Iron Hook the Third's skinning knife came whistling down, stopping just three inches from Cyril's nose.
The blade stopped.
It was not that Quasimodo did not want to strike. A glass jar had blocked the blade.
Cyril did not even budge. His left hand steadily placed the wide-mouthed jar he had just pulled from his robe onto the table. Inside the murky preservative fluid, a pale human spine bobbed up and down.
No nerves were attached to the bone. Instead, it was plugged with a rusted brass interface.
Even more chillingly, that metal interface was moving.
As if alive, dark red rust spots crawled slowly across the surface of the brass tube, occasionally bulging and contracting like alveoli.
Iron Hook the Third's eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he did not dare press the blade down another half inch. The sinister aura emanating from the jar made the hair on his arms stand on end instantly.
"Go on, strike," Cyril said, head tilted, eyelids half-drooped. "One strike, the jar breaks, and the contents splash out. I bet within five seconds, this hand of yours will sprout this beautiful copper rust, which will then crawl along your blood vessels and into your brain."
He extended his index finger and tapped the twitching metal spine through the glass.
"When that happens, would you like to taste what it feels like to have your spine ripped out and replaced with an iron rod?"
Clang.
The skinning knife dropped onto the iron table. Iron Hook the Third jerked his hand back as if burned, retreating two steps and knocking over the chair behind him.
The only sound left in the meeting room was the faint clinking of the spine hitting the glass wall.
The Black Hand Gang cadres, who had been blustering just moments ago, were now craning their necks to stare at the jar, their faces looking worse than if they had swallowed flies.
Judiel, the fat man in charge of logistics, was even covering his mouth, making dry heaving sounds.
"Wha... what the hell is that?" Judiel's fat face trembled. "How is that hunk of metal alive?"
"Alive?" Cyril sneered, taking his legs off the table. Though his ribs hurt as if a saw were being dragged across them, he sat bolt upright, naturally exuding the oppressive aura of a superior.
"This is a new product from the Iron Crow Gang. Or rather, a greeting gift they prepared for all of you."
Cyril rapped his knuckles against the jar, producing a crisp sound.
"This technology is called a neural-link prosthetic. But this thing doesn't need batteries or maintenance. Its energy source is pain, the screams you let out before you die. That lunatic, the Rust Sage, planned to plug these into the back of every living person's head in the Underhive, creating a puppet army that knows no fatigue and fears no death."
He looked around, his gaze sweeping over every terrified face.
"If I hadn't blown up that shrine, this thing would have crawled into Black Hand Gang territory within three days. By then, every single one of you sitting here would have turned into a piece of rotten meat that does nothing but drool and bite people on sight."
Cyril's voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a certain magic that shoved those horrific images directly into the minds of these thugs.
"Bullshit!" Iron Hook the Third snapped back to his senses. Although his face was still pale, he refused to back down.
"Who are you trying to scare with a dead man's bone? Even the lords in the Upper Nest don't have this kind of technology. Why would those scavengers in the Iron Crow Gang have it? You must have made this up to get yourself off the hook, you liar!"
He pointed at Cyril, spit flying everywhere. "Boss Morozha, don't listen to him! This kid just wants to..."
Cyril suddenly stood up.
His movement was as fast as a striking viper. He stepped past the corner of the table, his right hand shooting out to firmly grip the wrist of the hand the Third was pointing with.
Third Brother instinctively tried to shake him off, only to find that the seemingly frail palm was as hard as an iron vise. That strength did not come from muscle, but from an explosive power born of an extremely tense mental state.
Cyril leaned his face close to the Third's. There were no pupils in those black eyes, only a bottomless, cold abyss.
"Evidence?"
Cyril's voice was low and raspy, every word sounding as if it were ground out from between his teeth.
"You want to see evidence? Fine. Open your dog eyes and look closely."
He released the Third's hand, wiped his own on his clothes with disgust, and turned to face everyone.
Cyril reached into his robe, his movements slow and solemn.
