The moment Creed uttered his name, the interrogation ceased.
No more suspicion, no more questions—just immediate action.
Before he could react, rough hands secured him into some kind of teleport harness, its framework pressing against his back like a crude mockery of a jump pack.
Before he could even ask what it was, a shimmering energy field enveloped his body.
The air around him distorted, shimmering with a Blue hue—then, in an instant, he was gone.
....
Deep in the Underhive
Creed's boots struck solid ground. The abrupt transition disoriented him. Instinctively, he reached for his laspistol, but the seasoned instincts of a Cadian Shock Trooper held his hand.
Assess first. Act second.
Before him loomed a fortress—not the spire, not the Governor's palace, but a fortification carved into the very bones of the underhive.
It was crude, yet effective. A brutal structure, its lines sharp and unfriendly, as if the rockcrete itself had been shaped by anger. Bastion walls rose high, reinforced with black plating of unknown material—dull and scarred, absorbing light like a dead star. The kind of armor that didn't gleam, but warned.
Autocannon emplacements sat like iron gargoyles on the parapets, their barrels slowly tracking unseen threats. From above, vox-masts jutted like skeletal branches, bristling with antennae that clawed at the smog-choked sky. A low hum of static filled the air, pulsing through Creed's boots as if the fortress itself were breathing.
And then there was the shield generator, impossibly rare for a planetary defense force. It pulsed faintly with power, and the air shimmered around its core like heat haze over a forge. Occasionally, a flicker of its barrier caught the eye—translucent waves bending the air, making reality blur at the edges.
Creed's eyes narrowed.
Whoever had built this had serious resources—more than most systems could spare, especially for a world this remote.
He quickly estimated the garrison at over a thousand troops, all clad in power armor. And yet, something was off.
These warriors were undisciplined. Some leaned against the ramparts, idly smoking lho-sticks. Others had removed pieces of their armor, lounging as they played cards. There was no sense of order—no drill sergeants barking commands, no servitors maintaining weaponry.
To an outsider, they might look formidable.
To a Cadian, it was disgraceful.
Creed's thoughts flashed back to his homeworld—Cadia, the Gatekeeper of the Imperium.
A fortress world unlike any other. Located at the mouth of the Eye of Terror, Cadia had stood for ten millennia as the Imperium's bulwark against the endless horrors of the Warp.
On Cadia, war wasn't a profession, it was life. Children learned to field-strip lasguns before they could read. Every citizen was a soldier-in-waiting. The planet didn't breed men, it forged warriors.
And Creed was one of Cadia's finest.
Ursarkar E. Creed, born in the hive city of Kasr Partox, had once been just another underhive urchin. But through wit, determination, and a mind built for war, he rose to become the youngest officer to ever command the Cadian 8th Regiment, the most elite of Cadia's famed Shock Troopers.
Even among the rigid ranks of the Astra Militarum, Creed's tactical brilliance was legend—his battlefield strategies often described as "impossibly lucky," until you realized he'd planned ten moves ahead.
He had no noble blood, no scholam pedigree—just pure Cadian grit.
And now, he stood in a den of slack-jawed PDF troops playing cards.
"If the 8th had power armor like this," he muttered under his breath, "we'd roll through a Black Legion battalion in twenty minutes."
He stepped forward, approaching a group of soldiers huddled around a makeshift table.
"What in the Emperor's name are you doing?" Creed's voice cracked like a whip. "Are you warriors, or worthless civilians? Have you forgotten your duty? You pathetic swines!"
The soldiers flinched. A few instinctively straightened, the ghost of long-forgotten drills twitching in their muscles. But then they hesitated. This man wasn't in power armor. He wasn't one of their officers.
He was an outsider.
One of them sneered, barely looking up from his cards.
"Piss off," he scoffed. "A cheap, paper-armored Guardsman like you has no right to talk to us."
Creed didn't react outwardly. But inside, he was already counting the seconds it would take to drop the fool with a lasbolt and use his body as cover.
On Cadia, such insolence would earn a soldier a month in the penal legions—if they were lucky.
But this wasn't Cadia. He had no authority here.
A voice sliced through the tension.
"Ursarkar E. Creed."
Creed turned at the sound of his name.
A young man approached, casual in posture, but his eyes told another story—sharp, focused, dangerous. The moment he arrived, the power-armored troops around them snapped to attention. Creed took note of that.
"Qin Mo," the man said, stopping before Creed. "No need for introductions. I already know who you are."
Creed narrowed his eyes. That wasn't normal. He wasn't a spire-born noble. Wasn't a general with a famous name.
Officially, he held the rank of Captain in the 8th Regiment. Unofficially, he was already commanding more than his pay grade. Tactically brilliant, stubborn as ceramite, and calm under fire. Creed had led men through hellholes others wouldn't even map.
His name wasn't widely known outside the Guard, and certainly not in outer-rim systems like this.
Apparently, that had changed.
Creed regarded Qin Mo carefully and decided he was overthinking things.
There was no official salute—no formal Imperial gesture—but this man carried himself with the authority of a commanding officer. Out of respect, Creed gave the Aquila salute, even though he technically didn't have to. The Astra Militarum and a planetary defense force (PDF) were not of equal standing.
