Griffin Voss’s efficiency was as reliable as ever.
Ross Vance had only given him the task the previous evening, and by noon the next day, Griffin returned with a crumpled transfer contract.
The seller was an old Italian-American man who had been running a shipping business in New York for over a decade.
Business had been decent initially, but Hell’s Kitchen had grown increasingly chaotic over the last couple of years.
He lost trucks as fast as he bought them, and the workers under him were beaten so badly on their way home from work that they ended up in the hospital.
Now, he was willing to let the property go cheap just to avoid spending another day in Hell’s Kitchen.
When Griffin tracked him down, the old man was standing by his front door handing out flyers to attract buyers.
Griffin didn’t waste words.
He walked in, sat down, and let his scarred face do the talking.
At first, the old man tried to negotiate the price, but Griffin completely ignored him.
He simply placed three million dollars in cash on the table, and every time the old man spoke a word, Griffin snatched a stack back.
After Griffin had taken back two hundred thousand dollars, the old man stopped speaking altogether, picked up the contract, and signed it immediately.
The warehouse sat right on the edge of the Hudson River, just two streets down from the 42nd Street Pier.
It had once been a transit station for the shipping company, spanning nearly ten thousand square meters, with three two-story steel-frame warehouses as the main structures.
Side-by-side next to the warehouses were two annexes: one was a two-story staff dormitory with over twenty rooms, and the other housed a cafeteria, baths, and a boiler room.
Though it had been abandoned and neglected for several years, the foundation was solid.
With a little cleaning, it would be perfectly livable.
Griffin and his men spent half a day cleaning up the dormitory area, testing the plumbing and electrical circuits, and repairing everything they could.
“It’s a hundred times better than that run-down building we had before.”
They had individual rooms, hot showers, a place to cook, and most importantly, the warehouse was massive.
Never mind the current dozen or so men; even if Ross brought in another hundred, this place could easily accommodate them.
With the new territory secured, Ross’s thoughts immediately turned to the next step.
Summoning reinforcements.
Shortly after, Griffin took three veterans to set up guard posts around the warehouse perimeter, while the others cleaned their rooms in the dormitory.
Ross walked back alone to the cargo hall, which had already been cleared of all goods.
Most of the fluorescent tubes on the high ceiling were broken, leaving only a few flickering lights.
The grayish-white concrete floor still bore the oil stains and tire tracks left by the shipping company years ago, and a few rusted rolls of barbed wire were piled in the corner.
Ross stood in the very center of the hall and closed his eyes.
His consciousness sank into the psychic wellspring in his chest.
Since the judgment of Three-Face, his psychic reserves had grown significantly.
As Griffin and his men cleared out small gangs every day, psychic energy flowed continuously into his body.
His current reserve of psychic power was at least five times greater than when he had first summoned the ten Cadian veterans.
“Time to go big this time.”
Taking a deep breath, he reached into the depths of his psychic wellspring, guiding the energy in the same manner as the first summon.
The psychic power didn’t simply vanish from his body; instead, it felt as though he were using it to open a door.
He allowed the power from another dimension to flow in according to his will and take shape.
A faint golden light began to glow from his chest, spreading along his blood vessels, nerves, and fascia to his limbs.
The light grew stronger, enveloping his entire body in a hazy, golden aura.
The psychic energy began to diffuse outward.
Then, he felt a response.
Immediately, he sharply increased his psychic output.
Images began to materialize in his mind.
At first, it was just a cluster of blurry outlines, like figures in a thick fog, barely recognizable as a dozen or so people.
As he poured more psychic energy into them, the outlines gradually clarified, sharpened, and filled with color and detail.
He saw the silhouettes of power armor.
Not the grayish-blue greatcoats and flak armor of the Astra Militarum, but heavier, form-fitting black plate armor tailored to the female form.
A silver Imperial Aquila was emblazoned on the breastplate, and the edges of the shoulder guards were traced with ebony patterns.
Battle Sisters.
Ross’s heart leaped.
The images grew even clearer.
Three Battle Sisters stood at the front of the line, their helmets cradled under their arms, revealing three resolute faces.
