Flames towered into the sky, and smoke and dust filled the air.
When the aftershock of the final explosion faded, nothing remained around the warehouse but a devastated stretch of scorched earth, without a single survivor.
Those mutated Underhive civilians had used their own flesh and blood to utterly destroy the data the Sons of Medusa had retained on Lynn.
Not far away, Butcher felt his scalp prickle as he witnessed the whole thing.
He was grateful that he had never once defied Lynn.
These Underhive civilians had all been recruited by his subordinates' subordinates.
They could not even be counted as Lynn's direct forces, merely some bottom-rung residents living in the territory under his control.
The vast majority of them had never seen Lynn's face in their lives, yet they had willingly died for him.
Butcher had once been unable to understand why Lynn distributed precious resources to these "worthless" dregs at the bottom.
That nutrient paste, clean water, and those shoddy protective suits that could withstand acidic rain and mist were treasures that even a fortune could barely buy in the lower levels of the Hive City.
Only now did he finally understand.
Initially, they had only planned to recruit three hundred people, promising that after their deaths, the power behind them would look after their families and provide sufficient food and shelter.
But once word spread, more than three thousand civilians came to sign up, ten times the planned number.
They came from every corner of the Underhive.
There were orphans who had lost their families, disabled people abandoned by gangs, and displaced people with nowhere left to turn.
The only thing they shared was that every one of them bore gratitude toward Lynn and despair toward the Imperium.
In the end, Butcher selected only a thousand people, and those left behind even wept and begged, hoping to join the raid.
"So what if they're the Emperor's angels?" Butcher muttered to himself, a trace of fear and mockery in his voice.
"Would they care whether these Underhive ants lived or died?
Would they give them a mouthful of clean water, a piece of corpse starch to fill their bellies?"
Under the Imperium's rule, the lives of Underhive civilians were worth no more than weeds. The upper ranks had never spared a thought for whether they lived or died.
If not for Lynn, these people should have died six months ago.
Lynn's "generosity" had given them another six months of life, and his protection had spared them oppression by the gangs and the Adeptus Arbites.
So when they learned that the targets of the attack were "the Emperor's Angels of Death," they did not hesitate in the slightest.
To them, Lynn was their true salvation, and dying for that salvation was the natural choice.
To bring these civilians to District Five, Butcher had drawn on every connection and resource Lynn had accumulated.
He had bribed all the checkpoint officials and Adeptus Arbites guards along the way.
Those who refused to cooperate and tried to report it all died mysteriously that very night, without leaving so much as a trace.
And so, a thousand Underhive civilians had passed through layer after layer of barriers like ghosts and arrived in District Five.
They had completed this mission from which there was never meant to be any return, paying with their lives.
Inside the Abyssal Spawning Pool, the psychic storm gradually weakened, but the lingering force of its destruction still filled the air.
Cassius lay collapsed on the ground, his Cataphractii Terminator armor already covered in cracks, its power systems long since failed.
Blue arcs of electricity occasionally leaped from gaps in the armor, illuminating his blood-covered face.
The pain brought by the psychic shriek far exceeded anything he could have imagined.
That dark purple energy had first invaded his senses, searing his retinas.
It had instantly robbed him of his sight, leaving nothing but a piercing ringing in his ears.
Then psychic power had surged into his body, like scalding magma coursing through his veins.
His internal organs had begun to boil and dissolve, and his bones had creaked beneath the unbearable strain.
It was pain taken to its utmost extreme, enough to break even the most steadfast warrior.
Only the protection of his Iron Halo had allowed Cassius to force himself to hold on a little longer.
He could not see, but he could clearly sense everything around him.
His comrades' screams gradually subsided, finally giving way to deathly silence.
The Tyranids' screeches vanished amid the psychic impact, and the Servitors' metal bodies crashed to the ground, their servo systems stopping completely.
He could feel blood flowing from breaches in his armor, soaking the fungal carpet beneath him. He could feel his life rapidly slipping away.
Just as his consciousness was about to sink into darkness, a long-buried memory suddenly surfaced in his mind.
[Cassius remembered that Alisa had a horrifying scar on her face. The others always mocked her and had even given her a nickname: "Splitface."
Even the strong-willed Alisa could never help crying in secret when she heard that nickname.
Back then, the perpetually stiff and wooden Cassius had experienced "anger" for the first time.
From then on, in that area, whenever anyone dared say that nickname in public.
They would invite a boy's fists.
At ten years old, Cassius had displayed his physical gifts for the first time.
He was quick to react, physically strong, and resolute.
Even when facing several boys a few years older than him at once, he could beat the teeth out of their mouths.
And so, through Cassius's tireless efforts, the entire area had become "quiet."
No one dared utter that nickname again.
After every fight, Alisa always tended Cassius's wounds with aching concern.
But Cassius said nothing, merely grinning like a fool.
Even thinking back on it now, he felt only one thing: That felt damn good!]
The images of the memory gradually faded, and a violent headache struck Cassius's mind like a sledgehammer.
He abruptly opened his eyes to utter darkness. His eyes had long since been burned away by psychic energy.
Only two empty sockets remained, blood continually welling out of them.
He struggled to stand, only to find that he had long since lost all feeling in his legs.
He turned his head, his empty sockets "scanning" his surroundings, sensing only his comrades' cold bodies.
Of the Sons of Medusa squad, no one but him had survived.
Boundless sorrow engulfed him like a tide.
Those brothers who had fought beside him and sworn allegiance to the Emperor alongside him, those comrades who had entrusted their backs to one another on the battlefield, had all died in this storm.
But years of modification and emotional suppression had long since made him forget how to cry.
The sorrow soon receded, replaced by endless rage.
He would have vengeance!
He would smash Alpha's skull and tear apart its brain-like organ, making it pay for this massacre!
He would also pass judgment on Lynn, the heretic who had planned it all.
Cassius slowly raised his hand and removed his Cataphractii helmet.
The helmet hit the ground with a dull thud.
Two golden lights suddenly flared within his empty eye sockets.