"Kochav",
"Kochav!"
"Go get The Knight-Centura,now!"
Mira rushed from the door and touched Kochav's shoulder. Kochav came back to his senses.
"What was that boy?" Helsin asked.
Kochav looked around, he surrounded by armed crewmen.
Mira stood in front of him, sighing in relieved.
"What happened?" Kochav asked, confused.
"After you sat down on the floor, you suddenly stood up. Your eyes rolled white, and orange lighting emitted from you like you were in a trance." Helsin explained.
Guns still pointed at Kochav from all directions.
"Calm down, will you? You know it wasn't a peril. Because if it were, at least half of these guys would be rolling on the floor screaming."
Helsin nodded to the crewmen to lower their guns.
"But that doesn't explain your energy flying around. Now tell me what happened" Helsin pressed.
"I.....I think I just learned something that I should know.
No.....Something I must know.
A divine sight? A glimpse, I don't know how to explain."
"Let's say it was my divination." Kochav ended his speculation.
Mira tried to explain from her point of view by hand signals.
"Power, Fractured. Disconnected, Warp? Source. Unknown." Her answer, cryptic
"I don't understand, but as long as it doesn't affect people or cause peril." "You are safe from immediate execution" Helsin spoke.
Tension eased, Orange light slowly faded.
There was a secret he held back from the others.
The Paradeigma Artificer.
Kochav made his way back to his quarters.
In front of the door stood Brother Bergelmir, the Grey Knight Astartes.
"Disappointing", Bergelmir said. "I was looking forward to a fight with a daemonhost."
"Yeah, I know. What a shame I couldn't give you our promised dance," Kochav replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Just as he reached for the door, Bergelmir's gauntleted hand clamped onto his shoulder.
"If even the slightest trace of corruption manifests," Bergelmir said, his tone dropping to steel, "I will cut you down in a single blow. That I promise."
Some might have heard it as a threat. But coming from a Grey Knight —It was an act of mercy.
Perhaps the Emperor's Angel was capable of empathy after all. They locked eyes for a moment.
An unspoken understanding passed between them.
Then the Grey Knight turned and walked away.
Kochav entered his room, exhausted. Collapsing onto the bed, he stared at the ceiling, mind still reeling from what he had seen.
"Send me to kill someone already... damn it."
—
+++ MISSION BRIEFING +++
Planet:Veridian's Fall
Type: Strategic Agri-World
PDF: Large garrison, entrenched fortifications
Current Status: Under constant Ork invasion
Speculation: Low population density makes the planet ideal for covert operations and secrecy.
Objective: Eliminate a certain Commissar and uncover the truth.
A wheat field, far from Central Command.
A mustering point for scattered regiments. Temporary staging ground —led by a single Commissar.
The Commissar barked orders. "What is your problem, Guardsman? Get back to your regiment and wait for orders!"
"Yes, sir…" The Guardsman replied, voice flat, unenthusiastic.
The Commissar scowled and stalked off.
WHIZZ
The Guardsman pressed his vox-radio. "Is this guy the target? I actually don't mind killing him even if he isn't."
"What does he look like, boy?" Helsin's voice crackled back.
"Blonde-haired… kinda looks like Renoir. Wait a Terran second… what was the name again?" Kochav asked.
"Did you not read the full briefing, boy? Maybe I should have sent you to the Black Ship!" Helsin snapped.
"Give me a break, just tell me the name." Kochav replied, unfazed.
Helsin cleared his throat. "Konstan Fitz. Blonde hair, green eyes. Yes—he's a cousin of Renoir Fitz."
"He needs to die, and it must be covert. His death will open a path."
"I don't get it, but sure. I'll kill him", Kochav muttered.
"Wait for the Greenskin horde. We'll use the assault as cover," Helsin ordered.
Kochav checked his gear one last time.
Everything was in order.
He slipped toward the rear lines. Rows of Basilisk artillery pieces formed a firing lane.
Nearby, ten Wyvern mortar tanks began loading salvos.
Kochav moved deep into the cargo area, searching for the perfect vantage point. He climbed atop a stack of cargo crates.
Settled in.
Activated a force shield around himself. Bent light around his form —Chameleon.
There were many ways to kill his target. Precision telekinesis to nudge an artillery shell off-course. Sabotage the lead vehicle in the convoy.
But none of them excited him more than using his own invention.
He pulled out his revolver. The same Orlock heirloom —slightly modified.
A break-action, left-swing revolver. He had named it:
Sanguis Ferrum. "Blood Iron."
It lacked an ejector rod. The hammer had to be cocked manually after each shot.
A punishing weapon —one that demanded respect. For a careless wielder, it was unforgiving. For Kochav, it was perfect.
The barrel was rectangular, with a recoil assembly housed beneath it, integrated into the casing.
Six high-powered chambers. At the cylinder's core, a ratchet star linked to a charging handle at the weapon's rear.
