"Father, I will finish the work you could not."
Beltan pressed his palm against the hall's reinforced glass wall. His gaze pierced the thick transparent barrier, fixed on the cold, broken corpse beyond it.
That was his father, the leader of the Ninth District, slaughtered alongside a dozen other rebels during the overseers' bloody suppression of the strike.
Their bodies were not cremated. The overseers deliberately dumped the mangled remains in open view, floating in the void, a silent warning to all.
They believed that such cruelty would crush the slaves' will to resist and dissolve their unity.
But death was not the end. Those who had fallen had long foreseen their fate. In their final moments, they had quietly buried the seeds of rebellion.
Beltan took up his father's blood-stained banner. He would lead the people of the Ninth District to carry the struggle through to the end.
"This isn't a strike, nor a protest. It's the uprising of the oppressed, an awakening revolution, an all-out war of the exploited against their exploiters! Either we win the world, or we fight until our last breath!"
"Father, this is my promise."
Beltan turned away. His tears had long since dried, only boiling blood flowed in their place.
Life is the harshest of teachers. It had taught Beltan how to hide his emotions.
Just as his mentor Caelan often reminded him, until the moment he struck, no one must ever see the fury burning in his eyes.
"Everyone, assemble!"
The black tower's gates thundered open. Overseers cracked whips and brandished shock batons, driving the crowd. "The Supervisor is feeling merciful today, he's going to treat your sickness, you worms! Get on your knees and be grateful!"
Beltan lowered his head and melted into the crowd. He had learned how to hide.
Corax was right, passion alone achieves nothing.
The strike might have been quelled, but the true struggle had only just begun.
For ultimate victory, they had to learn to conceal their claws, to display submission in front of the overseers like never before.
This facade of obedience was not surrender, it was a necessary disguise to gather strength.
They would use meekness to lull the overseers' suspicion, until the moment the trumpet of revolt finally sounded.
'Endure, Beltan.'
He repeated the word over and over in his mind, as if to carve it into his bones.
When his turn came, a rough hand like an iron clamp seized his wrist, and the cold needle was pushed into his arm.
Beltan's muscles tensed instinctively, but he forced himself to relax, keeping his breathing steady.
"What is this?" His tone was perfectly measured, curious, but harmless, like that of a naïve boy.
"A vaccine, to prevent disease," the overseer said coldly. "A gift from the Supervisor himself. Be grateful, filth."
As the icy liquid entered his vein, Beltan felt a chill spread through his body.
He did not believe for a second that the overseers would waste medicine on slaves.
'Then what was in that syringe?'
'Poison?'
Poisoning them would be simple enough, but if they all died, what excuse would the overseers have for their superiors?
Beltan stared silently at the tiny puncture mark, waiting for the poison to take effect.
Minute after minute passed. The pain never came.
'If it wasn't poison… then what was it? It couldn't just be water, could it?'
Three weeks after the strike, the heads of all districts gathered at the base.
Except for Erin of the Eighth District, almost every seat was filled by a new, younger face.
They didn't know one another, yet in each other's eyes they saw the same familiar flame.
Unity had never been broken.
Beltan asked, "Uncle Erin, where's Corax?"
"I've been here all along."
A shadow stirred, Corax stepped out of it. No one knew how long he had been there.
Beltan was about to ask about the uprising plans when Corax's cold voice cut through the air:"Someone followed you."
Beltan's muscles went rigid. His gaze swept the room, alert, searching every face.
They had come here many times without issue, why now?
Was there a traitor among them?
"It's not a traitor," Corax said, scanning their faces. "Think carefully, did the overseers do anything unusual to you? They must have used some method to track you."
A terrible thought struck Beltan. His throat tightened. "Did the overseers give any of you a vaccination?"
Erin frowned. "What vaccination?"
Beltan rolled up his sleeve, showing the puncture mark. "They gave me one. I thought it was poison."
Others followed suit. Two more had the same mark on their arms.
"It seems you have been exposed," Corax said flatly.
Beltan went pale as chalk. But Corax did not scold them, this was not a betrayal of will. They hadn't even known what was injected into them.
The overseers hadn't vaccinated every district, only the ones they suspected of dissent.
And even within those, not everyone had been injected. Beltan must have done something to draw their attention.
Since they had been marked, this was no longer mere surveillance, it was the setup for a purge. If they were all wiped out, the newborn flame of revolution would die before it could spread.
Beltan gritted his teeth. "Forget us. I know where the explosives are. We'll stay behind and take them down with us!"
"Calm down," Corax said evenly. "It's not yet time for sacrifice."
He swept his gaze over the group. "Everyone except these three, split up and evacuate immediately. Take separate routes. The trackers can't follow all of you. We'll regroup at Base Two next week."
Erin asked, "And you?"
"I'll stay."
His tone was calm, but everyone in the room felt an inexplicable sense of safety.
Erin said nothing more. He silently followed the others into the dark tunnels.
Beltan asked, "What about us?"
"Get the explosives," Corax rasped. "If I don't return before the overseers reach you, detonate them."
Beltan nodded slightly. They had long since accepted death as the cost of rebellion.
...
Corax melted into the darkness.
His brother called himself the Lord of the Night, but he was the true Lord of Shadows.
Blinding gunlights slashed through the endless darkness of the tunnels, illuminating swirling dust.
Over a hundred armed soldiers advanced in tight formation, their rifles casting trembling shadows on the rock walls, like a giant steel serpent crawling through the dark.
"Sergeant, distance?" the captain whispered.
