One week had passed since Kingpin's death.
Not a single news outlet—official or tabloid—dared report on the brutal massacre at Fisk Tower. The bodies. The battle damage. The clear signs of gang warfare that had left an entire building soaked in blood.
Any online discussion that managed to surface was deleted within minutes, user accounts suspended or outright banned. Soone with serious authority was scrubbing the incident from public record.
Only whispered rumors survived in Queens, spreading by word of mouth through neighborhoods where people knew better than to trust official stories.
Wilson Fisk—philanthropist, according to governnt reports—had died in an "accident."
But everyone on the streets knew the truth: he'd been the boss behind New York's entire criminal underworld. And soone had killed him.
Nolan, the instigator of this chaos, showed no signs of stress or paranoia.
He'd returned to sothing resembling a normal daily routine. Studying for his makeup exams. Occasionally helping his aunt at the restaurant.
A few days ago, The Evening Hearth had completed its soft opening under the new managent model. His aunt no longer tried to serve every custor who walked through the door. Instead, she'd implented limited lunch and dinner services—each al prepared in advance, sold until supplies ran out.
The change in approach had actually improved business. Lines ford outside during peak hours.
With Jason's assistance in the kitchen, his aunt could finish her work without exhausting herself completely. She seed happier. Less stressed.
Which freed up Nolan's schedule considerably.
He'd traveled to Queens and collected the second shipnt of weapons from Davis. The gun smuggler had delivered as promised, though his news wasn't all positive.
Even with Madam Gao working overti to consolidate New York's fractured underworld, the sudden power vacuum had created chaos. Every mid-level criminal with ambition thought they could fill Kingpin's shoes. Turf wars erupted. Old grudges resurfaced.
Worse, federal agencies and so mysterious organization—probably S.H.I.E.L.D, though Davis didn't know for certain—had launched aggressive crackdowns. Raids. Asset seizures. Arrests at every level of gang hierarchies.
Everyone wanted guns. Self-defense had beco the top priority for criminals who suddenly felt very mortal.
The resulting demand spike was making Davis's acquisition and resale operations difficult. Supply couldn't keep pace.
Nolan had simply told him to do his best and not worry about quotas. He'd notified Madam Gao to start preparing her own gun pipeline for future operations. Diversify the supply chain.
With imdiate concerns handled, Nolan checked the simulator. His cooldown ti reduction had expanded to 497 hours from accumulated survival ti.
He offered a brief prayer to the Emperor—more habit than faith at this point—and initiated a new simulation.
[Simulation starting]
[Current identities available: Catachan Recruit, Death Korps of Krieg Grenadier, Kashezin Sergeant Major.]
[Please select identity for deploynt.]
[If you refuse selection, deploynt will be randomized.]
[Identity selection refused.]
[Simulation starting—]
[You have descended into the Warhamr universe.]
[Ti: M30, Great Crusade Era]
[Location: Galaxy · Unknown Segntum]
[You have materialized inside a Shark-class assault boat...]
[You find yourself wearing Solar Auxilia pattern void combat armor, the sa set you salvaged. An assault bolter rests in your hands—not the standard Astartes pattern, but a mortal-scale weapon designed for human auxiliaries.]
[You survey your surroundings carefully. Tall figures in void combat armor fill the assault boat's cramped interior. Including yourself, ten soldiers total.]
[Before you can process the situation further, the red boarding indicator light above your head begins flashing silently.]
[You take a deep breath. Your fingers tighten around the assault bolter's grip. Combat mode engages automatically—adrenaline sharpening your focus, training taking over.]
[The assault boat shudders violently. The sound of superheated lta cutters chewing through enemy hull armor reverberates through the cabin. Then cos the impact—tal screaming as the Shark rams into its target and locks magnetic clamps.]
[Before your fully-ard boarding team, the sealed landing hatch explodes outward with explosive charges.]
[You catch a glimpse of your team commander—a mortal soldier with sergeant's markings—raising his arm in the universal signal to advance.]
[Without hesitation, you rush into the dimly lit enemy vessel.]
[You imdiately encounter an alien lifeform with writhing tentacles where its limbs should be.]
[It releases a strange warbling sound from wriggling mouthparts—begging for rcy, perhaps, or demanding explanation. You can't tell and don't care.]
