Within the opulent confines of the Finder family's private audience chamber, Howard Finder, newly ascended to the mantle of patriarch and sole heir to the family's vast wealth, set aside the weight of his duties. With a gesture of rare camaraderie, the young earl raised a goblet in a heartfelt toast.
"Nimrod, my gratitude for your aid in this matter is boundless."
Nimrod mirrored the gesture, his goblet clinking softly against Howard's, the crystal chime resonating in the richly adorned hall.
"Nimrod," Howard continued, his voice earnest, "your renown now echoes through the hive. To best Tetzvok's premier barrister in open court is no small feat. I urge you to abandon the factories—the Martian crowns earned from a single noble case surpass the profits of your entire dome."
"More than wealth, the role of a lawyer is among the most prestigious vocations open to hive citizens. It grants unparalleled political influence within the upper echelons of Tetzvok's society."
Nimrod's response was resolute, his tone unyielding yet composed. "I have no desire to pursue a lawyer's path indefinitely."
He knew well that in eras of peace, legal minds like lawyers often ascended to political dominance. But Vostonia, and indeed the galaxy entire, stood on the cusp of a tumultuous epoch—the "Great Crusade" loomed, a tide of conquest that would reshape the stars. Having fully digested his "Lawyer" potion, Nimrod harbored no ambition to amass political capital. Instead, the seeds of a "Barbarian" revolution—a violent upheaval to overturn the hive's order—were already germinating in his Primarch's mind.
Yet, through their recent interactions, Nimrod had come to admire Howard. The sixteen-year-old noble's competence and magnanimity had earned his respect, a rare accolade from one forged for dominion.
"Very well," Howard conceded, setting his goblet down with a gentle clink. "I shall not press you further. Come, let us proceed to the vault, where you may claim your reward."
Howard rose, leading Nimrod through the Finder estate's labyrinthine corridors. Their path traversed a gleaming expanse of crimson brick flooring, its luster reflecting the wealth of generations. Nimrod's gaze, however, remained steadfast, untouched by the lavish decor—the priceless tapestries, masterful paintings, and ornate furnishings that adorned the halls. His countenance was as serene as ever, his steps measured, trailing Howard with unhurried purpose.
Moments later, they arrived before a towering cogitator, its interface guarded by a figure that was both human and machine.
It was a servitor, a grim creation born of lobotomized flesh, its humanity stripped to serve as an automated sentinel. Nimrod's keen senses discerned its purpose: not a mere labor drone, but a combat-ready guardian.
"This is no ordinary servitor," Howard explained. "It was a gift from the sage Kivior to our forefathers at the founding of our house. Only those bearing Finder blood can unlock its secrets."
"The ornate power armor I wear, named in Kivior's honor, was also bestowed upon us in that era."
Nimrod inclined his head, his thoughts stirring. [The Finder family's ties to the Adeptus Mechanicus run deep indeed.]
The servitor's head swiveled toward them, an amber iris igniting within one hollow eye socket. With a shrill mechanical wail, its jaw distended, revealing a maw lined with razor-sharp metal fangs, far broader than any human's.
The fangs pierced Howard's skin, sinking into his flesh. Dark crimson blood trickled into the servitor's throat, a biometric offering to the machine.
A chorus of whirring servos and humming hydraulic pumps followed, the cogitator's vox-screen flickering with streams of data. With a resonant groan, the massive metal vault doors parted, granting access to the Finder family's sanctum of treasures.
Nimrod stepped within, his superhuman vision encompassing the vault's 2,300 square meters, cataloging 513 display cases in an instant. He advanced toward one, his attention drawn to a peculiar artifact.
Howard, ever the gracious host, offered context. "This stone, though solid, seems to contain a tempestuous ocean, its essence roiling with waves. For this quality, it was prized by our sixth patriarch."
"It hails from an ocean-world within the Vostonia system, christened *Canticle of the Sea* by the sage Kivior. When struck by waves, it emits a scream akin to that of a siren."
Nimrod nodded, recognizing the stone from the Blasphemous Slab. Known as the Siren Stone, it was the primary material for the Sequence 9 "Sailor" potion.
