore.
"S-seen enough... No, not enough... I mean, Boss..."
Scarface babbled incoherently, lacking even the strength to get up.
"Get up."
Cyril walked over and nudged him with his boot.
"Don't keep Morozha waiting."
"Yes! Yes!"
Scarface scrambled to his feet on all fours, not bothering to wipe the mud and water from his face, and bowed respectfully.
"Boss, you go first! Our turf is just ahead. No one will dare block the way this time, I swear!"
At this moment, in Scarface's mind, Cyril's status had even surpassed that of the gang leader, Morozha.
After all, though Morozha was ruthless, he was just a mortal who played with guns and knives.
But this lord played with lightning.
Cyril didn't say much, merely gave a slight nod and strode forward.
His silhouette stretched long under the dim light, as if about to swallow the darkness of the Lower Hive whole.
But only he himself knew how fast his heart had been pounding in that moment.
This was the feeling of dancing on the edge of a blade.
Every step was an abyss, every second was life or death.
But he was actually starting to enjoy this feeling a little.
"Morozha..."
Cyril silently repeated the name in his mind.
Since he was going to play, he might as well play even bigger.
Since he had already become a "Psyker," he would use this identity to turn the entire Lower Hive underworld into chips in his hand.
The path ahead grew wider, and the smell of blood and alcohol in the air grew thicker.
In the distance, a massive fortress built from abandoned shipping containers and steel scaffolding loomed faintly in the smog.
That was the Black Hand Gang's headquarters, the "Rusty Throne."
"Boss, we're here."
Scarface eagerly led the way, his voice dripping with sycophancy.
"The boss is in the 'Execution Room' on the top floor. Usually, only a few of us core officers can enter."
"Execution Room?"
Cyril raised an eyebrow.
"Sounds like a great place to discuss business."
He adjusted his cuffs, confirming that the scalpels were within easy reach.
The next act was the real main event.
Compared to those thugs who only knew violence, a cunning old fox like Morozha, a gang leader, was the hardest prey to deceive.
But the harder the deception, the higher the reward.
Cyril took a deep breath, drawing the foul air into his lungs, then strode toward the steel door adorned with a skull emblem.
On either side of the door stood four guards clad in armor.
The muzzles of the bolters in their hands were aimed at anyone who approached.
"Halt!"
One guard barked sharply, an infrared targeting dot instantly locking onto the center of Cyril's forehead.
"Who goes there?"
Before Cyril could speak, Scarface charged forward like a mad dog.
"Are you blind?! Don't you recognize me and this... this esteemed lord?!"
Scarface slapped the guard's helmet with a crisp crack.
"Open the door! If you delay the boss's important business, I'll feed you all to the meat grinder!"
The guard was stunned by the slap. He looked at Scarface, then at the calm-faced Cyril behind him.
Though they didn't understand what was happening, Scarface's bully-boy act, backed by someone else's authority, did make them wary.
"Go in. The boss is in a bad mood. You're on your own."
The guard grumbled and pressed the door-opening button.
The heavy hydraulic door slowly rose, revealing a dim and noisy hall inside.
Heavy metal rock music blared deafeningly. Countless frenzied bodies writhed on the dance floor.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and some kind of hallucinogenic smoke.
Cyril walked through the crowd expressionlessly, ignoring the provocative and malicious glances around him.
His goal was clear.
It was the elevated steel platform at the far end of the hall.
And on that platform sat the local tyrant of this underground kingdom.
Morozha.