After thorough deliberation, the Cadian 8th made their choice—they would descend into the underhive of Tyrone. It was a calculated risk, but Creed had weighed his options carefully. If the world above was compromised, then the true battle would begin below.
The merchant captain, ever the opportunist, opted to accompany them. Not for duty, not for honor, but for the promise of salvage. Every battlefield was a potential treasure trove to a man who measured worth in thrones and trade goods.
Once more, the Cadians entered the hive through the gaping wound their transport had left in its armored exterior. The breach was still jagged, steel and ceramite twisted where the shuttle had forced entry. Sentries halted them immediately, strapping each soldier into teleportation stabilizers before vanishing them into the depths of the underhive.
In an instant, they were within New Kato.
....
New Kato
Creed had expected the same young commander from yesterday to greet them, but instead, a new figure awaited them.
The man wasted no time.
"Grey." His voice was clipped, efficient. "No need for introductions on your end—I already know who you are. The Legion Commander briefed me."
Without another word, Grey turned on his heel and led them deeper into the city.
The Cadians expected the usual underhive filth—collapsed hab-blocks, filth-choked alleyways, and gangs of mutants picking over the dead. Instead, they found something shocking.
The city was clean.
Not in the pristine, gilded excess of a spire's upper levels, but in the cold, calculated efficiency of a well-maintained war camp. Supply lines were orderly. Streets were reinforced against collapse. There were no vagrants, no aimless loiterers. Every person they passed was engaged in some task, whether it was constructing fortifications, maintaining weapons, or drilling in formation.
A war machine was being built here.
A sudden mechanical whirring cut through the air. The Cadians tensed, hands drifting toward weapons. A drone had approached—a hovering construct bristling with heavy bolters trained in their direction.
Creed's eyes narrowed. Instinct told him to take cover, to react—but he held.
The drone conducted a rapid scan, its optics sweeping over them. After a moment, it withdrew its weaponry and returned to its patrol.
Creed exhaled slowly.
Such security measures were necessary—any Imperial commander worth his salt knew how quickly an underhive could rot from within. But what troubled him was the method.
How did the drone scan them? Who controlled it? Was it guided manually, or… was it something far worse?
His superior officer caught his eye and gave a subtle nod.
Ignore it. Focus on the mission.
Grey spoke without turning.
"The Legion Commander has assigned you quarters. Fresh water is freely available. Food will be delivered to you by logistics servitors."
Creed raised an eyebrow. Servitors delivering meals? That was unusual.
Grey continued, his tone unchanging.
"No matter where you are, if a logistics servitor detects that your stomach is empty, it will provide you with a meal."
At that moment, a drone descended from the air, hovering before them.
Creed's hand twitched toward his laspistol.
"By the Emperor… what is that thing?"
The servitor was unlike any he had seen before—a sleek, black sphere, its smooth frame bristling with spindly, cable-like appendages. It moved with unsettling precision, its sensors sweeping over them with an inhuman coldness.
For a moment, the Cadians hesitated. It resembled the bio-mechanical horrors of the Tyranids.
Then—they saw the Aquila.
Etched into the servitor's shell was the unmistakable twin-headed eagle of the Imperium.
Their doubts evaporated.
Only Grey knew the truth. That Aquila had been freshly stamped onto the drone—it hadn't originally been there.
["Data input complete."] The Drone's voice was a cold, synthetic monotone. Without another word, it drifted away, vanishing into the city.
Creed said nothing. He merely followed Grey deeper into New Kato.
....
Eventually, they reached a large, reinforced structure at the heart of the city. Their new quarters.
The Cadians were given no separation based on rank, nor even by gender. But that didn't matter. Cadians lived, trained, and died together.
As Grey turned to leave, Creed called after him.
"Trooper. Your power armor—aside from the additional shoulder-mounted cannon, how does it differ from the others? Is it stronger?"
Grey paused, his head tilting slightly.
"This armor was hand-forged by the Legion Commander himself. It's superior to mass-produced variants."
Creed frowned. "Is he a Tech-Priest? Why would his craftsmanship make it better?"
Grey didn't answer. He simply turned and walked away.
Creed watched him go, his expression unreadable.
This place is strange. Everything about it is strange.
But he kept his suspicions to himself.
Pulling a worn data-slate from his belt, he began drafting a formal training regimen.
"You're taking this far too seriously," his superior remarked.
Creed didn't look up.
"I have to take this seriously. The lack of discipline here makes my skin crawl."
For the next several days, Creed refined his training protocols.
He toured the underhive's garrisons, familiarizing himself with the regiments stationed here.
Eventually, he was even issued a standard power armor suit.
But despite his efforts, the high-ranking officers of New Kato remained skeptical.
Most had heard of the Cadians, the Astra Militarum's finest, but few believed Creed's training could be applied to their war doctrine.
After all, their battle doctrines were completely different.
....
It wasn't until Creed visited the 47th Regiment that he finally encountered a high-ranking officer—Klein.
Walking through the regiment's camp in his new armor, Creed didn't hesitate.
"With all due respect, your troops are undisciplined," he said bluntly. "Their lack of discipline is severe."
A nearby officer—Klein, the commander of the 47th—arched an eyebrow.
"The 47th is no longer a frontline unit," he replied. "We serve as advisors, and I admit, standards have slipped. That's on both my men and myself."
He gestured around.
"Our duty is to garrison the Legion Commander's fortress. For that role, strict discipline isn't essential."
Creed stopped walking.
"By the Emperor… how do you expect to protect him with this level of discipline? And how does he trust you to?"
Klein smirked.
"…He doesn't actually need protection," he admitted. "He's stronger than all of us combined."
Creed nearly scoffed. Impossible.
Before he could argue, something caught his attention.
A soldier.
The same one who had insulted him days prior.
Creed strode over.
"Funny. Weren't you the one who called me a 'paper-armored grunt' yesterday?"
The soldier stiffened. "…Apologies, sir." But his eyes flicked to Creed's new power armor, and a smirk formed. "But now that you've ditched the paper suit, I guess you've earned the right to talk to me."
Creed's eyes narrowed.
The soldier held his gaze.
Klein thought about intervening but decided against it. "If Creed can't handle this, he has no business training us."
"Attack me."
The soldier hesitated.
"Sir—"
"Attack me, coward."
The insult cut deep.
Every soldier here had endured overwhelming odds against hordes of Cultist. They had held their ground despite being outnumbered dozens to one. None of them considered themselves cowards.
With a snarl, the soldier swung—only for Creed to twist, seize his arm, and slam him to the ground in a perfect over-the-shoulder throw.
The soldier hit the dirt, dazed.
Klein sighed, hauling him back to his feet. "Avoid that Cadian from now on."
Creed exhaled, revising his assessment of the regiment.
These men had camaraderie. Bonds. But those bonds had led to complacency.
He turned back to his quarters.
He needed to adjust his training programs.
He tailored new programs for each regiment based on his observations.
But before he could implement them—
War came again.