In the central districts of every settlement, the wealthiest noble houses and ruling elite made their homes. Their grand mansions occupied the highest, best-ventilated, sunniest ground in the quarter whispered to be haunted. Each estate was obscenely luxurious—gardens, fountains, private pools, even small artificial lakes.
The outer walls were faced with rare stone hauled across hundreds of light-years, glowing with a warm luster in the sunlight. Every window was fitted with ballistic glass thick enough to stop a direct explosive impact. The gates were solid copper, engraved with ancient crests and long lists of glorious deeds.
Once, these mansions had been guarded by well-armed private regiments. Gang scum from the Middle Hive and Lower Hive could not even approach the inner city of the Upper Hive, let alone set foot inside. Any fool who tried was shot on sight—no trial, no questions.
Now the local defense forces and private armies had been disarmed and their personnel shipped away by the Imperial Guard units sent to support them. The entire heart of the Upper Hive lay wide open, a fish on the block.
A vast crowd poured in without resistance. Their weapons were crude: iron pipes, machetes, entrenching tools, and the occasional laser rifle stripped from dead defenders. Eyes blazing with fury, they chanted as they marched:
"Exterminate the parasites!"
"Give us back what's ours!"
"Long live the People!"
The roar was deafening, each slogan a hammer blow to the hearts of every man and woman who had ever held power.
Datch, the agitator, tossed a bamboo dragonfly into the air and used it to guide the mob's advance.
The first noble to die was a fat man who had once publicly questioned the Astra Militarum. The crowd smashed through his mansion gates, crushed his handful of private guards, and stormed the supply warehouses.
What they found inside left everyone speechless.
Every vault was packed to the ceiling. Mountains of canned goods, biscuits, compressed rations, and vacuum-sealed meat. The dates on the cans proved they had been stockpiled long before the current crisis. Crates of antibiotics, analgesics, and disinfectants stretched into the distance—enough to last decades. Vast tanks of promethium stood ready to keep generators running for months. A circulating purifier system hummed quietly, producing clean water for floors and ornamental gardens while the city outside starved.
The crowd's eyes turned blood-red. They had fought and died for a single cup of water. Their children had been too thirsty even to cry. Their elders had become living skeletons. And here, behind armored walls, the powerful had been hoarding enough to feed an entire hive for years.
"Kill him!!!"
The shout ignited the mob. The fat noble was dragged from his bedroom, hauled through his own halls, and thrown into the street. His fine robes tore. His face was slashed open. One shoe came off and was left behind. They dragged him to the nearest lamppost, looped a rope around his neck, and hauled him into the air.
He kicked and thrashed, face darkening from red to purple to black. His eyes bulged. His hands clawed uselessly at the noose. Slowly the kicking stopped. The body swung gently beneath the streetlight like a grotesque pendulum.
Cheers shook the street.
"Next!"
"There's another one!"
They moved to the next mansion. Then the next. Then the next. Every one of them had been hoarding on the same obscene scale. The world showed them no mercy. The powerful were dragged from cellars and attics, paraded through the streets, and hung from lampposts like macabre decorations.
Some tried to flee in their grav-cars. Stones and las-bolts brought them down in flames. Others stood at their gates and pleaded.
"My ancestors bled for the Imperium!" an old white-haired noble cried. "I demand to protest! I demand to speak with the Regent! With the Emperor himself!"
The crowd stared in silence for three heartbeats. Then someone laughed.
"Your ancestors bled for the Imperium?" a man said. "My five-year-old son died of thirst three days ago. My father answered the draft and vanished into the stars forever."
"My father starved the day before yesterday," another voice added.
"My twelve-year-old sister was sold to the underhive gangs for two bottles of water," a woman said, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face.
The first speaker stepped forward and seized the old noble by the collar.
"Your ancestors bled. So have we. More than enough. Are we less loyal to the Emperor than you?"
The old man was dragged away and hanged beside the statue of his honored ancestor.
Some young scions of the elite tried defiance.
"Our forefathers conquered this sector! Why should we share our rightful comforts with peasants? Without us, how would the Emperor's will even reach the stars?"
No one listened. They were all hanged.
"Down with the parasites! Long live the people of the Imperium!"
Datch raised his fist with the rest, feeding the crowd's fury. For the new generation, tearing down the rotting relics of the old order was simply tradition.
The purge lasted all night.
When the sun finally rose, corpses swung from every lamppost in the central district, casting long shadows across streets already slick with blood. Datch stood in the main square, face expressionless, watching the bodies sway in the morning breeze.
Behind him the crowd was already distributing the spoils—water, food, medicine—carried out of the looted mansions and given to whoever needed it most.
Newly appointed officials arrived from neighboring districts, crisp uniforms and fresh letters of appointment in hand. They identified willing citizens, appointed temporary representatives from among workers, street vendors, and housewives, and within a single day a functioning new administration was in place.
The chaos caused by the sudden deaths of the old elite lasted only hours. The new officials were faster, cleaner, and far more effective.
Datch watched it all with quiet satisfaction. Then the mission notification appeared.
