Green acid dripped from the Genestealer’s massive scything talons.
It hissed as it struck the ground, sending thin wisps of smoke into the air.
The steel gate had been ripped wide open, leaving a jagged hole large enough for the creature to force half its body inside.
Its triangular head swayed from side to side.
Rows of needle-like fangs glistened beneath strands of foul-smelling saliva.
Leon Drake felt his stomach twist.
Watching a Genestealer on a monitor was one thing.
Having one standing less than ten meters away was another.
The overwhelming stench of blood and decay crashed into him like a physical blow.
He instinctively took half a step back before shouting toward the yellow engineering vehicle.
“Big guy.” “Kill it.” Inside the cockpit, the heavyset engineer clenched his cigar between his teeth and pushed both control levers forward.
“You got it, Commander.” “Stand back a little.” “I’d hate for you to get splattered.” The SCV didn’t bother aiming.
It didn’t need to.
The three-meter-tall machine lunged forward.
Its heavy treads crushed heaps of rusted scrap beneath them while the massive power drill on its right arm roared to life.
The Genestealer screeched.
Its scything talon slammed into the SCV’s chest.
Clang!
A shower of sparks erupted.
The Neo-Steel armor absorbed the blow without difficulty.
Only a shallow scratch remained.
The next instant…
The spinning drill punched straight into the creature’s chest.
Its chitin shattered like brittle glass.
Green blood sprayed from the wound.
The plasma cutting torch on the SCV’s left arm ignited.
A brilliant blue arc swept sideways.
The Genestealer’s upper body slid cleanly apart before crashing into the muddy ground.
Its severed limbs twitched twice…
Then fell still.
Several meters away, Helena stared in stunned silence.
She didn’t even think to dodge the acidic blood.
She had witnessed countless executions.
She had seen purification flamers reduce heretic strongholds to ash.
She had watched Arbites bolt pistols tear rioters into bloody fragments.
Yet none of those sights compared to this.
A machine that looked like a mining vehicle…
Piloted by a cigar-smoking mechanic…
Had dismantled a Purestrain Genestealer as casually as tearing apart a broken door.
The scrapyard remained silent…
For only a heartbeat.
Then…
Footsteps echoed from every direction.
Not claws.
Feet.
Human feet.
Rusted metal walls surrounding the scrapyard collapsed one after another.
Cold wind swept fertilizer dust through the opening, making everyone cough.
Hundreds of Underhive miners and scavengers emerged from behind towering mountains of scrap.
Their clothing hung in filthy rags.
They carried pickaxes…
Machetes…
Crude homemade firearms.
Some possessed an extra twisted arm growing from one shoulder.
Others had half their faces covered in purple chitin.
Several sported writhing tendrils where mouths should have been.
None of them shouted.
None of them charged.
They simply walked forward.
Step…
By step…
The circle tightened.
Helena coughed violently.
A mouthful of black blood splattered onto the mud.
“It’s useless…” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“That machine…” “It can’t save us.” Leon remained silent.
He understood the situation perfectly.
An SCV was incredibly tough.
But it was still an engineering vehicle.
If hundreds of cultists rushed it at once…
Its treads would be jammed.
Its cutting torch pinned down.
Even the engineer inside would eventually be overwhelmed.
Helena wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her muddy hand.
“My squad pursued a group of mutated raiders from the Underhive.” “We chased them all the way here…” “Only to discover it was a trap.” She drew a slow, painful breath.
“This place…” “…is a Genestealer Cult breeding ground.” “The Arbites strike team was wiped out.” “Warp interference severed all communications.” Her hand slowly reached toward her belt.
One final armor-piercing grenade remained.
Click.
The safety pin came free.
Her thumb pressed firmly against the spoon.
“They take prisoners.” She lowered her head.
“The Genestealer’s Kiss…” “…is worse than death.” Her icy gaze settled on Leon.
There was no plea for rescue.
Only grim determination.
“If you don’t want to become one of them…” “Come closer.” “This grenade has a five-meter blast radius.” “It’ll be enough.” “We’ll die clean.” Leon looked at the grenade.
This woman was ruthless.
Unfortunately…
He had no intention of dying.
He especially wasn’t about to explode alongside an Imperial Arbitrator less than an hour after arriving in another universe.
His eyes swept across the scrapyard.
Running?
Impossible.