The air in the hall seemed to freeze. Everyone's eyes were focused on his oil-stained hand.
He pulled out the rosette.
He held the metal lump, which had been corroded beyond recognition by strong acid, high under the dim chandelier.
System, Cyril thought, his eyes instantly becoming fanatical and devout. Give me something intense.
[Consumed 10 deception value points to exchange for "Residual Psychic Wave (Micro)"]
Hum~~!
It was not a sound, but a sharp pain in the eardrums.
The temperature in the meeting room plummeted, as if someone had suddenly opened the door to a morgue freezer.
From the charred pits on the surface of the ruined rosette, wisps of purple mist suddenly seeped out. The mist was extremely viscous, like some kind of living gel, attempting to spread outward the moment it appeared.
But in the next second, a faint but pure golden glow exploded from within the badge.
Sizzle!
The golden light and purple mist collided and entangled violently in mid-air. The visual impact exceeded the cognitive limits of these Underhive thugs. The golden light was like molten iron, burning the purple mist into screaming dissipation with every touch, while the purple mist was like an immortal viper, frantically trying to devour that bit of holy light.
Amid the flickering light and shadows, Cyril's face shifted between light and dark, like a god or a demon.
"Ah!"
Someone screamed.
Judiel, who was closest, collapsed onto the floor, his cherished brass abacus rolling away. He stared fixedly at the entangling mist of light, the sound of his teeth chattering clearly audible.
"Di... divine power manifesting..."
"Do you see clearly now?" Cyril's voice echoed through the light and shadow, carrying unquestionable authority. "This is what was left in that shrine. The gold is the Emperor's divine punishment. The purple is the pollution from hell."
Holding the badge, he walked step by step toward Iron Hook the Third, who had long since slumped to the floor.
"This badge blocked a fatal blow for me. If I hadn't destroyed that core, this purple plague would have boiled your brains by now. You think you're big shots in the Underhive? In front of that thing, you're not even fit to be fertilizer!"
The light suddenly retracted.
The special effects time was over.
Cyril clenched the scrap metal, which had returned to its lifeless state, and looked down coldly at the Third.
"Now, who else wants to see evidence?"
A deathly silence followed.
Only the fat man, Judiel, was kneeling on the floor, banging his head with a thud and muttering incoherently, "God-Emperor protect us... Spare me, Master... God-Emperor protect us..."
The other cadres, who had been shouting to kill Cyril just a moment ago, now wished they could hide their heads in their pants. Although they did not understand the Warp or Slaanesh, the miracle they had just witnessed was undeniable.
This man held the real thing. And he truly could communicate with the divine.
Morozha, sitting at the head of the table, had not moved.
The red light in his mechanical prosthetic eye flickered wildly, clearly performing high-intensity data analysis. But no matter how he analyzed it, the energy fluctuation from just now could not be explained by any technology in the Underhive.
Fear.
Greed.
And a faint, almost imperceptible surge of ecstasy.
Morozha's fingers gripping his cane loosened slightly. He realized that he had not just saved his own life. He had picked up a treasure capable of changing the entire landscape of the Underhive.
"Enough."
Morozha tapped his cane on the floor. His voice was not loud, but it gave everyone a sense of direction.
"Mr. Cyril is tired. Judiel, arrange the best room and call my private doctor." Morozha stood up, a smile that could almost be called gentle squeezing onto his half-human, half-iron face. "As for the Iron Crow Gang's remaining territory... I think we need to plan carefully how to clean up that heretical trash for the God-Emperor."
Cyril retracted his gaze and casually tossed the jar containing the spine to the terrified the Third.
"Take it and play with it. Be careful not to break it."
With that, he did not even look at Morozha. Dragging his injured leg, he walked straight toward the door. As he passed Judiel, he stopped and patted the fat man's sweat-drenched cheek.
"Get me something to eat. If I see that pig-feed-like Nutrient Paste again, I'll have the God-Emperor have a chat with you."