"Missing?"
Elena slowly raised her cold, piercing eyes, the kind that made the deputy supervisor's whole body turn to ice.
"You're telling me that an entire company of one hundred and thirty fully armed elite guards just vanished without a trace?"
The deputy's teeth clattered uncontrollably. "M-Maybe… maybe they were caught in a cave-in."
"And the people they were following?"
"They… they're gone too," he stammered.
"Find them," Elena said, her tone sharp as a blade. "Alive, I want to see them. Dead, I want to see their corpses."
The deputy swallowed hard. "Supervisor, the trackers implanted in their bodies need to be linked with the Cogitator beforehand. We… we can't pick up their signals anymore."
Elena's pupils narrowed. "One hundred and thirty soldiers dead, and that's all you can tell me? What about the slaves? How many of them died?"
"All districts have been counted. Apart from the three implanted with trackers, there were no other casualties. At the same time, underground sensors detected an explosion, probably caused by those three. I believe they set off the charges, caused the collapse, and buried the Second Company with them."
His words came out in a frantic rush, each one tripping over the next as though pausing for breath might get him crucified under her gaze.
"You didn't send people to look for them?"
"We did! Of course we did!" Sweat dotted the deputy's forehead. "But the entire B-7 sector collapsed. There's no way through. Their bodies are buried under tons of rock."
"No other passageways?"
"The underground tunnel network is too complex. We can't complete a full search in such a short time."
Elena frowned. "So there's no risk the slaves might have gotten their weapons?"
"Absolutely none!" the deputy said firmly.
Elena's expression was unreadable, shrouded in shadow.
She had ordered the Second Company to follow the trail and uncover the rebels hiding underground, only for the whole unit to vanish.
The loss of lives didn't matter. As long as production wasn't affected, the lives of overseers and slaves were equally cheap.
But weapons, those must never fall into the slaves' hands. Otherwise, dangerous thoughts might take root.
A strike she could handle, with incentives and threats.
A rebellion, however, would make her look incompetent. Her political rivals would attack her, and the Tech-Guild would question her ability.
But after all this trouble… was she just supposed to drop it?
Elena clenched her jaw. She didn't want to, but what else could she do?
Their operation had failed. The bait was gone.
Whoever was pulling the strings would now burrow even deeper. Finding them again would be almost impossible.
Better to let it go. As long as the mining quotas were met, nothing else mattered.
The slaves had gotten what they wanted from their strike. The districts were calmer now, production up by ten percent. That was an achievement she could use.
Just one more year. In one year, she'd be transferred back to Kiavahr.
All she had to do was keep things stable until then. If anything happened after that, it would be her successor's problem.
"As for the dead overseers," she said, her voice cold as frost, "pay compensation to their families. Make sure they keep their mouths shut."
"Yes, Supervisor." The deputy nodded eagerly, finally breathing again, but beneath his relief simmered resentment.
The overseers of Lycaeus might wield power here, but to the Kiavahrans, they were still second-class.
The deputy and the other overseers were all born on Lycaeus, the descendants of the first generation of taskmasters.
But every supervisor was always from Kiavahr, replaced every five years. They never stayed long, never truly cared.
The deputy had power, but never enough.
He dreamed of removing the "deputy" from his title, but he knew it was impossible. Lycaeus was a vassal world. Self-rule was unthinkable.
Still, the Second Company's loss had a silver lining; it weakened the supervisor's power.
The Black Tower had seven companies, each five hundred strong, three thousand five hundred armed guards in total. The thousands of overseers with only whips and shock batons weren't even counted.
In Lycaeus, overseers and slaves were two classes, but overseers and soldiers were too.
Every new supervisor relied on the companies to secure power. But each company was aligned with a different Tech-Guild.
The Second Company was close to Elena's guild; they were her loyalists.
The deputy, on the other hand, came from the Third Company, allied with the Seventh.
The First and Sixth were partners too, as were the Fourth and Fifth.
Even in this prison world, the factions schemed endlessly.