"One kilometer. They've been stationary for a while, looks like we've found their nest. Numbers unknown. Orders?"
"Kill them all. Leave no survivors."
The words were ice in every soldier's spine.
Their tactical beams swept the tunnels in a precise grid, methodically clearing every shadow.
"No sentries, no traps," the sergeant sneered. "Pathetic amateurs."
"Focus, sergeant."
He chuckled, wiping his visor. "Relax, Captain. We're armored soldiers, they're just unarmed rabble. What could possibly go wrong?"
They didn't understand the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the mines, but their scanners made up for that ignorance.
The prey's signal hadn't moved once. They thought themselves hidden, unaware they were already being hunted.
Sixty-three soldiers pressed deeper into the gloom. Their boots echoed off the stone, the sound warping eerily in the closed space.
"Ugh, this air's foul," the sergeant grumbled. "No wonder the overseers never come down here. Once this is over, I'm grabbing a few slaves for some fun. Saw a cute one last time in District Eight, those eyes…"
The others chuckled darkly. "Don't forget to share, Sergeant."
"Sure. But cold meat's no good, eh?"
"Sergeant!" The captain's bark snapped like a whip. But the man only smirked. His rank might be low, but his connections gave him confidence.
The tunnel was empty, only their breathing filled the dark.
Then, at some point, the smirk fell from the sergeant's face. His eyes narrowed. "Something's wrong."
"Enemies?"
"No… but listen. Our footsteps, they're quieter."
"Stop joking."
"I'm not." The green light of his scanner flickered across his pale face. "The sensors show only three targets ahead."
The captain froze. 'Three targets, the same number of marked rebels.'
'Then where were the rest?'
'Wasn't this their hideout?'
"Ambush! On guard!" the captain roared.
"They ran!" the sergeant snapped back. "They wouldn't dare attack us!"
"Idiot! Shut up!"
The captain spun, weapon raised, and fired.
Red light tore through the darkness, revealing nothing but walls.
The sergeant turned, his breath caught in terror. The squad of over a hundred… now had only eight lights flickering in the dark.
They opened fire wildly, bullets and beams shredding the air, hitting nothing.
"Wh-where are they?!"
"Shut up!"
Their trembling lights flicked across the walls like frightened animals baring fangs.
Then, bang!
A single shot cracked through the dark.
They spun, firing blindly. Bullets clanged off rock, but hit no one.
The sergeant stumbled backward, kicking over a fallen flashlight. Its beam rolled across the ground, revealing a smear of fresh blood.
His pupils dilated in horror. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth.
Corax had been there all along, half-melded with the dark itself, unseen, unremembered.
The knife slit his throat cleanly. Corax seized his gun and fired three precise shots.Three skulls burst, blood mist arced through the black.
The dying sergeant's screen still blinked, showing the same three unmoving red dots.
Corax glanced at it. The nanobots in Beltan's body could only track, not listen, their plan was still safe.
He paused, murmuring almost to himself, "How do I compare to my brother?"
Caelan's voice came softly. "Right now, you two are almost identical."
In the chronicles of the Astartes Legions, many shared mirrored styles, Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists most of all, followed by Night Lords and Raven Guard.
Both specialized in stealth and psychological warfare, one weaponized fear, the other won through secrecy. But that was history.
Under Caelan's careful teaching, even though Konrad Curze's methods were brutal, his ultimate goal was still justice, order.
Their tactics were similar, they both instilled fear without seeking to spread it.
In their pursuit of justice, they were alike, in every timeline.
Neither believed in prisons. A criminal either suffers… or dies.
Curze was simply faster, more practiced, killing more often in the cesspits of Nostramo.
But Caelan never compared them aloud, doing so would only sow discord.
Corax asked quietly, "And his personality?"
Caelan hesitated, then answered gently, "He's more… outgoing. You're quieter. More reserve.
It wasn't sarcasm, it was true.Curze, for all his darkness, was oddly cheerful, he laughed, joked with his legionaries, called Dorothy "Mother," even comforted victims before killing them, and once argued fiercely with the Emperor for his people's sake.
Corax, by contrast, was introverted and solitary, almost reclusive, a quiet shadow who spoke only when needed.
He didn't ask whom Caelan preferred, he already knew Caelan would praise them both.
He would not imitate his brother. He was no one's shadow.
Even on the same tree, no two leaves are alike. They shared traits, but each was unique.
Similarity is surface; difference is essence.
He wanted Caelan's approval, but in his own way.
"Relax. It's me," Corax said, gripping Beltan's wrist.
Beltan's white-knuckled hand loosened around the detonator. "Where are the overseers?"
"Dead. You can go back and recover their weapons. But you can't return to your district, you've been exposed. You'll stay here for now."
Beltan nodded silently. Going back meant certain death, and the overseers would exact revenge for their losses.
Thirty days underground would drive anyone mad, but this was the price for their mistake.
Corax's low voice echoed through the dark:"I'll send soldiers with supplies. In that time, you must master those weapons. This was a warning, the overseers may come again. Next time, you'll have to fight alone."
"When the time is right, if you're still alive, I'll bring you back to your district. Then, you'll light the flame of dawn with your own hands."
Beltan lifted his head, his cracked lips trembling. "Do we still have a chance?"
"Everyone has a chance," Corax said, his black eyes burning with quiet authority. "But remember this, don't fail your father… and don't fail my father, Beltan."
"I won't. Never again!"
His voice came low, scraped raw from his chest, his knuckles bone-white around the detonator.
Corax's lips curved into a cold, thin smile. "See that you don't."
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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