In the pitch-black cavern, the cries of slaughter filled the depths of the earth.
Caelan took in his surroundings.
Dozens of warriors with topknots were locked in combat with one another, fighting, roaring, killing, ripping open each other's throats with crude, rusted blades, plunging daggers into each other's chests, spraying crimson blood.
At least three different factions were embroiled in the melee. Sometimes, intoxicated by the thrill of butchery, they would grow so frenzied that they could not tell friend from foe.
When Caelan accidentally stepped into a pool of blood with a sticky squelch, the three warriors nearest him suddenly turned their heads in unison.
Prolonged slaughter had left their eyes bloodshot, tinged with red.
None of them recognized Caelan, so he certainly was not one of their gang.
Though Caelan was impeccably dressed, a stark contrast to the ragged underground gangsters, anyone with half a brain could tell he was not a local, likely someone from the hive city above.
But regardless of why he was here, he was alone right now.
And they were already in a bloodlust, craving more killing, caring nothing about who they killed or what consequences might follow.
"Kill him!"
Panting heavily, they gripped their rust-eaten daggers and advanced on Caelan step by step, their eyes gleaming with bloodthirsty greed.
Before, they had only killed rats like themselves, eking out a miserable existence beneath the earth. But they had never killed a noble lord from the hive before, these pampered aristocrats must have such tender skin, right?
They had never tasted anything good in their lives, but if they could just get a sip of a noble lord's blood, at least they could taste a hint of sweetness!
Crack!
In the crisp sound of snapping cervical vertebrae, their savage grins froze on their faces.
An invisible force crushed their throats and spines. Their bodies crashed to the ground, externally intact, without spilling a single drop of blood.
They died cleanly.
Caelan stepped over the corpses and walked deeper into the cavern. From the darkness came the faint, overlapping sounds of combat.
What was happening here was not hard to understand, gang warfare.
Fighting between gangs over territory and resources was a common sight.
The more barren the resources, the more brutal the conflict.
But compared to Nostramo, the gangs here were more primitive and more savage.
The gangs of Nostramo still controlled factories, churning out lasguns and armored vehicles without end.
But the underground gangs here had nothing. Every rusted knife was a heirloom, its blade covered in notches, dull beyond dullness, requiring brute force to punch through skin in order to kill.
Caelan trod over the bodies strewn across the ground. The sounds of battle in the cavern gradually faded; the fight seemed to be nearing its end.
A man clutching a newborn infant sprinted toward the cave entrance, trying to escape with his life from this premeditated slaughter.
But he soon fell, his knee struck by a stray bullet.
The homemade firearm was weak; the bullet lodged in his patella. The searing pain sent him tumbling into a pool of blood.
A battle-axe shrieked through the air, tearing open his chest. As the serrated teeth shredded his alveoli, bloody foam bubbled forth. The man's life ebbed away in agony, yet he could not scream, for his lungs, flooded with blood and shattered, no longer functioned.
Instinct drove his mouth wide open, viscera fragments spilling out with the blood.
The infant sat dumbfounded on the ground, its pupils reflecting the man's slowly fading gaze.
Its body was drenched in sprayed blood, which trickled down its naked skin.
The man hoisted the serrated battle-axe onto his shoulder, baring a mouthful of yellowed teeth in a murky chuckle.
Underground, corpses were precious resources.
Butchers would pay to collect bodies, processing them into meat chunks to sell to other gangs.
Infant meat was more tender than adult flesh; it had to be slaughtered fresh by the most skilled butcher, or it would be a terrible waste.
Crack!
The man's laughter ceased abruptly. His head spun 360 degrees back to its original position.
Though its position seemed unchanged, his neck had been twisted into a spiral, clearly, he was not long for this world.
His companion immediately leveled a crude homemade rifle at Caelan. But the instant his finger pulled the trigger,
Boom. The barrel burst.
The explosion tore the user apart, splattering foul viscera across the cavern walls.
The infant gazed up at Caelan with innocent wonder, its sea-green eyes gleaming like jewels in the darkness.
Those were eyes unlike any other.
In the pitch black, everyone's eyes were a dull, sickly blue.
Only his were different.
