Cogboy stood before two massive, fully loaded logistical crawlers, giving a highly satisfied nod.
Loaded into the heavy cargo bays were exactly five hundred cartons of the extended-variant premium cigarettes. Each individual cigarette measured exactly twenty-five centimeters in length. They were meticulously rolled using highly specialized tobacco leaves cultivated exclusively within the Sanctuary's irradiated botanical grox-pens, intricately blended with exactly seven distinct aromatic psycho-herbs. At least, that was the official lore they were feeding the Legion.
"In reality, the players just threw extra Imperial Coins at the system store to forcibly customize the dimensions..." Cogboy muttered.
Sitting adjacent to the tobacco were exactly one thousand heavy crates of "Primarch-Reserve Vodka." The alcohol content was a terrifying seventy-five percent by volume. Every single heavy, hand-blown armaglass bottle contained exactly one full liter and featured the unyielding gauntlet insignia of the Iron Hands Legion deeply acid-etched into the glass.
"This level of gift-giving..." Cogboy mumbled under his breath, seamlessly switching the optics of his cybernetic eye to thermal-infrared mode to actively confirm the integrity of the vacuum-sealed cargo. "...should definitely be enough, right?"
A player standing directly behind him leaned in close, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "Does this technically classify as outright bribery?"
"Bribery?" Cogboy threw him a sharp, highly disdainful side-eye. "This is classified as a humble, deeply loyal contribution strictly supporting the glorious logistics of the Imperial Great Crusade. Do you understand?"
"Understood! Absolutely understood!" The player immediately shot him a massive thumbs-up.
–
The heavy transport convoy slowly rumbled deeper into the industrial zone, eventually reaching a massive, heavily fortified temporary landing pad.
An elite detachment of the Iron Hands Legion was permanently garrisoned here, strictly tasked with actively overseeing the Cult Mechanicus as they labored to seal the localized Warp-breach and suppressing any residual Warp entities that managed to claw their way through.
The Astartes commanding this detachment was the legendary First Captain, Gabriel Santar.
According to the official historical canon of the Warhammer universe, this exact Captain was tragically destined to be slaughtered by Julius Kaesoron, First Captain of the Emperor's Children, during the catastrophic Dropsite Massacre on Istvaan V.
But right now, he was very much alive and incredibly well, standing perfectly still at the perimeter of the landing pad, his piercing gaze actively observing a Sentinel walker undergoing routine field maintenance.
"Report, Lord Captain!" A massive Iron Hands Legionary rapidly approached. "The diplomatic representative from the Crimson Dawn Sanctuary has officially arrived. He is accompanied by... a significantly massive logistical payload."
Gabriel Santar slowly turned his head.
He was noticeably taller and significantly broader than Captain Karon. This was the highly exclusive privilege of the First Captain, granting him access to the absolute apex of Astartes genetic augmentation and cybernetic enhancement. Exactly seven golden campaign honor-rings were deeply etched into his heavy ceramite pauldron, undeniable proof that he had actively participated in seven cataclysmic, theater-level campaigns and achieved overwhelming strategic victories.
His face was completely devoid of any scarring—a highly unusual, almost anomalous trait among the Iron Hands, who typically wore their battle-damage like sacred medals. This was because Gabriel Santar's personal combat doctrine was absolute: The greatest warrior is not the one who survives a thousand wounds, but the one who flawlessly executes the enemy without ever taking a single scratch.
"Bring him forward."
Moments later, Cogboy stood directly before Gabriel Santar, executing a flawless, deeply respectful Sign of the Aquila. "Lord Captain. I am Cage Lawrence, the official diplomatic representative of the Crimson Dawn Sanctuary. Acting upon the explicit logistical request of Captain Karon, I have arrived to formally deliver the provisions personally requisitioned by the Lord Primarch."
Gabriel silently analyzed him. His cold gaze lingered specifically on Cogboy's cybernetic eye and fully augmented right arm for several heavy seconds before he finally nodded. "So, you are Cage. The primary logistical supplier of the stimulants currently plaguing my Legion."
Cogboy flashed a subtle, highly respectful smile, opting entirely against denying the claim. In this exact situation, false humility was pure hypocrisy.
He slowly reached into his inner pocket and extracted a completely custom, heavy-duty pack of the extended cigarettes. The casing was forged from solid, brushed gunmetal, the surface intricately acid-etched with highly complex interlocking cogwheels and stylized flame motifs—the absolute peak, sleep-deprived craftsmanship of the Crimson Machina's dedicated tech-otakus.