Firing sequence: Initial recoil absorbed by the lower assembly, channeled through the feed and charging handle. The ratchet star rotated the cylinder after each shot, resetting both trigger and the charging handle.
But Kochav had disabled part of this mechanism. The hammer now stood alone. Manual. Deliberate.
He preferred it that way —a weapon that punished carelessness and rewarded precision.
But today, he needed more.
Much more.
He reached into his pack, pulled out a compact kit: The single-shot conversion.
He laid prone atop the cargo crates. Released the upper receiver —the break-action hinges clicked open.
He attached a broomhandle stock. Mounted the new upper. He called it:
Furris Serpens. "The Iron Serpent."
A larger barrel with a folding bipod beneath the barrel. Still a leftward break-action, but now transformed —from brutal revolver to a single-shot precision rifle.
Kochav opened the chamber. Slid in a single, gleaming round: 30mm standard autocannon shell.
He closed the action with a satisfying click. Engaged a small button on the handguard. The round began to hum softly, charged by psychic energy.
Blue light ran along the barrel, matching the pulsing glow of his eyes.
He cocked the hammer. Smiled, almost giggling.
And waited.
The Commissar climbed aboard a Leman Russ Exterminator —one of the Astra Militarum's main battle tanks. Named in honor of the Primarch of the Space Wolves.
This particular tank bore a turret-mounted, twin-linked autocannon. Perfect for tearing through the coming green tide.
Konstan Fitz stood tall in the command hatch, vox-amplified voice blaring:
"Look at them, xenos —primitive and savage!"
"They come to burn our fields, steal our machines!"
Across the plain, a massive horde of Orks surged forward. Wheat trampled under iron tracks and brutish feet.
Smoke and fire spread in their wake. Ramshackle war vehicles thundered ahead —crushing their own allies in a chaotic charge, while guttural war cries echoed across the battlefield.
Konstan Fitz turned to the assembled Guardsmen.
"Cowards! If you flee, you'll die now by my hand! Loyal Guardsmen —follow me!"
"Become the Emperor's sword! Cut down these wretched xenos! Forward —Battle tanks!"
Engines roared to life. Treads bit into the scorched earth. The armored column surged ahead to meet the Ork assault.
Above them, artillery shells arced through smoke-stained skies, falling in rhythmic thunder.
High above it all, hidden in the cargo stacks, Kochav watched through his scope.
His target: Konstan Fitz's Exterminator, now rolling at the heart of the formation, a protective line of tanks bristling around it.
"Preparation confirmation." Helsin's voice crackled in his ear.
BEEP-BEEP (Affirmative), Mira's Orsköde vox reply.
Kochav smirked. "I thought he was going to take all day. I was about to shoot him out of boredom."
"Kochav, give us a countdown." Helsin ordered.
He drew a deep breath. Calm. Focused.
3
—
Orks and Guardsmen converged in a storm of violence.
2
—
The golden fields ran with blood, red and green alike.
1
—
The target tank appeared in his sights. Crosshairs settled on the vulnerable gap between turret and hull.
He exhaled.
BOOM
One shot —indistinguishable amidst the cacophony of battle. A flash of blue energy streaked through the air.
Konstan Fitz's Exterminator erupted in a fireball, consuming nearby Ork vehicles in the blast.
Kochav whispered, "The rot has been excised."
He stood, calm amid the chaos. Smoke and screaming filled the fields behind him.
"When is Phase Two?"
On top of a silo, not far from the battlefield,
Mira crouched beside a modified auspex scanner. Her screen flickered with new data.
A dot appeared, the moment the target died —emitting a faint signal pulse.
It disappeared. Another dot replaced it. The signal had jumped —originating from an old relay tower.
It pinged again. Another hop. Bouncing from tower to tower racing toward its destination.
Then a final dot emerged. Slightly larger than the others. It lingered for the briefest blink —then vanished.
BEEP—BEEP——BEEP,BEEP,BEEP (Final coordinate: Local southwest. 7 o'clock from K-position. 2 Terran kilometers.) Mira quickly calculated the data.
She relayed the information, then leapt down from the silo.
Bergelmir waited below. He nodded. Without a word, they both moved toward the signal's source.
They arrived at a barren stretch of sand. At first glance —nothing but empty ground.
Bergelmir extended a hand, his psychic power stirring the dust.
The sand parted revealing a metal hatch beneath. A biometric scanner glowed faintly beside it.
"I hope this secret underground facility thing isn't hereditary." Kochav muttered behind them.
Bergelmir raised his hammer, lightning crackling across its head.
"Shall we open this with brute-force?"
"Wait!" Helsin's voice cut in through the vox.
"We don't know what countermeasures it might have. Observe first."
"Understood."
Bergelmir lowered the weapon, watching the hatch with wary eyes.
Kochav stepped closer to the door, eyes narrowed. He studied the biometric scanner, waiting.
Suddenly—
BEEP!
—
HISS.
