In the dim warehouse, Klein was meeting with representatives of the Civic Temple in an unofficial capacity. They were willing to deal with him not because of his title as a "wanted criminal of the Benedict Empire," but because he represented another force.
The Shadow Prince. Though there was much hostility toward him, the Civic Temple acknowledged that this legendary figure was one of the few especially "skilled" at fighting Orks. They desperately needed his experience and support.
Even if it cost them a little.
Of course, that did not mean the two sides trusted each other. In fact, the Civic Temple's representatives were not official figures either, but members of an internal agency dedicated to handling covert affairs.
"I know. Our orders are to wait—"
Klein shook his head, intending to refuse their proposal that the Shadow Prince join the battle directly, but then he stopped.
The air inside the warehouse changed abruptly.
No one was firing, yet the area suddenly filled with the smell of gunpowder, ozone, and fuel.
A scratching hiss came from the surrounding metal racks, as if some mad communications officer had cut apart a transmission record, spliced the tape back together, and played random recordings.
The shriek of ship guns, the blasts of more than a dozen different weapons.
Klein might have been able to identify them from those fleeting gunshots, but he lacked the Shadow Blade's familiarity with the tools of death. At most, he could process the chaotic burst of sensations within a few seconds, and then the warehouse was full of people.
It was not a pleasant experience.
Watching bodies being forced through the void left a strange foul taste in the mouth, like alternating current passing through one's skin, like a capsule slowly releasing poison into one's stomach.
The sensation