They were all beneath the Kiavahrans, yes, but power was power.
If you didn't take it, someone else would.
And now, with a third of the Second Company gone, Elena's influence had been cut down.
The deputy wouldn't dare oppose her openly, but in the shadows? He could make her fall.
Their goal was simple: get Elena replaced with someone from their faction.
Only then could they follow the new supervisor back to Kiavahr.
Every overseer dreamed of that, to become Kiavahran, to stop being treated as lesser beings.
The deputy had once hoped to curry favor with Elena. If she liked him, maybe she'd take him with her.
But she'd never even looked his way. The resentment festered.
Now, with her failure, he was preparing his report to the Technocratic Guild, hoping they'd hold her accountable and replace her.
"Finally," said Corax, his gaze drifting past the glass walls of the hall.
Hundreds of small transport ships were descending along the gravity well's guiding beams, bringing tons of supplies to Lycaeus.
The irony wasn't lost on him. Lycaeus was a Kiavahran colony, its slaves toiled day and night to mine ore for Kiavahr, yet even their own supplies weren't free.
The overseers had to pay for them, with extra ore extracted through blood and suffering.
Resupply only came once a year because the gravity well's operation, like everything else, was billed to Lycaeus.
Kiavahr's capitalists had perfected exploitation. Their greed was bottomless; they would squeeze oil from bones if they could.
And the overseers and slaves of Lycaeus? Never united.
Though 99% of imported goods were meant for the slaves, only 5% of the total value ever reached them.
The other 95% went to the overseers, barely 1% of the population.
Some of it went toward essentials like mining explosives, yes, but most was squandered on luxury and control.
Kiavahr exploited Lycaeus. Overseers exploited the slaves. That was why the people suffered.
They had waited too long for this day.
Corax didn't have time to contact other districts, but they had already agreed.
The uprising would begin on the nineteenth standard hour after resupply began.
Most slaves would be underground then, in their shifts. Whoever was in their sector would lead the revolt there.
Corax and Caelan were exceptions; they could evade surveillance and stay in District Eight to coordinate.
They were the architects of the uprising. Without their leadership, it would be nothing but a doomed riot.
Ephrenia pulled a laser pistol from under her mattress.
The Nef brothers retrieved shotguns hidden in the vents.
Thirteen-year-old Nafirem Solt stood guard outside.
All these weapons came from the "missing" Second Company.
For a few days after their disappearance, the overseers pretended to conduct searches, but they quickly grew lazy.
The slaves took their chance, smuggling the weapons into the district through Caelan's psychic illusions or Corax's shadow-like stealth.
Even when the overseers searched, they found nothing.
The slaves were too united, always ready before the overseers arrived.
"You can't go in there!"
"Out of my way! What are you doing inside?"
Nafirem stumbled forward, her thin arms spread like brittle twigs, blocking the overseer's path.
A slap cracked through the air. She reeled back, hitting her head against the metal wall.
Shalokin clenched the knife he'd taken from the Second Company. When the overseer turned his back, Shalokin moved silently,
The blade plunged deep into his lower back.
The man froze. Before he could scream, Shalokin's hand clamped over his mouth.
The Nef brothers leapt from the cell, dragging him inside.
The knife rose and fell in silence, wet thuds mixing with the hiss of spraying blood.
They were going to rebel; why hesitate now?
No turning back. Whoever came today would die.
Caelan watched from the shadows. "Not bad for their first try, huh?"
Corax's lips twitched upward before he forced them still. "Too soft. He should've gone for the throat."
"You can't judge them by Primarch standards," Caelan said mildly. "The boy's short, he couldn't reach the neck. The kidney was the right call. They'll be your sons someday, you know. Especially Shalokin, your finest."
"And what about me?" Corax asked. "Among my brothers, am I the finest?"
Caelan smiled faintly. "You're one of the finest."
Corax knew Caelan would never play favorites. But the pause before "one of" still made him grin.
Then he noticed another overseer approaching. The children were too slow; blood still smeared the floor.