Biodiversity was utterly foreign to the under-dwellers, but being different meant he was an outsider.
He could find no group to accept him. He would be abandoned, ostracized, bullied, even killed.
He was very small, seemingly just born. Naked, his skin wrinkled.
But unlike a mortal infant, he did not cry or fuss. He merely watched.
Neither survival nor death held any meaning for him.
He was too young to resist anything.
He could only await fate's judgment, and fate always favored him.
Even at the most vulnerable stage of his life, when a single bullet or a dagger could easily end him,
His destiny would not end here. Death would not come as promised.
Even in the face of mortal danger, fate would intervene with subtle grace to preserve his life.
He was destined to give his life for a grander purpose, not to die in obscurity in this lightless underground.
His worth was far greater than this.
His death must be as earth-shattering and resounding across the cosmos as his birth.
To set the star sea ablaze, to bring down the constellations, to set the galaxy on fire.
Caelan asked, "What is your name?"
The infant stared at him with innocent bewilderment, and Caelan could not help but chuckle at himself.
He had only just been born; he did not yet have a name.
Compared to his brothers, he possessed neither strength nor wisdom, but he would have a far longer childhood than any other Primarch.
Caelan cradled him gently in his arms. The crowd slowly converged around them.
They all wore topknots, it was their cultural custom.
But Caelan simply could not understand why anyone would take pride in such an ugly hairstyle.
The masses surged toward Caelan from the darkness, appraising him like ingredients.
Adult meat tasted too bitter; only newborn infants were the most delicious.
But at this moment, Caelan was even more mouthwatering than an infant!
Because he had more meat on him, and years of ease had made his flesh as tender as a baby's.
Though his attire was utterly out of place in this sunless underworld, no one cared who he was anymore.
All they knew was that they were about to feast!
The infant was too small; after bleeding, there would hardly be any meat left, only good for stew.
Caelan was large enough to roast, a rare delicacy in the underworld.
At that thought, they began to salivate in anticipation of Caelan's flavor.
The only pity was that Caelan was still too skinny to go around for everyone.
With that in mind, they began closing in on him.
But they remained wary of Caelan. These noble lords might carry something for self-defense, perhaps those guns that spat blue fire and could blow a man to pieces with a single shot.
That would be such a waste. Blown-apart meat would stick all over the ground, clumping up quickly, impossible to gather in time.
The under-dwellers fought much more civilly, they took great care to preserve corpses.
The more intact a corpse, the higher the price it could fetch at the butcher's.
A complete body could buy a rusted blade or a pair of steel boots that fit; a severed limb could only buy a single bullet.
If they could deliver a live captive for slaughter, the value would double again.
After all, fresh-killed meat was the most tender and juicy, commanding an enviable price.
A noble like Caelan would be worth at least ten times more!
"Go!"
At someone's shout, the thugs lurking in the shadows surged forward all at once.
But Caelan remained leisurely, not even bothering to raise his hand.
The infant in his arms stared wide-eyed, curiously looking around at each crisp crack.
The thugs' necks all twisted 105 degrees to the right, and they collapsed like marionettes with cut strings.
The infant did not cry, fuss, or laugh, he just watched quietly, listening to the sound of necks snapping rightward.
He tilted his little face up, his gaze falling on the man's face.
His tiny body pressed against Caelan's chest; he could hear the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat.
Caelan's heart rate was normal, as if the thugs' sudden deaths had no effect on him.
Halfway along, Caelan suddenly stopped.
The last survivor cowered in a corner, trembling, a boy of twelve or thirteen, staring at Caelan with terrified eyes.
They had expected Caelan to defend himself, but they had not expected him to kill from afar.
Yet just as Caelan drew near, the cowering boy suddenly lunged, stabbing viciously at Caelan's abdomen with a dagger he had just grabbed from the ground!
Crack-crack!
In the boy's horrified gaze, the dagger in his hand was crushed into a twisted spiral by an invisible force. The grating screech of contorting metal set one's teeth on edge.
The dagger clattered to the ground.
The boy scrambled backward into the darkness in terror.
But it was useless.
Cthonian were long accustomed to surviving in darkness; the dark protected no one.