But considering the circumstances…
....
Qin Mo studied Creed in turn.
The Cadian carried himself like the legendary Lord Castellan—unyielding, composed, a battlefield commander through and through. A younger version, minus the cigar. He didn't yet bear the scars of command or the weight of a dying world, but the spark was there.
In the future, his enemies couldn't break him—so in desperation, they burned the planet instead. It was easier to destroy the world than to defeat the man who held it. Under his command, the planet fell—but never the Guard.
The name Creed would be etched into history: hero, tactician.
Qin Mo had never expected someone like him to crash-land into his underhive.
"Why didn't you go to the spire?" Qin Mo asked. "Weren't you afraid we were rebels?"
Creed's eyes swept over the fortress, the power-armored troops, the disorganization hidden beneath an illusion of strength.
"You're no more undisciplined than most planetary defense forces," he replied. "Compared to you lot, the troops stationed in the spire actually look like traitors."
Qin Mo chuckled. "A strategist's insight. Now, what do you want?"
Creed wasted no time. He recounted everything—how elements of the Cadian 8th had been reassigned to some Emperor-forsaken backwater System, how their warship had been destroyed, how the planetary governor had had dumped them on a merchant's ship to return home, and how a warp storm had trapped them in the Talon system, forcing them to seek aid.
Qin Mo listened carefully, then reached into his coat and produced a vox-communicator.
"Use this," he said. "Contact your superiors. Tell them that Talon III is an unknown factor, and that Talon II is entirely in rebel hands."
Creed didn't move. His mind worked quickly, assessing the truth of Qin Mo's claims.
Even if the planet was crawling with enemies, he had faith in the Cadian 8th. They always found a way.
"We don't have the resources to repair your ship right now," Qin Mo continued. "But in five or six days, that'll change."
He was estimating. In reality, the orbital shipyard would be completed in less than a week. After all, nearly every logistics drone had been redirected to its construction, and the auto-forges were now producing more fabricators to accelerate the process.
Creed narrowed his eyes.
Shipbuilding and power armor manufacturing were two vastly different endeavors. The ability to arm a regiment didn't necessarily mean one could refit a void-capable vessel.
"And yet…"
There was an efficiency to Qin Mo's operations that Creed couldn't ignore. This fortress, the void shield, the logistics at play—this was more than a simple planetary militia.
"Thank you," Creed said at last. "We won't forget your generosity."
Qin Mo's expression remained unreadable.
"I'll repair your ship and give you shelter," he said. "But I need something in return."
He gestured toward the assembled troops—power-armored warriors standing in loose formations, their stances sloppy, their discipline lacking, barely maintaining the barest semblance of order.
Creed immediately understood.
"I need military regulations drafted from scratch," Qin Mo continued. "Training programs. Tactical doctrine. I don't expect you to turn them into Cadian Shock Troopers, but at the very least, get them moving in that direction."
Discipline had never been a strength of these men. Even Albert, the commander of the 31st Regiment, had been caught sneaking out at night for a 'casual stroll.'
Qin Mo had considered fixing it himself, but his priorities were elsewhere.
Grey was little more than a common soldier. The only one with formal military education was Klein, and his "progressive" policies had encouraged half the troops to bribe their way into his unit.
At the very least, these men were competent at shock insertion tactics. They hadn't broken ranks in battle—yet. Their only real flaw was a complete lack of discipline.
Creed exhaled. "I need to report to my superiors first."
Deep down, he still wasn't sure if Qin Mo truly had the means to repair a ship.
And besides… who was to say the rest of the system was really as overrun as Qin Mo claimed?
To Creed, life itself was a battlefield. No commander made strategic decisions without accurate intelligence.
Qin Mo nodded.
Creed opened his mouth to say more—
The teleport harness activated again.
....
Lower Hive
When Creed rematerialized, he found himself standing beside the transport ship.
A tense standoff was already unfolding—his men had drawn weapons, locked in a silent battle of wills with Qin Mo's troops.
"Of course."
Any soldier who saw their commanding officer vanish into thin air would assume the worst.
"Where did you go, sir?" one of his men asked, still on edge.
Creed exhaled. Then, to the confusion of his troops, he let out a dry chuckle.
"I just had a bizarre adventure," he muttered before boarding the transport.
His men hesitated, stealing wary glances at Qin Mo's forces, then followed, one by one.
....
Aboard the Sword-class Frigate
Back on the ship, Creed wasted no time filing his report.
He detailed everything about Tyrone—the well-equipped but disorganized power-armored troops, the strange teleportation technology, the militarization of the underhive.
His superior officer listened in silence before finally exhaling.
"This is highly suspicious," the officer admitted. "But we don't have a choice. We have to go to the underhive."
Creed frowned.
"Why?"
The officer's tone darkened.
"Because our forces on Talon II and Talon III have both been attacked."
Creed's jaw tightened.
"And compared to Talon II, the situation on Talon III is even worse. And... corrupted."
A chill ran through Creed's spine.
Creed had heard it before.
His hands curled into fists.
"Understood."