Nafirem tried to clean it with her filthy clothes, only making it worse.
Caelan said softly, "It's not time yet. Six standard hours remain before the signal."
A whistle shrieked through the hall. Overseers shouted, boots thundered from all sides.
At least three patrols converged, the clatter of their armor like a chain dragging the condemned.
Corax glanced at Caelan. "You're telling me to abandon them?"
"I'm telling you, it's time to choose."
The word choice brought back the memory of that old trolley problem. He had made his choice then, too, and failed to see the right answer.
"Father," Corax asked quietly, "in the future you saw… did I sacrifice Lycaeus?"
"And the flame of revolution you lit yourself," Caelan replied.
"Then I'm a traitor," Corax said. "I betrayed those who trusted me, the soldiers who died for me. I tainted the banner of revolution."
"You did it for the Imperium."
"A pretty excuse. I see only a coward fleeing from guilt, just like when I turned my back on my brothers. A coward wrapped in a Primarch's skin, mistaken for a hero."
"But that future hasn't come yet."
"Because you came," Corax said with a sharp smile. "So that coward's dead. Tell me, Father, can I be the hero you imagined?"
Caelan chuckled. "Isn't that a bit melodramatic?"
"Has anyone ever told you, Father, that you're terrible with atmosphere?"
"Can't say they have."
"Then pretend I didn't say that."
"You've always been a hero, Corax," Caelan said softly, clearly, each word deliberate. "You're just not perfect. But tell me, who is?"
"Then I'll try to be a better one."
Corax strode forward, just as he had on the day he first set foot in this world, to perform his greatest show.
He moved through the chaos like a shadow. One overseer's neck snapped with a crisp crack; another's windpipe collapsed beneath his thumb.
The corridor became a slaughterhouse.
Blood snaked across the white floor, glistening like red serpents crawling over scattered fingers and broken bones.
A headless corpse slumped against the wall, arteries spurting in dying rhythm.
Another overseer lay gutted, entrails spilling like loosened ropes, his liver sliding out with a wet thud.
Many mistook Corax for an assassin. In truth, he was a berserker.
He knew stealth and precision, but his battles were never elegant, only efficient, brutal, final.
Among all the Primarchs, few could match the sheer carnage of his fighting style.
His choice of weapons explained it; where others wielded swords or hammers, Corax used claws.
Quick, clean kills, but messy corpses.
"Lord Corax…"
Nafirem sat trembling on the blood-soaked floor, knees buried in crimson.
"Are you hurt?" Corax asked, offering his hand.
"I-I'm sorry… I ruined everything…" she sobbed, tears cutting pale streaks down her filthy face.
"No," Corax said, kneeling. He gently wiped her tears. "You didn't do anything wrong. They did."
"But… they're dead," she whimpered.
"Death doesn't absolve guilt," Corax said softly. "Don't be afraid. I'm here."
He took her trembling hand and pulled her from the blood. His gaze swept the faces around him.
"The uprising came early, but the outcome won't change. We will win. Dawn will come."
Ephrenia tightened her grip on her gun.
Down the hall, the overseers' shouts grew nearer.
When the first terrified face appeared around the corner, the Nef brothers fired.
Boom!
Shotguns roared, metal rain tore through flesh and armor alike. Overseers crumpled like paper, shredded in the storm of steel.
Blood and bone sprayed the walls; severed fingers twitched on the ground.
Erin said, "But we haven't set up the explosives yet!"
"Perfect preparation doesn't exist," Corax said. "Timing only matters if you seize it."
Shalokin, Ephrenia, the Nef brothers, Erin, and every rebel in the block followed him forward.
The hydraulic doors of Airlock Twelve screamed open.
Heavily armed riot troops poured out like a tide.
They were better equipped, better trained.
But the slaves now had guns.
They were more numerous, more united, and most importantly, they had a Primarch.
"Stay close to me," Corax said.
Then he plunged into the fray like a living shadow, his daggers tracing arcs of death, his claws reaping lives in silence.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
[email protected]/DaoistJinzu