Date: 3.496.M42
Location: Agri-World Secundus-496b, Equatorial Zone.
On the vast, desolate plains surrounding the Hive City, the Planetary Defense Force (PDF) was locked in a grueling war of attrition against the Secessionist Rebels.
The conflict had started over a clerical nightmare. Because the neighboring Industrial World had been overrun by a Greenskin Waaagh!, the Departnto Munitorum demanded Secundus-496b double its tithes to support the war effort. The Planetary Governor, a man whose greed was matched only by his cowardice, passed the burden onto the peasantry. Already starving, the workers chose the bullet over the tax-collector.
Agricultural walkers were welded with scrap plate; harvesters beca tanks. After years of fighting, the lush plains were now a hellscape of moon-sized craters and zig-zagging trenches.
Eighty kiloters north of the Hive, a shell whistled through the smoggy air. CRACK-BOOM. A high-explosive round slamd into a rebel foxhole, vaporizing a dozen insurgents instantly.
Among the scorched stalks of grain, a figure stirred. Kian Voss had been prone in the mud for hours. His eyes locked onto a jagged silhouette spinning through the air—a rebel-modified autogun that landed with a thud in the dirt.
"That's a clean fra. Looks like it's chambered for Mark II slugs. The black-market brokers in the Underhive will pay at least 1,500 scrips for that," Kian whispered, his voice rasping through a grimy rebreather.
He began the "Scav-crawl," dragging his body through the muck toward the prize.
Kian Voss wasn't from this hellish era. In a past life—the "Age of Terra" (3k)—he had been an avid gar. He had spent his nights in Escape from Tarkov, only to be head-shotted from 200 ters by a Russian AI yelling "Suka!" He'd moved to Arena Breakout, only to lose his high-tier gear to a squad of campers.
In a fit of rage, he'd closed his PC and scrolled through his vox-device (smartphone), only to find a heretical pict-scroll of a "waifu-fied" God-Emperor. A caption below read: 'Behold this image and be drafted into His service.'
The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the filth of a Hive World.
Life in the Imperium was a nightmare, but Kian had brought sothing with him: the Scavenge-Strike-Extract System.
The System digitized his biology, allowing him to track his stats and experience. More importantly, it provided him with a Sanctum—a pocket of absolute safety deep beneath the Hive. Most importantly? He could resurrect. If he died, he would wake up in his Sanctum, fully healed. The catch? He would lose every single piece of gear he had on him.
To Kian, this wasn't a war. It was a high-stakes "Extraction Shooter."
Kian reached the autogun and pulled it into the mud with him. It was a heavy, rectangular beast—crude, even by Imperial standards. It weighed nearly seven kilos. He checked the barrel; it was rifled. Good. Higher resale value.
He ejected the mag. 20 rounds of 9x65mm heavy slugs. In the 41st Millennium, the 5.56mm rounds of the ancient past were useless against the horrors of the galaxy. You needed stopping power.
Kian blinked, and his Tactical Cogitator (The System Interface) flickered over his retina:
[Item: Secessionist-Pattern Autogun]
Estimated Value: 2,000 Agri-Scrips
Weight: 7.2kg
Vertical Recoil: 54 | Horizontal Recoil: 42
Ergonomics: 41
Effective Range: 500m
Firing Mode: Full-Auto (550 RPM)
Ammo: 9x65mm Solid Slug
Status: Low-Tier Trash (But profitable)
Kian grinned. 2,000 scrips. A bottom-tier hive-worker earned maybe 150 scrips a month. This one gun represented a year's worth of life for a commoner.
He slung the rifle over his back and waited ten minutes, making sure the "kill zone" was clear. Then, he slid into the rebel trench.
The sll was appalling—a mix of ozone, burnt at, and rot. Kian ignored it, his hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a veteran looter.
One 20-round magazine.
60 loose rounds of 9x65mm.
A rusted combat knife.
A heavy-duty wrench.
Four packs of 'Corpse-Starch' rations.
A canteen of recycled water.
"Not a 'Red' or 'Purple' tier drop in sight," Kian muttered, spitting on the ground. "Just a bag full of white-tier trash."
He checked his surroundings. These trenches were originally dug by the PDF before they were pushed back. The lines shifted daily. He needed to find an extraction point before the next wave of at-grinder combat began.
He began to move toward the rear, but stopped dead. The sound of rhythmic, heavy boots echoed from the direction of the Hive.
He peeked over the parapet and ducked back down instantly, his heart hamring against his ribs.
"Throne's sake... PDF Strike Team!"
Ten soldiers were advancing. They weren't the starving rebels; these were Imperial regulars. Flak armor, sealed helts, and standard-issue Kantrael-pattern Lasguns. They were led by a Sergeant with a Bolt Pistol and a chainsword.
Kian turned to run the other way—he was currently standing in a rebel trench wearing rags. The PDF wouldn't ask for his ID; they'd just put a las-bolt through his skull and call it "purging the heretic."
He scrambled toward the far end of the trench, hoping to slip out into the grain fields. He poked his head out of the opposite side, only to freeze.
A mass of shadows was moving through the tall stalks. At least fifty rebels were crawling forward, bayonets fixed, eyes bloodshot with combat-stimm rage.
Kian was caught in the middle.
"Great," he hissed, gripping his scavenged autogun. "I'm pinched. Ti to see if I can actually hit anything with this piece of junk."
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