He smoothly slid a single, massive cigarette from the casing and offered it to Gabriel.
"Karon gifted me a single pack a few days ago," Gabriel said, taking the heavy cigarette and casually holding it beneath his nose, inhaling the rich aroma. "He endlessly praised them, claiming they heighten mental acuity and actually provide a fractional boost to baseline neural reaction times."
He locked eyes with Cogboy. "I personally field-tested them. They are undeniably exceptional. However, they are fundamentally flawed by their pathetic length. A single stick barely survives a full minute of combustion. For commanders like us, who routinely engage in multi-hour tactical cogitation, they are vastly insufficient."
Cogboy produced a heavy, brass-plated promethium lighter and seamlessly ignited the tip. "Which is exactly why we synthesized this highly specialized, extended variant."
Gabriel took a deep, heavy drag.
Exactly one centimeter of the densely packed tobacco instantly incinerated. The thick, highly concentrated smoke was rapidly drawn into his heavily augmented respiratory system, flawlessly filtered, and absorbed into his bloodstream.
The very next second, the First Captain's eyes widened by a microscopic fraction.
He explicitly felt a highly localized, distinct stimulation. Was this... a genuine harmonic resonance at the neural-synaptic level?
His transhuman reaction-conduits genuinely felt a fraction more hyper-active. His tactical cogitation became terrifyingly clear. He could actively feel the massive, heavily compressed archives of decades of combat data accelerating through his localized cerebral cortex at a rate exactly three percent faster than his baseline.
Three percent might seem fundamentally irrelevant to a mortal, but for an Astartes... that was a terrifying, absolute qualitative leap in combat efficiency.
"...Exceptional." Gabriel slowly exhaled a massive, thick plume of smoke. The heavy vapor stubbornly refused to dissipate, forming perfect, dense rings in the cold air.
He lowered the cigarette—which had barely burned through a fifth of its total mass—and looked directly at Cogboy. "What exactly did you synthesize into this compound?"
"A highly proprietary blend of heavily irradiated localized flora, cross-pollinated with a completely undocumented botanical dust we recently discovered within the deep wastes. It possesses the unique property of fractionally hyper-stimulating synaptic transmission efficiency," Cogboy lied with absolute, robotic perfection, not a single facial muscle twitching. "You have my absolute guarantee, Lord Captain; we ran this exact compound through three hundred rigorous, highly exhaustive clinical trials. It is fundamentally safe, completely non-addictive, and possesses absolutely zero degenerative side effects."
Gabriel stared directly into Cogboy's eyes for exactly three seconds. Then, he suddenly smiled. The corners of his mouth genuinely curled upward in a highly uncharacteristic expression of profound appreciation.
"Cage." He reached out and clapped Cogboy on the shoulder—a casual gesture that felt to Cogboy exactly like being gently tapped by a fifty-ton industrial hydraulic press. "Do you currently possess a massive surplus of this specific variant? I am fully authorized to purchase it using Imperial tithe-credits. Name your price."
Cogboy instantly forced an expression of deep, painful regret onto his face. "Lord Captain, I must humbly apologize. Every single micro-gram of our highly refined, proprietary raw materials was completely exhausted to synthesize the cargo contained within those two transports." He gestured respectfully toward the heavy crawlers. "Every single crate was explicitly requisitioned by the Lord Primarch himself. I absolutely must secure a formal audience with him and successfully finalize this massive logistical transfer before I can even begin to allocate any remaining micro-fractions."
He paused, instantly pivoting, his smile turning incredibly genuine and accommodating. "However. The second the next harvest cycle of our secure botanical grox-pens reaches full maturity, you have my absolute, ironclad guarantee that a highly substantial, First-Captain-exclusive quota will be strictly reserved for you. As the First Captain, you absolutely deserve unrestricted access to the apex of our production."
Hearing that the entire payload was explicitly demanded by his gene-father, Gabriel instantly nodded. "Excellent. I will hold you to that."
He sharply gestured to a nearby Legionary. "Establish an immediate vox-link with Karon. Inform him the requested logistical payload has arrived."
He turned his piercing gaze back to Cogboy. "Cage. You are highly competent. You are infinitely superior to the pathetic, groveling bureaucratic parasites that infest the Hive Worlds. At the very least, you possess the tactical awareness to understand that the absolute peak of tribute must flow directly to the Primarch, rather than skimming the cream off the top for your own pathetic greed."
Cogboy executed a deep, highly respectful bow. "It is merely our fundamental duty, Lord Captain."
