"My lord, the Boleslav spire lies in that direction."
Bukayo approached Nimrod's towering form, his arm extended, pointing toward the right-front quadrant of the Upper Hive's skyline.
"My lord, my full name is Bukayo Arshavin. My family was annihilated by the Boleslav dynasty under fabricated charges, a mere pretext for seizing our printing enterprise."
"I was forced to flee to the Lower Hive. Had I not encountered you, I would still be scrounging for scraps to survive."
Nimrod inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. The boy's maturity, far surpassing his years, now made sense—born of Upper Hive lineage, he had been molded by a refined education before his fall.
As the freight elevators cycled swiftly, ferrying eight hundred and forty of Nimrod's followers to the Upper Hive, a sudden rumble of vehicular engines reached his superhuman ears.
Without hesitation, he seized a nearby metal pillar, its surface cold and unyielding, and charged toward the source of the sound with the ferocity of a storm unleashed.
In his bounding sprint, Nimrod displayed an agility that belied his giant's frame. The cargo zone's obstacles—towering containers and industrial detritus—posed no impediment to his relentless advance.
Vaulting into the air, he swung the metal pillar with titanic force, striking the lead vehicle of an approaching convoy. The truck cartwheeled through the air, crashing into two others, a cascade of twisted metal and shattered cargo.
Bukayo, the first to reach the scene, beheld a tableau of devastation: over a dozen trucks lay toppled, crushed by his lord's hand. Though he had anticipated Nimrod's might, the sheer scale of destruction rooted him to the spot, awestruck.
Nimrod, assessing the situation, recognized that delay was his enemy. His advantage lay not in numbers but in the fleeting window of surprise.
Should the enemy rally, their forces—outnumbering his awaiting troops by a hundredfold—could summon aid from the Adeptus Mechanicus, a calamity he could ill afford.
He had no intention of expending his loyal forces in the conquest of Tetzvok's hive. This was merely the opening gambit.
To Rawlslev, hastening to his side, Nimrod issued a command, his voice resolute. "Leave eight squads to hold the elevator terminus."
"The rest, follow me to assault the spire."
"As you command, my lord," Rawlslev replied, his loyalty unwavering.
A month prior, had anyone suggested that fewer than eight hundred could storm a royal spire, he would have dismissed them as deranged. Yet, with Nimrod—a colossus akin to a god—he harbored no doubt of their triumph.
As Nimrod led his force away, a luxurious sedan, its flanks emblazoned with golden lightning sigils, arrived belatedly at the freight zone.
Kaminsky, recently elevated from personal steward to chief seneschal of the Finder family, reclined in the plush leather seats, his eyes closed in repose.
His private secretary's sudden cry shattered the calm. "Seneschal, something's amiss at the freight station!"
"What?"
Kaminsky's eyes snapped open, irritation flaring, only to be replaced by alarm as he beheld flames licking the horizon.
"Damn it, retreat now!"
Inwardly, he thanked his foresight in lingering to prepare a banquet, sending the cargo convoy ahead—a decision that spared him from the catastrophe.
Moments later, Howard Finder received the report. Without delay, he activated the vox-channel to his family's intelligence officer.
"Our cargo convoy has been attacked. I demand you uncover the cause immediately."
Switching to the guard channel, he barked, "Assemble the family's armed forces."
Disconnecting, his brow furrowed in contemplation.
"Brelon?"
"No, he's a mere incompetent."
"Estupinian, perhaps—or even the royal dynasty itself. Seizing industries is not new to them. The Fifth Justice might be a mere puppet, a facade for Boleslav's schemes."
The golden-haired noble youth rose, pacing around his desk, his mind racing.
At that moment, a sharp chime signaled an incoming vox-transmission.
Howard drew a deep breath before connecting to his intelligence officer.
"Lord Earl," the officer reported, "my agents accessed surveillance feeds near the freight station. A force of fewer than a thousand is advancing rapidly, having annihilated several hive security detachments."
"Are they targeting our spire?" Howard demanded.
"No, my lord. Their trajectory suggests their objective is the royal dynasty's spire."
Howard froze, stunned. "What?"
He questioned his senses, certain he had misheard. Only the maddest would dare assault a royal spire.
He recalled a family chronicle: a house, mustering over sixty thousand elite troops, had once besieged a spire and failed to breach its defenses.
Yet this force numbered less than a thousand.
"My lord, their leader is extraordinary. I have never seen a human so towering. You must see this."
Howard retrieved his data-slate, summoning the imagery sent by his officer.
His azure pupils contracted as he viewed the figure. He had expected a burly two-meter warrior, but this giant dwarfed even Ogryns.
As the slowed footage revealed the leader's majestic visage, a spark of recognition ignited.
Overlaying the memory of a youth's handsome features with the giant's face, Howard gasped, "Nimrod!"
"How has he become this?"
Reeling, the noble youth watched Nimrod, transformed beyond recognition, carve through hive security with a combat style alien to his prior elegance—brutal, direct, and merciless.
He charged headlong into speeding vehicles, shattering assault skiffs, their metal husks strewn across the ground.
Seizing a security trooper as one might a fowl, he hurled the man skyward, toppling a servitor-drone armed with a felling gun.
Words surged in Howard's mind: simple, savage, efficient, cold, relentless, unstoppable.
Nimrod was no mere man—he was a war god incarnate.
Snapping from his stupor, Howard realized this was no time for awe. The Finder family's response demanded deliberation.
[Even should Nimrod's uprising fail, the Boleslav dynasty will suffer grievous losses.
Given their methods, they will shift their losses onto others, plundering rival houses' assets—a deterrent born of chaos.
Tracing Nimrod's path back to the Khanty-Mansi Dome will implicate me, especially my prior engagement of his legal aid.]
Howard clenched his fists, the truth dawning. The Boleslavs would scapegoat him, accusing him of feeding Nimrod intelligence or even orchestrating the revolt.
Truth mattered little; obscuring a Lower Hive incursion into a royal spire would preserve the dynasty's prestige.
His resolve hardened, Howard made a perilous choice—to align with Nimrod's forces and strike against the Boleslav dynasty, parasites leeching from the Finder family's vitality.
Nimrod's audacity had kindled his courage. In the scant four minutes Howard viewed the footage, the giant had obliterated a street's defenses, now a mere 5.2 kilometers from the royal spire.
As Howard led the Finder family's guard in vehicles toward the Boleslav spire, Nimrod encountered his first true resistance.
Four emplaced turrets roared to life, their mortars unleashing a devastating salvo that engulfed his company.
Amid the deafening blasts, a dozen battle-hardened gang members were shredded by shockwaves, their bodies torn asunder like ruptured sacks.
"Disperse!"
"Take cover!"
Nimrod's voice thundered, and he charged through the hail of ordnance toward the turrets, undaunted.
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🤦 : Oops! You've reached the limit for today. But just for your power stone and recommendation I might— no I would add additional Chapter.
20PS — 1 additional Chapter
40PS — 2 additional Chapter and special mention if you've contributed 3 or more PS.
That's all. Enjoy Reading!