The riot suppression soldiers who had just stepped through Airlock 12 didn't even have time to raise their weapons before crimson blossoms burst from their throats, spraying sticky, pulsing fluid.
It was slaughter turned into art, precision measured to the nanosecond, every motion of the Primarch embodying the most ruthless form of aesthetic efficiency.
Corax was the master of killing; the others merely had to follow in his wake.
Ephrenia's laser rifle hissed, and the Neff brothers' shotguns thundered in reply.
Scarlet beams tore through a soldier's chest, and a storm of buckshot shredded an entire rank of suppressors into a rain of meat and blood.
But the cost was immediate; every gun barrel turned toward Corax. Hundreds of muzzles spat fire all at once, a torrent of bullets screaming toward the shadow.
The storm of rounds punched hive-like craters into the alloy walls, ricochets slicing through the air like Death's scythe in the confined corridor.
Even a Primarch's body could not remain unscathed in such a narrow hallway under that much gunfire.
Lasers seared black scars across his pale skin; bullets tore wounds that bled freely.
Corax could have waited.
In just a few hours, Beltan would lead the main rebel force to seize the elevator, storm the Eighth District, which would have been the perfect moment to strike.
But again, the trolley problem.
He could abandon a handful of children to avoid a great risk.
If he were only a man, he might live the rest of his life in guilt. But he would not hesitate, nor regret, because revolution could afford no losses.
Save one, or save five, that choice was simple.
But he was no mere man. He was a Primarch. He could do more.
Where mortals' choices ended at the pull of fate's lever, a Primarch could stop the train itself.
Boom.
Airlock 12 rumbled shut as Corax's ruthless efficiency left the overseers in the Black Tower trembling with terror. They fled, abandoning comrades, hoping that steel could bar the flames of revolution.
If the gate fell, the uprising would stall in the Eighth District.
They hadn't linked up with the other districts yet, and the overseers were already scrambling to deploy more troops. Every second lost meant the noose of tyranny tightening around their necks.
Corax would not let that happen. He flung aside the severed head still in his grasp and became a streak of shadow, darting through the narrowing gap in the closing gate as bullets howled after him.
"For Freedom! For Revolution! For Lycaeus!"
The second suppression squad broke apart under the Primarch's slaughter. A dozen survivors lay scattered across the blood-slick floor, pupils frozen in fractured terror.
The slaves' roars surged forward like a tide, tearing the enforcers of tyranny to shreds.
Now armed with seized weapons, they waited only for that gate to open once more.
Faith burned in their eyes, faith that the Primarch would lead them to victory.
And Primarchs never failed.
Boom.
Airlock 12 opened again with the moan of hydraulic pistons. Corax stood amidst the swirling blood mist.
Blood drenched every inch of his body; the shattered organs of mortals clung to his frame.
Severed limbs piled at his feet, forming a grotesque threshold of death.
Through the chaos of the uprising, Corax's eyes briefly met Beltan's.
The revolt had begun six hours earlier than planned; the gunfire had been their signal.
Had Corax waited just ten more minutes, the rebels beneath the surface could have joined him.
The start of the revolution was imperfect, but victory was never picky about its beginnings.
Corax pulled a bullet from his shoulder and let the bloodstained slug fall to the ground with a metallic clink.
"Beltan, take fifty men and seize the gas storage station. Ephrenia, Erin, and the Nef brothers secure all the platforms on the first floor; we must link up with the other districts. Shalokin, the rest come with me!"
The plan was far from perfect. They knew little of the Black Tower's internal structure.
But from the glass walls between districts, they had pieced together a rough layout of the first floor.
The gas depot bordered the Seventh District. The overseers never expected an uprising; only ten guards protected it.
Beltan's fifty were elite among the rebels, trained with captured weapons.
Neither side had real combat experience; the overseers had been too busy exploiting the workers to bother with drills.
When Beltan's men stormed the depot, the guards were still arguing whether they should blow the place up. It wouldn't stop the rebellion, but it might slow them down.
Ephrenia and Erin's assault met little resistance. The platforms linking the tower to each district doubled as the overseers' quarters.
They bore the duty of guarding the platforms, but shock batons were no match for rebel bullets.
The overseer class had grown soft. Years of dominance dulled their senses; lost in the illusion of eternal power, they forgot that slaves could fight back.
The rebels had no maps, no full understanding of the tower. They advanced room by room, floor by floor.
Thankfully, their numbers filled every corridor, every checkpoint. Each door had guards of their own now.
And with each level conquered, the rebels' illusions shattered.
They once imagined overseers lived in larger cells and dined on corpse starch and water in excess.
Until they saw the truth.
"What's this?" Ephrenia poked a golden, soft slab on a dinner plate.
The terrified family huddled in the corner, the mother stammering, "It-it's bread."
"And this?"
She tapped the rim of a cup, ripples trembling in the white liquid.