The scanner reacted. The door slid open with a soft hydraulic sigh.
"What did you do, boy?" Helsin asked over vox.
"That wasn't me."
Kochav glanced down at himself —then noticed it. The pommel of his force-sword
glowed faintly.
The sword Renoir had given him. Kochav's eyes widened, then a faint smirk crossed his face.
"Even from the grave, you'd still give me a hand.I appreciate it."
"What was it, Rogue?" Bergelmir asked, curious.
Kochav turned, holding the sword by its scabbard.
"The blood of Fitz —sealed inside this very pommel."
"I questioned him many times —why put his own blood in here. He would always answer that It's a family tradition."
Kochav spoke softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Who was he?" Bergelmir asked, voice gentler now.
"Someone dear." He paused. "Family —you could say."
For a moment, silence settled over them all.
Helsin and Bergelmir said nothing —both understanding. Even hardened men knew such bonds.
Mira...Mira —well...Mira was a mute.
The trio stepped through the door.
At once, a familiar sight greeted them —the architecture matched that of the facility beneath Erika's Orb.
But this time, the lights were on. Cold white luminators buzzed overhead, revealing the corridor in stark clarity. Yet that clarity only deepened their sense of unease.
They gripped their weapons tighter, advancing in formation.
Bergelmir reached the first sealed door and drove it open with a brutal kick.
CRASH!
Dust billowed out. As it cleared, they were greeted by a scene of horror.
Massive gene-vats lined the chamber walls, their glass surfaces shimmering with condensation.
Within them —figures floated in pale green amniotic fluid.
Some half-formed bodies, little more than twisted limbs and bone.
Others fully developed children, infants... even fetuses suspended in eerie stillness.
All the grown ones shared a single trait: Silverhair.
"Is this... how Xarcarions keeps their bloodline pure?" Kochav whispered, voice tight.
Bergelmir scanned the room, eyes glowing faintly.
"Some of them carry the Warp's taint —but most... do not."
"Are they just vessels? Do they... have free will?" Kochav asked.
—
A heavy pause.
"What you're asking, boy..." Helsin said quietly.
"Is getting close to heretical." He swallowed. "I... suggest you don't dwell on it."
"But from what we can see..." Kochav spoke softly, eyes narrowing. "Some of them... have souls."
He stepped closer to the nearest gene-vat.
"Then if others are soulless ...what use would they serve to Xarcarion?"
A heavy silence settled over the room. Uncertainty. Dread.
At last, Helsin spoke, voice grim.
"Soul-transfer."
Kochav frowned. "What do you mean?"
"A pact with a daemon, Rogue." Bergelmir explained.
"When one dies... their soul drifts into the Warp —lost, hunted.
Most are devoured by daemons. Unless—"
—A pause.
"—unless a pact had been made."
Behind them, Mira signed swiftly.
"Dust. Cobwebs. Decades... no —centuries."
Kochav glanced over. "What did she say?"
"Some of these bodies," Bergelmir translated. "have been here... far longer than the rest."
Kochav turned back to the vat before him.
Inside, a young boy no older than ten floated in the viscous liquid.
But this one was different. It had an aura. Not empty. Not a blank slate.
its eyes opened and met his.
"What should we do?" Kochav asked. His hands trembled.
"Nothing."
Helsin's voice was cold. "The Xarcarions must never know that we were here."
He paused.
Collected his words —even if they were blasphemous.
"We must hope... that the greenskins win. If they do ...Xarcarion may remotely destroy this place."
Kochav clenched his fists. "Isn't that more heretical than what I said?"
"We serve the Ordo Malleus, Rogue." Bergelmir answered.
"The fight against the Warp is above all else."
The room fell into uneasy silence. None of them truly knew what should be done.
Regret... guilt. A weight they all shared. Kochav looked into the eyes of the clone. A soul gazed back.
No words passed between them —but something was understood.
The clone glanced toward an empty vat behind Kochav. he had stared at that tank for centuries.
Now, for a brief moment, his eyes filled with sadness and hope.
Freedom.
Kochav understood.
"I know what to do."
He raised his gun. He was defying orders. But no one stopped him.
In that moment. They accepted his choice.
"I shall grant your wish."
BANG.
The aura was gone. Finally at peace.
"Now..." Kochav said, voice firm. "Let's burn this wretched place to the ground."
Bergelmir and Mira nodded. They set the vats ablaze —leaving nothing but ashes.
As they stepped through the door once more,
Helsin muttered, "The Orks will win... and they will die anyway."
"It's what they felt in their final moments that matters, Helsin." Kochav replied.
"Mhm." Helsin gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment.
They climbed outside.
Behind them, black smoke devoured the sky. Flames consumed the field.
"What's the risk of helping the locals?" Kochav asked.
"Everything." Helsin answered.
Kochav sighed. "Let's go back, then."
One was bound by duty.
Another by creed.
But his?
He was bound by vengeance.