[Mission: Suppress the riot in Deadwood District and restore order] [Reward: 1,500 EXP | 1,500 Points | +500 Reputation]
"Mission complete. Next."
He opened the minimap.
The Deadwood purge had already sent a clear message to the powerful in every other district: the Imperium's policy had changed. Once, when riots broke out, the authorities stayed neutral and simply taxed the winner. Now they sided with the mob. The old elites understood the new reality—if they pushed too far, they would be the ones hanging from lampposts.
...
Supreme Command Conference Room – Vigilant Star Campaign HQ
High-ranking generals and officers sat around a vast hololithic tactical table displaying the real-time war across the entire Vigilant Star system. Red icons for the enemy, blue for Imperial forces, yellow for unknowns.
At the head of the table stood a tall, Firstborn Space Marine in the colors of his Chapter—Ba'stien Grix, Chapter Master of the Castellans of the Rift Chapter and overall commander of the Vigilant Star campaign. This operation had been created specifically for the Nachmund Sector. He had fought beside Datch before, purging traitors on the Mandrakor Knight Order's homeworld.
Mid-briefing, the hololithic projector suddenly flickered and began playing an old black-and-white pict-feed.
A desolate courtyard. Fallen leaves. A moss-covered well.
Even the Ecclesiarchy priest in charge of discipline looked bewildered. All diagnostics showed the projector functioning normally.
Then the image changed.
An Astartes wreathed in warpfire crawled out of the well, twisted and broken. He stepped in front of the lens—then stepped through it into the room.
"Chaos incursion! Guards—here, now!"
"Enemy attack!"
Several officers panicked. Soldiers burst in and leveled weapons at the figure still half-emerged from the projector.
"Hold fire!" Ba'stien's voice cracked like a whip.
The soldiers froze.
"That," Ba'stien said calmly, "is the Nameless One. Stand down."
Datch crawled the rest of the way out of the projector, a glowing question mark hovering above Ba'stien's head in the tactical overlay. He jogged over, looking expectant.
"Commander Ba'stien. Got any missions for me?"
Ba'stien had worked with Nameless Ones before. He simply nodded and handed over a data-slate.
"Nameless Lord, I have several problems. Solve even one or two and I will be in your debt. Show me what you can do."
Datch took the slate.
Starseer Haarken — former Night Lords, once commander of the Ghost Claw warband, now a high-ranking warlord in Abaddon's forces. Known for extreme brutality, public displays of flayed corpses, nocturnal broadcasts of victims' screams, and the tactic of hurling severed limbs into enemy positions before an assault. Morale across Vigilant Star was collapsing under his campaign of terror.
Death Guard active in the Dotria District, seeding twisted life in an attempt to turn the planet into Nurgle's garden.
Iron Warriors assembling siege batteries to reduce every Imperial fortress to rubble.
Thousand Sons sorcerers spreading corrupted ideology and spawning warp-spawned horrors in the Hyperion District.
Genestealer Cult — the self-styled Princes of the Poor — launching a surprise assault on the orbital elevator in North Harmony District, trying to cut the Mechanicus Knights off from orbit and seize Imperial warships.
Greenskin numbers swelling in the wasteland beyond the hive.
Dark Eldar raiding parties dragging captives back to Commorragh.
Datch scrolled through the dense reports and muttered,
"Stimulating training… but someone's missing from the guest list."
He looked up.
"I'll handle the xenos cult in North Harmony District. Restore order there."
A new mission window appeared instantly.
[Mission: Proceed to North Harmony District and purge the gene-stealer cult Princes of the Poor. The district is currently contested between Mechanicus forces of the Eighth Netherworld Forge World and the invading cult.] [Reward: 1,500 EXP | 1,500 Points | +200 Reputation]
Ba'stien allowed himself a small smile.
"Thank you, Nameless One."
Datch ignored the gratitude, selected Sadako's Videotape from his inventory, and vanished between one heartbeat and the next.
The officers left in the room stared at the empty space where he had stood.
...
North Harmony District – Outer Ring
Datch had just climbed halfway up a massive advertising hololithic screen when a shell detonated nearby. The blast wave threw him off balance. The screen toppled, crashed, and shattered.
"Ah—! What a garbage debut!!"
He crawled out of the wreckage, ears ringing, just as the real war swallowed him.
Burning vehicles. Collapsed hab-blocks. Flames pouring from windows. Thick black smoke blotting out the sky. The constant thunder of artillery and the wet crack of small-arms fire. The coppery stink of blood and promethium.
Genestealers were charging the orbital elevator in a living tide—blue-purple skin wrinkled and armored with chitin, oversized heads, three-fingered claws like serrated knives. If they took the elevator they would sever the Mechanicus supply line and steal warships.
Outside the control center the Imperial line was barely holding. Augmented priests of the Eighth Netherworld Church—half flesh, half blessed machinery—stood shoulder-to-shoulder with exhausted mortal Guardsmen, pouring flame and las-fire into the swarm.
Datch opened the Room of Requirement.
Dark Angels. Black Templars. Skarbrand. Zarhulash. And more.
He cracked his neck.
"Alright. Let's get to work."
…
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