Exactly half an hour later, the heavy, roaring thrusters of Captain Karon's Thunderhawk gunship breached the cloud cover and slammed down onto the landing pad.
The massive Fourth Captain practically vaulted out of the assault ramp. He briefly smashed his gauntlet against Gabriel's in a heavy, ritualistic greeting, before immediately throwing a massive, crushing arm around Cogboy's neck, the sheer familiarity making it look like they were blood-brothers who had fought together for decades. "Cage, you absolute madman! You actually forged it!!"
"The Lord Primarch literally just casually mentioned the other day that your cigarettes would be tactically superior if they were significantly longer, and you actually managed to perfectly synthesize them in mere days?!"
Cogboy was currently being choked out by the massive, ceramite-clad arm, barely managing to wheeze out a desperate, strained laugh. "Captain Karon... please... my spine... I am merely a fragile mortal... I cannot withstand this level of affection..."
"Oh, right! My apologies!" Karon instantly released him, though the massive, booming grin never left his face. "Move out! Move out! The gene-father is waiting for you!"
The heavy Thunderhawk gunship fired its primary thrusters, rapidly tearing straight up through the heavy, polluted atmosphere, accelerating continuously until it reached high orbit, aiming directly for the colossal, awe-inspiring silhouette of the Gloriana-class battleship: the Fist of Iron.
Inside the cabin, Karon lowered his voice and asked, "Cage, it seems you've rounded up all those parasites from Adela's crew? And you're holding a public execution?"
Cogboy was secretly startled. They had only released the news a day ago, yet the Legion was already fully aware of their operations.
"Yes." Cogboy nodded, giving a highly summarized overview of the trial plan. Naturally, he didn't breathe a single word about the mass infiltration and identity replacement operation.
Karon grinned after hearing the explanation. "Execution by cannon fire? I like it! That is exactly how it should be done! Let those scum sucking the blood of the Imperium know that retribution isn't absent, it was just waiting for the right time! Go bold and do it with absolute confidence! The gene-father fundamentally does not care about these trivial details; he only cares about results. As long as the mineral output doesn't drop and the ore quality doesn't degrade, even if you hanged every single noble in the Hive City from the streetlamps, the gene-father would only remark that overall efficiency has improved."
Cogboy breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
This was exactly as he had anticipated. The Iron Hands, and especially Ferrus Manus, were among the most ruthlessly pragmatic and efficiency-obsessed of all the twenty Primarchs. Morality? Justice? Those concepts were fundamentally irrelevant within the cold, unyielding framework of the Imperial Truth. The only things that truly mattered were absolute order and raw, industrial output.
The Thunderhawk gunship touched down in the massive hangar bay of the Fist of Iron.
Cogboy once again found himself face-to-face with Ferrus Manus.
The Primarch stood before the bridge's massive armaglass observation deck, his back to the entrance, gazing silently out at the ash-green sphere of Aurelian IV. In his hand, he held one of the extended cigarettes they had previously delivered, already burned down by a third.
The thick smoke swirled around the Primarch, but strangely, it didn't dissipate into the ambient air. Instead, it formed slowly rotating, highly localized vortexes—the undeniable result of the Primarch's terrifying, unconscious biological force field manipulating his immediate surroundings.
"Lord Primarch," Cogboy bowed deeply.
Ferrus didn't turn around. He simply raised a massive hand, gesturing for him to dispense with the formalities.
"Cage Lawrence." The Primarch's voice was a low, steady, mechanical rumble. "According to Legion intelligence, Karon reports that you stabilized the entire Kent Hive's operational order in a mere two days, and have already projected an immediate increase in raw ore production."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Furthermore, you intend to hold a massive public execution tomorrow for over two hundred officials, including the former Hive Lord, and subsequently execute the one hundred and ninety-seven most severe offenders."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Thirteen of whom will face a standard firing squad, while the remaining one hundred and eighty-four will be executed by cannon fire." Ferrus finally turned around. His eyes were a freezing, metallic silver-gray, completely devoid of any emotional fluctuation. "Why execute them by cannon fire?"
Cogboy was fully prepared for this exact question. "Absolute deterrence, Lord Primarch. The Kent Hive has been ruthlessly dominated by the Hysman Merchant Guild for exactly eighty years. Their corruption has penetrated every single stratum of the city. A standard execution is vastly insufficient to strike genuine terror into the hearts of the residual elements currently observing us from the shadows, actively plotting their counterattacks. And pure terror, in certain situations, is infinitely more effective than the law."