[Its tentacles are empty. No weapons visible.]
[You hesitate for a fraction of a second, finger tensing on the trigger but not quite pulling.]
[Then training overrides sentint. You squeeze the trigger.]
[The assault bolter roars. The mass-reactive round strikes the tentacled xenos center mass.]
[The creature begins burning from the inside out as the bolt's payload detonates, scorching red light consuming alien flesh. The explosive force creates a brief fireball that scars the tal deck plates nearby.]
[The flas reveal more tentacled aliens—previously invisible, their natural camouflage failing under the heat and light. They screech and surge toward you in a wave of writhing limbs.]
[Several more assault bolters behind you add their voices to the chorus, shredding the dying xenos with practiced efficiency.]
["Heresy can never be trusted." Your team commander appears at your side, slapping your pauldron in rough camaraderie before joining the slaughter. "Rember that, soldier."]
[You take a deep breath and follow your commander deeper into the vessel, systematically exterminating the tentacled xenos.]
[Day One: You successfully purged a xenos refugee vessel attempting to flee Imperial advance forces.]
[This particular heretic species—skilled at stealth and ambush tactics—were rely primitives from a backwater planet. They'd been deed unsuitable for compliance and marked for extermination.]
[After the boarding action concludes, you carefully piece together your current situation from context clues and overheard conversations.]
[You belong to a Letalis Storm Squad of the Solar Auxilia.]
[You currently serve under the overall command of Warmaster Horus, participating in Mankind's Great Crusade to reunite the scattered colonies of humanity.]
[Boarding actions like today's xenos purge are routine. Just another day in the grinding monotony of interstellar warfare.]
[Day Two: Your storm squad commander finds you during additional training exercises.]
[He expresses dissatisfaction with your hesitation during yesterday's engagent. Hesitation gets soldiers killed.]
[You readily admit your error and attribute the problem to inexperience with this particular xenos species. First contact protocols.]
[The commander accepts your explanation grudgingly. He assigns additional punishnt: when not training or eating, you will recite the Imperial Truth until it's burned into your mory.]
[Day Three: Morning training. Midday al. Afternoon recitation of Imperial Truth.]
[Nothing noteworthy occurs. The voyage continues through the void.]
[Day Four: Morning weapons drill. Midday al. Afternoon Imperial Truth recitation.]
[Still nothing eventful. You hear teorite fragnts pinging off the hull exterior. Nearby servitors issue automated safety reminders about potential micro-teor damage to outer sections.]
[Day Five: No training scheduled today. You're not even required to recite the Imperial Truth.]
[Sothing is wrong. The routine has broken.]
[Week One: Your squad receives new orders directly from Warmaster Horus.]
[A strange alien force has manifested in a nearby sector—sothing unprecedented, requiring imdiate investigation.]
[You will join the Warmaster's personal expedition fleet, accept Horus's direct command, and participate in what's being described as an unprecedented grand expedition.]
[The mood among the storm squad is mixed—pride at being selected by the Warmaster himself, unease at the vague mission paraters.]
[Week Two: After a lengthy warp transit, you rendezvous with Warmaster Horus's main expedition fleet.]
[Shortly after docking, a detachnt of Astartes from the Luna Wolves Legion boards your vessel and assus command of your storm squad.]
[You are forbidden from communicating with other units, touching any weapons, or leaving your assigned quarters.]
[Not just you—every mber of your squad notices sothing is deeply wrong with this situation.]
[Unfortunately, unard mortals don't question Astartes wearing power armor. You obey orders and wait.]
[Week Three: With assistance from a maintenance servitor, you carefully map the overall structure of your confinent area.]
[You manage to infiltrate the ventilation system and navigate to the cabin where your commander is being held separately.]
[He shows no surprise at your arrival. Instead, he imdiately asks if you've found a route to the ship's armory.]
[You confirm you can attempt it, but first you need his assessnt of the current situation. Context before action.]
[The commander stares at you for a long mont, weighing his words carefully.]
["There's no doubt... this may be an impending rebellion. But I don't know where the orders originated." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "Could be fleet command. Could be higher."]
[From beginning to end, he never speaks the Warmaster's na...]
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