Having fully digested his "Lawyer" potion, Nimrod had revisited the Nation of Disorder, finding his Sefirah authority unchanged but six new Sequence 9 potion formulas etched upon the Slab. The "Sailor" was among them, and he had confirmed his chainsword as an auxiliary material for the "Warrior" Pathway.
Yet, he dismissed the Siren Stone. The "Sailor" Pathway held little utility in Vostonia's landlocked hives, and one of its primary materials remained unattainable, per the Slab's guidance.
He continued his survey, passing numerous potion materials until he paused before a circular black stone, its surface unassuming yet radiating faint spirituality.
Howard elaborated, "This stone was unearthed on Vostonia's moon, which the sage Kivior likened to Terra's lunar companion in the Sol system."
"This is my choice," Nimrod declared.
The Moonstone, as it was called, was the primary material for the "Sleepless" Pathway's potion. With it, Nimrod would complete the ingredients needed for that Sequence.
Securing the Moonstone, he now possessed all required materials for the "Sleepless" potion.
Returning to the Magnito Steelworks, Nimrod placed the Moonstone in an elongated silver case, transferring it to the Nation of Disorder for safekeeping.
At that moment, the short-range vox-comm buzzed, and Rawlslev's voice, brimming with excitement, crackled through.
"Boss, we've located the largest Lung Spider in the Lower Hive, the one they call the Black Widow."
Rawlslev's anticipation was palpable—his boss's generosity ensured rewards, perhaps a taste of fine Rasvort.
"Meet me in the control room," Nimrod ordered.
Moments later, he entered the control room, finding Rawlslev alongside a brown-skinned boy with striking blue eyes, appearing eight or nine years old. The boy's gaze upon Nimrod was filled with reverence and awe.
"Boss, this is the one who found the Black Widow," Rawlslev announced.
The fleeting temptation to claim sole credit flickered in Rawlslev's mind but was swiftly quashed. He knew his boss's uncanny insight, as if Nimrod could peer into thoughts. Deceiving such a leader was unthinkable.
"I'm Bukayo, boss," the boy said, mastering his excitement to introduce himself smoothly.
"Well done," Nimrod replied, his voice carrying quiet approval. "Lead the way, Bukayo. I wish to see this creature."
"Yes, boss!"
With Bukayo at the fore, Nimrod assembled a force of fifty, marching toward the Lung Spider's lair. Among them were two rat-catcher squads, their skills honed hunting giant vermin in the hive's depths. Today, they faced the dome's most fearsome predator.
The company traversed four kilometers along dripping metal conduits, the air heavy with moisture and rust. Nimrod's enhanced senses detected movement—a kilometer behind, a group shadowed their path, weaving through the hive's maze with persistent intent.
[They come for me.]
Continuing onward, Nimrod reached a broader junction. With a sidelong glance, he glimpsed their pursuers.
Five towering figures dominated the group, their heights exceeding two and a half meters, dwarfing their companions. The largest stood three meters tall, a colossus among men.
His attention shifted to two figures leading the Ogryn squad, their silhouettes stirring recognition. After a moment's recall, he identified them.
[Dimitrov's men.]
[But the Arbites overseer lacks the wit to strike at me directly, nor the means to command Ogryns.]
[These Ogryns are Estupinian's doing—a timely delivery of 'Barbarian' materials.]
Nimrod refrained from immediate action, his mind calculating. He spoke softly, "Bukayo, guide us to the nearest narrow passage."
Two of his men hesitated, but Bukayo reacted swiftly, covering his mouth with his left hand to mask his response.
"As you command, boss."
The boy's right hand tightened on his dagger, his pace steady, betraying no unease.
Two kilometers from the dim passage, Nimrod sensed its confines—a tunnel merely three and a half meters wide.
After advancing 380 meters into the passage, he issued a hushed command.
"Extinguish lights! Disperse to the walls!"
The gang enforcers, hardened by their conquest of the Khanty-Mansi Dome, reacted instantly, scattering to the metal walls, pressing against the cold surface.
In that moment, gunfire erupted.