Ferrus stared directly into him for several heavy seconds.
Then, the Primarch gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Acceptable."
He only spoke a single word, but the weight behind it was absolute.
"How you choose to administrate your Hive City is entirely your concern; I will not interfere." Ferrus strode over to his command throne and sat down, the cigarette in his hand having burned completely to the filter. "I monitor exactly three metrics: monthly raw mineral output, ore refinement purity, and the punctuality of your logistical shipments to my Legion's vaults. As long as those three metrics meet operational standards, you could terraform the entire Hive into a paradise pleasure-world and I wouldn't ask a single damn question. But if your numbers drop..." The Primarch raised his gaze, a lethal, freezing light flashing within his silver-gray pupils. "...I will replace you."
"Understood," Cogboy bowed profoundly.
Upon leaving the bridge, Captain Karon personally escorted him back to the hangar bay.
"See? What did I tell you?!" The Fourth Captain laughed, slapping him on the back. "The gene-father fundamentally does not care about your methods, only your absolute results! These are the Legion's strict, standardized tolerance parameters for refined prometheum ore. Align your production with these exact metrics, and you will have absolutely zero problems." He seamlessly pressed a highly classified data-wafer into Cogboy's palm.
Cogboy accepted the data-wafer, profusely expressing his gratitude.
Right before boarding the Thunderhawk, he quickly glanced left and right to ensure the immediate vicinity was completely clear. Then, mimicking reaching into his heavy coat pockets—but actually pulling directly from his System inventory—he withdrew two full cartons of the extended-variant cigarettes and shoved them directly into Karon's hands.
"Lord Captain Karon. Just a small token of my personal appreciation."
Karon's eyes instantly lit up. He rapidly stuffed the cartons directly into his power armor's tactical storage compartments. "My brother! You are far too generous! Rest assured, I will personally deploy with a squad of my brothers tomorrow to actively oversee the public execution. I absolutely guarantee that no one will dare to cause a single riot!"
"Then I will leave that heavy responsibility in your capable hands, Lord Captain."
The Thunderhawk gunship fired its thrusters and departed from the Fist of Iron.
Sitting securely in the passenger cabin, Cogboy stared out the viewport at the rapidly shrinking silhouette of the Gloriana-class battleship and let out a long, heavy exhale. "I just hope... everything proceeds flawlessly."
–
Day Three, Standard Terran Time: 07:30 AM, Kent Hive, Mid-Hive Central Plaza.
The massive public execution was scheduled to begin in exactly thirty minutes.
This colossal plaza, originally designed to accommodate half a million citizens, was currently overflowing with over eight hundred thousand people.
The local Mid-Hive residents had arrived hours early to secure vantage points. Those who lived further out were densely packed beneath the hundreds of massive public holographic displays scattered throughout the upper strata. Although the Lower Hive citizens were strictly prohibited from ascending, highly localized, temporary projection arrays had been meticulously rigged in every single subterranean habitation zone.
They all wanted to bear witness to this monumental event. To see if the new Hive Lord and this so-called Crimson Dawn Sanctuary were truly as miraculous as the rumors claimed. To see if the rotting, aristocratic elites who had ridden on their backs for decades were actually going to face genuine justice. To see if this absolute hell of a world... was genuinely capable of change.
A massive, ten-meter-tall execution platform had been erected in the absolute center of the plaza. Upon the reinforced stage sat exactly one hundred and ninety-seven heavy metal chairs, perfectly aligned in disciplined rows—the designated seats for the condemned sinners awaiting their ultimate judgment.
To the immediate left of the platform lay exactly fifty-four pitch-black artillery emplacements.
They weren't legitimate macro-cannons—a single shot from a true macro-cannon would erase half the Hive City from existence. Instead, they were heavily modified, large-caliber execution bombardments repurposed from the Hive's internal defense grid. The artillery shells were entirely custom-made, packed with exactly five hundred kilograms of highly volatile explosives—more than enough to vaporize anyone strapped to them without leaving a single trace of bone or ash. The massive muzzles were elevated at a steep angle, aimed directly into the upper atmospheric smog to prevent collateral damage.
Securing the perimeter of the colossal plaza were two thousand fully augmented players and three thousand disciplined members of the Aurelian Youth Vanguard. Clad entirely in their standardized gray fatigues and heavily armed with lasguns, they formed an unyielding, living barricade to completely prevent the terrifyingly dense crowd from collapsing into a catastrophic stampede.
--
Another big chapter (3030 words)
Goal = 250 Powerstones.
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