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Chapter 29: The Hive and the Hollow
Hive Gallomar reeked of fear.
Even before the shuttles touched down, the corruption was thick in the air. The hive was massive—spires piercing the smog-layered sky, lower levels choked with filth and flickering power, while the underhive rumbled with unrest. A war was coming. Not just between armies—but within souls.
Lucien stood aboard the Valkyrie dropship, arms crossed over his chest. Outside the window, Gallomar loomed, a mechanical tomb for billions. He wasn't breathing fast. He wasn't nervous. But a pulse behind his eyes whispered a warning. The ring had gone silent. That wasn't comfort—it was ominous.
His vox buzzed.
"Captain Vale," Marell's voice crackled. "Governor's aide on the line. Says the situation is 'under control.'"
Lucien chuckled without mirth. "Which means it's already on fire."
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When the Emperor's Blade Company arrived, they found the upper spires polished and still humming with wealth—though hollow. Courtiers flinched at every shadow. Arbites patrols were scarce. Half of the PDF had vanished into the hive depths chasing ghosts.
And the lower levels… weren't much better than hell.
They met the first ambush two hours in.
Cultists—masks of bone, flesh, and cog—it didn't matter if they praised Nurgle, Tzeentch, or just chaos incarnate. They came screaming blasphemies, armed with stolen lasguns and madness.
Lucien's men held firm.
They didn't just win. They survived what should've been impossible. Frag grenades failed to detonate. Collapsing gantries paused just long enough for a squad to leap away. An infected plaguehost's heart gave out seconds before it reached Lucien's flank.
Still, the cost grew.
Sergeant Bren lost an arm. He lived.
Sniper Rael took a round to the eye. It missed anything vital.
Trooper Adra, crushed under debris—pulled free by chance moments before a meltabomb cooked the wreckage.
Each time, the pattern repeated.
Lucien's presence twisted the balance. His aura of impossible survival began bleeding outward, as if the ring's energy fed on belief.
His men were no longer just soldiers.
They were lucky.
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Word spread in the hive.
In the underhive, whispers turned to fervor.
The "Emperor's Blade" was here.
They said the Warp itself bent around him. That Nurgle's rot dried when he walked by. That a child touched by Chaos had been cleansed just by his glance.
The Ecclesiarchy took notice. Priests visited. Some demanded he submit to tests. Others just asked to walk with him—to feel the "miracle." Lucien allowed it. But inside, his heart twisted.
This was becoming too much.
Was it still luck? Or worship?
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The turning point came in Sector Umbra, where the hive's veins—its recycling cores—had been infested. Dozens of Tech-priests hung flayed from cables. Servo-skulls danced in the vents. The air stank of spoiled blood and corrupted machine-oil.
They found the cult.
And it found him.
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The creature was no mere cultist.
It stood seven feet tall, bloated with warp-marks. Its mouth spoke seven voices at once. In one hand it held a burning chainblade, in the other a symbol of dark truth.
"Lucien Artor Vale," it hissed, "I see you. I smell the thread woven around your soul. You are touched, oh yes—touched by something old."
Lucien raised his bolt pistol. "Touched, maybe. Yours? Never."
They clashed.
The fight was brutal. Bolts tore through its hide, only for new flesh to grow. It struck Lucien with a force that cracked his rib, sent him flying.
And yet—it missed its killing stroke.
The gantry it stood on collapsed, weakened by rust that hadn't been there minutes before. The warp-creature fell screaming into the recycler pit—burned away by its own corruption.
Lucien barely stood after, but he stood.
Marell reached him, helping him up. "Sir… you bled."
He looked at the blood on his coat. Black-red. Real.
"So I'm still human," he whispered. "Good."
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Three days later, Hive Gallomar was secure. The cult was crushed, its leaders slain or scattered. The hive's remaining loyalists begged Lucien to stay—to become its protector.
He refused.
"I am no governor. I am a soldier. My war isn't done."
Before departure, a child approached him—a boy, no older than ten. He held a small blade, carved from recycled plasteel.
"It's for you," the boy whispered. "They say you're His sword. I wanted to help."
Lucien took the blade. It was crude. Ugly. But perfect.
He knelt before the child. "Thank you. I'll carry it. For all of you."
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As the Emperor's Blade Company left Gallomar, their name echoed across the subsector. Survivors wept at their departure. Ecclesiarchs whispered about "the living saint who denies the title." His soldiers had now fully bought into the legend.
Lucien Artor Vale had become more than a man.
He was hope.
He was luck incarnate.
He was the blade fate refused to dull.
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