Paul's eyes snapped open.
His training fatigues were soaked in cold sweat, and his breathing was ragged and heavy.
Precognition consumed a terrifying amount of psychic energy, especially when viewing such a long and vivid branch of possibility.
It had nearly drained two-thirds of his total reserves.
After catching his breath, Paul spoke, his voice laced with a frigid dread. "I see..."
"So," he muttered to himself, "if I fight Sanguinius head-on, my win rate is less than three percent. And even if I managed to win by some miracle, it would expose Crimson Dawn's entire hand. It would only draw down an even more brutal suppression from the Imperium, likely involving multiple Legions."
He slowly stood up and opened the regional chat channel.
[Paul Dawn]: Sanguinius and his Sanguinary Guard are heading for Kent Hive. ETA: under one hour.
[Paul Dawn]: Cogboy, execute Plan A. All players cease abnormal activities immediately. If you have a shift, go to work. If you're on patrol, go patrol. Compile all our administrative logs, production reports, and civil improvement data from the past half-month.
[Paul Dawn]: Schrödinger Bro, notify Tax Bro, White Scars, and the rest of the seven. Tell them not to log in for now. Their Astartes identities are way too conspicuous. Sanguinius would realize something was wrong with a single glance. A Primarch's psychic connection to his own sons is absurdly sensitive. Even though the gene-seed we bought isn't tied to any specific gene-sire, we shouldn't take any risks.
Having played the game for so long, they were well-acquainted with its mechanics. When players logged off, their avatars didn't vanish; they became cold, lifeless vessels resembling corpses. Furthermore, the system store sold specialized "Cryo-Logoff Pods." These ensured that the... carrier vessels didn't emit a single trace of life signs, making them far easier to hide and store. These pods weren't overly expensive; with the players' current financial standing, practically everyone owned one.
[Paul Dawn]: Remember, right now we are law-abiding, hardworking hive administrators dedicated to construction, who were just tragically robbed. Do you all know how to cry poor? Do you know how to complain about hardship? Put yourselves in the shoes of an honest man bullied by a thug. I want aggrieved expressions and innocent eyes.
The channel instantly exploded.
[Blood Angels' Second Emperor]: Seriously?! Paul?! My idol, the Great Angel of the Imperium is actually coming to check our water meter?!
[Studying Med is Worse Than Falling to Chaos]: Plan A... that's the "we don't know anything, we're victims too" act, right? Copy that!
[Don't Ask Me My Orky Senses Tell Me It'll Work]: Just logged on. My sister says my company's hounding me for reports in reality. I'm logging off... laying low.
[Blood Angels' Second Emperor]: Don't worry, Paul! I'm an expert at crying poor! Besides, we were actually robbed! Several warehouses were emptied out completely! Even our own hive citizens are completely in the dark!
Cogboy's reply was terse: "Deployment initiated. Will be complete in thirty minutes."
Paul closed the chat channel.
He walked back to the meditation dais, sat cross-legged, and closed his eyes.
He wasn't going to use precognition again.
He was going to... make an edit.
Deep within his dark golden pupils, the pale golden facet representing Hope began to shine with blinding intensity.
"Hope..." Paul chanted softly, his voice carrying a certain divine rhythm. "Is believing that tomorrow will be better. Is believing that the darkness will eventually pass. Is believing... that some existences can remain temporarily unnoticed."
He took a deep breath, injecting the entirety of his remaining psychic reserves into the Hope trait.
"My hope is this." Paul opened his eyes. His dark golden pupils had now turned entirely pale gold, burning like twin miniature suns. "From this moment on, I do not exist."
The instant the words fell from his lips, a conceptual shift quietly overwrote all information regarding Paul in this location.
It wasn't invisibility, nor was it a psychic shield.
It was a temporary alteration of every conceptual trace that Paul had ever existed.
Within the range of Paul's psychic coverage, any reconnaissance, divination, psychic perception, or even logical deduction aimed at him... would be subconsciously redirected to the conclusion that Paul does not exist.
If Sanguinius used his precognition to search for information regarding him, the result would be a total blank.
If he used a psychic sweep on Kent Hive, he would sense Cogboy, Schrödinger Bro, Blood Angels' Second Emperor, and all the other players... but he simply wouldn't see Paul.
This was one of the most broken abilities granted by the Hope trait: A Ray of Hope.
When activated, it altered reality within the Champion's psychic range to align with the direction of their "hope."
