After his rescue, Yoan collected his payment from the squad leader.
Despite his disgraceful display in the face of the mutant spider—and the fact that he had never fired a single shot—his mere presence had proven valuable.
As a "Soulless", as the dregs of the Underhive branded his kind, his very existence disrupted the heretic psykers, their mind unraveling under its own unchecked power. His very being was anathema, a void where the heretic’s unholy gifts found no hold, an absence so absolute that the psyker's mind had torn itself apart rather than endure his touch.
Yet, this potent gift came at a steep cost: even the lowest scumborn of the Underhive recoiled at his passing, spitting after him as if to ward off a curse. A thing without a soul was not a man, they whispered. A blight, even among the damned.
For doing nothing, Yoan had earned more than a PDF soldier’s monthly wage.
The squad leader shoved the Throne Gelt into his pocket, the weight of the coins pressing against his leg like an unspoken warning.
"Stay in touch." The man sighed. "I shouldn’t be telling you this, but listen—don’t waste your money on the Devotees. And stop associating with them."
"If the Underhive ever reconnects with the lower Hive, the Ecclesiarchy will burn you all alive.
"Understood." Yoan smiled and nodded, though the words were hollow.
"Alright, let’s move out." The squad leader waved his hand, leading the others out of the tunnel.
After returning to New Kato, Yoan did not go home.
Instead, he spent ten Thrones at a craftsman’s shop, purchasing a simple piece of jewelry.
The remaining thirty Thrones went elsewhere.
To the tavern at the city's edge.
When he pushed open the doors, expecting warmth, music, the dull murmur of conversation—
Instead, he found silence.
Every patron sat motionless, eyes fixed upon the flickering vid-screens suspended above the bar.
The flickering display showed "servitor" convoys performing battlefield reclamation.
There was no commentary. No music. No propaganda overlay.
The "servitors" moved in eerie silence, gathering salvageable war materiel—including the corpses of fallen heretics.
One "servitor" approached a writhing mutant, its machine spirit detecting vital signs.
A mechadendrite extended.
The creature was snuffed out instantly.
A moment later, its organic remains were absorbed into the "servitor’s" chassis.
This eerie tranquility pervaded the recording. The cold, methodical extermination. The unwavering collection of materials.
Again. And again. And again.
Yet no one turned away.
Yoan moved carefully to the bar, placing thirty Thrones into the donation box marked with the sigil of The Devotees.
Then, like the others, he sat and watched.
For two hours, the pict-feed played, unbroken.
Only when the last cycle ended did movement return to the room.
A PDF officer emerged from behind the bar, his scarred face bearing the brutal legacy of war.
His uniform marked him as a lieutenant of the Planetary Defense Forces—
But here, he was something more.
He cast his gaze over the assembled figures, and the room stiffened.
"What have you learned from this, my brothers and sisters?"
His voice was calm. Detached. Absolute.
In unison, the crowd responded:
"We must learn from the "servitors". We must remain rational and cold at all times. We must not succumb to anger, joy, or sorrow."
The call and response was like a ritual. A refrain uttered countless times before.
The Devotees had watched this footage for months—and each time, they had recited the same response.
The lieutenant raised his voice.
"We are the Devotees of the Lord."
A shudder passed through the room—not of fear, nor excitement.
Something closer to reverence.
"Though he denies it, he is a god."
The lieutenant continued, his tone unyielding.
"I have seen a fortress rise from the dust by his will.
I have seen him create the machines that sustain us.
I have seen him unleash flame and lightning upon the heretic hordes, reducing them to ash.
I am a captain of the 47th Regiment.
I have witnessed these miracles with my own eyes."
His voice remained cold, devoid of embellishment. And yet the weight of his words was undeniable.
Only solemn nods of understanding.
For in the Devotees, one did not exult. One did not weep. One did not revel in glory.
One was taught to emulate the "servitors".
To be unfeeling, detached, and obedient.
Because the founders of the Devotees—like many in the city—believed Qin Mo was a god.
And a god had created the "servitors" that fed and armed them.
To them, the "servitors" were more than machines.
Emotionless. Dutiful. Absolute.
The lieutenant’s gaze hardened.
"Share your insights."
His voice shook with excitement.
"At my most desperate moment, two emissaries descended from the heavens and rescued me."
The others turned, their eyes glinting with quiet envy.
The lieutenant frowned.
"Control your emotions." His words were sharp.
"Forgive me. I am new…" He quickly suppressed his enthusiasm, forcing his expression to match the cold detachment of those around him.
The lieutenant nodded.
"It is fine, brother. We all learn. We all grow."
And for Yoan, this acceptance was everything.
Here—among the Devotees—
He did not have to endure the sneers and scorn of the outside world.
The lieutenant stood, his gaze sweeping over the room.
"We should have perished.
Kato was abandoned. The Underhive was abandoned.
Our forces were squandered on foolish assaults. Supplies ran dry. We were encircled by heretics."
A murmur of assent rippled through the chamber.
"Saved by countless miracles.
When we starved, the logistics "servitors" provided food and weapons.
When we were in peril, a single request brought the Emissaries divine wrath within seconds."
The lieutenant’s voice remained as impassive as the servitors he emulated.
"The Emissaries are chosen warriors, clad in the Lord’s sacred armor.
They obliterate the enemy with his divine fire and lightning.
They, alongside the Lord, saved us all."
The room nodded in silent agreement.
Yoan closed his eyes, remembering the Siege of Kato.
The heretics had taken half the city.
Then, the Lord and his Emissaries descended.
He still remembered that moment on the main boulevard—
He had been cowering before a heretic tank, convinced he was about to die.
Yet the shell did not explode.
It did not even pierce his flesh.
It rolled harmlessly to the ground.
The Lord strode forth.
A torrent of Sacred lightning reduced the tank to slag.
He extended his Divine hand.
At that moment Yoan, sumpborn scum of the Underhive felt a spark of hope for the first time.
Even now, Yoan dreamed of that moment every night.
The lieutenant’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Come with me after this."
The lieutenant’s expression remained unreadable.
"After reviewing your records, the Lord has expressed interest in meeting you."
Yoan’s breath caught.
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed.
Yoan forced his trembling body to still.
"Understood. My apologies."