He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone.
“But with our current limited conditions, there is no Inquisition, no Adeptus Arbites, nothing at all.
“But the protocol cannot be omitted.
“Once you capture Three-Face, do not execute him on the spot.
“Arrest him, secure him, and then I will pass judgment, and you will execute it.”
Griffin Voss did not ask why, nor did he show any confusion.
The moment he heard the words “according to the laws and protocols of the Imperium,” his spine reflexively straightened even further.
For the warriors of the Imperium, the Lex Imperialis was not a dusty rulebook.
It was the very faith they had defended at the Gate of Chaos for ten thousand years.
It didn’t matter if the Inquisition was present.
What mattered was that someone was still doing things by the book.
“I understand, My Lord,” Griffin thumped his chest with his right fist, his voice raspy and solemn.
“Though we were never authorized to carry out trials before, in this heretical world, we are all that remains.
“For the Emperor, we know what must be done.”
Although Griffin Voss was only Astra Militarum, not an Astartes, at this moment, he would lift the executioner’s blade on behalf of the Battle-Brothers who were absent.
Ross Vance nodded, stood up from his chair, and walked to the window.
Outside, the sky was darkening, and the streetlights of Hell’s Kitchen flickered on one after another.
Loud, chaotic music echoed faintly from the direction of the repair shop.
The Three-Face Gang seemed to be hosting some sort of party tonight—a perfect opportunity to round them all up in one fell swoop.
“The operation begins at exactly 11:00 PM tonight.”
“Everyone gear up, prioritizing melee weapons with firearms as backup.
“Eliminate the outer patrols directly; no need to leave survivors.
“Deal with those inside systematically; do not let a single one escape.
“As for Three-Face himself, bring him to me alive.”
He turned around, a faint golden gleam of psychic energy flashing deep within his pupils.
“Operation codename: First Trial.”
Ten deep voices in the living room coalesced into a single roar:
“For the Emperor!”
…
10:45 PM, Hell’s Kitchen.
The night wind swept garbage and fallen leaves across the street.
The three red-painted circles on the wall of the repair shop’s entrance looked exceptionally garish under the streetlights.
Two gang members were standing guard at the door.
One leaned against the wall smoking, while the other squatted on the steps playing on his phone, the cherry of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.
A soldier crept silently out of the shadows on the flank, an entrenching tool in his hand.
That tool had been with him for six years.
Its blade was ground sharper than a bayonet.
It had split open Ork skulls and pried open rebel bunkers.
Using it now against a heretic squatting and playing on his phone was a massive case of overkill.
The cigarette cherry went out.
The phone fell to the ground.
The two sentries were dragged behind the dumpsters in the side alley.
The entire process took less than five seconds.
Griffin made a couple of hand gestures in the dark.
The ten-man squad split into three teams.
One team breached the basement from the back door; one team sealed all windows and escape routes; Griffin himself led two men to push directly through the front entrance.
All operators carried only entrenching tools, bayonets, and combat knives, with their lasguns slung over their backs, ordered not to fire unless an emergency arose.
After all, lasweapons were too loud and would invite unnecessary, temporary trouble.
The front door was pried open with a crowbar.
The moment the door opened, the deafening heavy metal music from inside blasted out, serving as the perfect cover.
Over twenty gang members were drinking and playing cards in the repair shop’s main hall.
Some were snorting something on a sofa in the corner, while others gathered around tables gambling and swearing.
Not a single person noticed that death had already arrived at the door.
Griffin made a flat, cutting hand gesture.
Several Cadian veterans moved in unison.
The sound of entrenching tools hacking down was drowned out by the heavy metal drumbeats.
The dull thuds of tactical combat knives stabbing into flesh and being pulled back out blended into the low rumble of the bass.
Their movements were concise and efficient.
Every strike targeted a vital organ, leaving the enemy no chance to let out a scream.
This was not combat; it was a strike from a higher dimension.
In less than a minute, the hall fell silent.
The heavy metal music was still playing, but it could no longer mask the thick stench of blood filling the room.
Over twenty gang members lay sprawled across the floor and sofas.
A few still held their playing cards; they had died without ever realizing what had happened.
Griffin wiped a smear of blood from his face and led his men to push open the iron door at the very back of the repair shop.
This room had no windows.
The walls were lined with burning candles, their flickering light casting a shadow.
Three-Face was sitting cross-legged on the carpet in the center of the room.