"Milk…"
"And that red stuff, same color as blood?"
"Smoked meat."
Ephrenia dipped her finger into it and licked. Salt, smoke, and fat burst across her tongue, flavors she had never dreamed existed.
Her throat worked as she whispered, "So the world really has food like this."
Her eyes lingered on the bread, its warm, fragrant scent teasing her nose.
She swallowed hard. Her body said yes, her mind said no.
Slap!
"Ephrenia! No! Get it together! Corax and Teacher Caelan are counting on you!"
Corax clung to the top of the elevator car like a ghost, the cold metal biting into his flesh.
The hum of machinery stopped. As the doors slid open, the air filled with fire and death. Bullets tore the overseers apart before they could scream.
From the ceiling vent crashed a shadow, Corax, blades spinning, cleaving flesh like paper. Blood arced in perfect parabolas, painting the white walls in crimson abstraction.
The steel corridors of the Black Tower were a maze, but arrogance guided him.
Those in power always built their offices at the very top, to look down on others. And the dense concentration of troops confirmed it.
Corax rose slowly, his blood-soaked frame gleaming under the flickering lights.
From the end of the hall came heavy boots, hundreds of soldiers advancing, guns aimed like a field of fangs.
Among them he saw Elena, a woman in a pristine uniform, trembling with rage.
"Who are you? Tell me your name!"
"Corax."
"A savior?!" she shrieked, voice cracking into madness. "For them, those worthless slaves?! FIRE! KILL HIM NOW!"
The hallway became a furnace of death. Corax leapt aside just as the storm of bullets consumed where he stood.
He moved through side corridors, hearing boots closing in from both ends, dozens of guards circling.
Elena had stripped other floors bare to pack her own with troops, and in doing so, she had doomed the suppression below.
The more pressure Corax drew, the safer the rebellion became.
The pincer closed. Both squads rushed the narrow corridor and found only each other.
The sealed metal doors were untouched. They advanced cautiously,
Then a black shadow dropped from the ceiling.
The blades sang. Flesh split. Blood fanned out like wings.
Elena's voice shrieked through the comms: "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! KILL HIM!"
The soldiers obeyed, red beams slashed through the air, cutting allies and enemies alike into molten chunks.
When the smoke cleared, the corridor was a graveyard, and the shadow was gone.
"Find him! No matter the cost!"
Fear laced her scream. The command spread through the channel, shaking every soldier.
They advanced over the still-warm corpses of their comrades.
The air reeked of blood and burned meat.
And then, movement.
The corpse pile exploded. Corax erupted from beneath it like a storm of death.
Every swing severed arteries. Every step birthed fountains of blood.
Within seconds, silence fell.
Elena's fingers clenched around her gilded pistol, knuckles bone-white. Her arm trembled.
"Corax! Come out! I order you-come out!"
No one answered. Her soldiers were gone, nothing left but gore.
Corax could have killed her instantly, but a living, panicking commander was more valuable than a corpse.
Until now.
When she saw him step from the corner, a shadow walking through blood, she screamed and fired.
The knife pierced her forehead before the shot finished echoing.
Corax brushed aside her body, wiped his blade, and entered her command room.
He sat in her chair, leather groaning beneath his weight.
Her personal cogitator granted full tower access, but Corax lacked the training to decode its systems.
Caelan's voice whispered through the link:
"A shame. She didn't even set a password."
"Arrogance," Corax murmured. "She thought her power eternal."
He took her cold hand, pressed the blood-stained palm to the console, access granted.
Corax scrolled through data; only the overseer could contact Kiavahr, the planetary authority.
But Elena had not reported the rebellion. Too proud, too fearful for her reputation.
On the inventory list, Corax paused, atomic mining charges.
A plan took shape.
"The cargo ships depart in 19 standard hours," he muttered. "When gravity wells reverse, they'll return to Kiavahr. If we plant these charges aboard…"
A smile, cold, sharp. "We'll bring the fire of revolution to their city. And when Kiavahr burns, we'll seize their fleet."
He studied the rotating holo of the system. The fleet above Kiavahr blinked red. Small, short-range, but deadly enough to obliterate Lycaeus.
"If we take it," he thought, "we can hold them hostage."
Asymmetry was key, it was the only path to victory.
Using Elena's credentials, he transmitted a fake cargo request to the spaceport and finalized the plan.
But before that, he needed to purge the Black Tower.
Tyranny's roots ran deep, they had to be torn out, utterly.
Footsteps echoed outside.
Shalokin burst in, blood on his boots, eyes shining.
"Lord Corax! The lower tower is secure! All platforms are ours! The overseers have been eliminated, the uprising has won!"
"Some still resist," Corax said, rising from the console. "Shalokin, guard this door. No one enters. This will decide whether we live or die."
The youth straightened, voice firm and clear:
"Not a single step, unless they walk over my corpse."
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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