Elias, bloodied and shaking after his first kill, scavenges gear from the gangers and tries to move deeper into the tunnels. But Hive Helsreach is not a place of rest — and violence is never far. In the darkness, survival is measured in seconds.
He didn't move for a long time.
The stink of blood mixed with the stagnant chemical vapor, sharp and sticky. The adrenaline left his body in a crashing wave, and with it came the tremble — in his fingers, in his legs, in the pit of his stomach. His knees almost buckled.
Clone Technique. System. Chakra. What the hell is happening to me?
The pistol weighed more than it should. He looked down at the ganger he'd killed — a boy, maybe twenty. Greasy mohawk, twitching fingers. The wound in his throat bubbled. The last of him leaking out.
Elias crouched and searched the body with trembling fingers.
He didn't feel guilt. Not yet. Just necessity. Just Marine instincts.
From the ganger's body, he took:
A battered autopistol with a half-empty mag.
Two spare mags stuffed into a rusted belt pouch.
A single flash flare — cracked, but maybe usable.
A knife, chipped and blackened, but better than nothing.
A small locket on a chain, inside of which was a curled photo of a girl with metallic eyes.
Elias stared at the photo for a second too long.
Then he shoved it all into a satchel torn from the second ganger and moved.
The tunnel sloped upward. He followed it, passing piles of decayed clothing, old bones, and what looked like crude graffiti burned into the walls — all scrawled in strange languages, both Low Gothic and something worse.
Eyes painted in blood. Teeth symbols. Slaneeshi spirals.
The System hadn't said a word since it activated.
No instructions. No guidance. No AI voice. Just sterile data that felt… implanted in his skull.
Was it inside him?
Was he hallucinating?
His boots — the ganger's boots — squelched through slime. He couldn't stop replaying the moment he'd moved on instinct: the hand seal, the image, the way the clone flickered into existence like smoke — like memory made real.
This isn't Earth.
This isn't normal.
Another junction. More darkness.
He moved with his back to the wall, pistol raised, using cover where he could. The tunnel bent sharply and led into what looked like an abandoned maintenance hub: a circular room with multiple hatchways and rusted terminals. The ceiling was high here, arched in a dome, and faint green glow-strips ran intermittently along its edges, flickering like dying stars.
He stepped inside — and immediately froze.
Movement.
A shape darted past the doorway opposite.
He ducked behind a half-collapsed console, heart thudding, breath shallow.
Not gangers. Too quick. Too silent.
Trained.
Voices. Low Gothic, whispered and hurried.
"…They're down here. Saw the trail."
"Clean kill. If it's a ganger, tag and burn. If it's PDF…"
"…Better."
Elias flattened against the wall.
Searchlights swept the far hallway. He caught a glimpse of black armor — matte and sealed, not scrap-work like the gangers. A helmet with a rebreather. Autoguns. One of them carried a shock maul.
He wasn't sure if they were enforcers, mercs, or worse. All he knew was that he didn't trust anyone in this place.
He crept toward the nearest tunnel, slow and low. His hand brushed against something — a steel pipe, cracked at the end.
He paused.
A plan formed. Not a good one — just good enough.
He placed the cracked pipe upright near the corner of the console, balanced like a leaning figure.
Then he moved.
Boots silent. Steps measured. He slid around the opposite side of the hub, slipping into a ruined utility duct as the black-armored figures breached the room.
One of them fired without warning.
CRACK. The pipe exploded.
"Target?"
"False. Metal. Decoy."
"They're smart."
A pause.
Then: "No. They're trained."
Elias didn't wait for them to search. He was already gone.
Five minutes later, he found a crawlspace behind a crumbling air recirculator and pulled himself inside.
Dark. Tight. The walls pressed in. The only sound was the pulsing of his own blood in his ears.
He stayed there. Breathing slow. Gun ready.
System. He thought it as hard as he could. You there?
Nothing.
Then—
> STATUS: ACTIVE
> Host Neural Activity: STABLE
> Chakra Pool: 2/2
> Skill Available: [Clone Technique – Rank E]
> Next Progression Trigger: COMBAT STRESS / TRAUMA
> Note: System responds to existential risk. Training mode unavailable.
So that was it.
This "System" — whatever it was — didn't give him strength because he wanted it. Only when he needed it. Only when death was near.
Only when the galaxy tried to kill him.
Elias pressed his back to the cold wall of the duct. His breaths slowed.
This world was a meat grinder.
If he wanted to live, he'd have to bleed for every ounce of power.
His fingers flexed.
Clone Technique was real. The System was real. The death was real.
And this place…?
He didn't know its name yet.
But it felt like a city built over a graveyard, run by a cult, and haunted by shadows.
Where the hell am I?
A moment later, above the ducts, the silence broke.
Gunfire. Muffled, but heavy.
Then: screams. Dozens of them.
Something had arrived.
Something worse than gangers.
Elias gritted his teeth, crawled out of the duct, and moved toward the sound.
[END OF PART 2]