The one in the middle was slightly older, with her short, dark brown hair cropped neatly behind her ears, a thin, old scar running near her left eye, and a cold, hard gaze.
Her power armor was hung with various pieces of equipment.
A finely crafted chainsword hung at her hip, a bolt pistol was holstered to her thigh, and below the Aquila on her chest, a small ebony chalice was embroidered in silver thread.
Behind her stood two younger Sisters.
One had short, fiery red hair and a few freckles on her face.
The other was fair-skinned, with long golden hair tied into a tight braid behind her head, looking like an angel stepped right out of a cathedral mural.
Behind the three Battle Sisters stood ten more Astra Militarum soldiers.
They wore the same grayish-blue greatcoats as Griffin Voss, and their faces beneath their steel helmets were equally weathered.
Thirteen people, standing in neat formation deep within his consciousness, waiting to be pulled into reality.
Ross did not hesitate.
He condensed his psychic energy and gave the figures a sudden, powerful pull.
In that instant, the psychic power within him began to drain rapidly.
These thirteen consumed more than three times the psychic energy of the previous ten Astra Militarum soldiers, but it was still well within his limits.
The air began to warp, and then thirteen figures appeared before him.
The heavy thud of combat boots hitting the ground echoed through the hall, dull and powerful.
Ross opened his eyes.
Three Battle Sisters and ten Cadian veterans stood before him in a neat formation.
His gaze fell first on the three Battle Sisters at the front.
Their power armor gleamed with a dark sheen under the warehouse lights.
The joint areas were made of silver-gray elastic fibers, ensuring defense without sacrificing agility.
The silver-plated Imperial Aquila on their chests shimmered under the lights.
The older Sister in the middle took a step forward, striking her right fist against her chest.
She bowed her head in salute to Ross.
The movement was clean and precise, without a single wasted motion.
“Order of the Ebony Chalice, Fifth Convent, Sister Superior Cecilia Vera, reporting for duty.”
“May the Emperor’s heir lead us to purge all heretics in this world.”
The two Sisters behind her struck their chests in perfect unison.
“For the Emperor!”
The ten Cadian veterans joined in, their deep male voices blending with the Sisters’ clear, ringing tones, echoing back and forth through the cavernous warehouse hall.
Ross stood there, looking at the brand-new squad before him.
To be honest, it would be a lie to say he wasn’t thrilled.
Any Warhammer player knew of the Battle Sisters.
Those power-armored, boltgun-wielding female warriors were like roses blooming in black flames within the grim and desperate universe of Warhammer 40K.
They had undergone no gene-modifications or organ implantations; physically, they were still ordinary human women of flesh and blood.
Yet, through sheer, unadulterated zeal and unquestioning faith in the Emperor, they pushed themselves to a combat capability no less than that of the Astartes.
The finest among the Sisterhood could even tear Chaos Daemons apart with their bare hands.
As for the Order of the Ebony Chalice, Ross quickly searched his memory.
This Order was renowned for hunting heretic psykers, infiltrating enemy factions, and carrying out assassination and intelligence-gathering missions.
Unlike other Orders, they did not specialize in frontal heavy-armor assaults, but they were consummate professionals when it came to dismantling enemies from the inside.
Intelligence gathering.
Assassination.
Infiltration.
These were exactly the capabilities he needed most right now.
Suppressing his excitement, Ross’s gaze fell upon the ten taciturn Cadian veterans.
He had summoned thirteen people this time.
Combined with Griffin’s group of ten, he now had twenty-three combat personnel at his disposal.
The three Battle Sisters would provide intelligence support and special operations capabilities, while the twenty Astra Militarum veterans would handle frontal firepower and regional control.
This configuration, placed in a “starter village” like Hell’s Kitchen, was already enough to carve out a territory of his own.
But he kept his expression perfectly neutral.
Putting on a grand display was best done naturally; the more effortless it seemed, the more real it felt.
Ross tilted his chin up slightly, making his voice sound steady and carrying the calm confidence expected of a leader.
“Welcome, Cecilia.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the entire squad.
“You have arrived just in time.
The heretics in this land outnumber the stars in the sky.
We have a great deal of work to do.”