Naturally, the cost of using such a power was astronomical. It could only be used once every ten years, and it permanently consumed ten percent of the user's maximum psychic capacity.
In other words, after using this ability, Paul's peak Storm-tier psychic power would regress to roughly mid-Storm tier.
But Paul used it without a shred of hesitation. He refused to let the Crimson Dawn they had worked so hard to build face total annihilation.
"It's just a psychic tier," he reasoned. For players like them, it could simply be grinded back up. Unlike the natives of this universe, they weren't permanently bound by the tier they were born with.
Pale golden light enveloped his entire body. His form began to blur and turn transparent, until it seemed to completely meld into the light and shadows of the sanctum.
He hadn't vanished; his very presence had been utterly diluted.
It was like staring straight at a cup on a table, but your brain automatically ignoring its existence.
Just as Paul's presence was about to dissipate completely...
Deep within the Warp, inside his divine palace, Lucian's humanoid avatar raised an eyebrow.
"A clever application of the Hope trait, but the psychic intensity is still lacking..." He tilted his head, a smile breaking across his face. "Sanguinius is the Ninth Primarch of the Imperium, a demigod forged in psychic power. This little parlor trick of yours isn't going to fool him."
He raised his right hand and lightly pointed his index finger.
One million points of energy from the System coalesced into a single, pure, warm speck of golden light. It pierced through the veil separating reality and the Warp, slipping silently into Paul's body.
The instant the speck of light merged with him, the erasure of Paul's presence magnified tenfold!
If he was merely easy to overlook before, he was now absolutely imperceptible.
As long as Paul didn't act like a complete moron—say, by jumping in front of Sanguinius, pulling funny faces, and shouting, "You can't see me! You can't see me!"—he would never be discovered.
Lucian retracted his hand, visibly satisfied.
"I'll help you out one more time, fellow earthling."
"You Fourth Scourge bastards sure are lucky," he continued softly. "This energy can only be used to exchange for things in the material world; it's completely useless for my own growth. If Tzeentch had it, he would've long since hatched a conspiracy to use you as cannon fodder for his front lines."
"After all," he added with a chuckle, "you're my chosen Champion. If you got caught by a Primarch and turned into soup this early on, my entire investment would go down the drain."
"Time is running short for you guys!"
With that, he lay back down on his hovering chair, pulled up the system interface, and looked at the astronomical figure representing his energy balance, humming a cheerful little tune.
--
Kent Hive, Top Floor Conference Room of the Governor's Palace.
Cogboy stood by the window, switching his right mechanical eye to telescopic mode.
In his vision, two crimson and gold Thunderhawk gunships were slowly approaching from the horizon, their thruster wakes carving stark trails across the grayish-yellow sky.
"They're here," Cogboy murmured.
He turned back to the conference room.
It had been perfectly arranged to resemble a standard administrative reporting venue.
The long conference table was stacked high with data-slates, ledgers, and holographic projectors.
Over twenty Youth League members in crisp, clean uniforms stood at attention on either side.
These young administrative assistants clutched stacks of documents. Their expressions were meticulously practiced—a perfect blend of nervousness and anticipation, exactly how local bureaucrats should look when welcoming a high-ranking official for an inspection.
Schrödinger Bro sat in the secondary seat, a thick copy of the Kent Hive Reconstruction Progress Report open before him. He nodded to Cogboy.
[Blood Angels' Second Emperor] stood in the corner, holding a small notepad, playing the role of the diligent minute-taker. Privately, he was buzzing with excitement, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his idol, the Emperor of the Second Imperium.
Every other player was properly hidden or in disguise.
"Remember," Cogboy said, his gaze sweeping the room one final time, his voice calm and steady. "We are the legitimate administrators of this hive, led by Governor Cage Lawrence and officially recognized by the Iron Hands Legion. We are striving to improve the lives of our citizens. We were just brutally robbed by unidentified thugs, suffering catastrophic losses. We feel deeply aggrieved, and we desperately need help. Understood?"
"Understood!" the group chorused.
Cogboy nodded. He turned to the window just as the Thunderhawk gunship began its slow descent toward the heavy landing pad atop the hive spire.
Three hundred meters below, inside the secret sanctum.
Paul kept his eyes closed, his presence completely melting into the environment.
Watch closely, Sanguinius, Paul whispered in his heart. Take a good look at the difference between Crimson Dawn and your Imperium of Man.