Who knew how many monsters waited outside?
Holding the line?
Equally impossible.
The SCV could crush one Genestealer.
It couldn’t stop hundreds of fanatics from jamming mining picks into its treads.
If he wanted to survive…
He needed a foothold.
He needed…
A base.
“Ada.” [Online.] “How much does a Command Center cost?” [Standard construction cost:] 400 Minerals.
Leon twitched.
“I only have two hundred.” [First-time Commander bonus detected.] [Beginner Construction Discount applied.] [Current Command Center cost:] 100 Minerals.
Leon nearly laughed.
“You had a discount this whole time?” [You did not ask.] “…” The nearest cultists raised their crude firearms.
Those wielding machetes began sprinting forward.
Leon didn’t waste another second.
“Construct it.” [Resources deducted.] [Remaining Minerals:] 100 He walked over and knocked twice on the SCV’s armored hull.
“Big guy.” “Forget the fighting.” The engineer pulled the drill free from the Genestealer’s corpse.
“Commander?” Leon pointed toward the largest open area in the scrapyard.
“Build.” The engineer blinked.
Then a broad grin spread across his face.
“Roger that.” “Time to show these hillbillies how real engineering works.” The SCV abandoned the gate.
It pivoted on its treads and rumbled toward the center of the scrapyard.
Helena’s eyes widened.
The mutants were less than twenty meters away.
And yet…
This man had just ordered his only combat-capable machine to leave the defensive position.
Had he completely lost his mind?
A volley of crude gunfire erupted.
Clouds of smoke burst from homemade muskets.
Poorly cast lead bullets struck the SCV’s rear armor.
They shattered harmlessly against the Neo-Steel plating.
The machine didn’t even slow down.
The engineer shoved the controls forward.
The plasma torch erupted into brilliant blue light.
The massive drill slammed into the steel foundation beneath the scrapyard.
A colossal blue holographic framework unfolded into the sky.
It stretched more than fifty meters across.
Its architecture looked nothing like Imperial construction.
There were no soaring cathedral spires.
No shrines.
No Imperial Aquilas.
Only clean…
Sharp…
Industrial lines.
A fortress forged for war.
The charging cultists slowed.
Several miners dropped their pickaxes into the mud.
They couldn’t comprehend what they were seeing.
Neither could Helena.
She watched the yellow SCV weave effortlessly through the expanding holographic framework.
Cutting.
Welding.
Locking supports into place.
Dragging armored panels into position.
Massive support columns slammed deep into the earth.
Towering exhaust vents roared to life, venting white steam into the polluted sky.
Hydraulic hammers pounded relentlessly.
The entire scrapyard trembled.
The structure climbed higher.
Two stories.
Four stories.
Then higher still.
Helena’s grip loosened for only a fraction of a second.
The grenade spoon shifted.
She immediately squeezed it tight again.
Everything she knew…
Every engineering principle…
Every lesson taught by the Adeptus Mechanicus…
Collapsed before her eyes.
On Kalas Prime…
Constructing a military fortress required endless approvals.
Thousands of laborers.
Tech-Priests.
Sacred machine oils.
Ritual prayers.
Months…
Sometimes years…
Yet here…
There was only one engineering vehicle.
One cigar-smoking mechanic.
And mountains of rusted scrap.
Together…
They raised an iron fortress from nothing.
[Terran Command Center construction complete.] Ada’s calm voice echoed inside Leon’s mind.
Heavy locking mechanisms thundered into place.
Four massive hydraulic stabilizers slammed deep into the earth.
Even the surrounding scrap mountains shook loose rust and twisted metal.
The blast-resistant main gate slowly rose.
Cold white light poured from inside the Command Center, illuminating the muddy scrapyard.
The faces of every cultist turned ghostly pale beneath its glow.
Standing at the edge of the light, Leon reached into his pocket and pulled out an unlit cigar.
Don’t ask where it came from.
Apparently, it had simply appeared in his pocket.
He wasn’t planning to smoke it.
Holding it between his teeth was enough to look the part.
He turned toward Helena, who was still lying in the mud with a grenade clenched tightly in her hand.
“Ma’am.” “You can put the grenade away.” Then he lifted his eyes toward the towering steel fortress that had risen behind him.
A faint smile crossed his face.
“This scrapyard…” “…belongs to Leon Drake now.”