Caelan crouched before him. "What is your name?"
The boy trembled, pleading miserably, "Spare me… I, I don't have a name. They all call me Durm. I haven't killed anyone yet. I truly know I was wrong."
He frantically tore open his shirt, revealing his unmarked chest.
"Durm" was merely what others called him, not his true name.
Cthonia was a world built upon murder.
One earned a name through killing.
A killer would carve their tribe's mark upon their chest as a badge of honor.
The weak who dared not kill were unworthy of a name.
Perhaps he truly had never killed, but not because he dared not; he had simply never gotten the chance.
Caelan asked, "Where is this?"
Durm's face filled with shock; his Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty. "My lord… this is the territory of the Corpse-Grinder tribe."
"You belong to the Corpse-Grinders?"
"Y-yes…" The boy shuddered, sweat beading on his grime-caked face.
"Take me to your lair. Your headquarters, whatever you call it."
"W-what do you intend to do?"
"I'm new here and need a foothold. That's reasonable, isn't it?"
Durm hesitantly studied Caelan. He had never left the underground, never seen any other noble lord.
But this impeccably dressed man before him definitely did not belong to the underworld, he was likely from the legendary hive city above.
But the noble lords had always looked down on them, the under-dwellers. Why would he come here?
He began to suspect Caelan was a noble exiled from the hive, perhaps a loser in the struggle for aristocratic status.
In the underworld, if a gang leader failed in a power struggle and was fortunate enough to survive, he would flee his former gang's territory and seek refuge with another gang, or rebuild in secret.
In his eyes, Caelan was exactly such a man.
Otherwise, why would a lofty noble lord lower himself to join a rat-gang like theirs?
The true noble lords had always sneered at the underworld gangs, finding them beneath notice.
But if Caelan truly wished to join the Corpse-Grinders, their doors would certainly swing open for him.
That was the law of the underworld: if you did not kill others, they would kill you.
The more blood on your hands, the more you were revered.
Caelan had slaughtered half of the Corpse-Grinders' fighting force, which proved he was stronger and more ruthless than all of them combined!
That was his letter of introduction to join the Corpse-Grinders!
No one would hold a grudge against Caelan for it, because it was not worth it.
On Cthonia's surface and below, kinship, friendship, love, any affection, were luxuries beyond reach.
Even husband and wife, bound together for life underground, were merely passing acquaintances. No one would give their life for another.
Emotion was the epitaph of the weak; strength was the passport of the strong.
Thus, Caelan's entry into the Corpse-Grinders would meet no obstacle.
Though the Corpse-Grinders' chieftain might feel uneasy, everyone else would welcome him.
And once Caelan joined the Corpse-Grinders, with his ability to kill from afar, the Corpse-Grinders would sweep away all other gangs like a storm, perhaps even unify the entire underworld!
Durm did not think that far ahead. He only wanted to survive.
Though Caelan might not spare him, he might kill him in front of the other Corpse-Grinders to establish his authority.
Many new warriors did exactly that.
Killing was mundane in the underworld; no one cared who was killed.
But if he did not do as Caelan said, death would come instantly.
"I will take you there now." Durm's Adam's apple bobbed painfully.
He still wanted to try, even if just to live a few more minutes.
The outsider came from above; he knew nothing of the labyrinthine underworld. Perhaps Durm could lose him that way.
That was how the underworld worked: the strong took life and death, the weak could only gamble with their lives.
And that was what he was doing now, gambling.
Should he gamble on escaping the outsider's clutches, or gamble that the outsider might spare him out of mercy?
Durm glanced back cautiously, peeking at the man from the corner of his eye, terrified that Caelan might sense his scheming.
However, the man seemed utterly indifferent to his presence, focusing solely on amusing the infant in his arms.
He gently pinched the baby's soft cheeks and tugged. The infant did not cry or fuss, but reached up and grasped his finger in protest.
A smile spread across Caelan's face.
It was an expression Durm had never seen on anyone else before, that smile was… gentle.
Durm hesitated for a long time, then slowly lowered his head.
The outsider could kill from afar, and Durm had no confidence he could lose him before dying.
Better not gamble, after all.