His middle face was expressionless, staring straight at the doorway.
“You…”
Three-Face stood up.
The weeping on his left face turned into a shrill shriek, while the smile on his right face instantly twisted into an expression of raw fury.
“Who the fuck are you?!”
Griffin did not answer.
He sidestepped to avoid direct eye contact, lunged forward from the flank, spun, and swung his entrenching tool backhanded.
It slammed into Three-Face’s knee with a sharp, clean crack of fracturing bone.
Three-Face shrieked and collapsed to his knees.
Before he could turn his head to activate his ability, Griffin’s knee was already pinning the back of his neck.
The tip of a blade pressed against the base of his right ear, and a cold voice whispered beside him:
“Move a single muscle, and this blade goes straight through your left cheek.”
Within thirty seconds, Three-Face’s hands were bound behind his back, and he was dragged out, thrown onto the cleared floor in the center of the repair shop’s main hall.
His three faces contorted simultaneously.
His left face wept soundlessly, his right face smiled in a grimace uglier than crying, and the emotionless middle face finally showed fear.
The corpses of his gang members had not been cleared yet, and the smell of blood was as thick as a slaughterhouse.
But Three-Face could not care about the dead right now.
In front of him stood a young man wearing a trench coat.
Flanking the youth stood two blood-spattered, expressionless soldiers—one of whom was a scarred man, the very one who had crippled him in under two seconds just moments ago.
Ross Vance looked down at the three-faced mutant on the floor.
Rumor had it his three faces could consume souls.
In reality, it was just a useless, short-range psychic attack with a wind-up long enough for Griffin to kill him five times over.
And yet, a creature like this had lorded over Hell’s Kitchen for so long based solely on his frightening appearance.
Today, it ended.
Ross Vance spoke.
“Heretic.”
Ross Vance lowered his head, looking into Three-Face’s eyes.
“By the authority vested in me by the Emperor of Mankind, and in the name of the Holy Imperial Inquisition.”
Three-Face’s body began to tremble violently.
“I hereby pronounce final judgment.”
Ross Vance’s tone was flat, but every word carried unquestionable authority.
“Charges: Unauthorized alteration of the sacred human genome, unsanctioned use of psychic power, the slaughter of Imperial citizens, and occupying a domain in an aberrant form.
“The facts of these charges are clear and the evidence is irrefutable.
In accordance with the regulations of the Lex Imperialis…”
The middle face of Three-Face finally broke.
His mouth opened, letting out a raspy shriek, but his body had long lost the strength to support itself.
“For these combined offenses, you are sentenced…”
Ross Vance paused.
“…to death.
“To be executed immediately.”
He raised his gaze, looking at Griffin Voss standing beside Three-Face.
“Griffin Voss, carry out the sentence.”
“By your command, My Lord.
For the Emperor!”
He drew the power sword that had been issued to him twelve years ago.
The moment the blade was activated, a pale blue energy field hummed and enveloped the entire length of the sword, drowning out all the other light in the hall.
That sword had sliced through the armor of Chaos renegades and severed the spines of Orks.
Executing a third-rate mutant who couldn’t even activate his ability was the easiest task of its service life, yet also the most ritualistic.
The blade fell.
Three faces screamed in unison, a short shriek before falling into absolute silence.
Ross Vance watched the head roll onto the carpet.
The three faces had finally unified their expression, all frozen in the exact same contorted terror.
He felt the psychic energy within his body surge violently.
Immediately after, a hotter, more ferocious torrent than before poured from his psychic wellspring, rushing through his blood vessels and into his entire body.
He felt his reservoir of psychic energy skyrocket in that instant, as if a small puddle had been suddenly excavated into a deep well.
It was on an entirely different scale compared to when he killed the lanky thug.
The psychic feedback brought by judging a true mutant heretic far exceeded that of a common street punk.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the power washing through his body.
When he slowly opened them, the pale golden glow in his pupils had deepened.
Ross Vance turned to face the ten Cadian veterans standing in a neat line in the hall.
One side of their greatcoats was soaked in blood, and their entrenching tools and combat knives were still dripping, yet every man’s gaze was as steady and resolute as ever.
Griffin had already sheathed his power sword, standing in place awaiting his next command, his expression no different from usual.
Ross Vance looked at them, his eyes filled with immense satisfaction.
He was already looking forward to the next summon.
Heretics would eventually be purged.
For the Emperor!